Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

by Julia Quinn

  Or so he was told. He wasn’t generally privy to such whispers. (For which he assiduously thanked his maker.)

  And while there were citizens of Lincolnshire who were not in possession of an unattached daughter/sister/niece, there was always someone looking to curry his favor. It was damnably tiring. He’d have given his arm—well, maybe a toe—for just one day in which no one said something to him because it was what they thought he wished to hear.

  There were quite a few benefits to being a duke, but honesty from one’s companions was not among them.

  Which was why, when Grace abandoned him at the edge of the small dance floor, he immediately strode toward the door.

  A door, to be more precise. It didn’t particularly matter which. He just wanted out.

  Twenty seconds later he was breathing the crisp air of the Lincolnshire night, pondering the rest of the evening. He’d planned to go home; he’d actually been looking forward to a quiet evening before his grandmother ambushed him with her plans for the assembly.

  But now he was thinking that a visit to Stamford might be more in order. Celeste would be there, his own private widow—very intelligent and very discreet. Their arrangement suited both of them perfectly. He brought gifts—lovely tokens that she could use to supplement the tidy house and modest income her husband had left for her. And she provided companionship with no expectation of fidelity.

  Thomas paused for a moment to get his bearings. A small tree, a birdbath, and what appeared to be an over-pruned rosebush…he’d apparently not exited through the door that led to the street. Ah, yes, the garden. With a slight frown, he glanced over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if one could actually reach the street without reentering the assembly hall, but—at this point he could have sworn he heard someone shrill his name, followed by the words daughter, must, and introduce—by God, he was going to try.

  Thomas made his way around the birdbath, intending to round the corner of the building, but just as he passed the abused rosebush, he thought he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye.

  He didn’t mean to look. The lord knew he didn’t want to look. Looking could only lead to inconvenience. There was nothing more untidy than finding someone where he (or more often, she) was not supposed to be. But of course he looked, because that was simply how his evening was progressing.

  He looked, and then he wished he hadn’t.

  “Your grace.”

  It was Lady Amelia, most assuredly where she was not supposed to be.

  He stared at her forbiddingly, deciding how to approach this.

  “It was stuffy inside,” she said, coming to her feet. She’d been sitting on a stone bench, and her dress—well, truth be told, he couldn’t recall what color her dress was, and in the moonlight he certainly couldn’t tell for sure. But it seemed to blend in with the surroundings, which was probably why he hadn’t noticed her right away.

  But none of that mattered. What mattered was that she was outside, by herself.

  And she belonged to him.

  Really, this would not do.

  It would have been a far grander exit had Amelia been able to sweep out of the assembly hall and leave the premises entirely, but there was the pesky matter of her sister. And her other sister. And her mother. And her father, although she was fairly certain he would have been happy to follow her right out the door, if not for those other three Willoughbys, all of whom were still having a grand time.

  So Amelia had made her way to the side of the assembly hall, where she could wait for her family to tire of the festivities on a small stone bench. No one came out this way. It wasn’t in the garden proper, and as the purpose of the assembly was to see and be seen—well, a dusty old bench didn’t really advance the cause.

  But it wasn’t too chilly, and the stars were out, which at least provided something to look at, although with her abysmal talents at spotting constellations, this was only likely to keep her busy for a few minutes.

  But she did find the Big Dipper, and from there the little one, or at least what she thought was the little one. She found three groupings that might have been bears—really, whoever had devised these things must have had a liking for the abstract—and over there was something she could have sworn was a church steeple.

  Not that there were any steeply constellations. But still.

  She shifted her position—better to get a look at the sparkly blob off to the north that might, with enough imagination, prove itself an oddly shaped chamber pot—but before she could squeeze her eyes into a proper squint, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone tromping through the garden.

  Coming her way.

  Oh, bother. Her kingdom for a private moment. She never got any at home, and now it appeared she wasn’t safe here, either.

  She held herself still, waiting for her intruder to leave the area, and then—

  It couldn’t be.

  But of course it was.

  Her esteemed fiancé. In all his splendiferous glory.

  What was he doing here? When she’d left the assembly hall, he was quite happily dancing with Grace. Even if the dance had drawn to a close, wouldn’t he be required to escort her to the edge of the floor and indulge in a few minutes of useless conversation? Followed by several more minutes of being accosted by the many various members of Lincolnshire society who were hoping that their engagement might fall apart (whilst not wishing the prospective bride any ill will, to be sure, but Amelia had certainly heard more than one person ponder the possibility of her falling in love with someone else and racing off to Gretna).

  Really, as if a body could escape her house without someone noticing.

  But it seemed that his grace had managed to extricate himself with record speed, and now he was slinking through the back garden.

  Oh, very well, he was walking straight and tall and insufferably proud, as always. But even so, he was definitely sneaking about, which she found worthy of a raised eyebrow. One would think a duke had enough clout to make his escape through the front door.

