Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

Chapter 2

Amelia knew what he was trying to do. It was clear as crystal to her, and she was quite aware that she was being manipulated, and yet, drat the man, there she was, hiding behind the curtain, watching him dance with Grace.

He was an excellent dancer. Amelia knew as much. She’d danced with him many times-quadrille, country dance, waltz-they’d done them all during her two seasons in London. Duty dances, every one of them.

And yet sometimes-sometimes-they had been lovely. Amelia was not immune to the thoughts of others. It was splendid to place one’s hand on the arm of London’s most eligible bachelor, especially when one was in possession of a binding contract declaring said bachelor hers and hers alone.

Everything about him was somehow bigger and better than other men. He was rich! He was titled! He made the silly girls swoon!

And the ones of sturdier constitution-well, they swooned, too.

Amelia was quite certain that Thomas Cavendish would have been the catch of the decade even if he’d been born with a hunched back and two noses. Unmarried dukes were not thick on the ground, and it was well known that the Wyndhams owned enough land and money to rival most European principalities.

But his grace’s back was not hunched, and his nose (of which, happily, he possessed but one), was straight and fine and rather splendidly in proportion with the rest of his face. His hair was dark and thick, his eyes riveting blue, and unless he was hiding a few spaces in the back, he had all of his teeth. Objectively speaking, it would have been quite impossible to describe his appearance as anything but handsome.

But while not unaffected by his charms, she was not blinded by them either. And despite their engagement, Amelia considered herself to be a most objective judge of him. She must have been, because she was quite able to articulate his flaws, and had on occasion entertained herself by jotting them down. Revising, to be sure, every few months.

It seemed only fair. And considering the trouble she would find herself in should anyone stumble upon the list, it really ought to be as au courant as possible.

Amelia did prize accuracy in all things. It was, in her estimation, a sadly underrated virtue.

But the problem with her fiancé, and, she supposed, most of humanity, was that he was so difficult to quantify. How, for example, to explain that indefinable air he had about him, as if there was something quite…more to him than the rest of society. Dukes weren’t supposed to look quite so capable. They were meant to be thin and wiry, or if not, then rotund, and their voices were unpleasing and their intellect shallow, and, well…she had caught sight of Wyndham’s hands once. He usually wore gloves when they met, but one time, she couldn’t remember why, but he’d taken them off, and she’d found herself mesmerized by his hands.

His hands, for heaven’s sake.

It was mad, and it was fanciful, but as she’d stood there, unspeaking and probably slack-jawed to boot, she could not help but think that those hands had done things. Mended a fence. Gripped a shovel.

If he’d been born five hundred years earlier, he would have surely been a fiercesome knight, brandishing a sword into battle (when he wasn’t tenderly carrying his gentle lady off into the sunset).

And yes, she was aware that she had perhaps spent a bit more time pondering the finer points of her fiancé’s personality than he had hers.

But even so, when all was said and done, she didn’t know very much about him. Titled, rich, handsome-that didn’t say much, really. She didn’t think it was so very unreasonable for her to wish to know something more of him. And what she truly wanted-not that she could have explained precisely why-was for him to know something of her.

Or for him to want to know something of her.

To inquire.

To ask a question.

To listen to the answer, rather than nodding as he watched someone else across the room.

Since Amelia had begun keeping track of such things, her fiancé had asked her precisely eight questions. Seven pertained to her enjoyment of the evening’s entertainment. The other had been about the weather.

She did not expect him to love her-she was not so fanciful as that. But she thought that a man of at least average intelligence would wish to know something of the woman he planned to marry.

But no, Thomas Adolphus Horatio Cavendish, the most esteemed Duke of Wyndham, Earl of Kesteven, Stowe, and Stamford, Baron Grenville de Staine, not to mention a host of other honorifics she had (blessedly) not been required to memorize, did not seem to care that his future wife fancied strawberries but could not tolerate peas. He did not know that she never sang in public, nor was he aware that she was, when she put her mind to it, a superior watercolorist.

He did not know that she had always wished to visit Amsterdam.

He did not know that she hated when her mother described her as of adequate intelligence.

He did not know that she was going to miss her sister desperately when Elizabeth married the Earl of Rothsey, who lived on the other end of the country, four days’ ride away.

And he did not know that if he would simply inquire after her one day, nothing but a simple question, really, pondering her opinion on something other than the temperature of the air, her opinion of him would rise immeasurably.

But that seemed to assume he cared about her opinion of him, which she was quite certain he did not. In fact, his lack of worry over her good judgment might very well be the only thing of substance she did know about him.

Except…

She peered carefully out from behind the red velvet curtain currently acting as her shield, perfectly aware that he knew she was there.

She watched his face.

She watched the way he was looking at Grace.

The way he was smiling at Grace.

