Mr. Cavendish, I Presume (34 page)

There was no reason anyone might suspect that she was planning to meet Thomas. Everyone had expressed their curiosity, of course, as to his whereabouts, but it was understood that he would wish for some time to himself.

The sun was sinking along the horizon as she made her way to the gazebo, and already the air was getting that flat quality to it—the colors less vivid, the shadows gone. She told herself that their meeting meant nothing, that she was simply doing him a favor, collect-ing his letter so she might leave it on a table in the front hall and then feign surprise with all the rest when it was discovered. And it probably
was
nothing. She was not going to be throwing herself at him again; her last attempt at passion had surely fulfilled whatever quota of mortification she was due for her lifetime. And Thomas had given her no indication that he wished to pursue their romance further. Not now that he’d lost Wyndham.

He was so bloody proud. She supposed that was what came of living one’s life as one of the twenty or so most powerful men in the land. She could tear her heart from her chest and hand it to him, tell him she’d love 338 Julia

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him until the day she died, and he would still refuse to marry her.

For her own good.

That was the worst of it. He’d say it was for her own good, that she deserved more.

As if she’d ever valued him for his title and riches.

If this had all happened just last month, before they’d spoken, before they kissed . . .

She wouldn’t have cared.

Oh, she’d be embarrassed, she supposed, the next time she went to London. But there would be plenty who’d say she made a lucky escape, not to have married him before he lost the title. And she knew her worth.

She was the reasonably attractive, intelligent (but not—
oh, thank you, Mother
—too intelligent), well-dowered daughter of an earl. She’d not remain on the shelf for long.

It would all have been perfectly acceptable if she hadn’t gone and fallen in love with him.

Him. Not the title, not the castle. Him.

But he would never understand that.

She hurried across the lawn, hugging her arms to her body to ward off the evening chill. She’d taken the long way around so she would not pass by the drawing room window. It occurred to her that she was getting quite experienced at sneaking around this house.

There had to be something funny in that.

Or at the very least, ironic.

Or maybe just sad.

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She could see the gazebo in the distance, its white paint visible in the dimming light. It would only be another minute before—

“Amelia.”

“Oh!” She jumped a foot. “Dear heavens, Thomas, you gave me a fright.”

He smiled lopsidedly. “You weren’t expecting me?”

“Not
here
.” The gazebo was still many yards away.

“My apologies. I saw you and it seemed impolite not to make myself known.”

“No, of course, I’m just—” She took a breath, patting her chest with her hand. “My heart is still racing.”

There was a moment of silence, and then another.

And then one more.

It was awful. Awkward and empty and all those things she’d thought were normal back before she truly knew him. When he was the duke, and she was his lucky fiancée. And they never had anything to say to each other.

“Here you are.” He thrust a piece of paper at her, folded over and sealed with wax. Then he gave her his signet ring. “I was going to use it on the wax,” he said,

“but then I realized . . . ”

She looked down at the ring, emblazoned with the Wyndham crest. “It would have been funny, actually.”

“Painfully so.”

She touched the wax. It was smooth where it had been pressed down with a plain, flat stamp. She looked up and tried to smile. “Perhaps I shall get you a new one. For your birthday.”

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“A new ring?”

Oh dear, that had come out wrong. “No, of course not.” She cleared her throat, embarrassed now, then mumbled, “That would be too presumptuous.”

He waited, then cocked his head forward to indicate that he was still wondering what she’d meant.

“A stamp. For sealing wax,” she explained, and she hated the cadence of her voice. Only four words, but she sounded all babblish. Silly and nervous. “You’ll still need to send letters.”

He seemed intrigued. “What shall you choose as the design?”

“I don’t know.” She looked down at the ring again, then put it in her pocket for safekeeping. “Have you a motto?”

He shook his head.

“Do you want a motto?”

“Do you want to give me one?”

She chuckled. “Oh, you should not tempt me.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that given time, I could come up with something far more clever than
Mors œrumnarum requies
.”

His brow furrowed as he attempted to translate.

“Death is rest from afflictions,” she informed him.

He laughed.

“The Willoughby heraldic motto,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Since the time of the Plantagenets.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“On the other hand, we do live to very old ages.”

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And then, because she was finally enjoying herself, she added, “Crippled, arthritic, and wheezing, I’m sure.”

“Don’t forget gout.”

“You’re so kind to remind me.” She rolled her eyes, then gave him a curious look. “What
is
the Cavendish motto?”

“Sola nobilitus virtas.”

Sola nobili
— She gave up. “My Latin is rusty.”

“Virtue is the only nobility.”

“Oh.” She winced. “That is ironic.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

She didn’t know what to say after that. And neither, apparently, did he. She smiled awkwardly. “Right.

Well.” She held up the missive. “I shall take good care of this.”

“Thank you.”

“Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye.”

She turned to go, then stopped and turned back around, holding the letter about level with her shoulder.

“Should I assume this means that you do not plan to rejoin us at Cloverhill?”

“No. I would not be good company.”

She gave him a little nod, her lips in an awkward, close-mouthed smile. Her arm came back down, and she knew she should leave. And she started to, she really did, or at least she thought about starting to, but then—

“It’s all in there,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” She sounded a bit breathless, but maybe he did not notice.

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“The letter,” he explained. “I laid out my intentions.

For Jack.”

“Of course.” She nodded, trying not think about how jerky the movement felt. “I’m sure you were very thorough.”

“Conscientious in all things,” he murmured.

“Your new motto?” She was holding her breath, delighted to have found a new avenue of conversation.

She did not want to say good-bye. If she walked away now, it was all done, wasn’t it?

He smiled politely and dipped his chin at her. “I shall look forward to your gift.”