  She would have been content to spin embarrassing stories about him in her head, but he chose that moment—because she was clearly the unluckiest girl in Lincolnshire—to turn his head. In her direction.

  “Your grace,” Amelia said, because there seemed little point in pretending she was not aware that he’d seen her. He did not make a verbal acknowledgment, which she found rude, but she didn’t think she was in a position to abandon her own good manners, so she stood, explaining, “It was stuffy inside.”

  Well, it was. Even if that hadn’t been her reason for leaving.

  Still, he didn’t say anything, just looked at her in that haughty way of his. It was difficult to hold oneself perfectly still under the weight of such a stare, which she supposed was the point. She was dying to shift her weight from foot to foot. Or clench her hands. Or clench her teeth. But she refused to offer him that satisfaction (assuming he noticed anything she did), and so she stood utterly still, save for the serene smile on her face, which she allowed to shift just a little as she tilted her head to the side.

  “You are alone,” he said.

  “I am.”

  “Outside.”

  Amelia wasn’t certain how to affirm this without making at least one of them look stupid, so she simply blinked and awaited his next statement.

  “Alone.”

  She looked to the left, and then to the right, and then said, before she thought the better of it, “Not any longer.”

  His stare grew sharper, not that she’d thought that possible. “I assume,” he said, “that you are aware of the potential dangers to your reputation.”

  This time she did clench her teeth. But just for a moment. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to find me,” she replied.

  He did not like that answer. That much was clear.

  “This is not London,” she continued. “I may sit unattended on a bench outside the assembly hall for a few minutes without losing my position in society. Provided, of course,
that you don’t jilt me.”

  Oh, dear. Was that his jaw clenching now? They made quite a pair, the two of them.

  “Nevertheless,” he bit off, “such behavior is unbecoming for a future duchess.”

  “Your future duchess.”

  “Indeed.”

  Amelia’s stomach began performing the oddest selection of flips and turns, and truly, she could not tell if she was giddy or terrified. Wyndham looked furious, coldly so, and while she did not fear for her person—he was far too much a gentleman ever to strike a woman—he could, if he so chose, turn her life into a series of breathless miseries.

  As far back as her earliest memory, it had been impressed upon her that this man (boy that he was, at the time) was in charge. Her life, quite simply, and with no arguments accepted, revolved around his.

  He spoke, she listened.

  He beckoned, she jumped.

  He entered a room, and she smiled with delight.

  And, most importantly, she was glad for the opportunity. She was a lucky girl, because she got to agree with everything he said.

  Except—and this had to be his greatest offense—he rarely spoke to her. He almost never beckoned—what could he possibly require that she could provide? And she’d given up smiling when he entered a room because he was never looking in her direction, anyway.

  If he made note of her existence, it was not on a regular basis.

  But right now…

  She offered him a serene smile, gazing up at his face as if she did not realize that his eyes were the approximate temperature of ice chips.

  Right now, he noticed her.

  And then, inexplicably, he changed. Just like that. Something within him softened, and then his lips curved, and he was gazing down at her as if she were some priceless treasure, dropped into his lap by a benevolent god.

  It was enough to make a young lady extremely uneasy.

  “I have neglected you,” he said.

  She blinked. Thrice. “I beg your pardon?”

  He took her hand, raising it to his mouth. “I have neglected you,” he said again, his voice melting through the night. “It was not well done of me.”

  Amelia’s lips parted, and although she ought to have done something with her arm (using it to return her hand to her own side would have been an obvious choice), she just stood there like an imbecile, slack-jawed and limp, wondering why he…

  Well, just wondering why, to tell the truth.

  “Shall I dance with you now?” he murmured.

  She stared at him. What was he up to?

  “It’s not a difficult question,” he said with a smile, tugging gently at her hand as he moved closer. “Yes…or no.”

  She caught her breath.

  “Or yes,” he said, chuckling as his free hand found its place at the small of her back. His lips approached her ear, not quite touching, but close enough so his words drifted across her skin like a kiss. “Yes is almost always the correct answer.”

  He exerted a bit of pressure and slowly…softly…they began to dance. “And always,” he whispered, his mouth finally brushing her ear, “when you’re with me.”

  He was seducing her. The realization washed over her with equal parts excitement and confusion. She couldn’t imagine why; he had never shown the least inclination to do so before. It was deliberate, too. He was unleashing every weapon in his arsenal, or at least every one allowable in a public garden.

  And he was succeeding. She knew that his aims had to be Machiavellian—she was quite certain she had not turned irresistible during the course of one evening—but still, her skin was tingling, and when she breathed (which was not as often as she ought), her body seemed to lighten and float, and maybe she did not know so very much about relations between men and women, but she knew one thing…

  He was making her silly.

  Her brain was still working, and her thoughts were mostly complete, but there was no way he’d know that, because it was all she could do to gaze at him like a lovesick calf, her eyes begging him to move his hand, press at her back.

