Chapter Seven #2
Yes, he’d heard. Yes, he’d listened. He wished she would stop displaying so much thankfulness when he showed her any simple consideration.
As his duchess, his consideration was her due. “Has no one ever taken your preferences to heart?”
Her face fell. Immediately, he regretted his question. He had his answer, however. Clearly not.
“You do,” she acknowledged softly.
“And I always will.”
His mood instantly shifted from fury to tenderness. He would protect her, even if he must protect her from himself, from his memories.
He placed his hand on the small of her back. “Come. Meet Trusty.”
She exchanged a few soothing words with the docile white pony.
“Would you like to drive?” he asked.
She lifted her shoulders. “I do not know how.”
She didn’t know how to drive? He frowned. “Unusual for a lady of your station.”
“I suppose my father didn’t want us running away.”
He wished he could take away some of that pain. “Do you wish to learn?”
She glanced doubtfully at the cart. “Is it safe?”
He examined the conveyance through her eyes. The simple bench’s modest upholstery made travel over rutted roads only marginally comfortable. The two wheels were perfectly secure but still large enough to appear unstable.
“Not, perhaps, with an untrained horse. But Trusty here is as reliable as they come.” He flashed a grin. “Right in his name, in fact.”
“Do you think I’m tall enough to be able to brace my feet?”
“Certainly.” Although she was not as tall as Vivianne. He suppressed a wince. “Being on the same level as the horse makes learning less fraught.”
She nodded, but her frown suggested she didn’t believe him.
“You learned on this cart?” she asked skeptically.
“Sarah, too. And I’m certain I can teach you.”
She shaded her eyes to study him. Then, she smiled. “Perhaps I will give driving a try on the way back.”
“There’s a fighting spirit.”
She pinked, he hoped, with pleasure. He handed her up into the box and then heaved himself up to slide in by her side.
“Ahem.” He wiggled his brows. “I look forward to the challenge.”
“Challenge?” She gave his arm a playful swat. “Hopefully not too much of a challenge.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have you ready to join the Four-in-Hand Club in no time.”
She chuckled as the groom handed him the reins and stick.
“Walk on,” he called to Trusty, and they were off.
He hadn’t intended to offer Cassandra lessons, but it felt wrong that his wife lacked the skills to take charge of a vehicle Vivianne had used.
As evidenced by his recent recollection of Viv as his “former” love, she had been shifting from the column “forever present in his heart” to “a wound from some time past” but she still frequently intruded on his thoughts.
Too frequently.
He glanced in Cassandra’s direction.
He’d a pretty, helpful, hopeful wife. He shouldn’t be thinking of Vivianne at all.
And, when she did inadvertently cross his mind, he rather thought he should start referring to her as Lady Pennington even though, at the age he was remembering her, she’d been a long way from Pennington.
“See?” He forced his mind back to the present. “Quite safe.”
“Does Trusty respond primarily to verbal commands?”
“He will stop and go on verbal command alone, but you’ll need to use the ribbons to steer.”
She looked doubtfully at the straps in his hand. “How can you steer if you’re holding both in one hand?”
“You can hold one in each hand if that makes you more comfortable. But as you grow more accomplished, you’ll find them easier to hold in your left hand while indicating the direction you want to go by pulling up on the proper strap with your right. I’ll demonstrate.”
At the drive’s end, he used his forefinger to pull up, ever so gently, on the strap.
“You only have to lift lightly.”
Again, she studied him closely, probably committing his movements to memory. Still, he was all too conscious of her gaze.
“I’m surprised Trusty could feel so gentle a tug.”
He wasn’t. He suspected even Cassandra’s lightest touch could make him turn.
“He’s well-trained,” he explained, reminding himself he must be equally well-disciplined.
*
Cassie noted Harbury’s subtle movements, but, truthfully, she was less interested in his technique than his hands. Eliza had been right, Cassie reluctantly admitted—a man’s hands could be fascinating…even when gloved.
He held the reins with such a relaxed grip, he appeared carelessly indifferent, and yet, with the subtlest tug, Trusty responded. Without any apparent effort, he proved his mastery over both horse and vehicle.
Which made her think of other ways he could put those hands to good use.
Indecent ways.
To bring her wayward mind to heel, she turned her gaze to the countryside. First, they traveled past several fallow fields and then by planted rows containing multiple laborers. As they passed, the men removed their hats and stood.
