Chapter Eleven #2
Her smile softened. Her eyelids fluttered down. “Yes, for you, too.”
One, gently whispered sentence razed the wall that dread had erected. She wouldn’t lead him to ruin. She was his wife. His very pretty wife. And she was wearing nothing more than a night rail, wrapper and cap.
“Shall Mercy stay with me?” she asked. “Or do you wish him to remain with you for the night?”
“Are you inviting us both to spend the night?” He knew she hadn’t been, but he couldn’t resist asking.
“If you spend the night in my bed,” she replied carefully, “you’ll send Sally into a tizzy.”
“Marsden will be up first,” he reasoned. “He’ll give Sally fair warning.”
She hadn’t rejected him outright, so he reentered her chamber, waited a moment, and then closed the door behind him.
She placed Mercy on the floor. The puppy’s ears flopped as he bounded over to Harbury’s feet.
Harbury scooped him up and settled him into the crook of his arm. Cassandra made a soft sound.
Harbury raised his gaze, catching an expression on her he’d never seen before. An expression that could—optimistically—be interpreted as love.
His limbs went heavy, and his throat thickened.
She adjusted her wrapper and then turned away. She sat down at her dressing table and, slowly, pulled off her cap. Lock by lock, her thick, tousled hair tumbled about her shoulders.
“Glorious,” he said in a strained whisper.
“I didn’t re-braid my hair before taking the dog out.” She flashed a nervous smile. “I was too worried about your linens.”
He swallowed roughly. “I’m disappointed you did not leave your hair down for me.”
“I cannot sleep with it down. If I do, Sally will have a matted mess on her hands in the morning.”
“I understand,” he replied.
Cassandra picked up her brush and drew the pliant bristles down through the curly mass—dark and rich like chocolate, soft as the petals of a rose. Intimate, watching her tend her hair.
More intimate still, if she permitted him to touch.
He shrugged out of his banyan, transferring the dog to his other arm. Then, he used his robe to arrange a makeshift puppy cradle at the mattress’s foot.
“This,” he spoke in a tone Mercy would understand, “is for you.”
He placed the pup on the bed. Mercy gave the banyan a thorough sniffing before deciding the arrangement would suit. Then, he curled up and sighed, leaving Harbury free to saunter over to his wife.
He rested his hands on her shoulders. “May I?”
“May you…?” she queried.
“Brush your hair.”
Her doubtful gaze met his in the mirror.
“I know enough not to pull,” he assured. “Whenever Sarah caught me—”
“Caught you?”
“Doing something I ought not…”
“Something?”
“With Adrian, undoubtedly.” By her expression, he gathered that, this time, she had not missed his near slip.
“Whatever the crime, the punishment Sarah extracted for keeping her silence was brushing. Forcing her indignant little brother to play lady’s maid was, apparently, a temptation too great to resist.”
Cassandra chuckled.
“But brushing your hair”—he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her crown—“would be no punishment.”
Hesitantly, his wife relinquished the brush. He lifted a lock from her shoulder and began gently working the brush through to the ends.
“You do know what you’re doing.”
“Perhaps you should trust me more often.”
“Perhaps.” She closed her eyes. Gradually, the tension drained from her shoulders. “Why do you hesitate so often when you speak of your youth?”
The brush hit a snarl, and he concentrated on untangling her hair rather than answering her question.
“There can’t be anything in your past I would not wish to know,” she added.
He met her gaze in the mirror. “Are you sure?” Even the bad parts? Even the embarrassing parts? Even the parts that might hurt you?
“Yes.” She straightened. “Of course.”
“Your desire to know me means the world to me, Cassie.”
Her gaze went warm and soft yet again.
How could he ever believe the overwhelming feelings she inspired would make him weak, when she looked at him with such tenderness in her eyes? His desire to keep Cassandra safe and whole didn’t lessen him as a man, his desire—his commitment—made him strong. Strong enough to move mountains.
And wanting Cassandra had never been a betrayal of Viv.
Vivianne had been a raging torrent. In her presence, all he could do was keep from capsizing.
Cassandra, on the other hand, was a lifeline, a rope sailors used to save lives, with a subtle but consistent pull. Where the line might take him, he didn’t know.
But he would risk everything to find out.
Yes, he still felt fear, but not the same kind of fear.
The danger here was real. This time, if he gave free rein to his feelings, Cassandra would not become some youthful, romantic attachment.
She would become his very heart.
*
After their first night of true passion, Cassie and her husband—she could truthfully call him husband not just in word, but in actual deed—passed the next few weeks in idyllic pleasure.
Harbury took up residence in her bed and showed no inclination to return to his own.
He helped her finish the library reorganization, worked with her until she mastered driving the cart.
And, best of all, their shared days bled into amorous nights…
Mercy, of course, was wreaking havoc on the household, but Mercy was a puppy. Chaos was expected. Unexpected, however, was the way Harbury was gazing at her right now—as if he’d grant her any wish she asked.
Which, at the moment, was another sausage.
A footman interrupted their breakfast to deliver a letter dispatched from the Townsend farm and addressed to her.
“You’re obviously excited.” Harbury smiled fondly. “Open it now if you wish.”
“Very well.” Cassie broke the seal.
She scanned the contents.
Mrs. Townsend had written that Mr. Townsend had, in no uncertain terms, declined to receive help from the Hall.
