Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 61
She kept staring out, her profile toward him. He could see her lips press and purse, and there was something mesmerizing in the way she blinked. He’d never thought there could be so much detail in a woman’s eyelashes, but hers were . . .
Lovely.
She was lovely. In every way. It was the perfect word to describe her. It seemed pale and undescriptive at first, but upon further reflection, it grew more and more intricate.
Beautiful was a daunting thing, dazzling . . . and lonely. But not lovely. Lovely was warm and welcoming. It glowed softly, sneaking its way into one’s heart.
Amelia was lovely.
“It’s growing dark,” she said, changing the subject.
This, he realized, was her way of accepting his apology. And he should have respected that. He should have held his tongue and said nothing more, because clearly that was what she wanted.
But he couldn’t. He, who had never found cause to explain his actions to anyone, was gripped by a need to tell her, to explain every last word. He had to know, to feel it in his very soul that she understood. He had not wanted to give her up. He hadn’t told her to marry Jack Audley because he wanted to. He’d done it because . . .
“You belong with the Duke of Wyndham,” he said.
“You do, just as much as I thought I was the Duke of Wyndham.”
“You still are,” she said softly, still staring ahead.
“No.” He almost smiled. He had no idea why. “We both know that isn’t true.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” she said, finally turning to face him. Her eyes were fierce, protective.
“Do you plan to give up your birthright based upon a painting? You could probably pull five men out of the rookeries of London who could pass for someone in one of the paintings at Belgrave. It is a resemblance.
Nothing more.”
“Jack Audley is my cousin,” he said. He had not uttered the words many times; there was a strange relief in doing so. “All that remains to be seen is if his birth was legitimate.”
“That is still quite a hurdle.”
“One that I am sure will be easily reached. Church records . . . witnesses . . . there will be proof.” He faced front then, presumably staring at the same spot on the horizon. He could see why she’d been mesmerized.
The sun had dipped low enough so one could look in its direction without squinting, and the sky held the most amazing shades of pink and orange.
He could look at it forever. Part of him wanted to.
“I did not think you were a man to give up so easily,”
she said.
“Oh, I’m not giving up. I’m here, aren’t I? But I must make plans. My future is not what I’d thought.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her begin to protest, so he added, with a smile, “Probably.”
Her jaw tensed, then released. Then, after a few moments, she said, “I like the sea.”
So did he, he realized, even with his queasy stomach.
“You’re not seasick?” he asked.
“Not at all. Are you?”
“A little,” he admitted, which made her smile. He caught her eye. “You like when I am indisposed, don’t you?”
Her lips pressed together a bit; she was embarrassed.
He loved that.
“I do,” she confessed. “Well, not indisposed, exactly.”
“Weak and helpless?” he suggested.
“Yes!” she replied, with enough enthusiasm that she immediately blushed.
He loved that, too. Pink suited her.
“I never knew you when you were proud and capable,” she hastened to add.
It would have been so easy to pretend to misunder-stand, to say something about how they had known each other all of their lives. But of course they had not. They had known the other’s name, and their shared destiny, but that was all. And Thomas was finally coming to realize that it was not much.
Not enough.
“I’m more approachable when I’m sotted?” he tried to joke.
“Or seasick,” she said kindly.
He laughed at that. “I’m lucky the weather is so fair.
I’m told the seas are usually much less forgiving. The captain said that crossing from Liverpool to Dublin is often more difficult than the entire passage from the West Indies to England.”
Her eyes lit with interest. “That can’t be.”
Thomas shrugged. “I only repeat what he told me.”
She considered this for a moment, then said, “Do you know, this is the farthest I have ever been from home?”
He leaned a little closer. “Me, too.”
“Really?” Her face showed her surprise.
“Where would I have gone?”
He watched with amusement as she considered this.
Her face moved through a number of expressions, and then finally she said, “You are so fond of geography. I would have thought you would travel.”
“I would like to have done.” He watched the sunset. It was melting away too quickly for his tastes. “Too many responsibilities at home, I suppose.”
“Will you travel if—” She cut herself off, and he did not need to be looking at her to picture the expression on her face precisely.
“If I am not the duke?” he finished for her.
She nodded.
“I expect so.” He gave a little shrug. “I am not sure where.”
Amelia turned to him suddenly. “I have always wanted to see Amsterdam.”
“Really.” He looked surprised. Maybe even intrigued.
