Chapter Six
The next morning, Cassie awoke half afraid Harbury would hide himself away again out of embarrassment for having kissed her so wantonly and openly in the light of day.
So, as she caught sight of her husband in his usual chair in the breakfast room, she breathed a sigh of profound relief.
Then, she took a moment to appreciate the sight.
Sunlight from the window behind him dappled his brushed-to-a-sheen coat.
Fingers of light accented his high cheekbones and cleft chin, while his nose shadowed his slightly puckered lips.
She stared at his mouth, remembering how those lips had conjured sensations she hadn’t thought possible during the idyll they’d spent in the shelter of a crumbling spire.
She was almost certain he’d had amorous intentions when he’d taken her to such a charming, evocative place. She’d brought up the dream, but he’d initiated the kiss. He must have planned to do so, but she could be wrong.
He could have kissed her impetuously. Certainly, he’d shown a tendency to be rash before.
Almack’s, for instance.
But she’d also seen glimpses of a different side of him, of a character more deliberate than his earlier actions had suggested.
She hoped he’d intended romance, because, yesterday, he’d made her feel desired—cherished, even.
Unlike on their wedding night, he’d romanced her for reasons beyond duty.
And, for another mark in his favor, he had not spoiled the whole thing by immediately demanding marital rights.
Best of all, his presence here this morning suggested their tentative connection had not broken in the hours they’d spent apart.
Perhaps they’d finally reached solid ground and could begin to build something lasting.
She lingered in the entryway, watching him read something he held just out of her view.
Then, his posture went taut. His brows bunched as if he were concentrating, or maybe even straining.
Taken together, his comportment suggested a sudden, interior apprehension.
In fact, his concern became so apparent, so readable, he might have been a portrait by a Dutch artist of the golden age—Rembrandt or Vermeer—if not for his modern clothing and the brightly lit room.
He lifted his troubled gaze, and his expression transformed yet again, as if the mere sight of her had caused a rush of unanticipated pleasure.
Her own lips curled in a natural, reflexive response as her heart thumped low and slow in her chest. Ah, his smile. She could never blunt her ardent response. And when his eyes sparkled, as they were sparkling now, she was completely doomed.
Gathering her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, she advanced into the room.
“Good morning,” she said, in a voice made tender by his obvious delight.
“Good morning.” He rose from his seat. “I trust you slept and”—his voice deepened—“dreamt well.”
The indentation in his right cheek left no doubt he was teasing.
Though her face heated, she couldn’t help but indulge him with a brow lift of her own. A comfortable silent moment passed. She’d rarely experienced unspoken conversation with anyone but her twin Eliza, and never with anyone outside of her family circle, especially not with a man…
But he was not just any man; he was now her family, too, was he not?
Her own children might have his features. His chin, for instance. Or his smile. Her heart skipped a beat as he rounded the table and then pulled out her seat.
“I am capable of adjusting my own chair,” she said, again amused.
“Of course you are,” he replied indulgently. “But a man is never made happier than when he can be of service.”
Was he still teasing, or was he being sincere?
Perhaps service did make him happy.
That would be consistent with some of the things she’d recently observed about him.
If so, how wrong her initial impression had been!
Since then, she had plenty of proof that Harbury—a man she and Eliza had deemed hopelessly arrogant and self-indulgent on the night he’d swept her into a waltz without permission—could also be sensitive and thoughtful.
“May I make you a plate?” he asked, demonstrating her point.
“Please do,” she replied, interested to see how he’d accomplish his mission. She seated herself to quell any temptation to supervise. “When you said man is made happier by service, were you referring to humankind in general, or males as a category?”
Or yourself in particular?
She tried to add the latter, but no. She wasn’t brave enough. Not yet…
She still wasn’t sure if he had an unusual sensitivity, an awareness of the feelings of those around him. Or perhaps, like her, he simply attempted to please everyone around him.
One thing she could say of the duke…he was observant. He returned with the same assortment she’d arranged for herself the first time they’d breakfasted together.
He laid down the plate. “I would not presume to speak for all mankind,” he answered her question, though his continued twinkle suggested he presumed much. And often.
