Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 32

“Jack Coachman!” he called out, his voice crisp and authoritative.
Amelia was impressed despite herself. “Jack Coachman?” she murmured. Weren’t they all John Coachman?
“I’ve renamed all my coachmen Jack,” Wyndham said, somewhat offhandedly. “Thinking of doing the same with the scullery maids.”
She just managed to resist the impulse to check his forehead for fever.
The coachman, who had been dozing atop the driver’s seat, snapped to attention and jumped down.
“To Belgrave,” Wyndham said grandly, holding out his arm to help Amelia up into the carriage. He was doing a fine impression of someone who hadn’t drunk three bottles of gin, but she wasn’t certain she wished to lean on him for assistance.
“There’s no way around it, Amelia,” he said, his voice warm, and his smile just a little bit devilish.
For a moment, he sounded almost like himself, always in control, always with the upper hand in a conversation.
She set her hand in his, and did he—did she, feel—
A squeeze. A tiny little thing, nothing seductive, nothing wicked. But it felt searingly intimate, speaking of shared memories and future encounters.
And then it was gone. Just like that. She was sitting in the carriage, and he was next to her, sprawled out like the somewhat inebriated gentleman she knew him to be. She looked at the opposite seat pointedly. They might be engaged, but he was certainly not supposed to take the position next to her. Not when they were alone in a closed carriage.
“Don’t ask me to ride backwards,” he said with a shake of his head. “Not after—”
“Say no more.” She moved quickly to the rear-facing position.
“You didn’t have to go.” His face formed an expression entirely out of character. Almost like a wounded puppy, but with a hint of rogue shining through.
“It was self-preservation.” She eyed him suspiciously.
She’d seen that skin pallor before. Her youngest sister had an extremely sensitive stomach. Wyndham looked rather like Lydia did right before she cast up her accounts. “How much did you have to drink?”
He shrugged, having obviously decided there was no point in trying to cajole her further. “Not nearly as much as I deserved.”
“Is this something you . . . do often?” she asked, very carefully.
He did not answer right away. Then: “No.”
She nodded slowly. “I didn’t think so.”
“Exceptional circumstances,” he said, then closed his eyes. “Historic.”
She watched him for a few seconds, allowing herself the luxury of examining his face without worry-ing what he would think. He looked tired. Exhausted, really, but more than that. He looked . . . burdened.
“I’m not asleep,” he said, even though he did not open his eyes.
“That’s commendable.”
“Are you always this sarcastic?”
She did not answer right away. Then: “Yes.”
He opened one eye. “Really?”
“No.”
“But sometimes?”
She felt herself smiling. “Sometimes. A little more than sometimes, when I’m with my sisters.”
“Good.” He closed his eyes again. “I can’t bear a female without a sense of humor.”
She thought about that for a moment, trying to figure out why it did not sit well with her. Finally she asked,
“Do you find humor and sarcasm to be interchangeable?”
He did not answer, which led her to regret the question. She should have known better than to introduce a complicated concept to a man who reeked of liquor.
She turned and looked out the window. They had left Stamford behind and were now traveling north on the Lincoln road. It was, she realized, almost certainly the same road Grace had been traveling the night she and the dowager were waylaid by highwaymen. It had probably been farther out of town, however; if she were to rob a coach, she would certainly choose a more out-of-the-way locale. Plus, she thought, craning her neck for a better view through the window, she did not see any good hiding spots. Wouldn’t a highwayman need a place to lie in wait?
“No.”
She started, then looked at Wyndham in horror. Had she been thinking aloud?
“I don’t find humor and sarcasm interchangeable,” he said. His eyes, interestingly, were still closed.
“You’re only just answering my question now?”
He shrugged a little. “I had to think about it.”
“Oh.” She returned her attention to the window, preparing to resume her daydreams.
“It was a complicated query,” he continued.
She turned back. His eyes were open and focused on her face. He appeared a bit more lucid than he had just a few minutes earlier. Which did not lend him the air of an Oxford professor, but he did look capable of carrying on a basic conversation.
“It really depends,” he said, “on the subject of the sarcasm. And the tone.”
“Of course,” she said, although she was still not sure he had all his wits about him.
“Most people of my acquaintance intend their sarcasm as insult, so no, I do not find it interchangeable with humor.” He looked at her with a certain level of question in his eyes, and she realized he desired her
opinion on the matter. Which was astounding. Had he ever requested her opinion before? On anything?
“I agree,” she said.
He smiled. Just a little, as if anything more vigor-ous might make him queasy. “I thought you would.”
He paused, just for a heartbeat. “Thank you, by the way.”