The way he was-good heavens, was he laughing? She had never heard him laugh, never even seen him do so from across a room.

Her lips parted with shock and perhaps just a touch of dismay. It seemed she did know something of substance about her fiancé.

He was in love with Grace Eversleigh.

Oh, wonderful.

There was no waltzing at the Lincolnshire Dance and Assembly-it was still considered “fast” by the matrons who organized the quarterly gathering. Thomas thought this a pity. He had no interest in the seductive nature of the dance-he never had occasion to waltz with anyone he intended to seduce. But waltzing did afford the opportunity to converse with one’s partner. Which would have been a damned sight easier than a word here and a sentence there as he and Grace went through the convoluted motions of the country dance.

“Are you trying to make her jealous?” Grace asked, smiling in a manner that he might have considered flirtatious if he did not know her so well.

“Don’t be absurd.”

Except that by then she was crossing arms with a local squire. Thomas bit back an aggravated grunt and waited until she returned to his side. “Don’t be absurd,” he said again.

Grace cocked her head to the side. “You’ve never danced with me before.”

This time he waited an appropriate moment before replying, “When have I had occasion to dance with you?”

Grace stepped back and bobbed, as required by the dance, but he did see her nod her head in acknowledgment. He rarely attended the local assembly, and although Grace did accompany his grandmother when she traveled to London, she was only rarely included in evening outings. Even then, she sat at the side, with the chaperones and companions.

They moved to the head of the line, he took her hand for their olevette, and they walked down the center aisle, the gentlemen to their right, the ladies to their left.

“You’re angry,” Grace said.

“Not at all.”

“Pricked pride.”

“Just for a moment,” he admitted.

“And now?”

He did not respond. He did not have to. They had reached the end of the line and had to take their places at opposite sides of the aisle. But when they came together for a brief clap, Grace said, “You did not answer my question.”

They stepped back, then together, and he leaned down and murmured, “I like to be in charge.”

She looked as if she might like to laugh at that.

He gave her a lazy grin, and when he had the opportunity to speak again, asked, “Are you so very surprised?”

He bowed, she twirled, and then she said, her eyes flashing mischievously, “You never surprise me.”

Thomas laughed at that, and when they met once again for a bow and twirl, he leaned in and replied, “I never try to.”

Which only made Grace roll her eyes.

She was a good sport, Grace was. Thomas doubted that his grandmother had been looking for anything more than a warm body that knew how to say “Yes, ma’am” and “Of course, ma’am” when she’d hired her companion, but she had chosen well all the same. It was a bonus, too, that Grace was a daughter of the district, orphaned several years earlier when her parents had caught a fever. Her father had been a country squire, and both he and his wife were well-liked. As a result, Grace was already familiar with all of the local families, and indeed friendly with most. Which had to be an advantage in her current position.

Or at least Thomas assumed so. Most of the time he tried to stay out of his grandmother’s way.

The music trickled to a close, and he allowed himself a glance at the red curtain. Either his fiancée had departed or she’d become a bit more skilled in the art of concealment.

“You should be nicer to her,” Grace said as she accepted his escort from the dance floor.

“She cut me,” he reminded her.

Grace merely shrugged. “You should be nicer to her,” she said again. She curtsied then, and departed, leaving Thomas on his own, never an attractive prospect at a gathering such as this.

He was an affianced gentleman, and, more to the point, this was a local assembly and his intended bride was well known to all. Which should have meant that those who might envision their daughters (or sisters or nieces) as his duchess would leave well enough alone. But alas, Lady Amelia did not provide complete protection from his neighbors. As well as she was liked (and as best as he could tell, she was, quite), no self-respecting mama could neglect to entertain the notion that something might go awry with the engagement, and the duke might find himself unattached, and he might need to find himself a bride.

Or so he was told. He wasn’t generally privy to such whispers. (For which he assiduously thanked his maker.)

And while there were citizens of Lincolnshire who were not in possession of an unattached daughter/sister/niece, there was always someone looking to curry his favor. It was damnably tiring. He’d have given his arm-well, maybe a toe-for just one day in which no one said something to him because it was what they thought he wished to hear.

There were quite a few benefits to being a duke, but honesty from one’s companions was not among them.

Which was why, when Grace abandoned him at the edge of the small dance floor, he immediately strode toward the door.

A door, to be more precise. It didn’t particularly matter which. He just wanted out.

Twenty seconds later he was breathing the crisp air of the Lincolnshire night, pondering the rest of the evening. He’d planned to go home; he’d actually been looking forward to a quiet evening before his grandmother ambushed him with her plans for the assembly.

But now he was thinking that a visit to Stamford might be more in order. Celeste would be there, his own private widow-very intelligent and very discreet. Their arrangement suited both of them perfectly. He brought gifts-lovely tokens that she could use to supplement the tidy house and modest income her husband had left for her. And she provided companionship with no expectation of fidelity.

