Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 51
This would mean—well, truly, this was the only amusing part of it all—his father had never been the duke, either. It was almost enough to make him wish his father alive again, just to see his reaction.
Thomas wondered if they would have to change the inscription on his gravestone. Probably.
He wandered into the small saloon at the front of the house and poured himself a drink. He might actually enjoy erasing the title from his father’s marker, he thought. It was good to know there might be some amusement in all this.
Thomas walked to the window and gazed outside.
He came here quite frequently when he wished for solitude. He could get that in his office, of course, but there he was surrounded by ledgers and correspondence—
reminders of tasks still incomplete. Here, he could simply think.
He supposed he disliked his cousin slightly less than he had before—in the four days since he’d found him in the drawing room with Amelia, their conversations had been perfectly civil—but he still found him hopelessly unserious. He knew that Audley was once a military officer, and as such must have had to exercise caution and judgment, but Thomas still had grave doubts about his ability to apply himself with the diligence necessary to run a dukedom.
Would he understand that the livelihoods and indeed the lives of hundreds of people depended upon him?
Would he feel the history in his position? The heritage? The unspoken covenant with the soil, the stones, the blood that had fed the ground for generations?
Wyndham was more than a title one appended to one’s name, it was . . .
It was . . .
Thomas sat down in his favorite leather chair, closing his eyes in anguish.
It was him. He was Wyndham, and he had no idea who he would be when it was all taken away. And it would. He was growing more certain of this by the day.
Audley wasn’t stupid. He would not lead them all the way to Ireland, for God’s sake, if proof of his legitimacy was not waiting at their destination.
Audley had to know that he would still have been showered with privilege and money even if he’d declared his mother a dockside whore, known to his father for all of three minutes. Their grandmother was so desperately infatuated with the idea of her favorite son having produced a son of his own that she would have provided him with an income for life, regardless.
Audley’s life would have been secure, and a great deal less complicated, if he was illegitimate.
Which meant that he wasn’t. Somewhere in Ireland there was a church with proof of the marriage between Lord John Cavendish and Miss Louise Galbraith. And when they found it, Thomas knew he would still be Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire, the grandson of a duke, but that would be as close as his connection went.
What would he do with himself? How would he fill his days?
Who would he be?
He looked down at his drink. He’d finished it some time ago, and he thought it was his third. What would Amelia say? He’d told her he did not overindulge in spirits, and he did not, as a normal matter of course.
But life was anything but normal lately.
Perhaps this would be his new habit. Perhaps this was how he would fill his days—in the ignoble pursuit of oblivion. Pour enough brandy into him and he could forget that he did not know who he was or what he owned or how he was meant to act.
Or—he chuckled grimly at this—how others were meant to act with him. That would be amusing, actually, watching society scramble and stammer, with not a clue what to say. What macabre fun it would be to drop in at the Lincolnshire Dance and Assembly.
London would be even worse.
And then there was Amelia. He supposed he would have to cry off, or at least insist that she do so, since as a gentleman he could not initiate the dissolution of the betrothal contract. But surely she would not want him.
And certainly her family would not.
Amelia had been raised to be the Duchess of Wyndham, every bit as much as he had to be the duke. That was no longer a possibility, since he rather doubted that Audley was going to marry her. But there were many other titles in the land, and more than a handful of unmarried peers. Amelia could do far better than a pen-niless commoner with no useful skills.
No skills useful for anything other than owning large tracts of land and the occasional castle, that was.
Amelia.
He closed his eyes. He could see her face, the sharp curiosity in those hazel eyes, the light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He’d wanted to kiss her the other day, more than he’d realized at the time. He lay awake in bed, thinking about her, wondering if he wanted her now only because he could no longer have her.
He thought about peeling her dress from her body, of worshipping her with his hands, his lips, of making a conquest of her skin, counting the freckles she surely must hide beneath her clothing.
Amelia.
He poured another drink in her honor. It seemed only appropriate, since it was the ale that had brought them together the last time. This was fine brandy, potent and smooth, one of the last bottles he’d acquired before it became illegal to bring it in from France. He lifted his glass. She deserved a toast made with the very best.
And perhaps another, he decided, once he’d drained his glass. Surely Amelia was worth two glasses of brandy. But when he rose and crossed to the decanter, he heard voices in the hall.
It was Grace. She sounded happy.
Happy. It was baffling. Thomas could not even imagine such a simple, unfettered emotion.
And as for the other voice—it only took another second to place it. It was Audley, and he sounded as if he wanted to seduce her.
Bloody hell.
Grace fancied him. He’d seen it over the last few days, of course, how she blushed in his presence and laughed at his quips. He supposed she had a right to fall in love with whomever she wanted, but by God, Audley?
