Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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. He supposed he’d remain in residence for a week or so to show Jack what was what. Collect his belongings. Surely some of it was his and not the dukedom’s. It would be rather hard to swallow if he did not even own his own boots.

Why that was more depressing than the loss of the entire bloody castle, he’d never know.

“Good-bye, then,” she said, and she smiled a bit. But just a bit. In its own way, her smile was the saddest thing he’d ever seen.

“Good-bye, Amelia.”

She paused for a moment, then nudged her mount to the left, preparing to set off down the drive.

“Wait!” he called out.

She turned in her seat, her eyes shining hopeful. A bit of her hair caught the breeze, lifting through the air in a sinuous arc before she impatiently jabbed at it, shoving it behind her ear.

“I must beg a favor,” he said. It was true, actually, although that did not quite explain the relief he felt when she brought her mount back to his side.

“Of course,” she said.

“I need to write a short letter. To the duke.” He cleared his throat. It was difficult to guess just how long it would take before that rolled off his tongue. “Will you be my messenger?”

“Yes, but I would be happy just to pass along a message. So you don’t have to go to the trouble of…” Her hand worked awkwardly through the air. “Well, to the trouble of writing it, I suppose.”

“If you pass along my words, they will know you have seen me.”

Her lips parted but she did not reply.

“You have your reputation to consider,” he said quietly.

She swallowed, and he knew what she was thinking. They had never had to worry about her reputation before.

“Of course,” she said, her voice clipped.

“Will you meet me right here?” he asked. “Just after sundown.”

“No.”

He blinked in surprise.

“You might be late, and I don’t wish to wait for you on a public road.”

“I won’t be late,” he told her.

“I will meet you at the gazebo.”

“There is a gazebo?”

“Mrs. Audley showed it to me earlier.” She explained to him how to get there, then added, “It is not far from the house. But you won’t be seen, if that is your concern.”

He nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate your assistance.”

She rode away then, and he waited, watching her as she grew smaller and smaller in the distance. He waited until she went around the slight curve in the drive, taking her out of his vision. And then he waited some more.

And then, finally, when he knew in his heart that she’d got down from her horse and made her way inside, he turned and rode off.

But not until then.

Chapter 21

Sundown came late this time of year, and as Mrs. Audley kept country hours, it was well past supper by the time Amelia made her way to the gazebo. As she’d expected, no one made note of her departure. Her father had retired to his room directly after the meal; he was still rather cross over Jack’s proposal to Grace. The dowager had not even bothered to come down in the first place.

After their meal, Mrs. Audley invited Amelia to join her in the drawing room with Jack and Grace, but Amelia declined. She had spent an hour in the same place with the same three people before supper, and the entire conversation consisted of tales of Jack’s exploits in his younger days. Which were indeed amusing. But perhaps more so if one were in love with him, which she was not. No one was surprised when she said she was tired and would prefer to read in bed.

She took a book from the small library, climbed the stairs, reclined upon her bed for a minute to give the covers a properly rumpled look, then stole her way outside. If Grace went back to the room while she was out-which Amelia highly doubted; she’d been hanging on Mrs. Audley’s every word-it would appear that she had wandered out for just a moment. To the library, for another book. Or maybe to find something to eat. There was no reason anyone might suspect that she was planning to meet Thomas. Everyone had expressed their curiosity, of course, as to his whereabouts, but it was understood that he would wish for some time to himself.

The sun was sinking along the horizon as she made her way to the gazebo, and already the air was getting that flat quality to it-the colors less vivid, the shadows gone. She told herself that their meeting meant nothing, that she was simply doing him a favor, collecting his letter so she might leave it on a table in the front hall and then feign surprise with all the rest when it was discovered. And it probably was nothing. She was not going to be throwing herself at him again; her last attempt at passion had surely fulfilled whatever quota of mortification she was due for her lifetime. And Thomas had given her no indication that he wished to pursue their romance further. Not now that he’d lost Wyndham.

He was so bloody proud. She supposed that was what came of living one’s life as one of the twenty or so most powerful men in the land. She could tear her heart from her chest and hand it to him, tell him she’d love him until the day she died, and he would still refuse to marry her.

For her own good.

That was the worst of it. He’d say it was for her own good, that she deserved more.

As if she’d ever valued him for his title and riches. If this had all happened just last month, before they’d spoken, before they kissed…

She wouldn’t have cared.

Oh, she’d be embarrassed, she supposed, the next time she went to London. But there would be plenty who’d say she made a lucky escape, not to have married him before he lost the title. And she knew her worth. She was the reasonably attractive, intelligent (but not-oh, thank you, Mother-too intelligent), well-dowered daughter of an earl. She’d not remain on the shelf for long.

It would all have been perfectly acceptable if she hadn’t gone and fallen in love with him.

Him. Not the title, not the castle. Him.

But he would never understand that.

She hurried across the lawn, hugging her arms to her body to ward off the evening chill. She’d taken the long way around so she would not pass by the drawing room window. It occurred to her that she was getting quite experienced at sneaking around this house.

There had to be something funny in that.