Thomas paused for a moment to get his bearings. A small tree, a birdbath, and what appeared to be an over-pruned rosebush…he’d apparently not exited through the door that led to the street. Ah, yes, the garden. With a slight frown, he glanced over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if one could actually reach the street without reentering the assembly hall, but-at this point he could have sworn he heard someone shrill his name, followed by the words daughter, must, and introduce-by God, he was going to try.

Thomas made his way around the birdbath, intending to round the corner of the building, but just as he passed the abused rosebush, he thought he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye.

He didn’t mean to look. The lord knew he didn’t want to look. Looking could only lead to inconvenience. There was nothing more untidy than finding someone where he (or more often, she) was not supposed to be. But of course he looked, because that was simply how his evening was progressing.

He looked, and then he wished he hadn’t.

“Your grace.”

It was Lady Amelia, most assuredly where she was not supposed to be.

He stared at her forbiddingly, deciding how to approach this.

“It was stuffy inside,” she said, coming to her feet. She’d been sitting on a stone bench, and her dress-well, truth be told, he couldn’t recall what color her dress was, and in the moonlight he certainly couldn’t tell for sure. But it seemed to blend in with the surroundings, which was probably why he hadn’t noticed her right away.

But none of that mattered. What mattered was that she was outside, by herself.

And she belonged to him.

Really, this would not do.

It would have been a far grander exit had Amelia been able to sweep out of the assembly hall and leave the premises entirely, but there was the pesky matter of her sister. And her other sister. And her mother. And her father, although she was fairly certain he would have been happy to follow her right out the door, if not for those other three Willoughbys, all of whom were still having a grand time.

So Amelia had made her way to the side of the assembly hall, where she could wait for her family to tire of the festivities on a small stone bench. No one came out this way. It wasn’t in the garden proper, and as the purpose of the assembly was to see and be seen-well, a dusty old bench didn’t really advance the cause.

But it wasn’t too chilly, and the stars were out, which at least provided something to look at, although with her abysmal talents at spotting constellations, this was only likely to keep her busy for a few minutes.

But she did find the Big Dipper, and from there the little one, or at least what she thought was the little one. She found three groupings that might have been bears-really, whoever had devised these things must have had a liking for the abstract-and over there was something she could have sworn was a church steeple.

Not that there were any steeply constellations. But still.

She shifted her position-better to get a look at the sparkly blob off to the north that might, with enough imagination, prove itself an oddly shaped chamber pot-but before she could squeeze her eyes into a proper squint, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone tromping through the garden.

Coming her way.

Oh, bother. Her kingdom for a private moment. She never got any at home, and now it appeared she wasn’t safe here, either.

She held herself still, waiting for her intruder to leave the area, and then-

It couldn’t be.

But of course it was.

Her esteemed fiancé. In all his splendiferous glory.

What was he doing here? When she’d left the assembly hall, he was quite happily dancing with Grace. Even if the dance had drawn to a close, wouldn’t he be required to escort her to the edge of the floor and indulge in a few minutes of useless conversation? Followed by several more minutes of being accosted by the many various members of Lincolnshire society who were hoping that their engagement might fall apart (whilst not wishing the prospective bride any ill will, to be sure, but Amelia had certainly heard more than one person ponder the possibility of her falling in love with someone else and racing off to Gretna).

Really, as if a body could escape her house without someone noticing.

But it seemed that his grace had managed to extricate himself with record speed, and now he was slinking through the back garden.

Oh, very well, he was walking straight and tall and insufferably proud, as always. But even so, he was definitely sneaking about, which she found worthy of a raised eyebrow. One would think a duke had enough clout to make his escape through the front door.

She would have been content to spin embarrassing stories about him in her head, but he chose that moment-because she was clearly the unluckiest girl in Lincolnshire-to turn his head. In her direction.

“Your grace,” Amelia said, because there seemed little point in pretending she was not aware that he’d seen her. He did not make a verbal acknowledgment, which she found rude, but she didn’t think she was in a position to abandon her own good manners, so she stood, explaining, “It was stuffy inside.”

Well, it was. Even if that hadn’t been her reason for leaving.

Still, he didn’t say anything, just looked at her in that haughty way of his. It was difficult to hold oneself perfectly still under the weight of such a stare, which she supposed was the point. She was dying to shift her weight from foot to foot. Or clench her hands. Or clench her teeth. But she refused to offer him that satisfaction (assuming he noticed anything she did), and so she stood utterly still, save for the serene smile on her face, which she allowed to shift just a little as she tilted her head to the side.

“You are alone,” he said.

“I am.”

“Outside.”

Amelia wasn’t certain how to affirm this without making at least one of them look stupid, so she simply blinked and awaited his next statement.

