Mr. Cavendish, I Presume (27 page)

She dipped her chin in polite greeting. “Father.” She then glanced over at the dowager. “Your grace.”

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The dowager pursed her lips and made a noise, but other than that did not acknowledge her.

“Did you sleep well?” her father inquired.

“Very well, thank you,” she replied, though it was not quite true. She and Grace had shared a bed, and Grace moved around a lot.

“We depart in half an hour,” the dowager said crisply.

Amelia had managed to fork one bite of eggs into her mouth, and took advantage of the time it took to chew to glance over at the doorway, which remained empty. “I don’t think the others will be ready. Grace is still—”

“She is of no concern.”

“You can’t go anywhere without the two dukes,” Lord Crowland pointed out.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” the dowager demanded.

Lord Crowland shrugged. “How else am I meant to refer to them?”

Amelia knew she ought to have been outraged. It was a most cavalier statement, all things considered.

But her father was so offhand, and the dowager so offended—she decided it made far more sense to be amused.

“Sometimes I do not know why I work so hard to advance your entry into my family,” the dowager said to Amelia, giving her a scathing glare.

Amelia swallowed, wishing she had a retort, because for once she rather thought she’d have been brave enough to say it. But nothing came to mind, at least nothing as Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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fabulously cutting and witty as she would have liked, and so she clamped her mouth shut and stared at a spot on the wall over the dowager’s shoulder.

“There is no call for such talk, Augusta,” Lord Crowland said. And then, as she glared at him for his use of her name—he was one of the few who did, and it always infuriated her—he added, “A less equable man than I might take insult.”

Fortunately, the chilly moment was broken by Thomas’s arrival. “Good morning,” he said smoothly, taking his seat at the table. He seemed not at all perturbed that no one returned his greeting. Amelia supposed that her father was too busy attempting to put the dowager in her place, and the dowager—well, she rarely returned anyone’s greeting, so this was hardly out of character.

As for herself, she would have liked to have said something. Really, it was all very lovely now, not feeling so cowed in Thomas’s presence. But when he sat—

directly across from her—she’d looked up, and he’d looked up, and—

It wasn’t that she was intimidated, exactly. It was just that she seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

His eyes were
that
blue.

Except for the stripe, of course. She loved that stripe.

She loved that he thought it was silly.

“Lady Amelia,” he murmured.

She nodded her greeting, managing, “Duke,” since
your grace
contained far too many syllables.

“I am leaving,” the dowager abruptly announced, her chair scraping angrily across the floor as she rose to 266 Julia

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her feet. She waited a moment, as if expecting someone to comment upon her departure. When no one did (really, Amelia thought, did she honestly think anyone would attempt to stop her?) the dowager added, “We depart in thirty minutes.” Then she turned the full force of her glare on her. “You will ride with me in the carriage.”

Amelia wasn’t sure why the dowager felt the need to announce it. She’d been stuck with the dowager in the carriage across England; why should Ireland be any different? Still, something about her tone turned the stomach, and as soon as the dowager was gone, she let out a weary sigh.

“I think I might be seasick,” she said, allowing herself to slump.

Her father gave her an impatient look, then rose to refill his plate. But Thomas smiled. It was mostly with his eyes, but still, she felt a kinship, warm and lovely, and perhaps enough to banish the feeling of dread that was beginning to pool in her heart.

“Seasick on land?” he murmured, his eyes smiling.

“My stomach feels sour.”

“Turning?”

“Flipping,” she affirmed.

“Strange, that,” he said dryly, popping a piece of bacon into his mouth and finishing off the bite before continuing. “My grandmother is capable of many things—I cannot imagine that plague, famine, or pestilence would be beyond her abilities. But seasickness . . . ” He chuckled. “I’m almost impressed.”

Amelia sighed, looking down at her food, which Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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was now only slightly more appetizing than a plate of worms. She pushed it away. “Do you know how long it will take to get to Butlersbridge?”

“Most of the day, I should think, especially if we stop for lunch.”

Amelia glanced at the door through which the dowager had just exited. “She won’t want to.”

Thomas shrugged. “She won’t have a choice.”

Amelia’s father returned to the table just then, his plate heaping full. “When you become duchess,” he said to her, rolling his eyes as he sat, “your first order should be to banish her to the dower house.”

When she became duchess
. Amelia swallowed uncomfortably. It was still just awful, her own father so blithe about her future. He truly did not care which of the two men she married, so long as he was proven to be the rightful duke.

She looked at Thomas. He was busy eating. So she kept her eyes on him. And waited, and waited . . . until he finally noticed her attention and met her gaze. He gave a little shrug, which she was unable to interpret.

Somehow that made her feel even worse.

Mr. Audley was the next to arrive for breakfast, followed about ten minutes later by Grace, who appeared to have rushed down, all pink-cheeked and breathless.

“Is the food not to your liking?” Grace asked her, looking down at Amelia’s barely touched plate as she took the seat recently vacated by the dowager.

“I’m not hungry,” Amelia said, even as her stomach rumbled. There was a difference, she was coming to 268 Julia

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realize, between hunger and appetite. The former she had, the latter not at all.

Grace gave her a quizzical look, then ate her own breakfast, or at least as much of it as she could in the three minutes before the innkeeper arrived, looking somewhat pained.

“Er, her grace . . . ” he began, wringing his hands.

“She is in the carriage.”

“Presumably abusing your men?” Thomas queried.

The innkeeper nodded miserably.

“Grace has not finished her meal,” Mr. Audley said coolly.

“Please,” Grace insisted, “let us not delay on my account. I’m quite satisfied. I—”

She coughed then, looking terribly embarrassed, and Amelia had the singular sensation of having been left out of a joke.

“I overfilled my dish,” Grace finally finished, motioning toward her plate, which was still well over half full.

“Are you certain? ” Thomas asked her. She nodded, but Amelia noticed that she shoveled several more forkfuls into her mouth as everyone rose to their feet.

The men went ahead to see to the horses, and Amelia waited while Grace wolfed down a bit more.

“Hungry?” she asked, now that it was just the two of them.

“Starving,” Grace confirmed. She wiped her mouth with her serviette and followed Amelia out. “I didn’t want to provoke the dowager.”

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Amelia turned, raising her brows.

“Further,” Grace clarified, since they both knew that the dowager was always acting provoked about something or other. And sure enough, when they reached the carriage, the dowager was snapping away about this and that, apparently unsatisfied with the temperature of the hot brick that had been placed at her feet in the carriage.

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 meal-worm.

Grace started to move, but Amelia yanked her back.

“No,” she said to the dowager.

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“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 some-Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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one 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.

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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 fascinat-ing 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 Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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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 bar-tered 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.