Mr. Cavendish, I Presume (23 page)

“Thomas.” She eyed him warily. “What are you talking about?”

“Damned if I know.” He laughed bitterly. “What’s to become of us, Grace? We’re doomed, you know. Both of us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to pretend he hadn’t been crystal clear. “Oh, come now, Grace, you’re far too intelligent for that.”

She looked to the door. “I should go.”

But he was blocking her way.

“Thomas, I—”

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And then he thought—why not? Amelia was as good as gone, and Grace—good, solid, dependable Grace—

was right here. She was lovely, really, he’d always thought so, and a man could do far worse. Even a man without a farthing to his name.

He took her face in his hands and he kissed her. It was a desperate thing, born not of desire but of pain, and he kept kissing her, because he kept hoping that maybe it would turn into something else, that maybe if he tried hard enough, for long enough, something would spark between them and he would forget . . .

“Stop!” she pushed at his chest. “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a helpless shrug. It was the truth. “I’m here, you’re here . . . ”

“I’m leaving.” But one of his hands was still on her arm. He should let go. He knew he should, but he couldn’t. She might not have been the right woman, but maybe . . . maybe she wasn’t entirely the wrong one.

Maybe they could make a go of it, they two.

“Ah, Grace,” he said. “I am not Wyndham any longer.

We both know it.” He felt himself shrugging, and then he held his hand toward her. It felt like he was finally allowing himself to surrender to the inevitable.

She stared at him curiously. “Thomas?”

And then—who knew where it had come from, but he said, “Why don’t you marry me when this is all over?”

“What?” She looked horrified. “Oh, Thomas, you’re mad.”

But she did not pull away.

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“What do you say, Gracie?” He touched her chin, tipping her up to look at him.

She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no. He knew she was thinking of Audley, but just then he didn’t care.

She felt like his only hope, his last shot at sanity.

He leaned down to kiss her again, pausing to remind himself of her beauty. That thick, dark hair, those gorgeous blue eyes—they should have had his heart pounding. If he pressed her against him, hard and demanding, would his body tighten with need?

But he didn’t press her against him. He didn’t want to. It felt wrong, and he felt dirty for even thinking of it, and when Grace turned her head to the side and whispered, “I can’t,” he did nothing to stop her. Instead, he rested his chin atop her head, holding her like he might a sister.

His heart twisted, and he whispered, “I know.”

“Your grace?”

Thomas looked up from his desk the following morning, wondering just how much longer he might be addressed in that manner. His butler was standing in the doorway, waiting for acknowledgment.

“Lord Crowland is here to see you, sir,” Penrith said.

“With Lady Amelia.”

“At this hour?” He blinked, glancing for the clock, which had gone unaccountably missing.

“It’s half nine, sir,” Penrith informed him. “And the clock is out for repair.”

Thomas touched the bridge of his nose, which seemed to have single-handedly absorbed all of the ill-effects Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

225

of the previous night’s bottle of brandy. “Thought I was going mad there for a moment,” he murmured. Although truly, the missing clock would have been the least of the symptoms.

“They are in the rose salon, sir.”

Where he’d mauled Grace mere hours earlier.

Lovely.

Thomas waited for Penrith to depart, then closed his eyes in mortification. Dear God, he’d kissed Grace.

Hauled the poor girl into his arms and kissed her. What the devil had he been thinking?

And yet . . . he couldn’t quite regret it. It seemed a sensible idea at the time. If he couldn’t have Amelia . . .

Amelia.

Her name in his mind jolted him back to the present.

Amelia was here. He could not keep her waiting.

He stood. She’d brought her father, never a good sign.

Thomas got on well enough with Lord Crowland, but he could think of no reason why the man would pay a call so early in the morning. He could not even remember the last time the earl had been by.

Dear God, he hoped he hadn’t brought the hounds.

He had far too much of a headache for that.

It was not far to the rose salon, just down the hall.

