Chapter Five
As Cassie’s and Harbury’s horses trotted along the bridle path, the same patch of sun that had opened over the hall expanded.
As they drew up alongside a clearing in the woods, additional bands of light broke through, casting shafts across the fields.
Cassie couldn’t imagine what the trees hid, but from Harbury’s boyish excitement, she suspected they concealed something grand.
Something special.
She took in a deep breath of country air, straining her stays. Their gallop left her feeling expansive, free, a stark contrast to her general mood over the past few weeks. With all this wide, beautiful world within reach, how could she focus only on what was wrong in her life?
Despite reservations, she did have cause to hope, didn’t she?
With a sidelong glance, she took her husband’s measure.
The wind had disheveled his hair, sending sandy locks into his face. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright, and his lips curled into a smile similar to her own. Thank heavens he no longer appeared as distressed as he had when she’d first entered his study.
She’d opened the door without knocking, fully prepared to give him a sound scolding. Instead, she’d locked gazes with the vacant-eyed steward. Then, she’d seen Harbury leaning over his desk with his head tucked into his chest.
She could have sworn he’d been about to cast up his accounts.
Concern had instantly replaced her anger.
She believed his distress had something to do with the steward. For reasons she could not quite put into words, she didn’t trust Anderson. Something in the man’s expression suggested he did not hold either Harbury, or herself, in esteem.
Not that she had much experience with stewards.
Her father had not employed a steward at Willowhurst; he’d made do with a secretary and used a local solicitor as bailiff. But both secretary and solicitor had treated all the Wainwrights, mother and daughters included, with respect.
They would not have failed to greet her mother if she’d entered her father’s study, as Anderson had—not that her mother would ever have done so, uninvited. And they would not have needed to be asked to leave. Twice. Possibly even more, if Harbury had asked Anderson to leave before she entered.
“Shall we dismount?” Harbury suggested. “I’d like to show you something.”
They had not brought a groom, so helping her dismount and remount would be her husband’s office. She wasn’t entirely sure Harbury was experienced enough to do so. But certainly, he would have had cause to help his sister on and off her horse more than once.
And how could she refuse him when he’d such a mischievous sparkle in his eyes?
That sparkle promised not only a treat, but a treat he’d chosen to share specifically with her.
She nodded.
He dismounted military-style, lifting his right leg over the horse’s head. Then, he leapt off and smoothly landed on both feet. She could think of no reason for him having done so unless he hadn’t wanted to break eye contact. Terribly romantic.
As he came to stand by her side, he swept his hair back into place. Then he turned up his face and held out his hand encouragingly.
First, she handed down her crop. Then, she nervously adjusted her skirts, preparing to lift her own leg over her sidesaddle’s pommel. She’d done so thousands of times, but never while her husband was gazing up in expectation, arms aloft.
She resisted the urge to shoo him away. The weight of her skirts and the uneven ground could render even the most accomplished horsewoman unsteady. The last thing she needed was to ruin the moment by landing on her arse.
“There, now, Molly,” he soothed the horse. “She’ll be off in a thrice.”
She slid gracefully onto the ground, but he placed his warm hands on either side of her waist anyway.
She was now more than a little breathless and not entirely because of the way her stays pinched.
The shock of contact burned even after he moved away to secure the horses to the tie weights partially concealed by shrubs.
Softly, he assured them they would not be left in discomfort for long. Then, he held out his arm. Together they navigated a small path through a thick wood.
How strange and wonderful to be on adventure with him!
Gradually, a free-standing spiral of stairs came into view, then a partial wall, then a more intact network of stone chambers. She’d read somewhere that the estate contained ruins, but the ruins spread out before her were far more impressive than she’d imagined.
“Harbury!” She exclaimed. “It is as if the abbey ruins in Wordsworth’s poem have been recreated here.”
“They are just as picturesque, yes. But these aren’t abbey ruins. This was a priory for monks associated with the parish of St. Margaret’s, where we were wed.”
“Ah, yes,” she glanced askance, “the little chapel.”
He chuckled softly. “Every duke and duchess married there. I wanted to stay true to tradition. Had I given you a more accurate description, you might have cried off in fear.”
No, she wouldn’t have.
Then again, he didn’t know just how much she’d wanted him.
