Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 79
“Yes,” he murmured. “All that feting would be a bit awkward without the bride.”
Her mouth clamped together, betraying her impatience with him. But she kept her temper, saying, “He is marrying Grace.”
“Is he now?” He smiled at that. For real. “That’s good. That’s a good thing.”
“They seem to love each other very much.”
He looked up at her. She was sitting very quietly.
It wasn’t just her voice, though; it was her demeanor, her aspect. Her hair was pulled back loosely, with a few misbehaving tendrils tucked behind her ears, and her mouth—she wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t frown-ing, either. Considering all that had transpired that day, she was remarkably serene and composed. And
maybe a little happy. If not for herself, then for Jack and Grace.
“The proposal was very romantic,” she informed him.
“You witnessed it?”
She grinned. “We all did.”
“Even my grandmother?”
“Oh, yes.”
He chuckled, despite his determination to remain cross. “I am sorry I missed it.”
“I am sorry you missed it, too.”
There was something in her voice . . . And when he looked up, there was something in her eyes, too. But he didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to know it. He did not want her pity or her sympathy or whatever it was when a woman’s face held that awful expression—a little bit maternal, a little bit sad, as if she wanted to fix his problems for him, make it all go away with a kiss and a There, there.
Was it too much to ask for a few bloody moments to wallow in his own miseries?
And they were his own. It wasn’t the sort of thing that could ever be classified as a shared experience.
Ah, yes, I am the man formerly known as the Duke of Wyndham.
It was going to be bloody brilliant at parties.
“I think Mr. Audley is scared,” Amelia said.
“He should be.”
She nodded a bit at that, her expression thoughtful.
“I suppose so. He will have a great deal to learn. You always seemed terribly busy whenever I was at Belgrave.”
He took a drink of his ale, not because he wanted it—it was his third tankard, and he rather thought he’d had enough. But if she thought he was planning to drink himself stupid, perhaps she’d leave.
It would be easier without her.
Today. Here. He was Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire, and right now it would be easier without her.
But she did not take the hint, and if anything, she seemed to be settling more deeply into her seat as she said, “Grace will help him, I’m sure. She knows so much about Belgrave.”
“She’s a good woman.”
“Yes, she is.” She looked down at her fingers, idly tracing the scratches and grooves in the table, then glanced back up. “I did not know her very well before this trip.”
He found that an odd statement. “You have known her your entire life.”
“But not well,” she clarified. “She was always Elizabeth’s friend, not mine.”
“I imagine Grace would disagree with that assessment.”
Her brows rose, just enough to exhibit her disdain. “It is easy to see that you don’t have siblings.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s impossible for one to have friendships in equal measure with two siblings. One must always be the pri-mary friend.”
“How complicated it must be,” he said in a dry voice,
“befriending the Willoughby sisters.”
“Five times more complicated than befriending you.”
“But not nearly as difficult.”
She looked at him with a cool expression. “At the moment, I would have to concur.”
“Ouch.” He smiled, but without much humor. Much being a bit of an overstatement.
She did not respond, which for some reason needled him. And so—even though he knew he was being an ass—he leaned over, peering down at her hands.
She pulled them back immediately. “What are your doing?”
“Checking for claws,” he replied, his very voice a smirk.
She stood. Abruptly. “You are not yourself.”
It was enough to make him laugh. “You’ve only just realized?”
“I’m not talking about your name,” she shot back.
“Oh, it must be my charming attitude and aspect, then.”
Her lips pinched. “You are not usually so sarcastic.”
Good Lord. What did she expect from him? “Pray have a bit of sympathy, Lady Amelia. Am I permitted at least a few hours to mourn the loss of everything I hold dear?”
She sat, but her movements were gingerly, and she did not look comfortable in her position. “Forgive me.”
Her jaw clenched, and she swallowed before she said,
“I should be more understanding.”
He let out an aggravated breath, rubbing his hand over his eye and forehead. Damn, he was tired. He hadn’t slept the night before, not a wink, and at least an hour of his wakefulness had been spent in the rather uncomfortable state of wanting her. And now she was acting like this?
“Don’t beg my forgiveness,” he said, exhausted by the whole thing.
She opened her mouth, then shut it. He suspected she’d been about to apologize for apologizing.
He took another drink.
Again, she did not take the hint. “What will you do?”
“This afternoon?” he murmured, knowing full well that wasn’t what she meant.
She gave him a peeved look.
