Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

  But in truth, she hadn’t ever really thought about Grace’s appearance. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, or that she considered her beneath notice. It was just that…well…why? Grace had always been simply there. A regular and dependable part of her world. Elizabeth’s closest friend, tragically orphaned and then taken in by the dowager duchess.

  Amelia reconsidered. Taken in was perhaps a euphemism. Truly, Grace worked hard for her keep. She might not be performing menial labor, but time spent with the dowager was exhausting.

  As Amelia knew firsthand.

  “I am quite recovered,” Grace said. “Just a bit tired, I’m afraid. I did not sleep well.”

  “What happened?” Amelia asked, deciding there was no point in pretending she’d been listening.

  Elizabeth actually shoved her. “Grace and the dowager were accosted by highwaymen!”

  “Really?”

  Grace nodded. “Last night. On the way home from the assembly.”

  Now this was interesting. “Did they take anything?” Amelia asked, because really, it seemed a pertinent question.

  “How can you be so dispassionate?” Elizabeth demanded. “They pointed a gun at her!” She turned to Grace. “Did they?”

  “They did, actually.”

  Amelia pondered this. Not the gun, but rather, her lack of horror at the retelling. Perhaps she was a cold person.

  “Were you terrified?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly. “I would have been. I would have swooned.”

  “I wouldn’t have swooned,” Amelia remarked.

  “Well, of course you wouldn’t,” Elizabeth said irritably. “You didn’t even gasp when Grace told you about it.”

  “It sounds rather exciting, actually.” Amelia looked at Grace with great interest. “Was it?”

  And Grace—good heavens, she blushed.

  Amelia leaned forward, lips twitching. A blush could mean all sorts of things—all of them quite splendid. She felt a rush of excitement in her chest, a heady, almost weightless sort of feeling—the sort one got when told a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “Was he handsome, then?”

  Elizabeth looked at her as if she were mad. “Who?”

  “The highwayman, of course.”

  Grace stammered something and pretended to drink her tea.

  “He was,” Amelia said, feeling much better now. If Wyndham was in love with Grace…well, at least she did not return the emotion.

  “He was wearing a mask,” Grace retorted.

  “But you could still tell that he was handsome,” Amelia urged.

  “No!”

  “Then his accent was terribly romantic. French? Italian?” Amelia actually shuddered with delight, thinking of all the Byron she’d read recently. “Spanish.”

  “You’ve gone mad,” Elizabeth said.

  “He didn’t have an accent,” Grace said. “Well, not much of one. Scottish, perhaps? Irish? I couldn’t tell, precisely.”

  Amelia sat back with a happy sigh. “A highwayman. How romantic.”

  “Amelia Willoughby!” her sister scolded. “Grace was just attacked at gunpoint, and you are calling it romantic?”

  She would have responded with something very cutting and clever—because really, if one couldn’t be cutting and clever with one’s sister, who could one be cutting and clever with?—but at that moment she heard a noise in the hall.

  “The dowager?” Elizabeth whispered to Grace with a grimace. It was so lovely when the dowager did not join them for tea.

  “I don’t think so,” Grace replied. “She was still abed when I came down. She was rather…ehrm…distraught.”

  “I should think so,” Elizabeth remarked. Then she gasped. “Did they make away with her emeralds?”

  Grace shook her head. “We hid them. Under the seat cushions.”

  “Oh, how clever!” Elizabeth said approvingly. “Amelia, wouldn’t you agree…”

  But Amelia wasn’t listening. It had become apparent that the movements in the hall belonged to a more sure-footed individual than the dowager, and sure enough, Wyndham walked past the open doorway.

  Conversation stopped. Elizabeth looked at Grace, and Grace looked at Amelia, and Amelia just kept looking at the now empty doorway. After a moment of held breath, Elizabeth turned to her sister and said, “I think he does not realize we are here.”

  “I don’t care,” Amelia declared, which wasn’t quite the truth.

