Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

by Julia Quinn

  “It’s not just a house, Audley.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” Something flashed in his eyes, something different and entirely new. It was fear, Thomas realized with a start. Audley was terrified of gaining the title.

  As he damned well should be.

  For the first time, Thomas began to feel a glimmer of respect for the other man. If he knew enough to be afraid…

  Well, at the very least, it meant Audley wasn’t a complete fool.

  “Excuse me,” Thomas said, because he no longer felt so steady. It was the brandy, yes, but also the encounter. No one was how they should be—not Grace, not Audley, and especially not himself.

  He turned on his heel and left, shutting the door firmly behind him. He would still hear them if they spoke, but surely they would not be so foolish as to remain. They’d go somewhere else to laugh and flirt. Audley would try to kiss Grace, and maybe she would let him, and they would be happy, at least for this day.

  Thomas sat in his chair, stared out the window, and wondered why he couldn’t cry.

  Later that night Thomas was sitting in his study, ostensibly for the purpose of going over his affairs. In truth, he’d been seeking privacy. He did not much enjoy the company of others these days, especially when the only “others” to enjoy were his grandmother, his new cousin, and Grace.

  Several ledgers were open on his desk, their myriad columns filled with neat numbers, each carefully inked onto the page in his own hand. Belgrave’s steward was paid to keep such records, of course, but Thomas liked to take care of his own set himself. Somehow the information felt different in his brain when it was he who had written the numbers down. He’d tried to give up the habit a few years back, since it seemed unnecessary to have two complete sets of records, but felt as if he couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

  A duke had to see the forest. Wyndham was a huge responsibility, with holdings across Britain. Would Audley see that? Would he respect it, or would he shuffle off the decisions to a variety of stewards and secretaries, as Thomas had seen so many of his contemporaries do, usually with disastrous results.

  Could a man care for a heritage such as Wyndham if he had not been born to it? Thomas held it in reverence, but then again, he’d had a lifetime to develop his love for and knowledge of the land. Audley had arrived last week. Could he possibly understand what it all meant? Or was it something bred in the blood? Had he stepped foot into Belgrave and thought—Aha, this is home.

  Unlikely. Not with their grandmother there to greet him.

  Thomas rubbed his temples. It was worrisome. It could all fall apart. Not immediately; he had run the estate far too well for that. But given time, Audley could rip through the whole thing without even intending to.

  “It won’t be my problem,” Thomas said aloud. He wouldn’t be the duke. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even stay in Lincolnshire. Wasn’t there some sort of dispensation in his grandfather’s will? Some sort of small house near Leeds he’d bought to parcel off to his younger son. He did not want to remain at hand to watch Audley assume his role. He’d take the other property and be done with them all.

  He took a sip of the brandy on his desk—he was almost through with the bottle, which gave him some satisfaction. It hadn’t been easy to obtain it, and he didn’t particularly wish to leave it behind. But it did serve as a reminder of certain bodily functions, and so he pushed his chair back and stood. There was a chamber pot in the corner, but he’d recently refurbished this section of Belgrave with the latest in toileting technologies. He’d be damned if he was going to forgo the pleasure before getting shipped off to Leeds.

  Off he went, moving down the hall. It was late; the house was settled and quiet. He took care of his business, pausing to admire the marvels of modern invention, then headed back to his study, where he fully intended to spend the night, or at least remain until he finished the brandy.

  But on his way back he heard another person stirring about. He stopped and peered into the rose salon. A lighted candelabra sat on a table, illuminating the room with a flickering glow. Grace was in the far corner, shuffling about at the escritoire, opening and shutting drawers, a frustrated expression on her face.

  He told himself he should apologize to her. His behavior that afternoon had been abominable. They had shared far too many years of friendship to allow it to end like this.

  He said her name from the doorway, and she looked up, startled.

  “Thomas,” she said, “I did not realize you were still awake.”

  “It’s not so late,” he said.

  She gave him a small smile. “No, I suppose not. The dowager is abed but not yet asleep.”

  “Your work is never done, is it?” he asked, entering the room.

  “No,” she said, with a resigned shrug. He’d seen her make that motion countless times. And the expression that went along with it—a bit rueful, a bit wry. Truly, he did not know how she bore his grandmother. He put up with her because he had to.

  Well, he supposed she had to put up with her, too. Employment opportunities for gently bred young ladies of little to no fortune were not exactly thick on the ground.

  “I ran out of writing paper upstairs,” she explained.

  “For correspondence?”

  “Your grandmother’s,” she affirmed. “I have no one with whom to correspond. I suppose once Elizabeth Willoughby marries and moves away…” She paused, looking thoughtful. “I shall miss her.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, remembering what Amelia had told him. “You are good friends, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “Ah, here we are.” She pulled forth a small stack of paper, then looked up at him with a grimace. “I must go write your grandmother’s letters now.”

  “She does not write them herself?” he asked with surprise.

  “She thinks she does. But the truth is, her penmanship is dreadful. No one could possibly make out what she intends to say. Even I have difficulty with it. I end up improvising at least half in the copying.”