  She wanted to sink against him. She wanted to sink into him.

  Had she uttered a word since he’d taken her hand?

  “I never noticed how lovely your eyes are,” he said softly, and she wanted to say that that was because he’d never bothered to look, and then she wanted to point out that he could hardly see the color in the moonlight.

  But instead she smiled like a fool, and she tilted her head up toward his, because maybe…just maybe, he was thinking about kissing her, and maybe…just maybe, he would actually do it, and maybe…oh, definitely, she would let him.

  And then he did. His lips brushed hers in what had to be the tenderest, most respectful, and romantic first kiss in history. It was everything she’d dreamed a kiss could be. It was sweet, and it was gentle, and it made her turn rather warm all over, and then, because she couldn’t help it, she sighed.

  “So sweet,” he murmured, and she felt her arms come around his neck. He chuckled at her eagerness, and his own hands moved lower, cupping her bottom in the most scandalous fashion.

  She let out a little squeak, squirming against him, and then his hands tightened, and his breathing changed.

  And so did his kiss.

  Chapter 3

  The kiss, of course, had been intended to get her under his thumb, but this was a pleasant surprise.

  Lady Amelia was rather delightful, and Thomas was finding her bottom to be especially enticing, so much so that his mind was already wandering far ahead, to some fuzzy and frockless place, where he could edge his hands ever so slightly down and around, past the insides of her thighs, his thumbs tickling their way up, and up, and up…

  Good Lord, he might have to consider actually setting a date with the chit.

  He deepened the kiss, enjoying her soft cry of surprise, then tugged her closer. She felt glorious against him, all soft curves and lithe muscles. She liked to ride; he’d heard that somewhere. “You’re lovely,” he murmured, wondering if she ever rode astride.

  But this was not the time—and it was certainly not the place—to let his imagination get ahead of him. And so, confident that he had quashed her little rebellion, he pulled back, letting one hand linger on her cheek before finally lowering it to his side.

  He almost smiled. She was staring at him with a dazed expression, as if she wasn’t quite certain what had just happened to her.

  “Shall I escort you in?” he inquired.

  She shook her head. Cleared her throat. Then finally said, “Weren’t you departing?”

  “I could not leave you here.”

  “I can go back in on my own.”

  He must have looked at her dubiously, because she said, “You can watch me enter the building, if you like.”

  “Why do you not wish to be seen with me?” he murmured. “I will be your husband before long.”

  “Will you?”

  He wondered where that dazed creature of passion had gone, because now she was watching him with eyes that were clear and sharp. “You doubt my word?” he asked, his voice carefully impassive.

  “I would never do that.” She took a step away from him, but it was not a movement of retreat. It was more of a signal—he no longer held her mesmerized.

  “What, then, was your intention?”

  She turned and smiled. “Of course you will be my husband. It is the ‘before long’ part of it that I question.”

  He stared at her for a lengthy moment before saying, “We have never spoken frankly, you and I.”

  “No.”

  She was more intelligent than he had been led to believe. This was a good thing, he decided. Vexing at times, but overall, a benefit. “How old are you?” he demanded.

  Her eyes widened. “You don’t know?”

  Oh, bloody hell. The things females chose to get up in arms about. “No,” he said, “I don’t.”

  “I’m twenty-one.” She curtsied then, a mocking little bob. “On the shelf, r
eally.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “My mother despairs.”

  He looked at her. “Impertinent baggage.”

  She considered this, even looked pleased by the insult. “Yes.”

  “I ought to kiss you again,” he said, lifting one brow into a practiced, arrogant arch.

  She wasn’t so sophisticated that she had a ready retort for that, a circumstance with which he found himself quite satisfied. He leaned forward slightly, smirking. “You’re quiet when I kiss you.”

  She gasped with outrage.

  “You’re quiet when I insult you as well,” he mused, “but oddly, I don’t find it quite as entertaining.”

  “You are insufferable,” she hissed.

  “And yet they arrive,” he sighed. “Words. From your lips.”

  “I’m leaving,” she declared. She turned to stalk back into the assembly hall, but he was too quick, and he slid his arm through hers before she could escape. To an onlooker, it would have seemed the most courteous of poses, but the hand that rested over hers did more than cover it.

  She was locked into place.

  “I’ll escort you,” he said with a smile.

  She gave him an insolent look but did not argue. He patted her hand then, deciding to let her choose whether she found the gesture comforting or condescending. “Shall we?” he murmured, and together they strolled back in.

  The night was clearly drawing to a close. Thomas noted that the musicians had set down their instruments and the crowd had thinned a bit. Grace and his grandmother were nowhere to be seen.

  Amelia’s parents were in the far corner, chatting with a local squire, so he steered her across the floor, nodding at those who greeted them, but not choosing to pause in his journey.

  And then his future bride spoke. Softly, just for his ears. But something about the question was devastating.