Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 55

“Lord Crowland is here to see you, sir,” Penrith said.
“With Lady Amelia.”
“At this hour?” He blinked, glancing for the clock, which had gone unaccountably missing.
“It’s half nine, sir,” Penrith informed him. “And the clock is out for repair.”
Thomas touched the bridge of his nose, which seemed to have single-handedly absorbed all of the ill-effects of the previous night’s bottle of brandy. “Thought I was going mad there for a moment,” he murmured. Although truly, the missing clock would have been the least of the symptoms.
“They are in the rose salon, sir.”
Where he’d mauled Grace mere hours earlier.
Lovely.
Thomas waited for Penrith to depart, then closed his eyes in mortification. Dear God, he’d kissed Grace.
Hauled the poor girl into his arms and kissed her. What the devil had he been thinking?
And yet . . . he couldn’t quite regret it. It seemed a sensible idea at the time. If he couldn’t have Amelia . . .
Amelia.
Her name in his mind jolted him back to the present.
Amelia was here. He could not keep her waiting.
He stood. She’d brought her father, never a good sign.
Thomas got on well enough with Lord Crowland, but he could think of no reason why the man would pay a call so early in the morning. He could not even remember the last time the earl had been by.
Dear God, he hoped he hadn’t brought the hounds.
He had far too much of a headache for that.
It was not far to the rose salon, just down the hall.
When he entered the room, he immediately saw Amelia, perched on a settee, looking as if she’d rather be somewhere else. She smiled, but it was really more of a grimace, and Thomas wondered if she was unwell.
“Lady Amelia,” he said, though he really ought to have acknowledged her father first.
She stood, bobbing a little curtsy. “Your grace.”
“Is something amiss?” he asked. He felt his head tilt, just the slightest little bit, as he looked into her eyes.
They were back to green again, with little brown flecks at the edges. But she didn’t look quite right.
When had he got to know her so well that he could recognize such subtleties in her appearance?
“I am quite well, your grace.”
But he did not like that tone, all meek and proper. He wanted the other Amelia back, the one who had pored over dusty old atlases with him, her eyes shining with delight at her newfound knowledge. The one who had laughed with Harry Gladdish—at his expense!
Funny. He had never thought that a willingness to poke fun at him would be something he’d prize so highly in a wife, but there it was. He did not want to be placed on a pedestal. Not by her.
“Are you certain?” he asked, because he was growing concerned. “You look pale.”
“Just the proper use of a bonnet,” she said. “Perhaps you could tell your grandmother.”
They shared a smile at that, and then Thomas turned to greet her father. “Lord Crowland. Forgive my inat-tention. How may I be of service?”
Lord Crowland did not bother with niceties, or indeed even with a greeting. “I have lost my patience with you, Wyndham,” he bit off.
Thomas glanced over at Amelia for explanation. But she was not quite looking at him.
“I am afraid I do not understand your meaning,”
Thomas said.
“Amelia tells me you leave for Ireland.”
Amelia knew he was going to Ireland? Thomas blinked in surprise. This was news to him.
“I overheard you talking to Grace,” she said, with a miserable swallow. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.
I shouldn’t have said. I didn’t think he would be so angry.”
“We have waited long enough,” Crowland blustered.
“You have kept my daughter dangling on a string for years, and now, finally, when we think you are about to deign to set a date, I hear that you are fleeing the country!”
“I do plan to return.”
Crowland’s face turned a bit purple. Perhaps dry wit had not been the best choice.
“What, sir,” he snapped, “are your intentions?”
Thomas breathed in through his nose, long and deep, forcing his body to remain calm. “My intentions,” he repeated. At what point was a man allowed to decide he’d had enough? That he was through with being polite, with trying to do the right thing? He considered the events of the last few days. All in all, he thought he’d done rather well. He hadn’t killed anyone, and Lord knew, he’d been tempted.
“My intentions,” Thomas said again. His hand flexed at his side, the only outward sign of his distress.
“Toward my daughter.”
And really, that was enough. Thomas gave Lord Crowland an icy stare. “I hardly possess intentions toward anything else in your sphere.”
Amelia gasped, and he should have felt remorse, but he did not. For the past week he had been stretched, beaten, poked, prodded—he felt as if he might snap.
One more little jab, and he was going to—
“Lady Amelia,” came a new, highly unwelcome voice. “I did not realize you had graced us with your lovely presence.”
Audley. Yes, of course he would be here. Thomas started to laugh.
Crowland eyed him with something approaching revulsion. Thomas, not Audley, who appeared just in from a ride, all windblown and roguishly handsome.
Or so Thomas assumed. It was difficult to know just what the ladies saw in the man.
“Er, Father,” Amelia said hastily, “may I present Mr.
Audley? He is a house guest at Belgrave. I made his acquaintance the other day when I was here visiting Grace.”