  “I wonder where he went,” Grace murmured.

  And then, like a trio of idiots (in Amelia’s opinion), they sat motionless, heads turned dumbly toward the doorway. A moment later they heard a grunt and a crash, and as one they rose (but still did not otherwise move) and watched.

  “Bloody hell,” they heard the duke snap.

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Amelia was rather warmed by the outburst. She approved of anything that indicated he was not in complete control of a situation.

  “Careful with that,” they heard him say.

  A rather large painting moved past the doorway, two footmen struggling to keep it perpendicular to the ground. It was a singularly odd sight. The painting was a portrait—life-sized, which explained the difficulty in balancing it—and it was of a man, quite a handsome one, actually, standing with his foot on a large rock, looking very noble and proud.

  Except for the fact that he was now tilted at a forty-five-degree angle, and—from Amelia’s vantage point—appeared to be bobbing up and down as he floated past. Which cut away significantly at noble and proud.

  “Who was that?” she asked, once the painting had disappeared from sight.

  “The dowager’s middle son,” Grace replied distractedly. “He died twenty-nine years ago.”

  Amelia thought it odd that Grace knew so precisely the date of his death. “Why are they moving the portrait?”

  “The dowager wants it upstairs,” Grace murmured.

  Amelia thought to ask why, but who knew why the dowager did anything? And besides, Wyndham chose that moment to walk past the doorway once again.

  The three ladies watched in silence, and then, as if time were playing in reverse, he backed up a step and looked in. He was, as always, impeccably dressed, his shirt a crisp, snowy white, his waistcoat a marvelous brocade of deep blue. “Ladies,” he said.

  They all three bobbed immediate curtsies.

  He nodded curtly. “Pardon.” And was gone.

  “Well,” Elizabeth said, which was a good thing, because no one else seemed to have anything to fill the silence.

  Amelia blinked, trying to figure out just what, precisely, she thought of this. She did not consider herself knowledgeable in the etiquette of kisses, or of the appropriate behavior after the event, but surely after what had happened the previous evening, she warranted more than a “pardon.”

  “Perhaps we should leave,” Elizabeth said.

  “No, you can’t,” Grace replied. “Not yet. The dowager wants to see Amelia.”

  Amelia groaned.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said, and it was quite clear that she meant it. The dowager positively reveled in picking Amelia to pieces. If it wasn’t her posture, then it was her expression, and if it wasn’t her expression, then it was the new freckle on her nose.

  And if it wasn’t the new freckle, then it was the freckle she was going to get, because even if Amelia happened to be standing inside, entirely in the shadows, the dowager knew that her bonnet would not be affixed with the proper vigor when the time came to step into the sun.

  Truly, the things the dowager knew about her were frightening, both in their scope and inaccuracy.

  You will bear the next Duke of Wyndham! the dowager had snapped, more than once. Imperfection is not an option!

  Amelia envisioned the rest of the afternoon and let out a sigh. “I’m eating the last biscuit,” she announced, sitting back down.

  The two other ladies nodded sympathetically and resumed their seats as well. “Perhaps I should order more?” Grace asked.

  Amelia
nodded dejectedly.

  And then Wyndham came back. Amelia let out a growl of displeasure, because now she had to sit up straight again, and of course her mouth was full of crumbs, and of course of course, he wasn’t even addressing her, anyway, so she was agitating herself for naught.

  Inconsiderate man.

  “We nearly lost it on the stairs,” the duke was saying to Grace. “The whole thing swung to the right and nearly impaled itself on the railing.”

  “Oh, my,” Grace murmured.

  “It would have been a stake through the heart,” he said with a wry smile. “It would have been worth it just to see the look on her face.”

  Grace started to stand. “Your grandmother rose from bed, then?”

  “Only to oversee the transfer,” he told her. “You’re safe for now.”

  Grace looked relieved. Amelia couldn’t say that she blamed her.

