Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 67

She finally opened her eyes. One of them, at least.
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not. I would,” Grace said, “but as it happens, I am telling the truth. It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault, really. I wish it were. It would be so much easier that way.”
“To have someone to blame?”
“Yes.”
And then Amelia whispered, “I don’t want to marry him.”
“Thomas?”
Thomas? Whatever was she thinking? “No,” Amelia said. “Mr. Audley.”
Grace’s lips parted with surprise. “Really?”
“You sound so shocked.”
“No, of course not,” Grace quickly replied. “It’s just that he’s so handsome.”
Amelia gave a little shrug. “I suppose. Don’t you find him a little too charming?”
“No.”
Amelia looked at Grace with newfound interest. Her no had been a tad bit more defensive than she would have expected. “Grace Eversleigh,” she said, lowering her voice as she darted a quick look toward the dowager, “do you fancy Mr. Audley?”
And then it was more than obvious that she did, because Grace stammered and spluttered, and made a noise that sounded rather like a toad.
Which amused Amelia to no end. “You do.”
“It does not signify,” Grace mumbled.
“Of course it signifies,” Amelia replied pertly. “Does he fancy you? No, don’t answer, I can see from your face that he does. Well. I certainly shall not marry him now.”
“You should not refuse him on my account,” Grace said.
“What did you just say?”
“I can’t marry him if he’s the duke.”
Amelia wanted to swat her. How dare she give up on love? “Why not?”
“If he is the duke, he will need to marry someone suit-able.” Grace gave her a sharp look. “Of your rank.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. It’s not as if you grew up in an orphanage.”
“There will be scandal enough. He must not add to it with a sensational marriage.”
“An actress would be sensational. You will merely be a week’s worth of gossip.” She waited for Grace to comment, but she looked so flustered, and so . . . so . . .
sad. Amelia could hardly bear it. She thought of Grace, in love with Mr. Audley, and she thought of herself, drifting on the tide of other people’s expectations.
This wasn’t how she wanted to be.
This wasn’t who she wanted to be.
“I do not know Mr. Audley’s mind,” she said, “or his intentions, but if he is prepared to dare everything for love, then you should be, too.” She reached out and squeezed Grace’s hand. “Be a woman of courage, Grace.” She smiled then, as much for herself as for Grace.
And she whispered, “I shall be one, too.”
Chapter 17
The journey to Butlersbridge proceeded much as Thomas had anticipated. Along with Jack and Lord Crowland, he rode horseback, the better to enjoy the fine weather. There was very little talk; they never quite managed to keep themselves in an even enough line to converse. Every now and then one of them would in-crease his pace or fall behind, and one horse would pass another. Perfunctory greetings would be exchanged.
Occasionally someone would comment on the weather.
Lord Crowland seemed rather interested in the native birds.
Thomas tried to enjoy the scenery. It was all very green, even more so than Lincolnshire, and he wondered about the annual rainfall. If precipitation here was higher, would that also translate into a better crop yield? Or would this be offset by—
Stop.
Agriculture, animal husbandry . . . it was all academic now. He owned no land, no animals save for his horse, and maybe not even that.
He had nothing.
No one.
Amelia . . .
Her face entered his mind, unbidden and yet very welcome. She was so much more than he’d anticipated.
He did not love her—he could not love her, not now.
But somehow . . . he missed her. Which was ridiculous, as she was just in the carriage, some twenty yards behind. And he’d seen her at their noontime picnic. And they’d breakfasted together.
He had no reason to miss her.
And yet he did.
He missed her laugh, the way it might sound at a particularly enjoyable dinner party. He missed the warm glow of her eyes, the way they would look in the early morning light.
If he ever got to see her in the early morning light.
Which he wouldn’t.
But he missed it all the same.
He glanced over his shoulder, back at the carriage, half surprised to see that it looked exactly as it should, and not spitting flames through the windows.
His grandmother had been in fine form that afternoon. Now there was one thing he would not miss, once he was stripped of his title. The dowager Duchess of Wyndham had been more than an albatross on his back; she’d been a bloody Medusa, whose only purpose in life seemed to be to make his life as difficult as possible.
But his grandmother was not the only burden he’d be happy to shed. The endless paperwork. He’d not miss that. The lack of freedom. Everyone thought he could do as he pleased—all that money and power ought to lend a man utter control. But no, he was tied to Belgrave. Or he had been.
He thought of Amelia, her dreams of Amsterdam.
Well, hell. Come tomorrow, he could go to Amsterdam if he so desired. He could leave straight from Dublin. He could see Venice. The West Indies. There was nothing to stop him, no—
“Are you happy?”