  He chuckled at that. Grace was such a good egg. He wondered why she’d never married. Were the gentlemen too intimidated by her position at Belgrave? Probably. He supposed he was at fault, too, so desperate to keep her on as his grandmother’s companion that he had not done as he ought and provided her with a small dowry so she might rise from employment and find a husband.

  “I must apologize, Grace,” he said, walking toward her.

  “For this afternoon? No, please, don’t be silly. It’s a terrible situation, and no one could fault you for—”

  “For many things,” he cut in. He should have given her the opportunity to find a husband. If nothing else, she wouldn’t have been here when Audley had arrived.

  “Please,” she said, her face twisting into a miserable smile. “I cannot think of anything for which you need to make amends, but I assure you, if there were, I would accept your apology, with all graciousness.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He supposed he felt better for that, but not much. And then, because one could always find refuge in the obvious, he said, “We depart for Liverpool in two days.”

  She nodded slowly. “I imagine you have much to do before we leave.”

  He thought about that. Not really. He’d spent the last four days under the assumption that he’d return to England with nothing, so he’d worked himself into a frenzy, making sure every last corner of the Wyndham estates was as it should be. He would not have anyone saying he’d sabotaged the new duke.

  But he’d finished it all. There was a grain order to review, and his own personal packing to supervise, but other than that…

  His days as the duke were over.

  “Almost nothing,” he told Grace, unable to keep the bite from his voice.

  “Oh.” She sounded surprised, not so much by his answer, but by the fact that he’d voiced it. “That must be a pleasant change.”

  He leaned forward. He could see that she was growing uncomfortable, and he’d had jus
t enough to drink to enjoy that a bit. “I am practicing, you see,” he said.

  She swallowed. “Practicing?”

  “To be a gentleman of leisure. Perhaps I should emulate your Mr. Audley.”

  “He is not my Mr. Audley,” she immediately replied.

  “He shall not worry,” he continued, ignoring her protest. They both knew she was lying. “I have left all of the affairs in perfect order. Every contract has been reviewed and every last number in every last column has been tallied. If he runs the estate into the ground, it shall be on his own head.”

  “Thomas, stop,” she said. “Don’t talk this way. We don’t know that he is the duke.”

  “Don’t we?” Good Lord, which one of them was she trying to fool? “Come now, Grace, we both know what we will find in Ireland.”

  “We don’t,” she insisted, but her voice sounded wrong.

  And he knew.

  He took a step toward her. “Do you love him?”

  She froze.

  “Do you love him?” he repeated, losing patience. “Audley.”

  “I know who you’re talking about,” she snapped.

  He almost laughed. “I imagine you do.” And he thought to himself—they were doomed. The both of them. Amelia was lost to him, and Grace had gone and fallen in love with Audley, of all people. Nothing could happen there. He knew that he might have got away with marrying someone of Grace’s status, but Audley never would. Once he became the duke, he’d have to marry some horse-faced girl whose birth was as high as his own. There would be skeptics and detractors aplenty. The new duke would need a brilliant marriage to prove to society that he was worthy of the title.

  And besides, Audley was an irresponsible fool, clearly unworthy of a woman like Grace.

  “How long have you been here?” he asked, trying to locate the answer through the fog in his brain.

  “At Belgrave? Five years.”

  “And in all that time I haven’t…” He shook his head. “I wonder why.”

  “Thomas.” She eyed him warily. “What are you talking about?”

  “Damned if I know.” He laughed bitterly. “What’s to become of us, Grace? We’re doomed, you know. Both of us.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to pretend he hadn’t been crystal clear. “Oh, come now, Grace, you’re far too intelligent for that.”

  She looked to the door. “I should go.”

  But he was blocking her way.

  “Thomas, I—”

  And then he thought—why not? Amelia was as good as gone, and Grace—good, solid, dependable Grace—was right here. She was lovely, really, he’d always thought so, and a man could do far worse. Even a man without a farthing to his name.

  He took her face in his hands and he kissed her. It was a desperate thing, born not of desire but of pain, and he kept kissing her, because he kept hoping that maybe it would turn into something else, that maybe if he tried hard enough, for long enough, something would spark between them and he would forget…

  “Stop!” she pushed at his chest. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I don’t know,” he said with a helpless shrug. It was the truth. “I’m here, you’re here…”

  “I’m leaving.” But one of his hands was still on her arm. He should let go. He knew he should, but he couldn’t. She might not have been the right woman, but maybe…maybe she wasn’t entirely the wrong one. Maybe they could make a go of it, they two.

  “Ah, Grace,” he said. “I am not Wyndham any longer. We both know it.” He felt himself shrugging, and then he held his hand toward her. It felt like he was finally allowing himself to surrender to the inevitable.

  She stared at him curiously. “Thomas?”

  And then—who knew where it had come from, but he said, “Why don’t you marry me when this is all over?”

  “What?” She looked horrified. “Oh, Thomas, you’re mad.”

  But she did not pull away.

  “What do you say, Gracie?” He touched her chin, tipping her up to look at him.

  She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no. He knew she was thinking of Audley, but just then he didn’t care. She felt like his only hope, his last shot at sanity.