“Alone.”

She looked to the left, and then to the right, and then said, before she thought the better of it, “Not any longer.”

His stare grew sharper, not that she’d thought that possible. “I assume,” he said, “that you are aware of the potential dangers to your reputation.”

This time she did clench her teeth. But just for a moment. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to find me,” she replied.

He did not like that answer. That much was clear.

“This is not London,” she continued. “I may sit unattended on a bench outside the assembly hall for a few minutes without losing my position in society. Provided, of course, that you don’t jilt me.”

Oh, dear. Was that his jaw clenching now? They made quite a pair, the two of them.

“Nevertheless,” he bit off, “such behavior is unbecoming for a future duchess.”

“Your future duchess.”

“Indeed.”

Amelia’s stomach began performing the oddest selection of flips and turns, and truly, she could not tell if she was giddy or terrified. Wyndham looked furious, coldly so, and while she did not fear for her person-he was far too much a gentleman ever to strike a woman-he could, if he so chose, turn her life into a series of breathless miseries.

As far back as her earliest memory, it had been impressed upon her that this man (boy that he was, at the time) was in charge. Her life, quite simply, and with no arguments accepted, revolved around his.

He spoke, she listened.

He beckoned, she jumped.

He entered a room, and she smiled with delight.

And, most importantly, she was glad for the opportunity. She was a lucky girl, because she got to agree with everything he said.

Except-and this had to be his greatest offense-he rarely spoke to her. He almost never beckoned-what could he possibly require that she could provide? And she’d given up smiling when he entered a room because he was never looking in her direction, anyway.

If he made note of her existence, it was not on a regular basis.

But right now…

She offered him a serene smile, gazing up at his face as if she did not realize that his eyes were the approximate temperature of ice chips.

Right now, he noticed her.

And then, inexplicably, he changed. Just like that. Something within him softened, and then his lips curved, and he was gazing down at her as if she were some priceless treasure, dropped into his lap by a benevolent god.

It was enough to make a young lady extremely uneasy.

“I have neglected you,” he said.

She blinked. Thrice. “I beg your pardon?”

He took her hand, raising it to his mouth. “I have neglected you,” he said again, his voice melting through the night. “It was not well done of me.”

Amelia’s lips parted, and although she ought to have done something with her arm (using it to return her hand to her own side would have been an obvious choice), she just stood there like an imbecile, slack-jawed and limp, wondering why he…

Well, just wondering why, to tell the truth.

“Shall I dance with you now?” he murmured.

She stared at him. What was he up to?

“It’s not a difficult question,” he said with a smile, tugging gently at her hand as he moved closer. “Yes…or no.”

She caught her breath.

“Or yes,” he said, chuckling as his free hand found its place at the small of her back. His lips approached her ear, not quite touching, but close enough so his words drifted across her skin like a kiss. “Yes is almost always the correct answer.”

He exerted a bit of pressure and slowly…softly…they began to dance. “And always,” he whispered, his mouth finally brushing her ear, “when you’re with me.”

He was seducing her. The realization washed over her with equal parts excitement and confusion. She couldn’t imagine why; he had never shown the least inclination to do so before. It was deliberate, too. He was unleashing every weapon in his arsenal, or at least every one allowable in a public garden.

And he was succeeding. She knew that his aims had to be Machiavellian-she was quite certain she had not turned irresistible during the course of one evening-but still, her skin was tingling, and when she breathed (which was not as often as she ought), her body seemed to lighten and float, and maybe she did not know so very much about relations between men and women, but she knew one thing…

He was making her silly.

Her brain was still working, and her thoughts were mostly complete, but there was no way he’d know that, because it was all she could do to gaze at him like a lovesick calf, her eyes begging him to move his hand, press at her back.

She wanted to sink against him. She wanted to sink into him.

Had she uttered a word since he’d taken her hand?

“I never noticed how lovely your eyes are,” he said softly, and she wanted to say that that was because he’d never bothered to look, and then she wanted to point out that he could hardly see the color in the moonlight.

But instead she smiled like a fool, and she tilted her head up toward his, because maybe…just maybe, he was thinking about kissing her, and maybe…just maybe, he would actually do it, and maybe…oh, definitely, she would let him.

And then he did. His lips brushed hers in what had to be the tenderest, most respectful, and romantic first kiss in history. It was everything she’d dreamed a kiss could be. It was sweet, and it was gentle, and it made her turn rather warm all over, and then, because she couldn’t help it, she sighed.

“So sweet,” he murmured, and she felt her arms come around his neck. He chuckled at her eagerness, and his own hands moved lower, cupping her bottom in the most scandalous fashion.

She let out a little squeak, squirming against him, and then his hands tightened, and his breathing changed.

And so did his kiss.