  Wyndham looked over to the plate where the biscuits had once sat, saw only crumbs, then turned back to Grace. “I cannot believe she had the temerity to demand that you fetch it for her last night. Or,” he added, in a voice that was not quite so sharp as it was dry, “that you actually thought you could do it.”

  Grace turned to her guests and explained, “The dowager requested that I bring her the painting last night.”

  “But it was huge!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  Amelia said nothing. She was too busy being impressed by Grace’s verbal restraint. They all knew the dowager never requested anything.

  “My grandmother always favored her middle son,” the duke said grimly. And then, as if only just noticing the woman he planned to marry, he glanced at Amelia and said, “Lady Amelia.”

  “Your grace,” she replied dutifully.

  But she rather doubted he heard her. He was already back to Grace, saying, “You will of course support me if I lock her up?”

  Amelia’s eyes widened. She thought it was a question, but it might have been a directive. Which was far more interesting.

  “Thom—” Grace began, before clearing her throat and correcting herself. “Your grace. You must grant her extra patience this day. She is distraught.”

  Amelia swallowed the bitter, acidic taste that rose in her throat. How had she not known that Grace used Wyndham’s Christian name? They were friendly, of course. They lived in the same house—huge, to be sure, and filled with a flotilla of servants, but Grace dined with the dowager, which meant she often dined with Wyndham, and after five years they must have had countless conversations.

  Amelia knew all that. She didn’t care. She had never cared. She didn’t even care that Grace had called him Thomas, and she, his fiancée, had never even thought of him as such.

  But how could she not have known? Shouldn’t she have known?

  And why did it bother her so much that she hadn’t known?

  She watched his profile closely. He was still speaking with Grace, and his expression was one that he’d never—not even once—used with her. There was familiarity in his gaze, a warmth of shared experiences, and—

  Oh, dear Lord. Had he kissed her? Had he kissed Grace?

  Amelia clutched the edge of the chair for support. He couldn’t have. She wouldn’t have. Grace was not her friend so much as she was Elizabeth’s, but even so, she would never have committed such a betrayal. It was simply not in her. Even if she had thought herself in love with him, even if she’d thought a dalliance could lead to marriage, she would not have been so ill-bred or disloyal as to—

  “Amelia?”

  Amelia blinked her sister’s face into focus.

  “Are you unwell?”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” she said sharply, because the last thing she wanted was everyone looking at her when she was certain she’d gone quite green.

  And of course, everyone was.

  But Elizabeth was not the sort to be put off. She laid a hand on Amelia’s forehead, murmuring, “You’re not warm.”

  “Of course not,” Amelia muttered, brushing her away. “I was just standing too long.”

  “You were sitting,” Elizabeth pointed out.

  Amelia stood. “I believe I need some air.”

  Elizabeth also rose to her feet. “I thought you wanted to sit.”

  “I’ll sit outside,” Amelia ground out, dearly wishing she had not outgrown her childhood penchant for smacking her sister on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” she muttered, crossing the room even though it meant she had to brush right past Wyndham and Grace.

  He had already risen, gentleman that he was, and now bowed his head ever so slightly as she passed.

  And then—oh, God, could anything be more mortifying—out of the corner of her eye she saw Grace elbow him in the ribs.

  There was a terrible moment of silence, during which he was surely glaring at Grace (Amelia had already made it to the door, and thankfully was not required to look at his face), and then, in his usual polite voice, Wyndham said, “Allow me to escort you.”

  Amelia paused in the doorway and slowly turned around. “Thank you for your concern,” she said carefully, “but it is not necessary.”

  She saw on his face that he would have liked to accept the exit option she’d offered, but he must have felt guilty for ignoring her, because he let out a crisp, “Of course it is,” and the next thing she knew, her hand was on his arm and they were walking outside.

  And she wanted to don her blandest smile and say—

  Oh, how lucky I am to be your bride.

  Or if not that then—

  Will I be required to make conversation?

