Mr. Cavendish, I Presume (5 page)

“We have never spoken frankly, you and I.”

38 Julia

Quinn

“No.”

She was more intelligent than he had been led to believe. This was a good thing, he decided. Vexing at times, but overall, a benefit. “How old are you?” he demanded.

Her eyes widened. “You don’t know?”

Oh, bloody hell. The things females chose to get up in arms about. “No,” he said, “I don’t.”

“I’m twenty-one.” She curtsied then, a mocking little bob. “On the shelf, really.”

“Oh, please.”

“My mother despairs.”

He looked at her. “Impertinent baggage.”

She considered this, even looked pleased by the insult. “Yes.”

“I ought to kiss you again,” he said, lifting one brow into a practiced, arrogant arch.

She wasn’t so sophisticated that she had a ready retort for that, a circumstance with which he found himself quite satisfied. He leaned forward slightly, smirking.

“You’re quiet when I kiss you.”

She gasped with outrage.

“You’re quiet when I insult you as well,” he mused,

“but oddly, I don’t find it quite as entertaining.”

“You are insufferable,” she hissed.

“And yet they arrive,” he sighed. “Words. From your lips.”

“I’m leaving,” she declared. She turned to stalk back into the assembly hall, but he was too quick, and he slid his arm through hers before she could escape. To an onlooker, it would have seemed the most courteous Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

39

of poses, but the hand that rested over hers did more than cover it.

She was locked into place.

“I’ll escort you,” he said with a smile.

She gave him an insolent look but did not argue. He patted her hand then, deciding to let her choose whether she found the gesture comforting or condescending.

“Shall we?” he murmured, and together they strolled back in.

The night was clearly drawing to a close. Thomas noted that the musicians had set down their instruments and the crowd had thinned a bit. Grace and his grandmother were nowhere to be seen.

Amelia’s parents were in the far corner, chatting with a local squire, so he steered her across the floor, nodding at those who greeted them, but not choosing to pause in his journey.

And then his future bride spoke. Softly, just for his ears. But something about the question was devastating.

“Don’t you ever get tired of the world ceasing its rotation every time you enter a room?”

He felt his feet grow still, and he looked at her. Her eyes, which he could now see were somewhat green, were open wide. But he did not see sarcasm in those depths. Her query was an honest one, fueled not by spite but by quiet curiosity.

It wasn’t his practice to reveal his deeper thoughts to anyone, but in that moment he grew unbearably weary, and perhaps just a little bit tired of being himself. And so he shook his head slowly, and said, “Every minute of every day.”

40 Julia

Quinn

* * *

Many hours later, Thomas was climbing the steps to his bedroom in Belgrave Castle. He was tired. And in a bad temper. Or if not bad, exactly, then certainly not good.

He felt impatient, mostly with himself. He’d spent the better part of the evening ruminating on his conversation with Lady Amelia, which was annoying enough—he’d never wasted quite so much time on her before.

But instead of coming straight home from the assembly, as had been his original intention, he’d driven to Stamford to visit Celeste. Except once he’d got there, he hadn’t particularly felt like knocking upon her door.

All he could think was that he’d have to
talk
with her, because that was the sort of friendship they had; Celeste was not a high-stepping actress or opera singer.

She was a proper widow, and he had to treat her as such, which meant conversation and other niceties, whether or not he was in the mood for words.

Or other niceties.

And so he’d sat in his curricle, parked in the street in front of her house, for at least ten minutes. Finally, feeling like a fool, he left. Drove across town. Stopped at a public inn where he was not familiar with the cli-entele and had a pint. Rather enjoyed it, actually—the solitude, that was. The solitude and the blessed peace of not a single person approaching him with a query or a favor or, God help him, a compliment.

He’d nursed his pint for a good hour, doing nothing but watching the people around him, and then, noticing that the hour had grown preposterously late, he went home.

Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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He yawned. His bed was extremely comfortable, and he planned to make good use of it. Possibly until noon.

Belgrave was quiet when he let himself in. The servants had long since gone to bed, and so, apparently, had his grandmother.

Thank God.

He supposed he loved her. It was a theoretical thing, really, because he certainly did not
like
her. But then again, no one did. He supposed he owed her some fealty.

She had borne a son who had then married a woman who had borne him. One had to appreciate one’s own existence, if nothing else.

But beyond that, he couldn’t think of any reason to hold her in any affection whatsoever. Augusta Elizabeth Candida Debenham Cavendish was, to put it politely, not a very nice person.

He’d heard stories from people who’d known her long ago, that even if she’d never been friendly, at least she had once been perhaps not so
un
friendly. But this was well before he’d been born, before two of her three sons died, the eldest of the same fever that took her husband, and the next in a shipwreck off the coast of Ireland.

Thomas’s father had never expected to become the duke, not with two perfectly healthy older brothers.

Fate was a fickle thing, really.

Thomas yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth, and moved quietly across the hall toward the stairs.

And then, to his great surprise, he saw—

“Grace?”

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She let out a little squeak of surprise and stumbled off the last step. Reflexively, he sprang forward to steady her, his hands grasping her upper arms until she found her footing.

“Your grace,” she said, sounding impossibly tired.

He stepped back, eyeing her curiously. They had long since dispensed with the formalities of titles while at home. She was, in fact, one of the few people who used his given name. “What the devil are you doing awake?”

he asked. “It’s got to be after two.”

“After three, actually,” she sighed.

Thomas watched her for a moment, trying to imagine what his grandmother could possibly have done that might require her companion to be up and about at this time of night. He was almost afraid even to ponder it; the devil only knew what she might have come up with.

“Grace?” he asked gently, because the poor girl looked truly exhausted.

She blinked, giving her head a little shake. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Why are you wandering the halls?”

“Your grandmother is not feeling well,” she said with a rueful smile. And then she abruptly added, “You’re home late.”

“I had business in Stamford,” he said brusquely. He considered Grace one of his only true friends, but she was still every inch a lady, and he would never insult her by mentioning Celeste in her presence.

Besides, he was still rather annoyed with himself for his indecisiveness. Why the devil had he driven all the way to Stamford just to turn around?

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Grace cleared her throat. “We had an . . . exciting evening,” she said, adding almost reluctantly, “We were accosted by highwaymen.”

“Good God,” he exclaimed, looking at her more closely. “Are you all right? Is my grandmother well?”

“We are both unharmed,” she assured him, “although our driver has a nasty bump on his head. I took the liberty of giving him three days to convalesce.”

“Of course,” he said, but inside he was berating himself. He should not have allowed them to travel alone. He should have realized they’d be returning late. And what of the Willoughbys? It was unlikely their carriage would have been accosted; they would have traveled in the opposite direction. But still, this did not sit well with him. “I must offer my apologies,”

he said. “I should have insisted that you take more than one outrider.”

“Don’t be silly,” Grace responded. “It’s not your fault. Who would have—” She shook her head. “We are unhurt. That is all that matters.”

“What did they take?” he asked, because it seemed an obvious question.

“Not very much,” Grace said lightly, sounding as if she was attempting to minimize the situation. “Nothing at all from me. I imagine it was obvious I am not a woman of means.”

“Grandmother must be spitting mad.”

“She is a bit overset,” Grace admitted.

He almost laughed. Inappropriate and unkind, he knew, but he had always adored understatement. “She was wearing her emeralds, wasn’t she?” He shook 44 Julia

Quinn

his head. “The old bat is ridiculously fond of those stones.”

“She kept the emeralds, actually,” Grace replied, and he knew that she must be exhausted, because she did not scold him for calling his grandmother an old bat.

“She hid them under the seat cushions.”

He was impressed despite himself. “She did?”

