Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 2

“They frequently do.”
Amelia felt the corners of her mouth tighten. Not in anger. Not even in irritation. It was resignation, really, more than anything else. “I suppose the dowager pes-tered him about me,” she said.
Grace looked as if she did not wish to answer, but finally she said, “Well, yes.”
Which was to be expected. It was well-known that the dowager Duchess of Wyndham was even more eager to see the marriage take place than Amelia’s own mother. It was also well-known that the duke found his grandmother vexing at best, and Amelia was not at all surprised that he would agree to attend the assembly just to get her to leave him alone.
As it was also well-known that the duke did not make promises lightly, Amelia was quite certain that he would indeed make an appearance at the assembly.
Which meant that the remainder of the evening would follow a well-worn path:
The duke would arrive, everyone would look at him, then everyone would look at her, and then he would approach, they would share several minutes of awkward conversation, he would ask her to dance, she would accept, and when they were done, he would kiss her hand and depart.
Presumably to seek the attentions of another woman.
A different kind of woman.
The sort one did not marry.
It was not something Amelia cared to ponder, not that that ever stopped her from doing so. But truly, could one expect fidelity from a man before marriage? It was a discussion she and her sister had had any number of times, and the answer was always depressingly the same:
No. Not when the gentleman in question had been betrothed as a child. It was not fair to expect him to forgo all of the entertainments in which his friends par-took, just because his father had signed a contract a few decades earlier. Once the date was set, however, that was a different story.
Or rather, it would be, if the Willoughbys ever managed to get Wyndham to set a date.
“You don’t appear to be terribly excited to see him,”
Elizabeth remarked.
Amelia sighed. “I’m not. Truth be told, I enjoy myself far better when he stays away.”
“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Grace assured her. “He’s actually rather sweet once one gets to know him.”
“Sweet?” Amelia echoed dubiously. She had seen the man smile, but never more than twice in a conversation. “Wyndham?”
“Well,” Grace hedged, “perhaps I overstated. But the duke will make you a fine husband, Amelia, I promise you. He’s quite diverting when he chooses to be.”
Amelia and Elizabeth stared at her with such expressions of disbelief that Grace actually laughed and added, “I do not lie! I swear! He has a devilish sense of humor.”
Amelia knew that Grace meant well, but somehow this failed to reassure her. It wasn’t that she was jealous. She was quite certain she was not in love with Wyndham. How could she be? She rarely had occasion to exchange more than two words with the man. Still, it was rather unsettling that Grace Eversleigh had come to know him so well.
And she could not tell this to Elizabeth, in whom she usually confided everything. Elizabeth and Grace had been fast friends since they’d met at the age of six. Elizabeth would tell her that she was being silly. Or she’d give her one of those dreadful looks that were meant to be sympathetic but instead came out as pitying.
Amelia seemed to be on the receiving end of many such glances these days. Usually whenever the topic of marriage arose. Had she been a betting woman (which she actually thought she might be, should she ever be given the opportunity to try), she would have wagered that she had received sym-pitying looks from at least half the young ladies of the ton. And all of their mothers.
“We shall make it our mission for the autumn,”
Grace suddenly announced, her eyes sparkling with intent. “Amelia and Wyndham shall finally become acquainted.”
“Grace, don’t, please . . . ” Amelia said, flushing.
Good Lord, how mortifying. To be a project.
“You are going to have to get to know him eventually,” Elizabeth said.
“Not really,” was Amelia’s wry reply. “How many rooms are there at Belgrave? Two hundred?”
“Seventy-three,” Grace murmured.
“I could go weeks without seeing him,” Amelia responded. “Years.”
“Now you’re just being silly,” her sister said. “Why don’t you come with me to Belgrave tomorrow? I devised an excuse about Mama needing to return some of the dowager’s books so that I might visit with Grace.”
Grace turned to Elizabeth with mild surprise. “Did your mother borrow books from the dowager?”
“She did, actually,” Elizabeth replied, then added de-murely, “at my request.”
Amelia raised her brows. “Mother is not much of a reader.”
“I couldn’t very well borrow a pianoforte,” Elizabeth retorted.
It was Amelia’s opinion that their mother wasn’t much of a musician, either, but there seemed little reason to point it out, and besides, the conversation had been brought to an abrupt halt.
He had arrived.
Amelia might have had her back to the door, but she knew precisely the moment Thomas Cavendish walked into the assembly hall, because, drat it all, she had done this before.
Now was the hush.
And now—she counted to five; she’d long since learned that dukes required more than the average three seconds of hush—were the whispers.
And now Elizabeth was jabbing her in the ribs, as if she needed the alert.
And now—oh, she could see it all in her head—the crowds were doing their Red Sea imitation, and here strode the duke, his shoulders broad, his steps pur-poseful and proud, and here he was, almost, almost, almost—