Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 65

her feet. She waited a moment, as if expecting someone to comment upon her departure. When no one did (really, Amelia thought, did she honestly think anyone would attempt to stop her?) the dowager added, “We depart in thirty minutes.” Then she turned the full force of her glare on her. “You will ride with me in the carriage.”
Amelia wasn’t sure why the dowager felt the need to announce it. She’d been stuck with the dowager in the carriage across England; why should Ireland be any different? Still, something about her tone turned the stomach, and as soon as the dowager was gone, she let out a weary sigh.
“I think I might be seasick,” she said, allowing herself to slump.
Her father gave her an impatient look, then rose to refill his plate. But Thomas smiled. It was mostly with his eyes, but still, she felt a kinship, warm and lovely, and perhaps enough to banish the feeling of dread that was beginning to pool in her heart.
“Seasick on land?” he murmured, his eyes smiling.
“My stomach feels sour.”
“Turning?”
“Flipping,” she affirmed.
“Strange, that,” he said dryly, popping a piece of bacon into his mouth and finishing off the bite before continuing. “My grandmother is capable of many things—I cannot imagine that plague, famine, or pestilence would be beyond her abilities. But seasickness . . . ” He chuckled. “I’m almost impressed.”
Amelia sighed, looking down at her food, which was now only slightly more appetizing than a plate of worms. She pushed it away. “Do you know how long it will take to get to Butlersbridge?”
“Most of the day, I should think, especially if we stop for lunch.”
Amelia glanced at the door through which the dowager had just exited. “She won’t want to.”
Thomas shrugged. “She won’t have a choice.”
Amelia’s father returned to the table just then, his plate heaping full. “When you become duchess,” he said to her, rolling his eyes as he sat, “your first order should be to banish her to the dower house.”
When she became duchess. Amelia swallowed uncomfortably. It was still just awful, her own father so blithe about her future. He truly did not care which of the two men she married, so long as he was proven to be the rightful duke.
She looked at Thomas. He was busy eating. So she kept her eyes on him. And waited, and waited . . . until he finally noticed her attention and met her gaze. He gave a little shrug, which she was unable to interpret.
Somehow that made her feel even worse.
Mr. Audley was the next to arrive for breakfast, followed about ten minutes later by Grace, who appeared to have rushed down, all pink-cheeked and breathless.
“Is the food not to your liking?” Grace asked her, looking down at Amelia’s barely touched plate as she took the seat recently vacated by the dowager.
“I’m not hungry,” Amelia said, even as her stomach rumbled. There was a difference, she was coming to
realize, between hunger and appetite. The former she had, the latter not at all.
Grace gave her a quizzical look, then ate her own breakfast, or at least as much of it as she could in the three minutes before the innkeeper arrived, looking somewhat pained.
“Er, her grace . . . ” he began, wringing his hands.
“She is in the carriage.”
“Presumably abusing your men?” Thomas queried.
The innkeeper nodded miserably.
“Grace has not finished her meal,” Mr. Audley said coolly.
“Please,” Grace insisted, “let us not delay on my account. I’m quite satisfied. I—”
She coughed then, looking terribly embarrassed, and Amelia had the singular sensation of having been left out of a joke.
“I overfilled my dish,” Grace finally finished, motioning toward her plate, which was still well over half full.
“Are you certain? ” Thomas asked her. She nodded, but Amelia noticed that she shoveled several more forkfuls into her mouth as everyone rose to their feet.
The men went ahead to see to the horses, and Amelia waited while Grace wolfed down a bit more.
“Hungry?” she asked, now that it was just the two of them.
“Starving,” Grace confirmed. She wiped her mouth with her serviette and followed Amelia out. “I didn’t want to provoke the dowager.”
Amelia turned, raising her brows.
“Further,” Grace clarified, since they both knew that the dowager was always acting provoked about something or other. And sure enough, when they reached the carriage, the dowager was snapping away about this and that, apparently unsatisfied with the temperature of the hot brick that had been placed at her feet in the carriage.
A hot brick? Amelia nearly sagged. It was not a warm day, but nor was it the least bit chilly. They were going to roast in that carriage.
“She is in fine form today,” Grace murmured.
“Amelia!” the dowager barked.
Amelia reached out and grabbed Grace’s hand.
Tightly. She had never in her life been so grateful for another person’s presence. The thought of spending another day in the carriage with the dowager, without Grace as a buffer . . .
She couldn’t bear it.
“Lady Amelia,” the dowager repeated, “did you not hear me call your name?”
“I’m sorry, your grace,” Amelia said, dragging Grace with her as she stepped forward. “I did not.”
The dowager’s eyes narrowed. She knew when she was being lied to. But she clearly had other priorities, because she flicked her head toward Grace and said,
“She may ride with the driver.”