Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 17

“If you thought more of me, I’d not have to ask you this question right now.”
He felt his patience begin to drip away. He was here, wasn’t he, escorting her across the fields, when the truth was, all he really wanted to do was . . .
Something, he thought crossly. He wasn’t sure what, but the truth was, he had at least a dozen matters that required his attention, and if he didn’t particularly want to do them, he dearly wanted to have them done.
Did she think herself his only responsibility? Did she think he had time to sit about, composing poems to a woman he hadn’t even chosen for a wife? She’d been assigned to him, for God’s sake. In the bloody cradle.
He turned to her, his eyes piercing hers. “Very well, Lady Amelia. What are your expectations of me?”
She seemed flummoxed by the question, stammering some sort of nonsense he doubted even she understood.
Good God, he didn’t have time for this. He’d got no sleep the night before, his grandmother was even more of an aggravation than usual, and now his affianced bride, who had heretofore never uttered a peep beyond the usual claptrap about the weather, was suddenly acting as if he had obligations toward her.
Beyond marrying her, of course. Which he fully intended to do. But good Lord, not this afternoon.
He rubbed his brow with his thumb and middle finger. His head had started to ache.
“Are you all right?” Lady Amelia inquired.
“I’m fine,” he snapped.
“At least as well as I was in the drawing room,” he heard her mutter.
And really, that was too much. He lifted his head, pinned her with a stare. “Shall I kiss you again?”
She said nothing. But her eyes grew round.
He let his gaze fall upon her lips and murmured, “It seemed to make the both of us far more agreeable.”
Still she said nothing. He decided to take that as a yes.
Chapter 5
No!” Amelia exclaimed, jumping back a step.
And if she hadn’t been so discombobulated by his sudden swerve into amorous territory, she would have greatly enjoyed his discombobulation when he stumbled forward, his lips finding nothing but air.
“Really?” he drawled, once he’d regained his footing.
“You don’t even want to kiss me,” she said, backing up another step. He was starting to look dangerous.
“Indeed,” he murmured, eyes glittering. “Just as I don’t like you.”
Her heart dropped about a foot. “You don’t?” she echoed.
“According to you,” he reminded her.
She felt her skin burn with embarrassment—the sort only possible when one’s own words were being tossed in one’s face. “I don’t want you to kiss me,” she stammered.
“Don’t you?” he asked, and she wasn’t sure how he managed it, but they weren’t quite so far apart any longer.
“No,” she said, fighting to maintain her equilibrium.
“I don’t, because . . . because . . . ” She thought about this—thought frantically about it, because there was no way her thoughts could be anything approaching calm and rational in such a position.
And then it was clear.
“No,” she said again. “I don’t. Because you don’t.”
He froze, but just for a moment. “You think I don’t wish to kiss you?”
“I know you don’t,” she replied, in what had to be the bravest moment of her life. Because in that moment he was everything ducal.
Fierce. Proud. Possibly furious. And, with the wind ruffling his dark hair until it was just ever so slightly mussed, so handsome it almost hurt to look at him.
And the truth was, she very much did wish to kiss him. Just not if he didn’t want to kiss her.
“I believe you think too much,” he finally said.
She could think of no possible reply. But she did add to the space between them.
Which he eliminated immediately. “I very much wish to kiss you,” he said, moving forward. “In fact, it might very well be the only thing I wish to do with you right now.”
“You don’t,” she said quickly, inching away. “You only think you do.”
He laughed then, which would have been insulting if she weren’t so focused on keeping her footing— and her pride.
“It’s because you think you can control me that way,”
she said, glancing down to make sure she wasn’t about to step into a mole hole as she scooted back another foot. “You think if you seduce me, I shall turn into a spineless, mushy blob of a woman, unable to do anything but sigh your name.”
He looked as if he wanted to laugh again, although this time she thought— maybe—it would be with her, not at her.
“Is that what you think?” he asked, smiling.
“It’s what I think you think.”
The left corner of his mouth quirked up. He looked charming. Boyish. Completely unlike himself—or at least unlike the man she ever got to see.
“I think you’re right,” he said.
Amelia was so flummoxed she actually felt her jaw drop. “You do?”
“I do. You’re far more intelligent than you let on,”
he said.
Was that a compliment?
“But,” he added, “that doesn’t change the fundamen-tal essence of the moment.”
Which was . . . ?
He shrugged. “I’m still going to kiss you.”
Her heart began to pound, and her feet—traitorous little appendages that they were—grew roots.
“The thing is,” he said softly, reaching out and taking her hand, “that while you are correct—I do rather enjoy turning you into a—what was that charming phrase of yours?—a spineless blob of a woman, whose only purpose in life is to agree with my every word, I find myself rather perplexed by a certain rather self-evident truth.”