Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 5
Besides, Elizabeth would not suit his purposes.
He glanced up at Amelia. To his surprise, she did not dart immediately behind the curtain.
He smiled. Just a little.
And then—it was most satisfying—he saw her gasp.
She ducked behind the curtain after that, but he was not concerned. She’d be watching the dance. Every last step of it.
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 quan-tify. 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 Roth-sey, 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.
He glanced up at Amelia. To his surprise, she did not dart immediately behind the curtain.
He smiled. Just a little.
And then—it was most satisfying—he saw her gasp.
She ducked behind the curtain after that, but he was not concerned. She’d be watching the dance. Every last step of it.
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 quan-tify. 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 Roth-sey, 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.
