Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

by Julia Quinn

  A hot brick? Amelia nearly sagged. It was not a warm day, but nor was it the least bit chilly. They were going to roast in that carriage.

  “She is in fine form today,” Grace murmured.

  “Amelia!” the dowager barked.

  Amelia reached out and grabbed Grace’s hand. Tightly. She had never in her life been so grateful for another person’s presence. The thought of spending another day in the carriage with the dowager, without Grace as a buffer…

  She couldn’t bear it.

  “Lady Amelia,” the dowager repeated, “did you not hear me call your name?”

  “I’m sorry, your grace,” Amelia said, dragging Grace with her as she stepped forward. “I did not.”

  The dowager’s eyes narrowed. She knew when she was being lied to. But she clearly had other priorities, because she flicked her head toward Grace and said, “She may ride with the driver.”

  Said with all the affection one might show to a mealworm.

  Grace started to move, but Amelia yanked her back. “No,” she said to the dowager.

  “No?”

  “No. I wish for her company.”

  “I do not.”

  Amelia thought of all the times she’d marveled at Thomas’s cool reserve, at the way he could flay people with a stare. She took a breath, allowing some of that memory to seep into her, and then she turned it on the dowager.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the dowager snapped, after Amelia had stared her down for several seconds. “Bring her up, then. But do not expect me to make conversation.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Amelia murmured, and she climbed up, Grace following behind.

  Unfortunately for Amelia, and for Grace, and for Lord Crowland, who had decided to ride in the carriage after they’d stopped to water the horses, the dowager decided to make conversation after all.

  Although conversation did imply a certain two-sidedness that Amelia was quite certain did not exist within the confines of their carriage.

  There were many directives, and twice that complaints. But conversation was in short supply.

  Amelia’s father lasted only thirty minutes before he banged on the front wall, demanding to be let out.

  Traitor, Amelia thought. He’d planned since her birth to place her in the dowager’s household, and he could not manage more than a half an hour?

  He made a rather feeble attempt at apology at lunch—not for attempting to force her to marry someone against her will, just for leaving the carriage that morning—but whatever sympathy she might have had for him vanished when he began to lecture her about her future and his decisions regarding thereof.

  Her only respite came after lunch, when both the dowager and Grace nodded off. Amelia just stared out the window, watching Ireland roll by, listening to the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. And all the while she could not help but wonder how this had all come to pass. She was far too sensible to think herself dreaming, but really—how could one’s life be so completely altered, almost overnight? It did not seem possible. Just last week she was Lady Amelia Willoughby, fiancée to the Duke of Wyndham. And now she was…

  Dear heavens, it was almost comical. She was still Lady Amelia Willoughby, fiancée to the Duke of Wyndham.

  But nothing was the same.

  She was in love. With what was possibly the wrong man. And did he love her? She couldn’t tell. He liked her, of that she felt sure. He admired her. But love?

  No. Men like Thomas did not fall in love so quickly. And if they did—if he did—it would not be with someone like her, someone he’d known his entire life. If Thomas fell into an overnight sort of love, it would be with a beautiful stranger. He’d see her across a crowded room, he’d be struck by a powerful feeling, a knowledge that they shared a destiny. A passion.

  That was how Thomas would fall in love.

  If he fell in love.

  She swallowed, hating the lump in her throat, hating the smell in the air, hating the way she could see the specks of dust floating through the late afternoon sunlight.

  There was a lot to hate that afternoon.

  Across from her, Grace began to stir. Amelia watched the process. It was actually rather fascinating to watch someone wake up; she didn’t think she’d ever done so before. Finally Grace opened her eyes, and Amelia said quietly, “You fell asleep.” She put a finger to her lips, motioning with her head toward the dowager.

  Grace covered a yawn, then asked, “How much longer do you think we have until we get there?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps an hour? Two?” Amelia sighed and leaned back, closing her eyes. She was tired. They were all tired, but she was feeling selfish just then and preferred to dwell upon her own exhaustion. Maybe she could nod off. Why was it that some people fell asleep so easily in carriages, and others—most notably herself—couldn’t seem to do it anywhere but a bed? It didn’t seem fair, and—

  “What will you do?”

  It was Grace’s voice. And much as Amelia wanted to feign ignorance, she found that she could not do it. It didn’t much matter, anyway, since the answer would be wholly unsatisfying. She opened her eyes. Grace looked as if she wished she had not asked.

  “I don’t know,” Amelia said. She leaned back against the seat cushion and closed her eyes again. She liked traveling with her eyes closed. She felt the rhythm of the wheels better. It was soothing. Well, most of the time. Not today. Not on her way to some heretofore unknown village in Ireland, where her future would be decided by the contents of a church register.

  Not today, after her father had lectured her for the entire luncheon meal, leaving her feeling rather like a recalcitrant child.

  Not today, when—

  “Do you know what the funniest part of it is?” Amelia asked, the words coming forth before she realized what she was saying.

  “No.”

  “I keep thinking to myself, ‘This isn’t fair. I should have a choice. I should not have to be traded and bartered like some sort of commodity.’ But then I think, ‘How is this any different? I was given to Wyndham years ago. I never made a complaint.’”

