Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

by Julia Quinn

  She wanted to fly away, to leave this room and—

  And then she felt it. A hand in her own.

  She looked down first, at the two hands entwined. And then she looked up, even though she knew it was Grace.

  Amelia said nothing. She didn’t trust her voice, didn’t even trust her lips to mouth the words she wanted to say. But as her eyes met Grace’s, she knew that the other woman saw what was in her heart.

  She gripped Grace’s hand and squeezed.

  Never in her life had she needed a friend as much as she did in that moment.

  Grace squeezed back.

  And for the first time that afternoon, Amelia did not feel completely alone.

  Chapter 15

  Four days later, at sea

  It was an uncommonly peaceful crossing, or so the captain told Thomas as dusk began to fall. Thomas was grateful for that; he’d not quite been made physically ill by the rise and fall of the Irish Sea, but it had been a close thing. A bit more wind or tide or whatever it was that made the small ship go up and down and his stomach would surely have protested, and in a most unpleasant manner.

  He’d found that it was easier to remain on deck. Below, the air was thick, the quarters tight. Above, he could attempt to enjoy the tang of the salt air, the crisp sting of it on his skin. He could breathe.

  Farther down the railing he could see Jack, leaning against the wood, gazing out at the sea. It could not have escaped him that this was the site of his father’s death. Closer to the Irish coast, Thomas supposed, if his mother had managed to make it ashore.

  What must it have been like, not to know one’s father? Thomas rather thought that he’d prefer to have not known his, but by all accounts John Cavendish had been a much more amiable fellow than his younger brother Reginald.

  Was Jack wondering what his life might have been, if not for a storm? He’d have been raised at Belgrave, certainly. Ireland would have been nothing but a familiar land—the spot where his mother was raised. He might have had the opportunity to visit from time to time, but it would not have been home.

  He would have attended Eton, as all of the Cavendish boys did, and then gone on to Cambridge. He would have been enrolled at Peterhouse, because only the oldest of the colleges would do for the House of Wyndham, and his name would have been added to the long list of Cavendish Petreans inscribed on the wall of the library the family had donated hundreds of years earlier, back when the dukes had still been earls and the church was still Catholic.

  It would not have mattered what he studied, or even if he did study. Jack would have been graduated no matter his marks. He would have been the Wyndham heir. Thomas was not sure what he would have had to do to get himself dismissed; he could not imagine that anything less than complete illiteracy would have done the trick.

  A season in London would have followed, as it had for Thomas. Jack would have made merry there, Thomas thought dryly. His was just the sort of wit that made a young unmarried ducal heir even more wildly attractive to the ladies. The army would certainly not have been permitted. And it went without saying that he would not have been out robbing coaches on the Lincoln Road.

  What a difference a storm made.

  As for Thomas, he had no idea where he might have ended up. Farther north, most likely, at some house provided by his mother’s father. Would his father have been brought into business? Managing factories? It was difficult to imagine anything Reginald Cavendish would have detested more.

  What might he have done with his life, had he not been born the only son of a duke? He could not imagine the freedom. From his earliest memories, his life had been mapped ahead of him. Every day he made dozens of decisions, but the important ones—the ones that mattered in his own life—had been made for him.

  He supposed they had all turned out well. He’d liked Eton and loved Cambridge, and if he’d liked to have defended his country as Jack had—well, it did seem that His Majesty’s army had acquitted itself just fine without him. Even Amelia…

  He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the pitch and roll of the boat to play games with his balance.

  Even Amelia would have turned out to be an excellent choice. He felt like an idiot for having taken so long to know her.

  All those decisions he’d not been allowed to make…He wondered if he would have done a better job with them himself.

  Probably not.

  Off at the bow, he could see Grace and Amelia, sitting together on a built-in bench. They were sharing a cabin with the dowager, and since she had barricaded herself inside, they had elected to remain out. Lord Crowland had been given the other cabin. He and Jack would bunk below, with the crew.

  Amelia didn’t seem to notice that he was watching her, probably because the sun would have been in her eyes if she had looked his way. She’d taken off her bonnet and was holding it in her hands, the long ribbons flapping in the wind.

  She was smiling.

  He’d been missing that, he realized. He hadn’t seen her smile on the journey to Liverpool. He supposed she had little reason to. None of them did. Even Jack, who had so much to gain, was growing ever more anxious as they drew closer to Irish soil.

  He had his own demons waiting at the shore, Thomas suspected. There had to be a reason he’d never gone back.

  He turned and looked west. Liverpool had long since disappeared over the horizon, and indeed, there was nothing to see but water, rippling below, a kaleidoscope of blue and green and gray. Strange how a lifetime of looking at maps did not prepare a man for the endless expanse of the sea.

  So much water. It was difficult to fathom.

  This was the longest sea voyage he’d ever taken. Strange, that. He’d never been to the Continent. The grand tours of his father’s generation had been brought to a halt by war, and so any last educational flourishes he had made were on British soil. The army had been out of the question; ducal heirs were not permitted to risk their lives on foreign soil, no matter how patriotic or brave.