  Or at the very least—

  Your cravat is askew.

  But of course she didn’t.

  Because he was the duke, and she was his betrothed, and if perhaps she’d managed a small show of spirit the night before…

  That was before he’d kissed her.

  Funny how that changed everything.

  Amelia stole a glance at him. He was staring straight ahead, and the line of his jaw was impossibly proud and resolute.

  He hadn’t looked at Grace in that manner.

  She swallowed, suppressing a sigh. She couldn’t make a sound, because then he would turn, and then he’d look at her in that way of his—piercing, icy—really, her life would be so much simpler if his eyes were not quite so blue. And then he’d ask her what was wrong, but of course he would not care about the answer, and she’d know that from his tone, and that would just make her feel worse, and—

  And what? What did she care, really?

  He paused, a slight break in his stride, and she glanced up at him again. He was looking over his shoulder, back at the castle.

  Back at Grace.

  Amelia suddenly felt rather sick.

  This time she was not able to suppress her sigh. Apparently she cared rather a lot.

  Blast it all.

  It was, Thomas realized almost dispassionately, a spectacular day. The sky was equal parts blue and white, and the grass just long enough to ruffle gently in the breeze. There were trees ahead, a peculiarly wooded area, right in the middle of farmland, with gentle hills sloping down toward the coast. The sea was more than two miles away, but on days like this, when the wind came in from the east, the air held the faint tang of salt. There was nothing but nature ahead, left as God had made it, or at least as the Saxons had cleared it hundreds of years ago.

  It was marvelous, and marvelously wild. If one kept one’s back to the castle, one might be able to forget the existence of civilization. There was almost the sense that if you kept walking, you could just go on and on…away. Disappear.

  He had pondered this on occasion. It was tempting.

  But behind him lay his birthright. It was huge and imposing, and from the outside, not particularly friendly.

  Thomas thought of his grandmother. Belgrave wasn’t always particularly friendly on the inside, either.

  But it was his, and he loved it, even with the massive weight of responsibility that came with it. Belgrave Castle was
in his bones. It was in his soul. And no matter how much he was occasionally tempted, he could never walk away.

  There were other, more immediate obligations, however, the most pressing of which was walking at his side.

  He sighed inside, the only indication of weariness an ever so slight roll of his eyes. He probably should have danced attendance on Lady Amelia when he’d seen her in the drawing room. Hell, he probably should have spoken to her before addressing Grace. In fact, he knew he should have done, but the scene with the painting had been so farcical, he had to tell someone about it, and it wasn’t as if Lady Amelia would have understood.

  Still, he had kissed her last night, and even if he had a perfect right to do so, he supposed that required a bit of postencounter finesse. “I trust your journey home last evening went without incident,” he said, deciding that was as good a conversational introduction as any.

  Her eyes remained focused on the trees ahead. “We were not accosted by highwaymen,” she confirmed.

  He glanced over at her, attempting to gauge her tone. There had been a hint of irony in her voice, but her face was magnificently placid.

  She caught him looking at her and murmured, “I thank you for your concern.”

  He could not help wondering if she thought she was mocking him. “Lovely weather this morning,” he said, because it seemed like the right thing to say to needle her. He wasn’t sure why. And he wasn’t sure why he wanted to.

  “It’s very pleasant,” she agreed.

  “And you are feeling improved?”

  “Since last night?” she asked, blinking with surprise.

  He looked down at her pinking cheeks with some amusement. “I’d thought since five minutes ago, but last night will do just as well.”

  It was good to know he still knew how to kiss a blush onto a woman’s cheeks.

  “I am much better now,” she said crisply, batting at her hair, which, unconfined by a bonnet, was now blowing about in the breeze. It kept getting caught in the corner of her mouth. He would have found that vastly annoying. How did women tolerate it?

  “I was feeling overly closed-in in the drawing room,” she added.

  “Ah yes,” he murmured. “The drawing room is a bit confined.”

  It could seat forty.