Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 80
“Well, yes, but you’ve been thinking about it for over a week. And on the boat you seemed quite certain that this would be the outcome.”
“It’s not the same.”
“But—”
“For God’s sake, Amelia, will you let well enough alone?”
She drew back, and he instantly regretted his outburst. But not enough to apologize for it.
“I should go,” she said, her voice flat.
He certainly wasn’t going to stop her. Hadn’t he been trying to be rid of her? She would walk out that door, and he’d finally have some peace and quiet, and he
wouldn’t have to just sit here, trying so hard not to look at her face.
At her mouth.
At that little spot on her lips that she liked to touch with her tongue when she was nervous.
But as she rose to her feet, something grabbed him from the inside—that annoying little kernel of integrity that refused to make its exit along with the rest of his identity.
Bloody hell.
“Do you have an escort?” he asked.
“I don’t need one,” she replied, clearly unimpressed with his tone.
He stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“I will escort you back.”
“I believe I said—”
He took her arm, a bit more roughly than he’d intended. “You are an unmarried woman, alone in a foreign land.”
She gave him a look of some disbelief. “I have a mount, Thomas. It is not as if I will be walking the roads alone.”
“I will escort you,” he repeated.
“Will you be civil?”
“Civility seems to be the one thing I cannot lose,”
he said dryly. “Else I’d have been happy to leave you be.”
For a moment he thought she might argue, but her innate good sense took hold. “Very well,” she said, with an impatient breath. “You may feel free to deposit me at the end of the lane, should you wish.”
“Is that a dare, Lady Amelia?”
She turned to him with eyes so sad he almost felt punched. “When did you start calling me lady again? ”
He stared at her for several moments before finally answering, soft and low, “When I ceased to be a lord.”
She made no comment, but he saw her throat work.
Bloody hell, she had better not cry. He could not do this if she cried.
“Let us return, then,” she said, and she pulled her arm free and stepped quickly in front of him. He heard the catch in her voice, though, and as she walked to the door, he could see that her gait was not right.
She looked too stiff and she was not holding her hands the way she usually did. Her arm did not sway in that tiny, graceful movement he so adored.
Except he hadn’t realized he adored it.
He had not even known that he knew the rhythms of her walk until he saw that she wasn’t doing it.
And it was so damned frustrating that now, in the middle of all of this rot, when he wanted to do nothing but sit and be sorry for himself, he hurt for her.
“Amelia,” he said once they exited the inn. His voice sounded abrupt, but he hadn’t meant to call out to her.
It had just . . . happened.
She stopped. Her fingers went up to her face and back down again before she turned.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She did not ask why, but the question hung in the air nonetheless.
“For being so rude. You were undeserving of it.”
She looked up and then to the side before finally meeting his gaze. “You behaved far better than most men would have done in your situation.”
Somehow he managed a smile. “If you happen to meet someone else—in my situation, that is—kindly give him my direction.”
A tiny, mortified giggle escaped her lips. “I’m so sorry,” she got out. Barely.
“Oh, don’t be. If anyone deserves to laugh, it is you.”
“No,” she said immediately. “No. I could never—”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, cutting her off before she could say something that might make him feel even more of a clod. “Merely that you’ve had your life overturned as well.”
He helped her up to her saddle, trying not to allow his hands to linger at her waist. Or to notice that she smelled like roses.
“It’s not far back to Cloverhill,” she said once they were on their way.
He nodded.
“Oh yes, of course you must know that. You’d have ridden past, on the way back from Maguiresbridge.”
He nodded again.
She nodded, too, then faced front, her eyes focused securely on the road ahead of her. She was quite a good rider, he noted. He did not know how she’d fare under less sedate conditions, but her posture and seat were perfect.
He wondered if her spine would soften, if her shoulders might slouch just a bit if she actually turned and looked at him.
But she didn’t. Every time he glanced in her direction, he saw her profile. Until finally they reached the turnoff to Cloverhill.
“The end of the drive, I believe you specified,” he murmured.
“Are you coming in?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t tentative, but there was something heartbreakingly careful about it.
“No.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
He doubted that she did, but there seemed no reason to say it.
“Are you coming back at all?” she asked.
“No.” He hadn’t thought about it until this moment, but no, he did not wish to journey back to England with their traveling party. “I will make my own way back to Belgrave,” he told her. And after that, he could not say.