  He leaned down to kiss her again, pausing to remind himself of her beauty. That thick, dark hair, those gorgeous blue eyes—they should have had his heart pounding. If he pressed her against him, hard and demanding, would his body tighten with need?

  But he didn’t press her against him. He didn’t want to. It felt wrong, and he felt dirty for even thinking of it, and when Grace turned her head to the side and whispered, “I can’t,” he did nothing to stop her. Instead, he rested his chin atop her head, holding her like he might a sister.

  His heart twisted, and he whispered, “I know.”

  “Your grace?”

  Thomas looked up from his desk the following morning, wondering just how much longer he might be addressed in that manner. His butler was standing in the doorway, waiting for acknowledgment.

  “Lord Crowland is here to see you, sir,” Penrith said. “With Lady Amelia.”

  “At this hour?” He blinked, glancing for the clock, which had gone unaccountably missing.

  “It’s half nine, sir,” Penrith informed him. “And the clock is out for repair.”

  Thomas touched the bridge of his nose, which seemed to have single-handedly absorbed all of the ill-effects of the previous night’s bottle of brandy. “Thought I was going mad there for a moment,” he murmured. Although truly, the missing clock would have been the least of the symptoms.

  “They are in the rose salon, sir.”

  Where he’d mauled Grace mere hours earlier. Lovely.

  Thomas waited for Penrith to depart, then closed his eyes in mortification. Dear God, he’d kissed Grace. Hauled the poor girl into his arms and kissed her. What the devil had he been thinking?

  And yet…he couldn’t quite regret it. It seemed a sensible idea at the time. If he couldn’t have Amelia…

  Amelia.

  Her name in his mind jolted him back to the present. Amelia was here. He could not keep her waiting.

  He stood. She’d brought her father, never a good sign. Thomas got on well enough with Lord Crowland, but he could think of no reason why the man would pay a call so early in the morning. He could not even remember the last time the earl had been by.

  Dear God, he hoped he hadn’t brought the hounds. He had far too much of a headache for that.

  It was not far to the rose salon, just down the hall. When he entered the room, he immediately saw Amelia, perched on a settee, looking as if she’d rather be somewhere else. She smiled, but it was really more of a grimace, and Thomas wondered if she was unwell.

  “Lady Amelia,” he said, though he really ought to have acknowledged her father first.

  She stood, bobbing a little curtsy. “Your grace.”

  “Is something amiss?” he asked. He felt his head tilt, just the slightest little bit, as he looked into her eyes. They were back to green again, with little brown flecks at the edges. But she didn’t look quite right.

  When had he got to know her so well that he could recognize such subtleties in her appearance?

  “I am quite well, your grace.”

  But he did not like that tone, all meek and proper. He wanted the other Amelia back, the one who had pored over dusty old atlases with him, her eyes shining with delight at her newfound knowledge. The one who had laughed with Harry Gladdish—at his expense!

  Funny. He had never thought that a willingness to poke fun at him would be something he’d prize so highly in a wife, but there it was. He did not want to be placed on a pedestal. Not by her.

  “Are you certain?” he asked, because he was growing concerned. “You look pale.”

  “Just the proper use of a bonnet,” she said. “Perhaps you could tell your grandmother.”

  They shared a smile at that, and then Thomas
turned to greet her father. “Lord Crowland. Forgive my inattention. How may I be of service?”

  Lord Crowland did not bother with niceties, or indeed even with a greeting. “I have lost my patience with you, Wyndham,” he bit off.

  Thomas glanced over at Amelia for explanation. But she was not quite looking at him.

  “I am afraid I do not understand your meaning,” Thomas said.

  “Amelia tells me you leave for Ireland.”

  Amelia knew he was going to Ireland? Thomas blinked in surprise. This was news to him.

  “I overheard you talking to Grace,” she said, with a miserable swallow. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said. I didn’t think he would be so angry.”

  “We have waited long enough,” Crowland blustered. “You have kept my daughter dangling on a string for years, and now, finally, when we think you are about to deign to set a date, I hear that you are fleeing the country!”

  “I do plan to return.”

  Crowland’s face turned a bit purple. Perhaps dry wit had not been the best choice.

  “What, sir,” he snapped, “are your intentions?”

  Thomas breathed in through his nose, long and deep, forcing his body to remain calm. “My intentions,” he repeated. At what point was a man allowed to decide he’d had enough? That he was through with being polite, with trying to do the right thing? He considered the events of the last few days. All in all, he thought he’d done rather well. He hadn’t killed anyone, and Lord knew, he’d been tempted.

  “My intentions,” Thomas said again. His hand flexed at his side, the only outward sign of his distress.

  “Toward my daughter.”

  And really, that was enough. Thomas gave Lord Crowland an icy stare. “I hardly possess intentions toward anything else in your sphere.”

  Amelia gasped, and he should have felt remorse, but he did not. For the past week he had been stretched, beaten, poked, prodded—he felt as if he might snap. One more little jab, and he was going to—

  “Lady Amelia,” came a new, highly unwelcome voice. “I did not realize you had graced us with your lovely presence.”

  Audley. Yes, of course he would be here. Thomas started to laugh.