When he entered the room, he immediately saw Amelia, perched on a settee, looking as if she’d rather be somewhere else. She smiled, but it was really more of a grimace, and Thomas wondered if she was unwell.

“Lady Amelia,” he said, though he really ought to have acknowledged her father first.

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She stood, bobbing a little curtsy. “Your grace.”

“Is something amiss?” he asked. He felt his head tilt, just the slightest little bit, as he looked into her eyes.

They were back to green again, with little brown flecks at the edges. But she didn’t look quite right.

When had he got to know her so well that he could recognize such subtleties in her appearance?

“I am quite well, your grace.”

But he did not like that tone, all meek and proper. He wanted the other Amelia back, the one who had pored over dusty old atlases with him, her eyes shining with delight at her newfound knowledge. The one who had laughed with Harry Gladdish—at his expense!

Funny. He had never thought that a willingness to poke fun at him would be something he’d prize so highly in a wife, but there it was. He did not want to be placed on a pedestal. Not by her.

“Are you certain?” he asked, because he was growing concerned. “You look pale.”

“Just the proper use of a bonnet,” she said. “Perhaps you could tell your grandmother.”

They shared a smile at that, and then Thomas turned to greet her father. “Lord Crowland. Forgive my inat-tention. How may I be of service?”

Lord Crowland did not bother with niceties, or indeed even with a greeting. “I have lost my patience with you, Wyndham,” he bit off.

Thomas glanced over at Amelia for explanation. But she was not quite looking at him.

“I am afraid I do not understand your meaning,”

Thomas said.

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“Amelia tells me you leave for Ireland.”

Amelia knew he was going to Ireland? Thomas blinked in surprise. This was news to him.

“I overheard you talking to Grace,” she said, with a miserable swallow. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.

I shouldn’t have said. I didn’t think he would be so angry.”

“We have waited long enough,” Crowland blustered.

“You have kept my daughter dangling on a string for years, and now, finally, when we think you are about to deign to set a date, I hear that you are fleeing the country!”

“I do plan to return.”

Crowland’s face turned a bit purple. Perhaps dry wit had not been the best choice.

“What, sir,” he snapped, “are your intentions?”

Thomas breathed in through his nose, long and deep, forcing his body to remain calm. “My intentions,” he repeated. At what point was a man allowed to decide he’d had enough? That he was through with being polite, with trying to do the right thing? He considered the events of the last few days. All in all, he thought he’d done rather well. He hadn’t killed anyone, and Lord knew, he’d been tempted.

“My intentions,” Thomas said again. His hand flexed at his side, the only outward sign of his distress.

“Toward my daughter.”

And really, that was enough. Thomas gave Lord Crowland an icy stare. “I hardly possess intentions toward anything else in your sphere.”

Amelia gasped, and he should have felt remorse, but 228 Julia

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he did not. For the past week he had been stretched, beaten, poked, prodded—he felt as if he might snap.

One more little jab, and he was going to—

“Lady Amelia,” came a new, highly unwelcome voice. “I did not realize you had graced us with your lovely presence.”

Audley
. Yes, of course he would be here. Thomas started to laugh.

Crowland eyed him with something approaching revulsion. Thomas, not Audley, who appeared just in from a ride, all windblown and roguishly handsome.

Or so Thomas assumed. It was difficult to know just what the ladies saw in the man.

“Er, Father,” Amelia said hastily, “may I present Mr.

Audley? He is a house guest at Belgrave. I made his acquaintance the other day when I was here visiting Grace.”

“Where
is
Grace?” Thomas wondered aloud. Everyone else was in attendance. It seemed almost unkind to leave her out.

“Just down the hall, actually,” Audley said, eyeing him curiously. “I was walking—”

“I’m sure you were,” Thomas cut in. He turned back to Lord Crowland. “Right. You wished to know my intentions.”

“This might not be the best time,” Amelia said nervously. Thomas pushed down a sharp stab of remorse.

She thought she was staving off some sort of repudia-tion, when the truth was far worse.

“No,” he said, drawing the syllable out as if he were Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

229

actually pondering the matter. “This might be our only time.”

