Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 44

Audley.” He nearly growled the last; it was difficult to utter his name without an accompanying wave of revulsion.
“I would never do that,” Grace replied. “It is not my place.”
“Good.” He’d known he could trust her.
“But she will want to know why you were, er . . . ”
“You don’t know why,” he said firmly. “Just tell her that. Why would she suspect that you would know more?”
“She knows that I consider you a friend,” Grace said.
“And furthermore, I live here. Servants always know everything. She knows that, too.”
“You’re not a servant,” he muttered.
“I am and you know it,” she replied, her lips twitching with amusement. “The only difference is that I am allowed to wear finer clothing and occasionally converse with the guests. But I assure you, I am privy to all of the household gossip.”
Good Lord, what went on in this house? Had any of his actions been private? Ever? Thomas turned his head and swore, and then, after taking a long, fortifying breath, looked back at her and said, “For me, Grace, will you please just tell her you don’t know? ”
Soon Amelia would know everything, but he just didn’t want it to be today. He was too tired to make explanations, too worn-out from his own shock to deal with hers, and beyond that . . .
For the first time in his life he was glad she was his fiancée. Surely no one would begrudge him the desire to hold onto that for a few more days.
“Of course,” Grace said, not quite looking at him.
And then, because she had been brought up to look people in the eye, she met his gaze and added, “You have my word.”
He nodded. “Amelia will be expecting you,” he said gruffly.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” She hurried to the door, then stopped and turned around. “Will you be all right?”
What a question.
“No, don’t answer that,” she mumbled, and dashed from the room.
Amelia waited patiently in the silver drawing room, trying not to tap her toes while she waited for Grace.
Then she realized that she was drumming her fingers, which was an even worse habit (according to her mother), so she forced herself to stop that.
Her toes immediately started tapping again.
She let out a long breath and decided she didn’t care.
There was no one here to see her, anyway, and despite what her mother insisted, toe tapping was not a bad habit when done in private. As opposed to chewing one’s fingernails (which she would never do), which left one stubby and unkempt, all ’round the clock.
She’d tried to explain the difference to Milly, who could sit still as stone for six hours straight but hadn’t seen the whites of her nails for years. Milly had declared herself quite unable to detect the distinction. For purely selfish reasons, of course.
Amelia examined her own nails, which she noticed looked not quite as clean as usual. Probably from haul-ing Wyndham across Stamford. Heaven only knew what sort of dirt he’d been rolling about in. She supposed he was upstairs now, cleaning up. She’d never seen him look so untidy. She rather thought he’d never been so untidy. And, in fact—
Was that him? Striding past the doorway? She jumped up. “Thomas? Is that—”
The gentleman stopped, turned, and then Amelia realized that it was someone else. He was of a similar height and coloring, but she had never seen him before, of that she was quite certain. He was tall, although not awkwardly so, and his hair was perhaps a shade or two darker than Thomas’s. And his cheek was bruised.
How interesting.
“I’m so sorry,” she said hastily. But she was curious, and so she stepped toward the door. If she moved in his direction, he could not continue on his way without being unforgivably rude.
“Sorry to disappoint,” the gentleman said, smiling at her in a most flirtatious fashion. Amelia felt rather pleased despite herself. She wondered if he knew who she was. Probably not. Who would dare flirt with the Duke of Wyndham’s fiancée in his own house?
“No,” she said quickly, “of course not. It was my mistake. I was just sitting back there.” She motioned behind her. “You looked rather like the duke as you walked by.”
Indeed, the two gentlemen even shared the same stride. How odd. Amelia had not realized that she could recognize Thomas’s walk, but the moment she’d seen this man, she immediately realized that they moved in the same way.
He swept into a gracious bow. “Captain Jack Audley, at your service, ma’am.”
She bobbed a polite curtsy. “Lady Amelia Willoughby.”
“Wyndham’s fiancée.”
“You know him, then? Oh, well, of course you do.
You are a guest here.” Then she recalled their conversation back at the Happy Hare. “Oh, you must be his fencing partner.”
Captain Audley stepped forward. “He told you about me?”
“Not much,” she admitted, trying not to look at the bruise on his cheek. It could not be a coincidence that both he and Thomas showed signs of an altercation.
“Ah, this,” Captain Audley murmured. He looked somewhat embarrassed as he touched his fingers to his cheek. “It looks much worse than it actually is.”
She was trying to figure out the best way to ask him about it when he added, in a most conversational tone,
“Tell me, Lady Amelia, what color is it today?”
“Your cheek?” she asked, surprised by his forth-rightness.
“Indeed. Bruises tend to look worse as they age, have you noticed? Yesterday it was quite purple, almost regally so, with a hint of blue in it. I haven’t checked in the mirror lately.” He turned his head, offering her a better view. “Is it still as attractive?”