Thomas wondered if they would have to change the inscription on his gravestone. Probably.
He wandered into the small saloon at the front of the house and poured himself a drink. He might actually enjoy erasing the title from his father’s marker, he thought. It was good to know there might be some amusement in all this.
Thomas walked to the window and gazed outside.
He came here quite frequently when he wished for solitude. He could get that in his office, of course, but there he was surrounded by ledgers and correspondence—
reminders of tasks still incomplete. Here, he could simply think.
He supposed he disliked his cousin slightly less than he had before—in the four days since he’d found him in the drawing room with Amelia, their conversations had been perfectly civil—but he still found him hopelessly unserious. He knew that Audley was once a military officer, and as such must have had to exercise caution and judgment, but Thomas still had grave doubts about his ability to apply himself with the diligence necessary to run a dukedom.
Would he understand that the livelihoods and indeed the lives of hundreds of people depended upon him?
Would he feel the history in his position? The heritage? The unspoken covenant with the soil, the stones, the blood that had fed the ground for generations?
Wyndham was more than a title one appended to one’s name, it was . . .
It was . . .
Thomas sat down in his favorite leather chair, closing his eyes in anguish.
It was him. He was Wyndham, and he had no idea who he would be when it was all taken away. And it would. He was growing more certain of this by the day.
Audley wasn’t stupid. He would not lead them all the way to Ireland, for God’s sake, if proof of his legitimacy was not waiting at their destination.
Audley had to know that he would still have been showered with privilege and money even if he’d declared his mother a dockside whore, known to his father for all of three minutes. Their grandmother was so desperately infatuated with the idea of her favorite son having produced a son of his own that she would have provided him with an income for life, regardless.
Audley’s life would have been secure, and a great deal less complicated, if he was illegitimate.
Which meant that he wasn’t. Somewhere in Ireland there was a church with proof of the marriage between Lord John Cavendish and Miss Louise Galbraith. And when they found it, Thomas knew he would still be Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire, the grandson of a duke, but that would be as close as his connection went.
What would he do with himself? How would he fill his days?
Who would he be?
He looked down at his drink. He’d finished it some time ago, and he thought it was his third. What would Amelia say? He’d told her he did not overindulge in spirits, and he did not, as a normal matter of course.
But life was anything but normal lately.
Perhaps this would be his new habit. Perhaps this was how he would fill his days—in the ignoble pursuit of oblivion. Pour enough brandy into him and he could forget that he did not know who he was or what he owned or how he was meant to act.
Or—he chuckled grimly at this—how others were meant to act with him. That would be amusing, actually, watching society scramble and stammer, with not a clue what to say. What macabre fun it would be to drop in at the Lincolnshire Dance and Assembly.
London would be even worse.
And then there was Amelia. He supposed he would have to cry off, or at least insist that she do so, since as a gentleman he could not initiate the dissolution of the betrothal contract. But surely she would not want him.
And certainly her family would not.
Amelia had been raised to be the Duchess of Wyndham, every bit as much as he had to be the duke. That was no longer a possibility, since he rather doubted that Audley was going to marry her. But there were many other titles in the land, and more than a handful of unmarried peers. Amelia could do far better than a pen-niless commoner with no useful skills.
No skills useful for anything other than owning large tracts of land and the occasional castle, that was.
Amelia.
He closed his eyes. He could see her face, the sharp curiosity in those hazel eyes, the light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He’d wanted to kiss her the other day, more than he’d realized at the time. He lay awake in bed, thinking about her, wondering if he wanted her now only because he could no longer have her.
He thought about peeling her dress from her body, of worshipping her with his hands, his lips, of making a conquest of her skin, counting the freckles she surely must hide beneath her clothing.
Amelia.
He poured another drink in her honor. It seemed only appropriate, since it was the ale that had brought them together the last time. This was fine brandy, potent and smooth, one of the last bottles he’d acquired before it became illegal to bring it in from France. He lifted his glass. She deserved a toast made with the very best.
And perhaps another, he decided, once he’d drained his glass. Surely Amelia was worth two glasses of brandy. But when he rose and crossed to the decanter, he heard voices in the hall.
It was Grace. She sounded happy.
Happy. It was baffling. Thomas could not even imagine such a simple, unfettered emotion.
And as for the other voice—it only took another second to place it. It was Audley, and he sounded as if he wanted to seduce her.
Bloody hell.
Grace fancied him. He’d seen it over the last few days, of course, how she blushed in his presence and laughed at his quips. He supposed she had a right to fall in love with whomever she wanted, but by God, Audley?