  Another item that would have been different, had that other ship not gone down: he’d have been off fighting Napoleon; Jack would have been held at home.

  His world was measured in degrees from Belgrave. He did not travel far from his center. And suddenly it felt so limited. So limiting.

  When he turned back, Amelia was sitting alone, shading her eyes with her hand. Thomas looked about, but Grace was nowhere in sight. No one was about, save for Amelia and a young boy who was tying knots in ropes at the bow.

  He had not spoken to her since that afternoon at Belgrave. No, that was not true. He was fairly certain they had exchanged a few excuse me’s and perhaps a good morning or two.

  But he had seen her. He’d watched her from afar. From near, too, when she was not looking.

  What surprised him—what he had not expected—was how much it hurt, just to look at her. To see her so acutely unhappy. To know that he was, at least in part, the cause.

  But what else could he have done? Stood up and said, Er, actually I think I would like to marry her, after all, now that my future is completely uncertain? Oh yes, that would have met with a round of applause.

  He had to do what was best. What was right.

  Amelia would understand. She was a smart girl. Hadn’t he spent the last week coming to the realization that she was far more intelligent than he’d thought? She was practical, too. Capable of getting things done.

  He liked that about her.

  Surely she saw that it was in her best interest to marry the Duke of Wyndham, whoever he might be. It was what had been planned. For her and for the dukedom.

  And it wasn’t as if she loved him.

  Someone gave a shout—it sounded like the captain—and the young boy dropped his knots and scrambled away, leaving himself and Amelia quite alone on deck. He waited a moment, giving her the chance to leave, if she did not wish to risk being trapped into conversation with him. But she did not move, and so he walked toward her, offering her a deferential nod when he reach
ed her side.

  “Lady Amelia.”

  She looked up, and then down. “Your grace.”

  “May I join you?”

  “Of course.” She moved to the side, as far as she could while still remaining on the bench. “Grace had to go below.”

  “The dowager?”

  Amelia nodded. “She wished for Grace to fan her.”

  Thomas could not imagine that the thick, heavy air belowdeck would be improved by pushing it about with a fan, but then again, he doubted his grandmother cared. She was most likely looking for someone to complain to. Or complain about.

  “I should have accompanied her,” Amelia said, not quite ruefully. “It would have been the kind thing to do, but…” She exhaled and shook her head. “I just couldn’t.”

  Thomas waited for a moment, in case she wished to say anything more. She did not, which meant that he had no further excuse for his own silence.

  “I came to apologize,” he said. The words felt stiff on his tongue. He was not used to apologizing. He was not used to behaving in a manner that required apology.

  She turned, her eyes finding his with startling directness. “For what?”

  What a question. He had not expected her to force him to lay it out. “For what happened back at Belgrave,” he said, hoping he would not have to go into more detail. There were certain memories one did not wish to keep in clarity. “It was not my intention to cause you distress.”

  She looked out over the length of the ship. He saw her swallow, and there was something melancholy in the motion. Something pensive, but not quite wistful.

  She looked too resigned to be wistful. And he hated that he’d had any part in doing that to her.

  “I…am sorry,” he said, the words coming to him slowly. “I think that you might have been made to feel unwanted. It was not my intention. I would never wish you to feel that way.”

  She kept staring out, her profile toward him. He could see her lips press and purse, and there was something mesmerizing in the way she blinked. He’d never thought there could be so much detail in a woman’s eyelashes, but hers were…

  Lovely.

  She was lovely. In every way. It was the perfect word to describe her. It seemed pale and undescriptive at first, but upon further reflection, it grew more and more intricate.

  Beautiful was a daunting thing, dazzling…and lonely. But not lovely. Lovely was warm and welcoming. It glowed softly, sneaking its way into one’s heart.

  Amelia was lovely.

  “It’s growing dark,” she said, changing the subject. This, he realized, was her way of accepting his apology. And he should have respected that. He should have held his tongue and said nothing more, because clearly that was what she wanted.

  But he couldn’t. He, who had never found cause to explain his actions to anyone, was gripped by a need to tell her, to explain every last word. He had to know, to feel it in his very soul that she understood. He had not wanted to give her up. He hadn’t told her to marry Jack Audley because he wanted to. He’d done it because…

  “You belong with the Duke of Wyndham,” he said. “You do, just as much as I thought I was the Duke of Wyndham.”

  “You still are,” she said softly, still staring ahead.

  “No.” He almost smiled. He had no idea why. “We both know that isn’t true.”

  “I don’t know anything of the sort,” she said, finally turning to face him. Her eyes were fierce, protective. “Do you plan to give up your birthright based upon a painting? You could probably pull five men out of the rookeries of London who could pass for someone in one of the paintings at Belgrave. It is a resemblance. Nothing more.”

  “Jack Audley is my cousin,” he said. He had not uttered the words many times; there was a strange relief in doing so. “All that remains to be seen is if his birth was legitimate.”

  “That is still quite a hurdle.”

