Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 71

“For what?”
She gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know.”
He started to say something, to scold her, shake his head at her foolishness. But then she smiled.
She looked so beautiful he almost felt struck.
“Amelia.” He didn’t know why he was saying her name. He had nothing specific to tell her. But she was there, standing before him, and he had never wanted a woman—no, he had never wanted anything—more than he wanted her.
On a damp lawn, in the middle of Ireland, in the middle of the night, he wanted her.
Completely.
He hadn’t let himself think about it. He desired her; he’d long since given up pretending he didn’t. But he had not let himself dream it, not let himself see it in his mind—his hands on her shoulders, sliding down her back. Her dress, falling away beneath his hungry fingers, exposing her perfect—
“You need to go inside,” he said hoarsely.
She shook her head.
He took a long, haggard breath. Did she know what she risked, remaining out here with him? It was taking all his strength—more than he’d ever dreamed he possessed—to keep himself rooted to his spot, two proper paces away from her. Close . . . so close, and yet not within his reach.
“I want to be outside,” she said.
He met her eyes, which was a mistake, because everything she was feeling—every hurt, and wrong, and insecurity—he saw them, hovering in her amazing eyes.
It tore through him.
“I was upstairs,” she continued, “and it was stuffy, and hot. Only it wasn’t hot, but it felt like it should be.”
It was the damnedest thing, but he understood.
“I’m tired of feeling trapped,” she said sadly. “My whole life, I’ve been told where to be, what to say, who to talk to . . . ”
“Who to marry,” he said softly.
She gave a small nod. “I just wanted to feel free. If only for an hour.”
He looked at her hand. It would be so easy to reach out, to take it in his. Just one step forward. That was all it would take. One step, and she would be in his arms.
But he said, “You need to go inside.” Because it was what he was supposed to say. It was what she was supposed to do.
He could not kiss her. Not now. Not here. Not when he had absolutely no faith in his ability to break it off.
To end a kiss with a kiss. He didn’t think he could do it.
“I don’t want to marry him,” she said.
Something within him curled and tightened. He’d known this; she’d made it more than clear. But still . . .
now . . . when she stood there in the moonlight . . .
They were impossible words. Impossible to bear. Impossible to ignore.
I don’t want him to have you.
But he didn’t say it. He could not let himself say it. Because he knew, come morning when all was revealed, Jack Audley would almost certainly be proven as the Duke of Wyndham. And if he said it, if he said to her, right now— be with me . . .
She would do it.
He could see it in her eyes.
Maybe she even thought she loved him. And why wouldn’t she? She had been told her entire life that she was supposed to love him, to obey him, to be grateful for his attentions and for the luck that had bound her to him so many years ago.
But she didn’t really know him. Right now he wasn’t even sure he knew himself. How could he ask her to be with him when he had nothing to offer?
She deserved more.
“Amelia,” he whispered, because he had to say something. She was waiting for it, for his reply.
She shook her head. “I don’t want to do it.”
“Your father—” he said, his voice choked.
“He wants me to be a duchess.”
“He wants what’s best for you.”
“He doesn’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
The look she gave him was devastating. “Don’t say that. Say anything else, but don’t say I don’t know my own mind.”
“Amelia . . . ”
“No.”
It was a horrible sound. Just that one syllable. But it came from deep within her. And he felt it all. Her pain, her anger, her frustration—they sliced through him with startling precision.
“I’m sorry,” he said, because he did not know what else to say. And he was sorry. He wasn’t sure what for, but this horrible aching feeling in his chest—it had to be sorrow.
Or maybe regret.
That she wasn’t his.
That she would never be his.
That he could not set aside the one little piece of him that knew how to be upstanding and true. That he could not say to hell with it all and just take her, right here, right now.
That, much to his surprise, it turned out that it wasn’t the Duke of Wyndham who always did the right thing.
It was Thomas Cavendish.
The one piece of himself he would never lose.
Chapter 18
It was ironic, Amelia had thought more than once during the journey to Cloverhill that she had recently become so enamored of cartography. Because she was only just now coming to realize how thoroughly her own life had been mapped out by others. Even with all her plans torn asunder, her new map, with whatever routes her life was meant to take, was being drawn by others.
Her father.
The dowager.
Even Thomas.
Everyone, it seemed, had a hand in her future except for her. But not tonight.
“It’s late,” she said softly.
His eyes widened, and she could see his confusion.
“But not too late,” she whispered. She looked up. The clouds had blown off. She hadn’t felt the wind—she hadn’t felt anything except for him, and he hadn’t even touched her. But somehow the sky was clear. The stars were out.