“Why is that?”
“All those lovely Dutch paintings, I think. And the canals.”
Lovely.
She was lovely. In every way. It was the perfect word to describe her. It seemed pale and undescriptive at first, but upon further reflection, it grew more and more intricate.
Beautiful was a daunting thing, dazzling . . . and lonely. But not lovely. Lovely was warm and welcoming. It glowed softly, sneaking its way into one’s heart.
Amelia was lovely.
“It’s growing dark,” she said, changing the subject.
This, he realized, was her way of accepting his apology. And he should have respected that. He should have held his tongue and said nothing more, because clearly that was what she wanted.
But he couldn’t. He, who had never found cause to explain his actions to anyone, was gripped by a need to tell her, to explain every last word. He had to know, to feel it in his very soul that she understood. He had not wanted to give her up. He hadn’t told her to marry Jack Audley because he wanted to. He’d done it because . . .
“You belong with the Duke of Wyndham,” he said.
“You do, just as much as I thought I was the Duke of Wyndham.”
“You still are,” she said softly, still staring ahead.
“No.” He almost smiled. He had no idea why. “We both know that isn’t true.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” she said, finally turning to face him. Her eyes were fierce, protective.
“Do you plan to give up your birthright based upon a painting? You could probably pull five men out of the rookeries of London who could pass for someone in one of the paintings at Belgrave. It is a resemblance.
Nothing more.”
“Jack Audley is my cousin,” he said. He had not uttered the words many times; there was a strange relief in doing so. “All that remains to be seen is if his birth was legitimate.”
“That is still quite a hurdle.”
“One that I am sure will be easily reached. Church records . . . witnesses . . . there will be proof.” He faced front then, presumably staring at the same spot on the horizon. He could see why she’d been mesmerized.
The sun had dipped low enough so one could look in its direction without squinting, and the sky held the most amazing shades of pink and orange.
He could look at it forever. Part of him wanted to.
“I did not think you were a man to give up so easily,”
she said.
“Oh, I’m not giving up. I’m here, aren’t I? But I must make plans. My future is not what I’d thought.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her begin to protest, so he added, with a smile, “Probably.”
Her jaw tensed, then released. Then, after a few moments, she said, “I like the sea.”
So did he, he realized, even with his queasy stomach.
“You’re not seasick?” he asked.
“Not at all. Are you?”
“A little,” he admitted, which made her smile. He caught her eye. “You like when I am indisposed, don’t you?”
Her lips pressed together a bit; she was embarrassed.
He loved that.
“I do,” she confessed. “Well, not indisposed, exactly.”
“Weak and helpless?” he suggested.
“Yes!” she replied, with enough enthusiasm that she immediately blushed.
He loved that, too. Pink suited her.
“I never knew you when you were proud and capable,” she hastened to add.
It would have been so easy to pretend to misunder-stand, to say something about how they had known each other all of their lives. But of course they had not. They had known the other’s name, and their shared destiny, but that was all. And Thomas was finally coming to realize that it was not much.
Not enough.
“I’m more approachable when I’m sotted?” he tried to joke.
“Or seasick,” she said kindly.
He laughed at that. “I’m lucky the weather is so fair.
I’m told the seas are usually much less forgiving. The captain said that crossing from Liverpool to Dublin is often more difficult than the entire passage from the West Indies to England.”
Her eyes lit with interest. “That can’t be.”
Thomas shrugged. “I only repeat what he told me.”
She considered this for a moment, then said, “Do you know, this is the farthest I have ever been from home?”
He leaned a little closer. “Me, too.”
“Really?” Her face showed her surprise.
“Where would I have gone?”
He watched with amusement as she considered this.
Her face moved through a number of expressions, and then finally she said, “You are so fond of geography. I would have thought you would travel.”
“I would like to have done.” He watched the sunset. It was melting away too quickly for his tastes. “Too many responsibilities at home, I suppose.”
“Will you travel if—” She cut herself off, and he did not need to be looking at her to picture the expression on her face precisely.
“If I am not the duke?” he finished for her.
She nodded.
“I expect so.” He gave a little shrug. “I am not sure where.”
Amelia turned to him suddenly. “I have always wanted to see Amsterdam.”
“Really.” He looked surprised. Maybe even intrigued.
“Why is that?”
“All those lovely Dutch paintings, I think. And the canals.”