“It’s not the same.”
“But—”
“For God’s sake, Amelia, will you let well enough alone?”
She drew back, and he instantly regretted his outburst. But not enough to apologize for it.
“I should go,” she said, her voice flat.
He certainly wasn’t going to stop her. Hadn’t he been trying to be rid of her? She would walk out that door, and he’d finally have some peace and quiet, and he
wouldn’t have to just sit here, trying so hard not to look at her face.
At her mouth.
At that little spot on her lips that she liked to touch with her tongue when she was nervous.
But as she rose to her feet, something grabbed him from the inside—that annoying little kernel of integrity that refused to make its exit along with the rest of his identity.
Bloody hell.
“Do you have an escort?” he asked.
“I don’t need one,” she replied, clearly unimpressed with his tone.
He stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“I will escort you back.”
“I believe I said—”
He took her arm, a bit more roughly than he’d intended. “You are an unmarried woman, alone in a foreign land.”
She gave him a look of some disbelief. “I have a mount, Thomas. It is not as if I will be walking the roads alone.”
“I will escort you,” he repeated.
“Will you be civil?”
“Civility seems to be the one thing I cannot lose,”
he said dryly. “Else I’d have been happy to leave you be.”
For a moment he thought she might argue, but her innate good sense took hold. “Very well,” she said, with an impatient breath. “You may feel free to deposit me at the end of the lane, should you wish.”
“Is that a dare, Lady Amelia?”
She turned to him with eyes so sad he almost felt punched. “When did you start calling me lady again? ”
He stared at her for several moments before finally answering, soft and low, “When I ceased to be a lord.”
She made no comment, but he saw her throat work.
Bloody hell, she had better not cry. He could not do this if she cried.
“Let us return, then,” she said, and she pulled her arm free and stepped quickly in front of him. He heard the catch in her voice, though, and as she walked to the door, he could see that her gait was not right.
She looked too stiff and she was not holding her hands the way she usually did. Her arm did not sway in that tiny, graceful movement he so adored.
Except he hadn’t realized he adored it.
He had not even known that he knew the rhythms of her walk until he saw that she wasn’t doing it.
And it was so damned frustrating that now, in the middle of all of this rot, when he wanted to do nothing but sit and be sorry for himself, he hurt for her.
“Amelia,” he said once they exited the inn. His voice sounded abrupt, but he hadn’t meant to call out to her.
It had just . . . happened.
She stopped. Her fingers went up to her face and back down again before she turned.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She did not ask why, but the question hung in the air nonetheless.
“For being so rude. You were undeserving of it.”
She looked up and then to the side before finally meeting his gaze. “You behaved far better than most men would have done in your situation.”
Somehow he managed a smile. “If you happen to meet someone else—in my situation, that is—kindly give him my direction.”
A tiny, mortified giggle escaped her lips. “I’m so sorry,” she got out. Barely.
“Oh, don’t be. If anyone deserves to laugh, it is you.”
“No,” she said immediately. “No. I could never—”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, cutting her off before she could say something that might make him feel even more of a clod. “Merely that you’ve had your life overturned as well.”
He helped her up to her saddle, trying not to allow his hands to linger at her waist. Or to notice that she smelled like roses.
“It’s not far back to Cloverhill,” she said once they were on their way.
He nodded.
“Oh yes, of course you must know that. You’d have ridden past, on the way back from Maguiresbridge.”
He nodded again.
She nodded, too, then faced front, her eyes focused securely on the road ahead of her. She was quite a good rider, he noted. He did not know how she’d fare under less sedate conditions, but her posture and seat were perfect.
He wondered if her spine would soften, if her shoulders might slouch just a bit if she actually turned and looked at him.
But she didn’t. Every time he glanced in her direction, he saw her profile. Until finally they reached the turnoff to Cloverhill.
“The end of the drive, I believe you specified,” he murmured.
“Are you coming in?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t tentative, but there was something heartbreakingly careful about it.
“No.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
He doubted that she did, but there seemed no reason to say it.
“Are you coming back at all?” she asked.
“No.” He hadn’t thought about it until this moment, but no, he did not wish to journey back to England with their traveling party. “I will make my own way back to Belgrave,” he told her. And after that, he could not say.