  She said this all to the darkness of her own eyelids. It was strangely more satisfying that way.

  “You were just a baby,” Grace said.

  “I have had many years to lodge a complaint.”

  “Amelia—”

  “I have no one to blame but myself.”

  “That’s not true.”

  She finally opened her eyes. One of them, at least. “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, I’m not. I would,” Grace said, “but as it happens, I am telling the truth. It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault, really. I wish it were. It would be so much easier that way.”

  “To have someone to blame?”

  “Yes.”

  And then Amelia whispered, “I don’t want to marry him.”

  “Thomas?”

  Thomas? Whatever was she thinking? “No,” Amelia said. “Mr. Audley.”

  Grace’s lips parted with surprise. “Really?”

  “You sound so shocked.”

  “No, of course not,” Grace quickly replied. “It’s just that he’s so handsome.”

  Amelia gave a little shrug. “I suppose. Don’t you find him a little too charming?”

  “No.”

  Amelia looked at Grace with newfound interest. Her no had been a tad bit more defensive than she would have expected. “Grace Eversleigh,” she said, lowering her voice as she darted a quick look toward the dowager, “do you fancy Mr. Audley?”

  And then it was more than obvious that she did, because Grace stammered and spluttered, and made a noise that sounded rather like a toad.

  Which amused Amelia to no end. “You do.”

  “It does not signify,” Grace mumbled.

  “Of course it signifies,” Amelia replied pertly. “Does he fancy you? No, don’t answer, I can see from your face that he does. Well. I certainly shall not marry him now.”

  �
��You should not refuse him on my account,” Grace said.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I can’t marry him if he’s the duke.”

  Amelia wanted to swat her. How dare she give up on love? “Why not?”

  “If he is the duke, he will need to marry someone suitable.” Grace gave her a sharp look. “Of your rank.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. It’s not as if you grew up in an orphanage.”

  “There will be scandal enough. He must not add to it with a sensational marriage.”

  “An actress would be sensational. You will merely be a week’s worth of gossip.” She waited for Grace to comment, but she looked so flustered, and so…so…sad. Amelia could hardly bear it. She thought of Grace, in love with Mr. Audley, and she thought of herself, drifting on the tide of other people’s expectations.

  This wasn’t how she wanted to be.

  This wasn’t who she wanted to be.

  “I do not know Mr. Audley’s mind,” she said, “or his intentions, but if he is prepared to dare everything for love, then you should be, too.” She reached out and squeezed Grace’s hand. “Be a woman of courage, Grace.” She smiled then, as much for herself as for Grace.

  And she whispered, “I shall be one, too.”

  Chapter 17

  The journey to Butlersbridge proceeded much as Thomas had anticipated. Along with Jack and Lord Crowland, he rode horseback, the better to enjoy the fine weather. There was very little talk; they never quite managed to keep themselves in an even enough line to converse. Every now and then one of them would increase his pace or fall behind, and one horse would pass another. Perfunctory greetings would be exchanged.

  Occasionally someone would comment on the weather.

  Lord Crowland seemed rather interested in the native birds.

  Thomas tried to enjoy the scenery. It was all very green, even more so than Lincolnshire, and he wondered about the annual rainfall. If precipitation here was higher, would that also translate into a better crop yield? Or would this be offset by—Stop.

  Agriculture, animal husbandry…it was all academic now. He owned no land, no animals save for his horse, and maybe not even that.

  He had nothing.

  No one.

  Amelia…

  Her face entered his mind, unbidden and yet very welcome. She was so much more than he’d anticipated. He did not love her—he could not love her, not now. But somehow…he missed her. Which was ridiculous, as she was just in the carriage, some twenty yards behind. And he’d seen her at their noontime picnic. And they’d breakfasted together.

  He had no reason to miss her.

  And yet he did.

  He missed her laugh, the way it might sound at a particularly enjoyable dinner party. He missed the warm glow of her eyes, the way they would look in the early morning light.

  If he ever got to see her in the early morning light.

  Which he wouldn’t.

  But he missed it all the same.

  He glanced over his shoulder, back at the carriage, half surprised to see that it looked exactly as it should, and not spitting flames through the windows.

  His grandmother had been in fine form that afternoon. Now there was one thing he would not miss, once he was stripped of his title. The dowager Duchess of Wyndham had been more than an albatross on his back; she’d been a bloody Medusa, whose only purpose in life seemed to be to make his life as difficult as possible.

  But his grandmother was not the only burden he’d be happy to shed. The endless paperwork. He’d not miss that. The lack of freedom. Everyone thought he could do as he pleased—all that money and power ought to lend a man utter control. But no, he was tied to Belgrave. Or he had been.

  He thought of Amelia, her dreams of Amsterdam.

  Well, hell. Come tomorrow, he could go to Amsterdam if he so desired. He could leave straight from Dublin. He could see Venice. The West Indies. There was nothing to stop him, no—

  “Are you happy?”

  “Me?” Thomas looked over at Jack in some surprise, then realized he’d been whistling. Whistling. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done so. “I suppose I am. It’s a rather fine day, don’t you think?”

