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 fashionabletoncould 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—trulyseeing 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 anabrupt 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 interestin a farmer’s kitchen garden.”
“On the contrary, I particularly wanted to see Mrs. Townsend’s fenugreek.” She turned back to the woman. “I’ve been told your tinctures are the very best to be had.”
Mrs. Townsend beamed. Then, however, she darted a nervous glance at her husband. “Well, I don’t know—”
“Please, Mrs. Townsend.” Harbury flashed his most charming smile. “My wife could talk of nothing else on the way here.”
Cassie hadn’t mentioned the plant on the drive, as Harbury well knew. But she and her husband shared another moment of unspoken communication. As far as she was concerned, he’d just given her carte blanche to make her own alliance.