“I did,” Grace corrected. “She thrust them at me before they breached the vehicle.”

He smiled at her resourcefulness, and then, after a moment of uncharacteristically awkward silence, he said, “You did not mention why you’re up and about so late. Surely you deserve a rest as well.”

She hemmed and hawed, leaving him to wonder what on earth could have her feeling so embarrassed. Finally she admitted, “Your grandmother has a strange request.”

“All of her requests are strange,” he replied immediately.

“No, this one . . . well . . . ” She let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t suppose you’d like to help me remove a painting from the gallery.”

Not
what he was expecting. “A painting,” he echoed.

She nodded.

“From the gallery.”

She nodded again.

He tried to imagine . . . then gave up. “I don’t suppose she’s asking for one of those modestly sized square ones.”

She looked as if she
might
smile. “With the bowls of fruit?”

Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

45

He nodded.

“No.”

Good Lord, his grandmother had finally gone insane.

This was a good thing, really. Perhaps he could have her committed to an asylum. He could not imagine anyone would protest.

“She wants the portrait of your uncle.”

“My uncle? Which one?”

“John.”

Thomas nodded, wondering why he’d even asked.

He’d never known his uncle, of course; John Cavendish perished a year before he was born. But Belgrave Castle had long lived under his shadow. The dowager had always loved her middle son best, and everyone had known it, especially her other sons. “He was always her favorite,” he murmured.

Grace looked at him quizzically. “But you never knew him.”

“No, of course not,” he said brusquely. “He died before I was born. But my father spoke of him.”

Quite often. And never with fondness.

Still, he supposed he should help Grace wrestle the painting from the wall. The poor girl would be unable to manage it herself. He shook his head. “Isn’t that portrait life-sized?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Good Lord. The things his grandmother did . . . No.

No. He wasn’t going to do it.

He looked Grace squarely in the eye. “No,” he said.

“You will
not
get that for her this evening. If she wants 46 Julia

Quinn

the bloody painting in her room, she can ask a footman for it in the morning.”

“I assure you, I want nothing more than to retire this very minute, but it is easier just to accommodate her.”

“Absolutely not,” Thomas replied. Good Lord, his grandmother was enough of a terror as it was. He turned and marched up the stairs, intending to give her the tongue-lashing she so sorely deserved, but halfway up he realized he was alone.

What
was
it with the women of Lincolnshire this evening?

“Grace!” he barked.

And then, when she did not materialize immediately at the foot of the stairs, he ran down and said it louder.

“Grace!”

“I’m right here,” she retorted, hurrying around the corner. “Good gracious, you’ll wake the entire house.”

He ignored that. “Don’t tell me you were going to get the painting by yourself.”

“If I don’t, she will ring for me all night, and then I will never get any sleep.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch me.”

She looked alarmed. “Watch you what?”

“Dismantle her bell cord,” he said, heading upstairs with renewed purpose.

“Dismantle her . . . Thomas!”

He didn’t bother to stop. He could hear her scurrying along behind him, almost able to keep up.

“Thomas, you can’t,” she huffed, out of breath from taking the stairs two at a time.

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He stopped and turned. Grinned, even, because really, this was almost fun. “I own the house,” he said.

“I can do anything I want.”

His feet ate up the carpet with long strides, barely pausing when he reached his grandmother’s door, which was conveniently ajar for easy entry.

“What,” he snapped, when he’d made his way to the side of her bed, “do you think you’re doing?”

But his grandmother looked . . .

Wrong.

Her eyes lacked their usual hardness, and truth be told, she didn’t look quite enough like a witch to resemble the Augusta Cavendish he knew and didn’t quite love.

“Good heavens,” he said despite himself, “are you all right?”

“Where is Miss Eversleigh?” his grandmother asked, her eyes darting frantically about the room.

“I’m right here,” Grace said, skidding across the room to the other side of her bed.

“Did you get it? Where is the painting? I want to see my son.”