Julia Quinn - Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“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 tossed back.”

“Harry…” Thomas said warningly.

“We were young and foolish,” Harry said, holding up his hands as if that were explanation enough. “Truly, I haven’t served him one of these in years.”

Amelia was glad to hear it; as amusing as it had been to finally see Thomas at less than his best, she did not relish the thought of marriage to a habitual drunkard. Still, it did make her wonder-just what had happened that made him want to go out and overindulge?

“Served one of these to your friend the other day,” Mr. Gladdish said offhandedly.

“My friend,” Thomas repeated.

Amelia hadn’t been paying much attention, but the tone of his voice when he replied was enough to make her look sharply in his direction. He sounded bored…and dangerous, if the combination was possible.

“You know the one,” Mr. Gladdish said. “You were in here with him just yesterday, wasn’t it?”

“Is someone visiting?” Amelia asked. “Who is it?”

“No one,” Thomas said, barely looking at her. “Just an acquaintance from London. Someone I used to fence with.”

“He is handy with a sword,” Mr. Gladdish put in, motioning to Thomas. “He trounced me every time, pains me though it does to admit it.”

“You were invited to share his fencing lessons?” Amelia said. “How lovely.”

“I shared all his lessons,” Mr. Gladdish said with a smile. It was a real smile, too; nothing teasing or silly.

“It was my father’s only generous gesture,” Thomas confirmed. “Not generous enough, of course. Harry’s education was stopped when I left for Eton.”

“Wyndham couldn’t be rid of me that easily, though,” Harry said. He leaned toward Amelia and said, “Everyone should have someone in his life who knows his every secret.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you?”

“Know his every secret? Absolutely.”

Amelia turned to Thomas. He did not contradict. She turned back to Harry with delight. “Then you do!”

“You didn’t believe me the first time?”

“It seemed only polite to verify,” she demurred.

“Well, yes, you do have to marry the old chap, whereas I must only bear his company once a week or so.” Mr. Gladdish turned to Thomas and took the empty Baddish glass off the counter. “Do you need another one?”

“One was quite enough, thank you.”

“Your color is returning already,” Amelia said with some amazement. “You’re not so green.”

“Yellow, I thought,” Mr. Gladdish put in. “Except for the purple under the eye. Very regal-like.”

“Harry.” Thomas looked quite close to the edge of his patience.

Harry leaned closer to Amelia. “Those ducal types never get black eyes. Always purple. Goes better with the robes.”

“There are robes?”

Harry waved a hand. “There are always robes.”

Thomas took hold of Amelia’s arm. “We’re leaving, Harry.”

Harry grinned. “So soon?”

Amelia waved with her free hand, even as Thomas tugged her away from the bar. “It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Gladdish!”

“You are welcome any time, Lady Amelia.”

“Why, thank you, I-”

But Thomas had already yanked her from the room.

“He’s very sweet,” Amelia said as she skipped along beside him, trying to keep up with his lengthier stride.

“Sweet,” Thomas repeated, shaking his head. “He’d like that.” He steered her around a puddle, although not so deftly that she didn’t have to take a little hop to save her boots.

The coachman was already holding the door open when they approached. Amelia let Thomas help her up, but she’d not even taken her seat before she heard him say, “To Burges Park.”

“No!” she exclaimed, popping her head back out. “We can’t.”

Good heavens, that would be a disaster.

Thomas stared at her for longer than was strictly necessary, then motioned to the coachman to leave them to their privacy. As Amelia was already half hanging outside the carriage, he was not required to lean forward in order to ask, “Why not?”

“To preserve your dignity,” she said, as if that made perfect sense. “I told Milly-”

“Milly?”

“My sister.” Her eyes widened in that way women affected when they were frustrated that their companion (usually male) could not immediately discern the nature of their thoughts. “You do recall that I have one.”

“I recall that you have several,” he said dryly.

Her expression turned positively peevish. “Not that it could have been helped, but Milly was with me this morning when I saw you-”

Thomas swore under his breath. “Your sister saw me.”

“Just one of them,” she assured him. “And luckily for you, it was the one who can actually keep a secret.”

There should have been something amusing in that, but he wasn’t seeing it. “Go on,” he ordered.

She did. With great animation. “I had to give my mother some reason for abandoning Milly on the Stamford high street, so I told Milly to tell her that I’d come across Grace, who was running errands for your grandmother. Then she was to say that Grace invited me back to Belgrave, but that if I wished to go, I had to depart immediately, because the dowager had ordered Grace to return right away.”

Thomas blinked, trying to follow.

“Because I had to have a reason why I did not have time enough to go into the dress shop and inform Mama of the change of plans myself.”

She stared at him as if he ought to have a response. He did not.

“Because,” she added, noticeably impatient now, “if I spoke to my mother directly, she would have insisted upon coming outside, and pretty though you are, I must confess to being at a loss as to how I might disguise you as Grace Eversleigh.”

He waited until he was certain she was finished, then murmured, “Sarcasm, Amelia?”

“When the conversation calls for it,” she returned, after a beat of highly irritated silence. She looked at him, her brows arched almost defiantly.

He looked at her, hiding his amusement. If arrogance was the game, she would never win.

And indeed, after but five seconds of their staring competition, she took a breath, and it was as if she’d never halted her recounting. “So you see why I cannot return to Burges just yet. There is no way I could have gone to Belgrave, visited with whomever it was I’m supposed to have been visiting with, and then gone home again.”

“Me,” he said.

She looked at him dumbly. Or rather, as if she thought he were dumb. “I beg your pardon.”

“You shall have to have been visiting with me,” he further clarified.

Now her expression turned incredulous. “Mother will be beyond delighted, but no one else will believe it.”

Thomas was not quite certain why that stung, but it did, and it turned his own voice to ice. “Would you care to explain that comment?”

She let out a laugh, and then, when he did not say anything, jerked to attention and said, “Oh, you’re serious.”

“Did I give you some indication that I was not?”

Her lips pressed together and for a moment she almost looked humble. “Of course not, your grace.”

He did not bother to remind her to call him Thomas.

“But surely you must see my point,” she continued, just when he thought she was through. “Do I ever visit with you at Belgrave?”

“You visit all the time.”

“And see you for the prescribed ten minutes, fifteen if you are feeling generous.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “You were far more amenable when you thought I was drunk.”

“You were drunk.”

“Regardless.” He bowed his head for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. Blast it all, what was he going to do about this?

“Is your head bothering you?” she asked.

He looked up.

“You do that”-she imitated his gesture-“when your head is bothering you.

He’d been doing it so much during the past twenty-four hours, it was a wonder the spot wasn’t as bruised as his eye. “Any number of things are bothering me,” he said curtly, but she looked so stricken he was compelled to add, “I do not refer to you.”

Her lips parted but she did not comment.

He did not speak, either, and a full minute passed before she said, her voice careful, and indeed almost rueful, “I think we shall have to go. To Belgrave,” she clarified, when his gaze caught hers.