Once, that is, they’d realized the duke himself was driving.
Apparently, a duke in a pony cart was quite the curiosity.
Some reactions went beyond amusement or even startled surprise. Some of the men looked downright shocked. Shocked as if every notion they held of the Duke of Harbury had come into question.
But surely, they must have all seen him—and, before him, his father—on numerous occasions. And some might even have been working the land long enough to remember Lady Sarah, and her governess, as Harbury’s history of the cart indicated, gadding about the grounds.
Despite the slight discomfort of being on display, she couldn’t regret Harbury’s choice of conveyance. Having her husband drive her himself was…pleasant.
Natural, almost.
Of course, they were not navigating Rotten Row atop a high-sprung curricle with a pair of prime steppers during the fashionable hour. But wouldn’t she feel proud if they were? For the first time, she rather regretted their departure from London.
Not that many fashionable ton could be found on Rotten Row this time of year.
Even Eliza, Redver, and her sisters had decamped for Ravenswood—after, according to Eliza’s last letter, Eliza had returned triumphantly to Almack’s final assembly of the Season and brazenly waltzed with her own husband.
Her gaze back slid toward her husband. While the Almack’s incident had been the catalyst for their false courtship, the “courtship” had not officially begun until the next day.
On Rotten Row.
Hard to see him now as the same man.
On that day, at Lady Asquith’s urging, she and Eliza had both worn hats with brims so wide as to be ridiculous. She’d had to tilt her head to a stargazing angle just to get a good look.
He’d worn mirror-buffed, tasseled Hessians, a coat with too many capes to count, and a hat that sat raffishly askew.
As he’d drawn his horse alongside Lady Asquith’s carriage, he’d lifted his chin and kept a neutral, haughty expression, but his skin had taken on a grayish hue, as if he were facing execution rather than meeting a young lady he genuinely admired.
Of course, Eliza had just given him a pointed cut…which, thankfully, he’d been gracious enough to ignore.
But when her eyes met his, his haunted look had transformed into profound consternation.
She’d been devastated when she’d realized he would have swept any woman into that waltz, but his reaction to meeting her on Rotten Row had made her heart flutter with renewed hope.
In that moment, she thought he was seeing her—truly seeing her—in a deeper way than he had at Almack’s.
And she’d believed he’d liked something he saw in her, possibly even reluctantly.
But she still wasn’t sure if she’d deceived herself.
Just as she was now uncertain whether his kisses, his familiar conversation, and his teasing were overtures indicating his growing attachment. She wished she could be sure they were.
Perhaps then, she could be bold enough to invite him back into her bed.
As Trusty trotted around the side of a rather large barn, the Townsend farmhouse came into view, bringing Cassie’s reflections to an abrupt halt. She hadn’t known exactly what to expect, but she’d a vague sense they’d be visiting a small home, possibly even a thatched-roof cottage.
Instead, the building did not fit what she considered “a cottage” at all, flexible as she knew the term to be. The Townsend dwelling was a proper house. Not nearly as large as Willowhurst, of course, but of a size rivaling the most comfortable inns along the North Road.
The Townsends had done well indeed, which became even more apparent when Harbury gave Trusty the vocal cue to stop.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Townsend waited for them on recently whitewashed steps.
And a well-dressed groom was ready to assist them down and then to tend to Trusty while they made their visit.
Harbury made introductions.
While Mrs. Townsend gave them both an effusive welcome, even more effusive after Cassie had revealed the contents of her basket, Mr. Townsend remained unsmiling.
His manners were otherwise polite, but Cassie sensed tension in the man’s stance.
And she sensed anxiousness in Mrs. Townsend’s manner, too.
They settled in a comfortably, if not grandly, appointed parlor, but the conversation remained stilted. Either Mr. Townsend had no intention of speaking his mind, or her presence, and his wife’s, held him in check.
Cassie made a quick calculation. She knew the purpose of this visit was Harbury’s desire to forge a genuine connection with this tenant, and she wanted to help. So, she contrived a reason to separate the spouses.
“Tea would be most welcome, of course,” she said in response to Mrs. Townsend’s offer of a hot beverage.
“But might I see your kitchen garden first?” She glanced meaningfully toward the window.
“On the way over, I noticed a few ominous looking clouds on the horizon, and I would not want to lose the chance.”
“Surely,” Mr. Townsend interjected, “a duchess has little interest in a farmer’s kitchen garden.”