Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

a row, as if she were patiently waiting for him to respond.

“Very well,” he said, sounding resigned in a way she did not think she’d ever heard in his voice before. He always got everything he wanted. Why would he ever feel resigned?

He stepped down with far less bounce than his usual hop, then held up a hand to assist her. She took it gracefully and stepped down herself, pausing to smooth her skirts and take stock of the inn.

She’d never been to the Happy Hare. She’d passed it dozens of times, of course. It was on a main road, and she’d spent her entire life, save for two seasons in London, in this particular corner of Lincolnshire. But she’d never gone in. It was a posting inn, and thus primarily for travelers passing through the district. And besides that, her mother would never have stepped foot into such an establishment. As it was, there were only three inns that she would deign to visit on the way to London, which did make travels somewhat restricted.

“Do you come here often?” Amelia asked, taking his arm when he offered it to her. It was surprisingly thrilling, this, to be on the arm of her betrothed, and not because it was a requirement he felt he must fulfill. It was almost as if they were a young married couple, off on an outing, just the two of them.

“I consider the innkeeper a friend,” he replied.

She turned to him. “Really?” Until this very day, he had been the Duke to her, raised high on a pedestal, too rarefied to converse with mere mortals.

“Is it so difficult to imagine that I might have a friend who is of inferior rank?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she replied, since she could not tell him the truth-that it was difficult to imagine him with a friend of any stripe. Not, of course, because he was lacking. Quite the contrary. He was so splendid in every way that one could not imagine walking up to him and uttering anything benign or banal. And wasn’t that how friendships were usually formed? With an ordinary moment, a shared umbrella, or perhaps two seats next to each other at a bad musicale?

She had seen the way people treated him. Either they fawned and preened and begged his favors, or they stood to the side, too intimidated to attempt a conversation.

She’d never really thought about it before, but it must be rather lonely to be him.

They entered the inn, and although Amelia kept her face politely forward, her eyes were darting this way and that, trying to take it all in. She wasn’t sure what her mother had found so repellent; everything looked respectable enough to her. It smelled heavenly, too, of meat pies and cinnamon and something else she couldn’t quite identify- something tangy and sweet.

They walked into what had to be the taproom, and were immediately greeted by the innkeeper, who called out, “Wyndham! Two days in a row! To what do I owe your gilded presence?”

“Stuff it, Gladdish,” Thomas muttered, leading Amelia to the bar. Feeling very risque, she sat atop a stool.

“You’ve been drinking,” the innkeeper said, grinning. “But not here with me. I’m crushed.”

“I need a Baddish,” Thomas said.

Which didn’t really make any more sense than a radish, Amelia thought.

“I need an introduction,” the innkeeper returned.

Amelia grinned. She’d never heard anyone speak to him in this manner. Grace came close…sometimes. But it wasn’t like this. She would never have been so audacious.

“Harry Gladdish,” Thomas said, sounding supremely irritated that he was being made to dance to someone else’s tune, “may I present the Lady Amelia Willoughby, daughter of the Earl of Crowland.”

“And your affianced bride,” Mr. Gladdish murmured.

“I am most delighted to make your acquaintance,” Amelia said, holding out her hand.

He kissed it, which made her grin. “I’ve been waiting to meet you, Lady Amelia.”

She felt her face light up. “You have?”

“Since…Well, da-dash it all, Wyndham, how long have we known that you were engaged?”

Thomas crossed his arms, his expression bored. “I have known since I was seven.”

Mr. Gladdish turned to her with a devilish smile. “Then I have known since I was seven as well. We are of an age, you see.”

“You have known each other a long time, then?” Amelia asked.

“Forever,” Mr. Gladdish confirmed.

“Since we were three,” Thomas corrected. He rubbed his temple. “The Baddish, if you will.”

“My father was assistant to the stable master at Belgrave,” Mr. Gladdish said, ignoring Thomas completely. “He taught us to ride together. I was better.”

“He was not.”

Mr. Gladdish leaned forward. “At everything.”

“Recall that you are married,” Thomas bit off.

“You’re married?” Amelia said. “How delightful! We shall have to have you and your wife over to Belgrave once we are wed.” She caught her breath, feeling almost light-headed. She’d never anticipated their life as a married couple with such certainty. Even now she could not quite believe she’d been so bold as to say it.

“Why, we would be delighted,” Mr. Gladdish said, giving Thomas a bit of a look. Amelia wondered if he’d never invited him over.

“The Baddish, Harry,” Thomas almost growled. “Now.”

“He’s drunk, you know,” Mr. Gladdish told her.

“Not anymore,” she replied. “But he was. Quite.” She turned to Thomas and grinned. “I like your friend.”

“Harry,” Thomas said, “if you do not place a Baddish upon this counter within the next thirty seconds, as God is my witness, I shall have this place razed to the ground.”

“Such an abuse of power,” Mr. Gladdish said, shaking his head as he went to work. “I pray that you will be a good influence on him, Lady Amelia.”

“I can only do my best,” Amelia said, using her most prim and pious voice.

“Truly,” Mr. Gladdish said, placing a hand on his heart, “it is all any of us can do.”

“You sound just like the vicar,” Amelia told him.

“Really? What a compliment. I have been cultivating my vicarish tone. It aggravates Wyndham, and is thus something to aspire to.”

Thomas’s arm shot across the bar and he grabbed his friend’s collar with strength remarkable in one so impaired. “Harry…”

“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas,” Mr. Gladdish said, and Amelia nearly laughed aloud at the sight of her betrothed being scolded by an innkeeper. It was marvelous.

“No one likes a surly drunk,” Mr. Gladdish continued. “Here you are. For the sake of the rest of us.” He plunked a short glass on the counter. Amelia leaned forward to inspect the contents. It was yellowish, and rather slimy- looking, with a dark brown swirl and a few flecks of red.

It smelled like death.

“Good heavens,” she said, looking up at Thomas. “You’re not going to drink that, are you?”

He grabbed the glass, brought it to his lips, and downed it in one gulp. Amelia actually flinched.

“Ew,” she let out, unable to suppress her groan. She felt sick to her stomach just watching him.

Thomas shuddered, and his chin seemed to tense and shake, as if he were steeling himself for something very unpleasant. And then, with a gasp, he let out a breath.

Amelia backed away from the fumes. That kiss he had promised…

He had better not be planning on it today.

“Tastes just as good as you remembered, eh?” Mr. Gladdish said.

Thomas met his gaze dead even. “Better.”

Mr. Gladdish laughed at that, and then Thomas laughed, and Amelia just looked at them with a complete lack of comprehension. Not for the first time, she wished she’d had brothers. Surely she could have used a bit of practice with the males of the species before trying to understand these two.

“You’ll be cured before long,” Mr. Gladdish said.

Thomas gave a nod. “That’s why I’m here.”

“You’ve had one of these before?” Amelia asked, trying not to wrinkle her nose.

Mr. Gladdish cut Thomas off before he could reply. “He’d have my head if I told you just how many of these he’s