Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 77

Life would be normal. He would return to Belgrave precisely as he’d left, with all the same possessions, responsibilities, and commitments.
Including Amelia.
She should have been his duchess by now. He should never have dragged his feet.
If he tore out that page . . .
“Do you hear that?” Jack hissed.
Thomas perked up, his ear instinctively tilting toward the window.
Horses.
“They’re here,” Thomas said.
It was now or never.
He stared at the register.
And stared.
“I can’t do it,” he whispered.
And then—it happened so fast—Jack pushed by him, knocking him aside. Thomas just managed to snap his face back when he saw Jack with his hands on the register . . . ripping it apart.
Thomas hurled himself forward, landing hard on Jack as he tried to grab the torn page from his fingers, but Jack slid out from his grasp, launching himself toward the fire.
“Jack, no!” Thomas yelled, but Jack was too quick, and even as he caught hold of his arm, Jack managed to hurl the paper into the fire.
Thomas staggered back, horrified by the sight of it. The center caught the flame first, bursting a hole through the middle of the page. Then the corners began to curl, blackening until they crumbled.
Soot. Ashes.
Dust.
“God in heaven,” Thomas whispered. “What have you done?”
Amelia had thought that she’d never again have to ponder the words worst day and of my life in the same sentence. After the scene in the Belgrave drawing room, when two men had nearly come to blows over which one of them would be forced to marry her—well, one didn’t generally think such depths of humiliation could be achieved twice in one lifetime.
Her father, however, had apparently not been informed of this.
“Papa, stop,” she pleaded, digging in her heels—
quite literally—as he attempted to drag her through the door of the Maguiresbridge rectory.
“I’d think you’d be a bit more eager to have an answer,” he said impatiently. “God knows I am.”
It had been a dreadful morning. When the dowager discovered that the two men had ridden off to the church without her, she went—and Amelia did not think this an exaggeration—berserk. Even more chill-ing was the speed with which she recovered. (Under a minute, by Amelia’s estimation.) The dowager’s rage was now channeled into icy purpose, and frankly, Amelia found this even more frightening than her fury.
As soon as she found out that Grace did not intend to accompany them to Maguiresbridge, she latched herself to Grace’s arm and hissed, “Do not leave me alone with that woman.”
Grace had tried to explain that Amelia wouldn’t be alone, but Amelia was having none of that and refused to leave without her. And as Lord Crowland would not go without Amelia, and they needed Mrs. Audley to direct them to the proper church . . .
It was a crowded carriage that made its way to County Fermanagh.
Amelia was wedged in on the rear-facing seat with Grace and Mrs. Audley, which would have been no trouble whatsoever except that she was facing the dowager, who kept demanding that poor Mrs. Audley update her on their progress. Which meant that Mrs.
Audley had to twist, jostling into Grace, who jostled into Amelia, who was already overly tense and appre-hensive.
And then, as soon as they arrived, her father had grabbed her by the arm and hissed one last lecture in her ear about fathers and daughters and the rules governing the relations thereof, not to mention three full sentences about dynastic legacies, family fortunes, and responsibilities to the Crown.
All in her ear, and all in under a minute. If she hadn’t been forced to endure the same set of directives so many times in the past week, she would not have understood a word of it.
She’d tried to tell him that Thomas and Jack deserved their privacy, that they should not have to discover their fates with an audience, but she supposed the point was now moot. The dowager had charged ahead, and Amelia could hear her bellowing, “Where is it?”
Amelia twisted, facing Grace and Mrs. Audley, who were following several horrified paces behind. But before she could say anything, her father yanked hard on her arm, and she went stumbling over the threshold behind him.
A woman stood in the center of the room, teacup in hand, the expression on her face somewhere between startled and alarmed. The housekeeper, probably, although Amelia could not inquire. Her father was still dragging her along behind him, determined not to allow the dowager to reach Thomas and Jack too far ahead of him.
“Move,” he growled at her, but a strange, almost pre-ternatural panic had begun to set in, and she did not want to go into that back room.
“Father . . . ” she tried to say, but the second syllable died on her tongue.
Thomas.
There he was, standing in front of her now that her father had hauled her through the doorway. He was
standing very still, utterly expressionless, his eyes focused at a spot in the wall that held no window, no painting—nothing at all, save for his attention.
Amelia choked back a cry. He had lost the title. He didn’t have to say a word. He did not even have to look at her. She could see it in his face.
“How dare you leave without me?” the dowager demanded. “Where is it? I demand to see the register.”
But no one spoke. Thomas remained unmoving, stiff and proud, like the duke they’d all thought he was, and Jack—good heavens, he looked positively ill. His color was high, and it was clear to Amelia that he was breathing far too fast.
“What did you find?” the dowager practically screamed.