Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 66

Said with all the affection one might show to a meal-worm.
Grace started to move, but Amelia yanked her back.
“No,” she said to the dowager.
“No?”
“No. I wish for her company.”
“I do not.”
Amelia thought of all the times she’d marveled at Thomas’s cool reserve, at the way he could flay people with a stare. She took a breath, allowing some of that memory to seep into her, and then she turned it on the dowager.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the dowager snapped, after Amelia had stared her down for several seconds. “Bring her up, then. But do not expect me to make conversation.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Amelia murmured, and she climbed up, Grace following behind.
Unfortunately for Amelia, and for Grace, and for Lord Crowland, who had decided to ride in the carriage after they’d stopped to water the horses, the dowager decided to make conversation after all.
Although conversation did imply a certain two-sidedness that Amelia was quite certain did not exist within the confines of their carriage.
There were many directives, and twice that complaints. But conversation was in short supply.
Amelia’s father lasted only thirty minutes before he banged on the front wall, demanding to be let out.
Traitor, Amelia thought. He’d planned since her birth to place her in the dowager’s household, and he could not manage more than a half an hour?
He made a rather feeble attempt at apology at lunch—not for attempting to force her to marry some-one against her will, just for leaving the carriage that morning—but whatever sympathy she might have had for him vanished when he began to lecture her about her future and his decisions regarding thereof.
Her only respite came after lunch, when both the dowager and Grace nodded off. Amelia just stared out the window, watching Ireland roll by, listening to the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. And all the while she could not help but wonder how this had all come to pass. She was far too sensible to think herself dreaming, but really—how could one’s life be so completely altered, almost overnight? It did not seem possible. Just last week she was Lady Amelia Willoughby, fiancée to the Duke of Wyndham. And now she was . . .
Dear heavens, it was almost comical. She was still Lady Amelia Willoughby, fiancée to the Duke of Wyndham.
But nothing was the same.
She was in love. With what was possibly the wrong man. And did he love her? She couldn’t tell. He liked her, of that she felt sure. He admired her. But love?
No. Men like Thomas did not fall in love so quickly.
And if they did—if he did—it would not be with someone like her, someone he’d known his entire life. If Thomas fell into an overnight sort of love, it would be with a beautiful stranger. He’d see her across a crowded room, he’d be struck by a powerful feeling, a knowledge that they shared a destiny. A passion.
That was how Thomas would fall in love.
If he fell in love.
She swallowed, hating the lump in her throat, hating the smell in the air, hating the way she could see the specks of dust floating through the late afternoon sunlight.
There was a lot to hate that afternoon.
Across from her, Grace began to stir. Amelia watched the process. It was actually rather fascinat-ing to watch someone wake up; she didn’t think she’d ever done so before. Finally Grace opened her eyes, and Amelia said quietly, “You fell asleep.” She put a finger to her lips, motioning with her head toward the dowager.
Grace covered a yawn, then asked, “How much longer do you think we have until we get there?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps an hour? Two?” Amelia sighed and leaned back, closing her eyes. She was tired. They were all tired, but she was feeling selfish just then and preferred to dwell upon her own exhaustion. Maybe she could nod off. Why was it that some people fell asleep so easily in carriages, and others—most notably herself—couldn’t seem to do it anywhere but a bed? It didn’t seem fair, and—
“What will you do?”
It was Grace’s voice. And much as Amelia wanted to feign ignorance, she found that she could not do it.
It didn’t much matter, anyway, since the answer would be wholly unsatisfying. She opened her eyes. Grace looked as if she wished she had not asked.
“I don’t know,” Amelia said. She leaned back against the seat cushion and closed her eyes again.
She liked traveling with her eyes closed. She felt the rhythm of the wheels better. It was soothing. Well, most of the time. Not today. Not on her way to some heretofore unknown village in Ireland, where her future would be decided by the contents of a church register.
Not today, after her father had lectured her for the entire luncheon meal, leaving her feeling rather like a recalcitrant child.
Not today, when—
“Do you know what the funniest part of it is?” Amelia asked, the words coming forth before she realized what she was saying.
“No.”
“I keep thinking to myself, ‘This isn’t fair. I should have a choice. I should not have to be traded and bar-tered like some sort of commodity.’ But then I think,
‘How is this any different? I was given to Wyndham years ago. I never made a complaint.’”
She said this all to the darkness of her own eyelids. It was strangely more satisfying that way.
“You were just a baby,” Grace said.
“I have had many years to lodge a complaint.”
“Amelia—”
“I have no one to blame but myself.”
“That’s not true.”