Teasingly, she lifted a brow. “A more accurate description, like trading ‘little church’ for ‘gothic behemoth?’”
“A gothic masterpiece, you mean. With a two-hundred-foot spire, five medieval frescos, fifteen different types of marble, and statues depicting deceased dukes and duchesses.”
“So. Many. Monuments,” she agreed, glancing heavenward.
“A surfeit,” he acknowledged. “After my father’s monument was installed as specified in his will, the rector asked me to move the lectern from the back of the chancel to the front in order for the prayerful collected to be able to see and hear his homily.”
Cassie ducked under a low-hanging branch he held aloft. “Do you want to know what Millie said about the statues?”
“I’m not sure.” He chuckled. “Do I?”
“She told me I must insist on pink marble when the time comes to create my monument.”
“Why?”
“Because the duchesses whose likenesses were carved in gray looked too dour.”
He laughed again. “The duchesses carved in gray likely were dour.”
“As Nettie pointed out, they are deceased. A state unlikely to induce good humor on the present plane.” She ventured a glance. “All those monuments made the ’till death do us part’ a little more daunting.”
He stopped walking. She turned.
“God willing, we’ve a good long time before we part.” He touched her cheek.
He looked sincere. Almost loving.
Between the romantic gesture of his bringing her here, and the talk of we and our and allies, she was coming to believe she meant something to him. But how much, she wasn’t sure.
Was she always to be merely second prize, claimed only because the first had been won by another? She needed to know.
She worried her lip, and then she summoned courage. “Are you sorry we wed?”
“No.” He shook his head slowly. “You’re nothing like what I expected, however.”
She wasn’t sure how to feel about his answer.
“I’m not surprised.” She knew what he’d expected. He’d expected the same, biddable young lady who had allowed him to ruin her for the sake of distraction.
For the sake of a dance.
She’d expected that lady, too.
He smiled wryly. “I should have known a lady who’d propose marriage to a gentleman must be made of stern stuff.”
“Stern stuff?” She queried. “Do you mean to compliment or insult me?”
“To compliment you, of course. You’ve a strong will.”
Did she?
She studied his face.
Millie had taken to calling herself and her sisters the Willful Wainwrights, after an offhand comment made by Cassie’s godmother.
Cassie, however, rarely initiated any “willful” schemes.
Even the girlish games she indulged in as a child had been thought up by Eliza or Millie.
And unlike her two most outspoken sisters, she had always measured her worth by approval.
But she had taken one major risk. She’d gone after what she wanted—Harbury.
Right now, she was glad for the approval shining in his eyes, but his approval, she realized, was no longer enough. She wanted him to want her, too.
He brushed a loose lock of hair out of her face. “Are you sorry we wed?”
Sorry.
To be sorry would be to regret the leap she’d taken when she’d proposed. To deny the desire of her heart—both then, and even more so now.
The secret she’d kept—even from her own consciousness—shook fully free.
She hadn’t been “forced” into anything. She’d known what she was doing when she’d seized the chance and bound him in marriage. She’d wanted him ever since she’d first locked eyes with him across the room at Almack’s. On her wedding night, she’d been furious, not at him, but at her own folly.
She’d wanted him badly and against her better reason.
Her anger on the first night of their marriage was because intimacy had made her see half of him would never be enough. So no, she could not be sorry she’d gone after what she wanted for the first time in her life, even if her need made her angry, and even if her desire was in vain.
“I’m not sorry,” she answered him.
She walked on before he could ask her to elaborate, passing beneath the remains of an ancient arch and into what had once clearly been a chapel.
Even though the space was open to the elements, a sacred feeling remained.
Or, perhaps, the sense of sanctity was present because nothing stood between the chapel columns and the heavens.
She wandered through a series of half-walls and approached a spiral stair that now led only to the sky. She climbed up a few stairs to a spot in the shadow of what remained of the outer wall, then gathered her skirts and sat down.
He passed her and took a seat a step above.
She heard the rustle of fabric and craned her neck to see what he was doing. He’d loosened his cravat, letting the sides of his collar fall open. Although he’d likely done so only for relief from the afternoon’s growing warmth, now he looked even more devastatingly handsome.
“Not sorry,” he repeated. “Neither of us. Good to know.”