all my heart. And I will not forget about you when I leave, dear lady, I swear.”
Coming into the stables, Lilyanne saw the duke and Catherine, with nary a horse in sight. She saw him in his shirtsleeves, bending over Catherine’s fingers, and she heard his words of love. She felt sick.
The rake had not been here two days and he’d already made arrangements with Lady Edgecombe. No, an assignation. In an empty stall, like a groom and a dairy maid. Like rutting goats. Lilyanne had been right, after all: Caswell was in truth dangerous and depraved. Long walks and less Turbulence were not going to change his profligate nature, not until pigs took wing. Why was she so disappointed?
Kasey found himself shoveling manure, after all.
* * * *
Dinner that evening was even more dreary than the preceding one. Lady Edgecombe did not make an appearance, most likely, Kasey thought, because she’d found better fare in the village. Miss Bannister barely spoke a word, and ate less, not that Kasey blamed her. Tonight’s meal seemed to consist of the same boiled meats and vegetables of yesterday, cooked inside a piecrust. Even the pudding looked watery, as if it had been left over, too. No one ate theirs, despite Sir Osgood’s urging. Kasey found himself praying, long after grace, that Lady Edgecombe had brought back something edible, almost as much as he prayed for a paint set.
After dinner, Miss Bannister claimed a patently spurious headache, so Kasey had to listen to Sir Osgood’s elevating readings without benefit of knitting or spinning or staring at the intriguing young woman. He must have nodded off, after his day’s exertions, for the doctor had to prod him when the tea cart arrived. One benefit of Miss Bannister’s desertion was that Kasey got to eat her share of the tea and toast.
The short nap must have relieved Kasey’s weariness, for once he was upstairs, after Cosgrove had left, locking the door behind himself, Kasey felt not at all sleepy. He partially undressed, then took out the pencil he had retrieved from his greatcoat pocket, and the cheap paper he had “borrowed” from the butler’s pantry. Likely the man kept it to make lists for errands and orders, but Kasey had a better use for the stuff.
First he sketched Miss Bannister as she’d appeared this afternoon, kneeling by the rosebushes, her hood fallen back and a curtain of black satin hair framing her high cheekbones.
There was not much His Grace could do with such crude materials, despite the subject, but the woman he drew was serenely beautiful—and blessedly silent.
Daringly, he started to portray the lady from the oil painting, back in London. The pose was slightly different, and the eyes refused to focus properly, a pencil having few enough gradations in tone. And her mouth—oh, Lord, her mouth was closed but he could hear her calling his name. No! No, it could not be happening again!
“I know you are awake, Caswell. I can see the light under your door. I have brought your paints.”
Trembling, Kasey picked up the shredded paper and went to the door. “I fear you are too late, ma’am,” he whispered against the wood. “They lock me in at night, you see.”
“What, you haven’t figured out how to open the door by now? It only took me one night.” He could hear a scraping sound, then the door opened and Lady Edgecombe was pressing one of her hairpins into his hand. “Simple.”
Him or the method? Kasey was too delighted to see that she had a large sack in her other hand to ask. “Perfect, ma’am, absolutely perfect!” The paint set wasn’t half bad either, he noted while he chewed on a raspberry tart. The brushes were not the usual quality His Grace employed, but no matter. He’d have used Castor’s tail for a paintbrush if he had to.
He set the paints and brushes on the straight-backed chair next to his bed and took Lady Edgecombe’s hands in his, to thank her properly. “You have made me the happiest of men, my
Coming into the stables, Lilyanne saw the duke and Catherine, with nary a horse in sight. She saw him in his shirtsleeves, bending over Catherine’s fingers, and she heard his words of love. She felt sick.
The rake had not been here two days and he’d already made arrangements with Lady Edgecombe. No, an assignation. In an empty stall, like a groom and a dairy maid. Like rutting goats. Lilyanne had been right, after all: Caswell was in truth dangerous and depraved. Long walks and less Turbulence were not going to change his profligate nature, not until pigs took wing. Why was she so disappointed?
Kasey found himself shoveling manure, after all.
* * * *
Dinner that evening was even more dreary than the preceding one. Lady Edgecombe did not make an appearance, most likely, Kasey thought, because she’d found better fare in the village. Miss Bannister barely spoke a word, and ate less, not that Kasey blamed her. Tonight’s meal seemed to consist of the same boiled meats and vegetables of yesterday, cooked inside a piecrust. Even the pudding looked watery, as if it had been left over, too. No one ate theirs, despite Sir Osgood’s urging. Kasey found himself praying, long after grace, that Lady Edgecombe had brought back something edible, almost as much as he prayed for a paint set.
After dinner, Miss Bannister claimed a patently spurious headache, so Kasey had to listen to Sir Osgood’s elevating readings without benefit of knitting or spinning or staring at the intriguing young woman. He must have nodded off, after his day’s exertions, for the doctor had to prod him when the tea cart arrived. One benefit of Miss Bannister’s desertion was that Kasey got to eat her share of the tea and toast.
The short nap must have relieved Kasey’s weariness, for once he was upstairs, after Cosgrove had left, locking the door behind himself, Kasey felt not at all sleepy. He partially undressed, then took out the pencil he had retrieved from his greatcoat pocket, and the cheap paper he had “borrowed” from the butler’s pantry. Likely the man kept it to make lists for errands and orders, but Kasey had a better use for the stuff.
First he sketched Miss Bannister as she’d appeared this afternoon, kneeling by the rosebushes, her hood fallen back and a curtain of black satin hair framing her high cheekbones.
There was not much His Grace could do with such crude materials, despite the subject, but the woman he drew was serenely beautiful—and blessedly silent.
Daringly, he started to portray the lady from the oil painting, back in London. The pose was slightly different, and the eyes refused to focus properly, a pencil having few enough gradations in tone. And her mouth—oh, Lord, her mouth was closed but he could hear her calling his name. No! No, it could not be happening again!
“I know you are awake, Caswell. I can see the light under your door. I have brought your paints.”
Trembling, Kasey picked up the shredded paper and went to the door. “I fear you are too late, ma’am,” he whispered against the wood. “They lock me in at night, you see.”
“What, you haven’t figured out how to open the door by now? It only took me one night.” He could hear a scraping sound, then the door opened and Lady Edgecombe was pressing one of her hairpins into his hand. “Simple.”
Him or the method? Kasey was too delighted to see that she had a large sack in her other hand to ask. “Perfect, ma’am, absolutely perfect!” The paint set wasn’t half bad either, he noted while he chewed on a raspberry tart. The brushes were not the usual quality His Grace employed, but no matter. He’d have used Castor’s tail for a paintbrush if he had to.
He set the paints and brushes on the straight-backed chair next to his bed and took Lady Edgecombe’s hands in his, to thank her properly. “You have made me the happiest of men, my
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