Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 19

“Well,” she said, still looking rather stunned herself,
“I suppose you have to marry me now.”
At any other moment, from any other woman . . .
hell, after any other kiss, he would have descended into instant irritation. But something about Amelia’s tone, and everything about her face, which still carried a rather fetchingly dubious expression, brought about the exact opposite reaction, and he laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded. But didn’t demand, really, because she was still too befuddled to manage anything shrill.
“I have no idea,” he said quite honestly. “Here, turn around, I’ll do you up.”
Her hand flew to the back of her neck, and from her gasp he wondered if she’d even realized he had undone two of her buttons. She tried to refasten them herself, and he rather enjoyed watching the attempt, but after about ten seconds of frantic fumbling, he took pity on her and gently brushed her fingers aside.
“Allow me,” he murmured.
As if she had any other choice.
His hands worked slowly, even though every rational corner of his brain knew that a quick frock closure was in order. But he was mesmerized by that small patch of skin, peachy smooth and his alone. Faint blond tendrils slid down her nape, and when his breath touched her, her skin seemed to shiver.
He leaned down. He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her.
And she moaned again.
“We had better return,” he said roughly, stepping back. Then he realized he’d never done the last button of her frock. He swore under his breath, because it couldn’t possibly be a good idea to touch her again, but he couldn’t very well send her back to the house like that, so back to the buttons he went, moving with considerably more diligence this time.
“There you are,” he muttered.
She turned, eyeing him warily. It made him feel like a despoiler of innocents.
And oddly, he didn’t mind. He held out his arm.
“Shall I escort you back?”
She nodded, and he had the strangest, most intense need in that moment—
To know what she was thinking.
Funny, that. He’d never cared to know what anyone had thought before.
But he didn’t ask. Because he didn’t do such things.
And really, what was the need? They’d marry eventually, so it didn’t matter what either of them thought, did it?
Amelia hadn’t thought it was possible for a blush of embarrassment to stain one’s cheeks for a full hour, but clearly it was, because when the dowager intercepted her in the hall, at least sixty minutes after she had rejoined Grace and Elizabeth in the drawing room, the dowager took one look at her face and her own face went nearly purple with fury.
Now she was stuck, standing like a tree in the hall, forced to remain motionless as the dowager snapped away at her, her voice rising to an astonishing cre-scendo on, “Damn damn freckles!”
Amelia flinched. The dowager had berated her for her freckles before (not that they even numbered in the double digits), but this was the first time her anger had turned profane.
“I don’t have any new freckles,” she ground out, wondering how Wyndham had managed to escape this scene. He’d slipped away the moment he returned her, pink-cheeked, to the drawing room, a sitting duck for the dowager, who had always held the sun in about as much affection as did a vampire bat.
Which did hold a certain ironic justice, as she held the dowager in about as much affection as she did a vampire bat.
The dowager drew back at her comment. “What did you just say?”
As Amelia had never talked back to her before, she could not be surprised at her reaction. But she seemed to be turning over a new leaf these days, one of as-sertiveness and cheek, so she swallowed and said, “I don’t have any new freckles. I looked in the washroom mirror and counted.”
It was a lie, and a very satisfying one at that.
The dowager’s mouth pinched like a fish. She glared at Amelia for a good ten seconds, which was nine seconds longer than was required to make Amelia squirm, and then barked, “Miss Eversleigh!”
Grace practically leapt through the drawing room doorway and into the hall.
The dowager seemed not to notice her arrival and continued with her tirade. “Does no one care about our name? Our blood? Good God above, am I the only person in this damnable world who understands the importance of . . . the meaning of . . . ”
Amelia stared at the dowager in horror. For a moment it looked as if she might cry. Which could not be possible. The woman was biologically incapable of tears.
She was sure of it.
Grace stepped forward, stunning them all when she placed her arm around the dowager’s shoulders. “Ma’am,”
she said soothingly, “it has been a difficult day.”
“It has not been difficult,” the dowager snapped, shaking her off. “It has been anything but difficult.”
“Ma’am,” Grace said again, and again Amelia marveled at the gentle calmness of her voice.
“Leave me alone!” the dowager roared. “I have a dy-nasty to worry about! You are nothing! Nothing!”
Grace lurched back. Amelia saw her throat work, and she could not tell if she was near tears or absolute fury.
“Grace?” she said carefully, and she wasn’t even sure what she was asking, just that she thought she should say something.
Grace responded with a quick little shake of her head that clearly meant don’t ask, leaving Amelia to wonder just what, exactly, had happened the night before. Because no one was acting normally. Not Grace, not the dowager, and certainly not Wyndham.