Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 6

But that seemed to assume he cared about her opinion of him, which she was quite certain he did not. In fact, his lack of worry over her good judgment might very well be the only thing of substance she did know about him.
Except . . .
She peered carefully out from behind the red velvet curtain currently acting as her shield, perfectly aware that he knew she was there.
She watched his face.
She watched the way he was looking at Grace.
The way he was smiling at Grace.
The way he was—good heavens, was he laughing?
She had never heard him laugh, never even seen him do so from across a room.
Her lips parted with shock and perhaps just a touch of dismay. It seemed she did know something of substance about her fiancé.
He was in love with Grace Eversleigh.
Oh, wonderful.
There was no waltzing at the Lincolnshire Dance and Assembly—it was still considered “fast” by the ma-trons who organized the quarterly gathering. Thomas thought this a pity. He had no interest in the seductive nature of the dance—he never had occasion to waltz with anyone he intended to seduce. But waltzing did afford the opportunity to converse with one’s partner.
Which would have been a damned sight easier than a word here and a sentence there as he and Grace went through the convoluted motions of the country dance.
“Are you trying to make her jealous?” Grace asked, smiling in a manner that he might have considered flirtatious if he did not know her so well.
“Don’t be absurd.”
Except that by then she was crossing arms with a local squire. Thomas bit back an aggravated grunt and waited until she returned to his side. “Don’t be absurd,”
he said again.
Grace cocked her head to the side. “You’ve never danced with me before.”
This time he waited an appropriate moment before replying, “When have I had occasion to dance with you?”
Grace stepped back and bobbed, as required by the dance, but he did see her nod her head in acknowledgment. He rarely attended the local assembly, and although Grace did accompany his grandmother when she traveled to London, she was only rarely included in evening outings. Even then, she sat at the side, with the chaperones and companions.
They moved to the head of the line, he took her hand for their olevette, and they walked down the center aisle, the gentlemen to their right, the ladies to their left.
“You’re angry,” Grace said.
“Not at all.”
“Pricked pride.”
“Just for a moment,” he admitted.
“And now?”
He did not respond. He did not have to. They had reached the end of the line and had to take their places at opposite sides of the aisle. But when they came together for a brief clap, Grace said, “You did not answer my question.”
They stepped back, then together, and he leaned down and murmured, “I like to be in charge.”
She looked as if she might like to laugh at that.
He gave her a lazy grin, and when he had the opportunity to speak again, asked, “Are you so very surprised?”
He bowed, she twirled, and then she said, her eyes flashing mischievously, “You never surprise me.”
Thomas laughed at that, and when they met once again for a bow and twirl, he leaned in and replied, “I never try to.”
Which only made Grace roll her eyes.
She was a good sport, Grace was. Thomas doubted that his grandmother had been looking for anything more than a warm body that knew how to say “Yes, ma’am” and “Of course, ma’am” when she’d hired her companion, but she had chosen well all the same.
It was a bonus, too, that Grace was a daughter of the district, orphaned several years earlier when her parents had caught a fever. Her father had been a country squire, and both he and his wife were well-liked. As a result, Grace was already familiar with all of the local families, and indeed friendly with most. Which had to be an advantage in her current position.
Or at least Thomas assumed so. Most of the time he tried to stay out of his grandmother’s way.
The music trickled to a close, and he allowed himself a glance at the red curtain. Either his fiancée had departed or she’d become a bit more skilled in the art of concealment.
“You should be nicer to her,” Grace said as she accepted his escort from the dance floor.
“She cut me,” he reminded her.
Grace merely shrugged. “You should be nicer to her,”
she said again. She curtsied then, and departed, leaving Thomas on his own, never an attractive prospect at a gathering such as this.
He was an affianced gentleman, and, more to the point, this was a local assembly and his intended bride was well known to all. Which should have meant that those who might envision their daughters (or sisters or nieces) as his duchess would leave well enough alone.
But alas, Lady Amelia did not provide complete protection from his neighbors. As well as she was liked (and as best as he could tell, she was, quite), no self-respecting mama could neglect to entertain the notion that something might go awry with the engagement, and the duke might find himself unattached, and he might need to find himself a bride.
Or so he was told. He wasn’t generally privy to such whispers. (For which he assiduously thanked his maker.)
And while there were citizens of Lincolnshire who were not in possession of an unattached daughter/
sister/niece, there was always someone looking to curry his favor. It was damnably tiring. He’d have given his arm—well, maybe a toe—for just one day in which no one said something to him because it was what they thought he wished to hear.