She held his gaze as she thanked him.
Briefly, he touched her cheek before returning to his seat. The gesture had been spontaneous. But his touch had made her feel cared for and comforted, and the warm sensation that followed left her a little shy.
“What is your opinion?” he asked, looking as if he honestly wanted to know what she thought.
She paused, giving the question serious consideration. First as a universal—was mankind made happier by service? Yes. But she didn’t think his question was of a philosophical bent. He wanted to know her motivation. He wanted to know her.
“I enjoy being of service,” she replied carefully. “Eliza tells me I am never happier than when I am needed.”
In fact, when she’d told Eliza she’d proposed to Harbury, Eliza had accused her of proposing not just because she wanted to save their reputations, but because their godmother, Lady Asquith, and Harbury’s sister, Lady Sarah, had both separately suggested marriage—and not just marriage, but marriage to her—would do Harbury a world of good.
Eliza had been right, but only in part.
Cassie had taken what they’d said to heart. But yesterday she’d realized she’d used his perceived need as an excuse to claim him, when the real reason had been as simple as it had been selfish. She’d desired Harbury. And she’d set out to have him.
Her eyes dropped to her plate.
“Oh?” He hummed thoughtfully. “You may be physically identical, but something tells me your twin does not share your giving nature.”
She glanced up, smiling half-heartedly. “No,” she acknowledged. “Eliza is not as…accommodating as I am.”
Her sister would never deliver criticism in soft words and phrases to make a confrontation less fraught.
She would never affirm an agitated person’s opinion simply because she wanted to soothe their soul.
And, if Eliza had been the one to propose to her husband she would have been truthful with herself—and with him—about her motivations.
Cassie, on the other hand, had deceived everyone, including herself.
What would he think of her if he knew?
Since she and Harbury had agreed to wed, they had never directly discussed the circumstances surrounding her marriage proposal. Not unless one counted Harbury revealing he’d been drunk when he’d agreed to court her.
As far as Harbury knew, she’d proposed only because she’d been concerned about her sisters’ prospects.
And as far as she knew, he accepted for the same reason he’d swept her onto the dance floor—Vivianne was not available.
In the case of their marriage, not only was Vivianne not available, but Harbury had a ducal duty to produce an heir, and he found Cassie pretty enough.
Plus, Cassie had told him she’d understood he would always love another.
She’d lied.
As she pondered the implications of her lie, the meat she’d eaten sat uncomfortably in her stomach.
Oblivious, Harbury chuckled to himself. “Eliza might not be as naturally helpful as you are, but I believe Adrian has found in her everything he wished for in a wife. I’ve never seen him so undone as he was at the Harbury ball, when he called your sister by a name clearly known only to the two of them, demonstrating they’d had a scandalous connection. ”
She tilted her head and sighed. “My family has been embroiled in a series of dramatic events of late.”
“You’re as kind as you are helpful.”
“Pardon?”
“Not your family’s drama at all, was it?
” He leaned back in his chair. “I caused the worst of the scandals, and yet I left the task of coming up with suitable reparation first to your guardian and then to you. I should not have been surprised when Asquith demanded, on pain of death, I court you. I should have been the one to approach you with a courtship. I should have been the one to propose…not after a false courtship, but the very moment your voucher was revoked.”
Not an apology. Not exactly.
But she appreciated his effort, nonetheless.
He’d told her why he’d swept her into a dance without asking permission when he’d confessed to an attachment to Lady Pennington, but he had never taken full responsibility.
She hadn’t realized just how much she’d needed him to take responsibility for what he’d done.
“I’m not sure you should have proposed,” she replied.
“Why not? The crowd’s macabre interest would have instantly turned to jubilation. You and Eliza would have been spared mortification.”
She smiled. “I’m glad you told me you feel you could have done something that night to mitigate the damage.”
He nodded.
“But,” she continued, “I am equally glad you did not immediately ask for my hand.”
“Why?”
“Because if you had offered for me in front of all those people, I would have been compelled to accept. Instead, I offered for you in private, and, as a result, we were both able to make a choice.”
His gaze moved across her face. She lowered her eyes.
Yes, she had held back a crucial truth.