When they went upstairs to prepare for bed, she was still pondering over it. Why had she spoken of ants? Why not rabbits, or birds? Even hedgehogs would have been better.
Or moles.
She winced. Bessie, who had been combing her hair, stopped, assuming she’d tugged too hard.
‘It is all right,’ she replied, and glanced at the crystal vase that held a fresh lilac. ‘Is that a new flower?’
‘Yes, miss. It was delivered to the back door for you.’ She grinned and tapped a folded piece of paper on the table. ‘There is a note.’
She reached for it, trying not to seem too eager. The single word SORRY was written in elegant script in the centre.
She turned it over and raised it to the light to convince herself that there was no hidden message there, before turning to look at the flower. Something glittered amongst the purple blossoms of the cone. She pushed them out of the way with a fingertip to see the gift that had been wired to the stem.
It was a stick pin of the sort that one might see on a man’s lapel or pushed through the linen of a cravat. She had seen women wear them on occasion, but they usually favoured larger, more dramatic jewels. The head of this one was so small it might go unnoticed when pinned on a spencer or pelisse.
It was a golden ant, the body made from bits of amber and the legs and antennae from fine gold wire. She untangled it from the flower and pressed a hand to her mouth to hide her smile.
It was the sort of gift that only a kindred spirit would know to give. When she wore it, he would know without her speaking that he had been forgiven. No matter what happened between them, she would cherish it.
She held it in her fist as Bessie tossed the nightgown over her head, and then carried it with her, setting it on the nightstand next to her as she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up toher chin. As she drifted off to sleep, her mind was filled with the golden glow of amber and the memory of a man’s wicked smile.
The next day, Julian had promised a surprise that he assured her would be more to her tastes than some of the other events of the Season. ‘Since you enjoyed your life in the country, I thought you might like to get out of the city for an evening,’ he said as they shared a late luncheon. ‘There is a tea garden that I have frequented you might find interesting.’
‘Not Vauxhall,’ she said, smiling. She had been there once before, and though it was very pleasant, it was quite busy and did not really feel like an escape from London.
‘The Montpellier is far smaller than Vauxhall,’ Portia said, smiling. ‘But there are some nice greens for lawn bowling, and you may pet and feed the cows that provide the cream for the syllabubs.’
‘Really?’ Cassie stifled a smile. It was proof that Portia had spent too much time in the city if she thought petting a cow was a novelty. Still, it sounded like a delightful way to spend an evening. She hurried upstairs and changed into a sensible walking dress of tan muslin and added a green linen pelisse that would keep out the chill of an evening outdoors.
Before she left the room, she went back to the night table and retrieved the amber ant that she’d received from Westbridge, pinning it under a ruffle on her bodice. It was doubtful that the Duke would be in attendance, for the garden they would be visiting was in Walworth and quite out of the way. But it was the perfect bit of jewelry for a night of al fresco entertainment.
When she’d returned to the ground floor, Julian had summoned the carriage and helped her into it for the ride to the edge of the city. Their destination was even better than they’d described. A box had been reserved for them that was cut intoone of the hedges that surrounded the garden. As they sat at their table, hornbeams surrounded them on three sides. The fourth was framed with gauze curtains, which were rustic in daylight but took on a magical air as the sun began to set.
Mr Rutland joined them a short time after they arrived, which Cassie suspected was part of the surprise they’d promised. In truth, she’d rather have petted the cows. Mr Rutland seemed very nice. Or perhaps it was that he did not seem too bad. She did not feel enough for him to care which of the two it was.
‘Miss Fisk,’ he said, bowing over her hand and smiling.
‘Mr Rutland,’ she replied, smiling politely.
‘It would please me if you would call me Andrew.’ He looked at her expectantly.
I imagine it would.
Since she could not think of a polite way to refuse him, she continued to smile and said, ‘Of course, Andrew. And you must call me Cassandra.’
He smiled and sat down beside her, helping himself to the light supper that had been laid for them, chatting amiably with Julian and casting occasional devoted looks in her direction. But she doubted he had any real interest in the content of her mind. When he bothered to speak with her, he limited their topics to the quality of the food and the superlative weather.
It made Cassie think of the card file that Westbridge had described, and the acceptable conversations that young ladies were allowed to have. Was that really all men wanted from the women they married?
She toyed with the pin on her lapel, wondering if Andrew would notice it. If he did, would he find it odd? Somehow, she doubted that he would have given such a thing to her. His courtship thus far had been lukewarm and very traditional. She suspected the ring she might be offered would be expensive but tasteful and made from diamonds as cold as ice.
After they’d dispensed with the bread and butter and were waiting for a plate of tea cakes, Andrew suggested a game of lawn bowling and went off with Julian for a while, leaving her alone with Portia.
Once the men were gone, her sister-in-law gave her an encouraging look. ‘Well?’
‘What?’ she responded, pretending not to understand.
‘Do you like him?’