  “One that I am sure will be easily reached. Church records…witnesses…there will be proof.” He faced front then, presumably staring at the same spot on the horizon. He could see why she’d been mesmerized. The sun had dipped low enough so one could look in its direction without squinting, and the sky held the most amazing shades of pink and orange.

  He could look at it forever. Part of him wanted to.

  “I did not think you were a man to give up so easily,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m not giving up. I’m here, aren’t I? But I must make plans. My future is not what I’d thought.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her begin to protest, so he added, with a smile, “Probably.”

  Her jaw tensed, then released. Then, after a few moments, she said, “I like the sea.”

  So did he, he realized, even with his queasy stomach. “You’re not seasick?” he asked.

  “Not at all. Are you?”

  “A little,” he admitted, which made her smile. He caught her eye. “You like when I am indisposed, don’t you?”

  Her lips pressed together a bit; she was embarrassed.

  He loved that.

  “I do,” she confessed. “Well, not indisposed, exactly.”

  “Weak and helpless?” he suggested.

  “Yes!” she replied, with enough enthusiasm that she immediately blushed.

  He loved that, too. Pink suited her.

  “I never knew you when you were proud and capable,” she hastened to add.

  It would have been so easy to pretend to misunderstand, to say something about how they had known each other all of their lives. But of course they had not. They had known the other’s name, and their shared destiny, but that was all. And Thomas was finally coming to realize that it was not much.

  Not enough.

  “I’m more approachable when I’m sotted?” he tried to joke.

  “Or seasick,” she said kindly.

  He laughed at that. “I’m lucky the weather is so fair. I’m told the seas are usually much less forgiving. The captain said that crossing from Liverpool to Dublin is often more difficult than the entire passage from the West Indies to England.”

  Her eyes lit with interest. “That can’t be.”

  Thomas shrugged. “I only repeat what he told me.”

  She considered this for a moment, then said, “Do you know, this is the farthest I have ever been from home?”

  He leaned a little closer. “Me, too.”

  “Really?” Her face showed her surprise.

  “Where would I have gone?”

  He watched with amusement as she considered this. Her face moved through a number of expressions, and then finally she said, “You are so fond of geography. I would have thought you would travel.”

  “I would like to have done.” He watched the sunset. It was melting away too quickly for his tastes. “Too many responsibilities at home, I suppose.”

  “Will you travel if—” She cut herself off, and he did not need to be looking at her to picture the expression on her face precisely.

  “If I am not the duke?” he finished for her.

  She nodded.

  “I expect so.” He gave a little shrug. “I am not sure where.”

  Amelia turned to him suddenly. “I have always wanted to see Amsterdam.”

  “Really.” He looked surprised. Maybe even intrigued. “Why is that?”

  “All those lovely Dutch paintings, I think. And the canals.”

  “Most people travel to Venice for the canals.”

  She knew that, of course. Maybe that was part of the reason she’d never wanted to go there. “I want to see Amsterdam.”

  “I hope you shall,” he said. He was quiet for just long enough to make the moment noticeable. And then, softly: “Everybody should be able to realize at least one of their dreams.”

  Amelia turned. He was looking at her with the most gentle expression. It nearly broke her heart. What was left of it, at least. So she looked away. It was too hard otherwise. “Grace went below,” she said.

  “Yes, you’d said.”

  “Oh.�
� How embarrassing. “Yes, of course. The fan.” He did not reply, so she added, “There was something about soup, as well.”

  “Soup,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  “I could not decipher the message,” Amelia admitted.

  He gave her a rather dry half smile. “Now there is one responsibility I am not sorry to shed.”

  A little laugh rose in Amelia’s throat. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, trying to force it down. “That was terribly rude of me.”

  “Not at all,” he assured her. His face dipped closer to hers, his expression terribly conspiratorial. “Do you think Audley will have the nerve to send her away?”

  “You didn’t.”

  He held up his hands. “She’s my grandmother.”

  “She is his, as well.”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t know her, lucky chap.” He leaned toward her. “I suggested the Outer Hebrides.”

  “Oh, stop.”

  “I did,” he insisted. “Told Audley I was thinking of buying something there, just so I could maroon her.”

  This time she did laugh. “We should not be speaking of her this way.”

  “Why is it,” he mused, “that everyone I know speaks of crotchety old ladies who, underneath their acerbic exteriors, have a heart of gold?”

  She looked at him with amusement.

  “Mine doesn’t,” he said, almost as if he could not quite believe the unfairness of it all.

  She tried not to smile. “No.” She gave up. She sputtered, then grinned. “She doesn’t.”

  He looked at her, and their eyes caught each other’s amusement, and they both burst out laughing.

  “She’s miserable,” Thomas said.

  “She doesn’t like me,” Amelia said.

  “She doesn’t like anyone.”

  “I think she likes Grace.”

  “No, she just dislikes her less than she dislikes everyone else. She doesn’t even like Mr. Audley, even as she works so tirelessly to gain him the title.”

  “She doesn’t like Mr. Audley?”