Why was he keeping this a secret? What could he possibly have to gain? Why not just get the whole damned thing out in the open?

Grace arrived then. “You wished to see me, your grace?”

Thomas’s brows rose with some surprise, and he looked about the room. “Was I
that
loud?”

“The footman heard you . . . ” Her words trailed off, and she motioned toward the hall, where the eavesdropping servant presumably still loitered.

“Do come in, Miss Eversleigh,” he said, sweeping his arm in welcome. “You might as well have a seat at this farce.”

Grace’s brow knitted with concern, but she came into the room, taking a spot near the window. Away from everyone else.

“I demand to know what is going on,” Crowland said.

“Of course,” Thomas said. “How rude of me. Where
are
my manners? We’ve had quite an exciting week at Belgrave. Quite beyond my wildest imaginings.”

“Your meaning?” Crowland said curtly.

Thomas gave him a bland look. “Ah, yes. You probably should know—this man right here”—he flicked a wrist toward Audley—“is my cousin. He might even be the duke.” Still looking at Lord Crowland, he shrugged insolently, almost enjoying himself. “We’re not sure.”

Chapter 14

O
h dear God
.

Amelia stared at Thomas, and then at Mr. Audley, and then at Thomas, and then—

Everyone was looking at her now. Why was everyone looking at her? Had she spoken? Had she said it aloud?

“The trip to Ireland . . . ” her father was saying.

“Is to determine his legitimacy,” Thomas said. “It’s going to be quite a party. Even my grandmother is going.”

Amelia stared at him in horror. He was not himself.

This was wrong. This was all wrong.

It could not be happening. She shut her eyes. Tight.

Please, someone say that this was not happening
.

And then came her father’s grim voice. “We will join you.”

Her eyes flew open. “Father?”

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“Stay out of this, Amelia,” he said. He didn’t even look at her when he said it.

“But—”

“I assure you,” Thomas put in, and he wasn’t looking at her, either, “we will make our determinations with all possible haste and report back to you immediately.”

“My daughter’s future hangs in the balance,” her father returned hotly. “I will be there to examine the papers.”

Thomas’s voice turned to ice. “Do you think we try to deceive you?”

Amelia took a step toward them. Why wasn’t anyone acknowledging her? Did they think her invisible?

Meaningless in this horrible tableau?

“I only look out for my daughter’s rights.”

“Father, please.” Amelia placed her hand on his arm.

Someone had to talk to her. Someone had to listen.

“Please, just a moment.”

“I said stay out of this!” her father roared, and he threw back his arm. Amelia had not expected this rejection and she stumbled back, crashing into an end table.

Thomas was immediately at her side, taking her arm and helping her back to her feet. “Apologize to your daughter,” he said, his tone deadly.

Her father looked stunned. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Apologize to her!”
Thomas roared.

“Your grace,” Amelia said quickly, “please, do not judge my father too harshly. These are exceptional circumstances.”

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“No one knows that more clearly than I.” As Thomas said this to her, his eyes never left her father’s face.

“Apologize to Amelia,” he said, “or I will have you removed from the estate.”

Amelia held her breath. They were all holding their breath, it seemed, except perhaps Thomas, who looked like an ancient warrior, demanding his due.

“I’m sorry,” her father said, blinking in confusion.

“Amelia”—he turned, finally looking at her—“you know I—”

“I know,” she said, cutting him off. It was enough.

She knew her father, knew his normally benign ways.

“Who is this man?” her father asked, motioning to Mr. Audley.

“He is the son of my father’s elder brother.”

“Charles?” Amelia gasped in dismay. The man her mother was to have married?

“John.”

The one who’d died at sea. The dowager’s favorite.

Her father nodded, pale and shaken. “Are you certain of this?”

Thomas only shrugged. “You may look at the portrait yourself.”

“But his name—”

“Was Cavendish at birth,” Mr. Audley said. “I went by Cavendish-Audley at school. You may check the records, should you wish.”