  “A fine day,” Jack echoed.

  “None of us is trapped in the carriage with that evil old hag,” Crowland announced. “We should all be happy.” Then he added, “Pardon,” since the evil old hag was, after all, grandmother to both of his companions.

  “Pardons unnecessary on my account,” Thomas said, feeling rather jovial. “I agree with your assessment completely.”

  “Will I have to live with her?” Jack blurted out.

  Thomas looked over and grinned. Was he only just now realizing the extent of his burdens? “The Outer Hebrides, my man, the Outer Hebrides.”

  “Why didn’t you do it?” Jack demanded.

  “Oh, believe me, I will, on the off chance I still possess any power over her tomorrow. And if I don’t…” Thomas shrugged. “I’ll need some sort of employment, won’t I? I always wished to travel. Perhaps I shall be your scout. I’ll find the oldest, coldest place on the island. I shall have a rollicking good time.”

  “For God’s sake,” Jack swore. “Stop talking like that.”

  Thomas regarded him curiously but he did not inquire. Not for the first time, he wondered just what, exactly, was going on in his cousin’s head. Jack’s face had taken on a haggard air, and his eyes were bleak.

  He did not want to go home. No, he was afraid to go home.

  Thomas felt a spark of something in his chest. Sympathy, he supposed, for a man he ought to despise. But there was nothing to say. Nothing to ask.

  And so he didn’t. For the rest of the journey he said nothing. Hours passed, and the air around him chilled with the night. They passed through charming little villages, through the larger, busier Cavan town, and then finally through Butlersbridge.

  It ought to look sinister, Thomas thought. The shadows ought to be stretched and misshapen, and there should have been strange animal sounds, howling through the night.

  This was where his life would be pulled out from beneath him. It did not seem right that it should appear so picturesque.

  Jack was just a bit ahead, and he’d slowed down considerably. Thomas drew up alongside, then slowed his horse to keep an even pace. “Is this the road?” he asked quietly.

  Jack nodded. “Just around the bend.”

  “They are not expecting you, are they?”

  “No.” Jack nudged his horse on into a trot, but Thomas held his to a walk, allowing Jack to go on ahead. There were some things a man needed to do alone.

  At the very least, he could attempt to hold the dowager back while Jack made his homecoming.

  He slowed as best as he could, positioning his mount so the carriage was forced to slow as well. At the end of the short drive he could see Jack dismount, climb the front steps, and knock on the door. A shaft of light streamed out when it was opened, but Thomas could not hear any words that were exchanged.

  The carriage was parked to the side of the entry-way, and the dowager was helped down by one of the grooms. She started to charge forward, but Thomas quickly slid from his saddle and grabbed her arm to hold her back.

  “Let go of me,” she snapped, attempting to break free.

  “For the love of God, woman,” Thomas shot back, “give him a moment with his relatives.”

  “We are his relatives.”

  “Have you not a single ounce of sensibility?”

  “There are far greater matters at stake than—”

  “There is nothing that cannot wait two more minutes. Nothing.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m certain you think so.”

  Thomas swore, and not under his breath. “I have come this far, have I not? I have treated him with civility, and even lately with respect. I have listened to your vitriol and incessant complaining. I have ridden across two countries, slept in the bottom of a boat, and even—and this, I might
add, was really the final insult—handed over my fiancée. I believe I have proven that I am prepared for whatever this place has to offer. But by all that is holy, I will not give up what shred of human decency I have managed to retain after growing up in a house with you.”

  Over her shoulder he could see Grace and Amelia, both open-mouthed, both staring.

  “The man,” he said through gritted teeth, “can have two bloody minutes with his family.”

  His grandmother stared at him for one long, icy second, and then said, “Do not curse in my presence.”

  Thomas was so dumbfounded by her complete lack of response to anything he’d said that he loosened his grip on her arm, and she wrenched away, hurrying over to the front steps, just behind Jack, who was embracing a woman Thomas imagined was his aunt.

  “Ahem,” the dowager said, as only she could.

  Thomas strode forward, ready to intercede if necessary.

  “You must be the aunt,” the dowager said to the woman on the steps.

  Mrs. Audley just stared at her. “Yes,” she finally replied. “And you are…?”

  “Aunt Mary,” Jack cut in, “I am afraid I must introduce you to the dowager Duchess of Wyndham.”

  Mrs. Audley let go of him and curtsied, stepping aside as the dowager swept past her. “The Duchess of Wyndham?” she echoed. “Good heavens, Jack, couldn’t you have sent notice?”

  Jack’s smile was grim. “It is better this way, I assure you.” He turned to Thomas. “The Duke of Wyndham,” he said, motioning with his arm. “Your grace—my aunt, Mrs. Audley.”

  Thomas bowed. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Audley.”

  She stammered something in response, clearly nonplussed by the arrival of a duke.

  Jack completed the introductions, and the ladies were making their curtsies when Mrs. Audley pulled him aside. She spoke in a whisper, but her tone held enough panic that Thomas could hear every word.

  “Jack, I haven’t the rooms. We have nothing grand enough—”