Chapter Six #2
Nothing, however, she was currently willing to share. She could not tell him she’d wanted him then any more than she could tell him she feared how quickly she was growing to truly care for him now. Not, at least, until she was sure he felt the same.
She was vulnerable enough.
She was vulnerable to his smiles, which made her feel warm and light and trustful inside.
And she was vulnerable to her desire, which made her hot and needy and willing to invite him back to her bed before he’d made any declaration.
But she wanted not only him, but all of him, body, mind, and soul.
Every time she’d been on the cusp of demanding more, an apparition of the reason he’d never publicly courted anyone else, the reason he’d been available for her to propose, appeared in her mind as a warning.
The very-much-alive Lady Pennington.
Her only consolation was that Lady Pennington was far away…out of sight and—hopefully—out of mind. She jabbed a fork into her meat, shoveled a morsel into her mouth, and forced herself to chew. The sausage was flavorful, but bitterness lingered on her tongue.
Vivianne, as he’d called her.
Viv.
“Is the meat overcooked?” he asked.
She forced herself to swallow.
“No.” Her expression, she supposed, must be as readable as his. She brightened with forced cheer and recentered the conversation on an ever-shrinking parcel of safe ground. “Quite good, actually. I should like to compliment the cook.”
*
Though his wife was still present at the breakfast table, the suddenness of Cassandra’s emotional retreat left Harbury reeling. They’d come close, so close, to an understanding.
This time, she pulled away.
He wanted to ask her what had caused her open expression to shutter with a clap, but some battles, like the one for her genuine esteem, had to be won by the inch.
Cassandra, he was coming to understand, was not someone who responded to stark demands.
She could be silenced but never coerced.
She would only engage when made to feel welcome and at ease.
He shifted in his chair. He could, and would, encourage her to keep talking. He wasn’t that small boy who couldn’t converse any longer.
What had she just expressed?
Ah, yes—a desire to compliment the cook. “Cook, I’m sure, would appreciate any compliment, especially if delivered directly by the duchess.”
A strange expression passed over her features.
What could it mean?
His mind wandered back over his internal catalog of their interactions.
Every time he had called her by her station, she’d gotten the same, wary look, like a rabbit sensing a predator.
If just the word “duchess” set her on uneven mental terrain, what was being the duchess causing her to feel?
And if the experience was as painful as he feared, perhaps he could do something to help?
“Have you been getting on with the servants?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered far too quickly, then glanced warily at the footman. “…for the most part.”
Of course. She would not want to speak in front of Tull.
He’d entirely forgotten the footman’s presence. Strange, too, given the earlier admission he’d made concerning his failure to propose.
His father never would have been so indiscreet. Nor would he ever have been so wrapped up in his duchess, he forgot his surrounds.
Thoughtless.
By afternoon, the whole staff, half the estate, and likely beyond would know Cassandra had taken the unusual step of proposing to him. He didn’t care about his own reputation, but he did not wish to tarnish hers. Ridicule, brought on by his actions, had hurt her before.
He’d be damned if he’d make the same mistake again.
He set down his napkin. “Tull?”
The footman turned toward Harbury.
“Needless to say,” Harbury instructed, “anything you may have heard will not leave this room.”
“Your Grace?” Tull blinked as if to imply he hadn’t heard anything at all.
Harbury leveled his gaze. “Should I hear any gossip concerning myself and the duchess, there will be consequences. Serious consequences.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the young man replied.
“You may go.”
He glanced at his wife. Instead of looking alarmed, as she had when he’d dismissed the servant on their first breakfast alone together, she sighed as if relieved.
Yesterday she’d said, we are married now, your problems are mine.
He’d been touched.
But wasn’t the same true in reverse?
He should have been more attentive to the burdens on her shoulders. Mrs. Pratt, for instance, could still be holding Cassandra’s library project against her even though he’d made it clear his wife could make whatever changes she wished.
He hoped that was not the case.
He’d hate to lose a retainer, but there was no question whose well-being should be his chief concern. Cassandra should be comfortable giving instructions in her own home. He leaned forward, reaching out across the table to rest his hand close to her plate.
“Do you have any concerns you haven’t shared? Something about the staff, perhaps?”
“I’ve had a few…ah, difficult interactions with Mrs. Pratt.”
“Michaelmas is coming up,” he began. “A time when many servants seek new positions, housekeepers likely among them.”
“You wouldn’t dismiss your housekeeper for my sake, would you?” Her eyes went wide.
“Our housekeeper,” he corrected. “And yes, if her performance is not to your liking, I would not hesitate to ask for her resignation.”
Cassie shook her head, horrified. “I don’t want you to send her off.”
How like her to be concerned for someone else’s welfare. “I would offer a retainer until she found another position. And I would provide references, of course.”
“I don’t wish to upend the household.”
He suppressed a smile. She hadn’t hesitated to upend his library, or his life.
“And,” she continued, “I wouldn’t presume—”
“You’re the duchess,” he interrupted her, “making such decisions is your right.”
“Well, then.” She paused. “I will take the possibility into consideration. But I’ve made a point to be clearer about my preferences. Things have been better. Truly.”
“Good.” He settled back in his chair. “Is there anything else not to your satisfaction?”
“Well…” She sent him a measured glance. “Would you have any objection if I changed out the carpet in my bedchamber?”