However, she had not given up. She’d waited a few days and then asked him if she might invite Mrs. Grayson, Mrs. Bottlesworth, and Miss Clapham to afternoon tea along with the duchess. To this, he had not objected.
Mrs. Townsend had then taken it upon herself to visit Mrs. Grayson, Mrs. Bottlesworth, and Miss Clapham, inviting each confidentially and in person. All had been most eager to have a private audience with the new duchess.
Most eager had been underlined three times.
Mrs. Townsend then went on to apologize for the short notice, explaining she had only just learned that the men meant to go down to inspect damage to the bridge on the road to Upper Harfield today. Would her Grace, perhaps, be available this afternoon?
Yes. Her Grace would make herself available.
She set aside the letter and glanced across the breakfast table to her husband. “Mrs. Townsend has invited me to tea this afternoon.”
He set aside his napkin. “And, by your expression, I’m guessing you’d rather attend than accompany me to the rector’s?”
“If you don’t mind,” she replied carefully. “She’ll be harvesting her fenugreek, and I did tell her I would like to learn more about how her tincture is made.”
“But you also expressly wished to meet the rector’s daughter, Miss Clapham.”
“As it happens, Miss Clapham is also planning to attend Mrs. Townsend’s tea.”
His expression suggested he found this odd, but, after brief consideration, he replied, “I suppose that does tip the scales. A discussion with the rectory would be less entertaining than an afternoon tea in the company of Mrs. Townsend and Miss Clapham.”
Mrs. Townsend, Miss Clapham, Mrs. Grayson, and Mrs. Bottlesworth.
She considered confiding in him, letting him know the real reason behind the tea, assuring him she only wished to form alliances on his behalf. But Mrs. Townsend had gone to a great deal of trouble, and she did not want to risk the possibility he’d ask her not to go.
Nor had she worked up the courage to destroy their fragile peace by demanding to know if he did indeed refuse to lower the rents, as Mrs. Townsend had suggested. But once she better understood the tenants’ concerns, she would broach the subject.
After their visit to the Townsends, there’d been no more talk of battle plans or strategy.
In fact, whenever she tried to turn the conversation to estate matters, he always found an artful way to answer her question and then quickly change the subject.
Which, of course, made her even less inclined to share her own plans and intentions.
Whether he wanted to discuss the matter or not, they were both responsible for the estate’s welfare. And distrust had been sown among the tenantry. Besides, allies didn’t have to share all the information they gathered, did they?
Strategic secrecy was part of every diplomatic negotiation.
“I only hope,” Harbury continued, “the rector and I can reach an agreement on a candidate for the living in Harford Chase.”
“I still cannot believe the ducal hunting grounds include a village large enough to support a parish,” she commented lightly, happy the conversation had moved to Harford Chase and away from her plans.
“The parish is at the edge of the hunting grounds.” His gaze warmed. “We’ve a charming lodge not too far from the village. If you like, I can have the place aired out. Very snug,” he added in a velvety voice. “Very secluded.”
She lifted a brow. “An appropriate place for a lady, is it, this lodge?”
He shrugged. “If rumors are to be believed about the roguishness of my grandfather, not in his time.”
“Was your grandfather…disreputable?”
“Oh yes,” he said cheerfully. “Terribly. But you have no need for concern. My father lived above reproach, as if on a mission to restore the family’s respectability.
” He looked away, frowned and then blinked, as if he’d never considered the two things—his grandfather’s scandals and his father’s rectitude—to be connected before.
“As soon as my father became duke,” he continued in a more thoughtful tone, “those kinds of parties ceased.”
“Imagine,” she said dryly. “A hunting lodge being used to…hunt.”
“Yes.” He sounded disappointed.
“And I suppose you learned to hunt by your father’s side?”
“No.” He cast his gaze out the window. “Anderson was tasked with teaching both Adrian and me.”
She waited for him to elaborate. He did not.
Strange.
His disinclination to discuss the matter any further must have something to do with the steward.
In fact, Harbury had always been reluctant to talk about Anderson.
He hadn’t, for instance, told her about the shouting match between the steward and Dr. Wilton on Tuesday, a “discussion”—according to Mrs. Pratt—overheard by half the residents of Lower Harfield.
Nor had he told her about the Friday prior, when Tull had found Anderson searching one of the bookcases in the library they’d just finished organizing.
She’d a growing suspicion of Anderson. Did her husband have the same?
If so, he had not spoken or acted against the man.
Harbury wiped his mouth on a napkin and arranged the cutlery. “I’ll ride over to the rector’s,” he returned to an earlier topic, “so that you may have use of the carriage.”
“Thank you,” she said, though she had no intention of inconveniencing the coachman.
After Harbury left, she requested Trusty be harnessed to the cart. Then, she carried a basket of cheeses, bread, and all the oranges cook could spare out to the courtyard.
“Shall I attend you?” the groom asked.
“No, thank you,” she replied, with a twinge of guilt.
Harbury had asked her not to go out without a groom. But such a restriction seemed unreasonable when she would be confined to the estate and driving on a road she had traveled on before.
She wasn’t disobeying her husband, per se.
She was simply interpreting his instruction as one meant for destinations beyond the boundaries of Harbury land.
Perfectly reasonable.
And plausible.
She hoped.
Because bringing along a spy would not earn her the estate’s women’s trust.