“Then I will see you again?” Oh,
blast
. Blast blast
blast
. She had not meant that to come out as a question. It was supposed to be a statement, dry and sophisticated and definitely not uttered in that tiny little pathetically hopeful voice.

“I’m sure you will.”

She nodded.

He nodded.

They stood there. Looking at each other.

And then—

From her lips—

In the most unbelievably stupid—

“I love you!”

Oh God.

Oh God oh God oh God oh God
. Where had that come from? She wasn’t supposed to say that. And it wasn’t supposed to sound so desperate. And he wasn’t supposed to be staring at her as if she’d grown horns.

And she wasn’t supposed to be shaking and she
was
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supposed to be breathing and oh dear God she was going to cry because she was such a wretch and—

She threw up her hands. Shook them. “I have to go!”

She ran.
Oh bloody bloody
. She’d dropped the letter.

She ran back. “Sorry.” Scooped it up. Looked at him.

Oh, that was a mistake. Because now she was talking again, as if her mouth had done
anything
but make a fool of her this evening. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t, well, I shouldn’t have. And I’m—I’m—” She opened her mouth, but her throat had closed up, and she thought she might have stopped breathing, but then, finally, like some horrifying belch, it came out—

“I really have to go!”

“Amelia, wait.” He put his hand on her arm.

She froze, closing her eyes at the agony of it.

“You—”

“I shouldn’t have said it,” she blurted out. She had to cut him off before he said anything. Because she knew he wasn’t going to say that he loved her in return, and nothing else would be bearable.

“Amelia, you—”

“No!” she cried. “Don’t say anything. Please, you’ll only make it worse. I’m sorry. I’ve put you in a terrible position, and—”

“Stop.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, his grip firm and warm, and she wanted so much to let her head sigh to the side, so she could rest her cheek against him.

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But she didn’t.

“Amelia,” he said. He looked as if he was searching for words. Which could not be a good sign. If he loved her . . . if he wanted her to know this . . . wouldn’t he know what to say?

“It has been a most unusual day,” he said haltingly.

“And—” He cleared his throat. “Many things have happened, and it would not be surprising if you
thought
that—”

“You think I just came to this conclusion this afternoon?”

“I don’t—”

But she could not even begin to tolerate his condescension. “Did you ever wonder why I fought so hard against having to marry Mr. Audley?”

“Actually,” he said rather quietly, “you did not say much.”

“Because I was dumbfounded! Thunderstruck. How do you think you would feel if your father suddenly demanded you marry someone you’d never met, and
then
your fiancé, with whom you
thought
you were finally forming a friendship, turned and demanded the same thing?”

“It was for your own good, Amelia.”

“No, it was not!” She shook him off, practically screaming the words. “Would it really be for my own good to be forced into marriage with a man who is in love with Grace Eversleigh? I’d only just stopped thinking I was going to get that with you!”

There was an awful silence.

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She had not just said that. Please, please, she didn’t just say that.

His face went slack with surprise. “You thought I was in love with Grace?”

“She certainly knew you better than I did,” she muttered.

“No, I wouldn’t—I mean, I didn’t, except—”

“Except what?”

“Nothing.” But he looked guilty. Of something.

“Tell me.”

“Amelia—”

“Tell me!”

And she must have looked a complete virago, ready to go for his throat, because he shot back with, “I asked her to marry me.”

“What?”

“It did not mean anything.”

“You asked someone to marry you and it did not mean anything?”

“It’s not how it sounded.”

“When did you do this?”

“Before we left for Ireland,” he admitted.

“Before we—” Her mouth dropped open in outrage.

“You were still engaged to me. You can’t ask someone to marry you when you are promised to another.”

It was the most unbelievably un-Thomas action she could have ever imagined.

“Amelia—”

“No.” She shook her head. She did not want to hear his excuses. “How could you do this? You always do 346 Julia

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the right thing. Always. Even when it’s a bloody nui-sance, you always—”

“I didn’t think I would be engaged to you for very much longer,” he cut in. “I just said to her that if Audley turned out to be the duke, that perhaps we ought make a go of it when it was all over and done with.”

“Make a
go
?” she echoed.

“I didn’t say it like that,” he muttered.

“Oh, my God.”

“Amelia . . . ”

She blinked, trying to take it all in. “But you wouldn’t marry me,” she whispered.

“What are you talking about?”

She looked up, finally able to focus on his face.

Sharply, on his eyes, and for once she did not care how blue they were. “You said you would not marry me if you lost the title. But you would marry Grace?”

“It’s not the same thing,” he said. But he looked embarrassed.

“Why? How? How is it different?”

“Because you deserved more.”

Her eyes widened. “I think you just insulted Grace.”

“Damn it,” he muttered, raking his hand through his hair. “You’re twisting my words.”

“I think you are doing a fine job of twisting them yourself.”

He took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm his temper. “Your whole life you have expected to marry a duke.”

“What does that matter?”

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“What does that
matter
?” For a moment he looked incapable of words. “You have no idea what your life might be, stripped of your connections and your money.”

“I don’t need that,” she protested.

But he continued as if he had not heard her. “I have nothing, Amelia. I have no money, no property—”

“You have yourself.”

He gave a self-mocking snort. “I don’t even know who that is.”

“I do,” she whispered.

“You’re not being realistic.”

“You’re not being fair.”

“Amelia, you—”

“No,” she cut in angrily. “I don’t want to hear it. I can’t believe the level of your insult.”

“My insult?”

“Am I really such a hothouse flower that you don’t think I could withstand the tiniest of hardships?”

“It won’t be tiny.”

“But Grace could do it.”

His expression grew stony, and he did not reply.