“The carpet is new.” In fact, he’d had the room decorated to what he thought was her taste.
“New?” she asked. “Never you mind, then. I—I could use one from another chamber.”
“You mistake me. I wasn’t concerned about the expense, just surprised.”
“I am not particularly enamored with pink.” She wrinkled her nose apologetically.
Apologetically and adorably.
“Not enamored?”
“To be honest”—she flashed a smile—“I hate the color.”
Which meant she hated the drapes and the coverlet as well as the damn rug. “I shouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable in your own chamber.” He drummed his fingers against his knee. “The fault, I’m afraid, is mine. I specifically chose the color because—”
“You redecorated the room?”
“The duchess’s chamber had not been updated since the time of my grandmother. I could hardly bring you home to musty linens and a drafty room. The drapes, coverlet, and rug were of trivial expense compared to the repairs to the hearth and the replacement of the windows.”
Her face went soft with the same expression she made every time he showed her even the least consideration. Really. Had she thought him a complete cad?
He’d told her his heart was engaged elsewhere, but he’d always intended to treat her with respect and consideration. Now—he cocked his head—he was coming to wonder if she hadn’t been the better choice for him after all.
She certainly appreciated him. And he appreciated her.
“What made you think I liked pink?” she asked, completely unaware of his profound reflections.
“You favored a hat in London—one with a profusion of pink flowers and ribbons.”
“Oh!” She giggled. “Ohhh.”
The sound of her laughter was unexpected and considerably lightened his mood.
Rare were these moments when she seemed to feel completely at ease in his presence; he not only liked them, but he was also growing greedy for them.
“Nettie made me the pink-flowered atrocity,” she explained. “I felt obligated to wear it…at least to the Season’s end. Now, the hat’s been relegated to a box at the very back of my dressing room.”
“Your sister Annette favors pink?”
She rolled her eyes. “You don’t know the half.”
“Then I suggest you bundle up the linens and give them to her as a gift.”
“Really?” She brightened. Then, her face fell. “Millie and Lenora would never consent to sleep in a room draped in pink.”
“I know they are planning on staying in a shared room in D’Acre House next Season, but they could come live with us, if they would prefer to have their own rooms. D’Acre House is big.” He flashed a smile. “My London home is bigger.”
She cocked her head. “You’d grant each of my sisters their own chamber?”
“Of course.” He shrugged. “Unless they preferred otherwise.”
“Thank you for the thought.” Genuine gratitude sparkled in her eyes. “But I am certain they will prefer to stay with Adrian and Eliza. Nettie and Lady Emily have become fast friends.”
“If that’s the case, simply make the whole lot a present for Nettie’s trousseau chest.”
“Her trousseau chest?”
Belatedly, he remembered Cassandra hadn’t had a piece of furniture where she collected items for her marriage.
He didn’t know how common they were, but Sarah had been gifted one from a maternal aunt when she was born, along with a stunning set of silver his sister hadn’t yet had the opportunity to use.
“If she doesn’t have one, we’ll get one.” Belatedly, he remembered Millicent and Lenora. “Three, I mean.”
“Thank you,” she offered quietly.
“Trifling.” He waved his hand.
“You cannot know how great a relief I feel now that my sisters have powerful connections beyond Lord and Lady Asquith.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgement, but he didn’t want her gratitude. Well, not only her gratitude, at least.
What did he want, then?
An ally…but they’d already established a mutual desire to work cooperatively. A lover…but marital congress had always been part of their bargain. Now, however, neither of those things were enough.
He wanted to hear her little giggle more often.
He wanted to see the sudden light in her eyes.
He wanted her excitement—the same excitement she’d shown when she’d first seen the priory ruins.
He wanted her look of trust, like the one she’d given him when she’d stepped into the make-shift stirrup of his hands.
He wanted her dreamy, breathless just-been-thoroughly-kissed expression.
He wanted them all.
Viv had been glittery, lively, and ambitious—something he’d reached for but had never truly held. Cassandra was breathtaking in a different way. She was lovely, bright, and though willing to speak her mind, invariably considerate and kind.
And she was his.
Like a traveler who’d carefully uncovered a prize from an ancient civilization no one else had been able to see, he wanted to flaunt his new bride to all his neighbors.
…which recalled to mind something they hadn’t yet discussed.
“Yesterday, when we were out, I missed a call from an old friend of my father’s.”
“You did?” she asked. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” He grinned. “I would not trade the afternoon we had for a visit from the king and his most important dignitaries.”
She blushed prettily.
“Lord Wexford left his card, of course, and an invitation to visit this afternoon.”
“Didn’t Mr. Townsend say he’d be available to meet with you on his farm this afternoon?”
“We can visit both. Townsend’s farm is on the way.”
She hesitated. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Whyever not?”
“Well, I imagine the Wexfords would expect slightly more formal attire than would make a tenant farmer, even one so large and established as Mr. Townsend, comfortable.”
Huh.
He hadn’t considered how they’d be dressed. “You’re correct, of course. I will pen a note to Lord Wexford and ask him to propose some other convenient time.” He smiled. “Whatever did I do without you?”
The question may have been rhetorical, but the sentiment was sincere.
He was coming to appreciate how much a smart, witty, and thoughtful lady could add to a man’s life, and he didn’t want to return to the less interesting, less fulfilling drudgery he’d known before he’d married.