“I don’t know,” he said irritably. “It’s only been a few hours.”
Her mouth clamped together, betraying her impatience with him. But she kept her temper, saying, “He is marrying Grace.”
“Is he now?” He smiled at that. For real. “That’s good. That’s a good thing.”
“They seem to love each other very much.”
He looked up at her. She was sitting very quietly.
It wasn’t just her voice, though; it was her demeanor, her aspect. Her hair was pulled back loosely, with a few misbehaving tendrils tucked behind her ears, and her mouth—she wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t frown-ing, either. Considering all that had transpired that day, she was remarkably serene and composed. And
maybe a little happy. If not for herself, then for Jack and Grace.
“The proposal was very romantic,” she informed him.
“You witnessed it?”
She grinned. “We all did.”
“Even my grandmother?”
“Oh, yes.”
He chuckled, despite his determination to remain cross. “I am sorry I missed it.”
“I am sorry you missed it, too.”
There was something in her voice . . . And when he looked up, there was something in her eyes, too. But he didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to know it. He did not want her pity or her sympathy or whatever it was when a woman’s face held that awful expression—a little bit maternal, a little bit sad, as if she wanted to fix his problems for him, make it all go away with a kiss and a There, there.
Was it too much to ask for a few bloody moments to wallow in his own miseries?
And they were his own. It wasn’t the sort of thing that could ever be classified as a shared experience.
Ah, yes, I am the man formerly known as the Duke of Wyndham.
It was going to be bloody brilliant at parties.
“I think Mr. Audley is scared,” Amelia said.
“He should be.”
She nodded a bit at that, her expression thoughtful.
“I suppose so. He will have a great deal to learn. You always seemed terribly busy whenever I was at Belgrave.”
He took a drink of his ale, not because he wanted it—it was his third tankard, and he rather thought he’d had enough. But if she thought he was planning to drink himself stupid, perhaps she’d leave.
It would be easier without her.
Today. Here. He was Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire, and right now it would be easier without her.
But she did not take the hint, and if anything, she seemed to be settling more deeply into her seat as she said, “Grace will help him, I’m sure. She knows so much about Belgrave.”
“She’s a good woman.”
“Yes, she is.” She looked down at her fingers, idly tracing the scratches and grooves in the table, then glanced back up. “I did not know her very well before this trip.”
He found that an odd statement. “You have known her your entire life.”
“But not well,” she clarified. “She was always Elizabeth’s friend, not mine.”
“I imagine Grace would disagree with that assessment.”
Her brows rose, just enough to exhibit her disdain. “It is easy to see that you don’t have siblings.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s impossible for one to have friendships in equal measure with two siblings. One must always be the pri-mary friend.”
“How complicated it must be,” he said in a dry voice,
“befriending the Willoughby sisters.”
“Five times more complicated than befriending you.”
“But not nearly as difficult.”
She looked at him with a cool expression. “At the moment, I would have to concur.”
“Ouch.” He smiled, but without much humor. Much being a bit of an overstatement.
She did not respond, which for some reason needled him. And so—even though he knew he was being an ass—he leaned over, peering down at her hands.
She pulled them back immediately. “What are your doing?”
“Checking for claws,” he replied, his very voice a smirk.
She stood. Abruptly. “You are not yourself.”
It was enough to make him laugh. “You’ve only just realized?”
“I’m not talking about your name,” she shot back.
“Oh, it must be my charming attitude and aspect, then.”
Her lips pinched. “You are not usually so sarcastic.”
Good Lord. What did she expect from him? “Pray have a bit of sympathy, Lady Amelia. Am I permitted at least a few hours to mourn the loss of everything I hold dear?”
She sat, but her movements were gingerly, and she did not look comfortable in her position. “Forgive me.”
Her jaw clenched, and she swallowed before she said,
“I should be more understanding.”
He let out an aggravated breath, rubbing his hand over his eye and forehead. Damn, he was tired. He hadn’t slept the night before, not a wink, and at least an hour of his wakefulness had been spent in the rather uncomfortable state of wanting her. And now she was acting like this?
“Don’t beg my forgiveness,” he said, exhausted by the whole thing.
She opened her mouth, then shut it. He suspected she’d been about to apologize for apologizing.
He took another drink.
Again, she did not take the hint. “What will you do?”
“This afternoon?” he murmured, knowing full well that wasn’t what she meant.
She gave him a peeved look.
“I don’t know,” he said irritably. “It’s only been a few hours.”
