Julia Quinn - Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

He moved forward. Where the devil was she? She couldn’t have gone far. More than that, she wouldn’t have gone far. Not Amelia.

“Amelia?” he whispered.

Nothing.

“Amelia?” It was as loud as he dared.

And then suddenly there she was, sitting up in the grass. “Thomas?”

“Were you lying down?”

Her hair was down, hanging down her back in a simple braid. He didn’t know that he’d ever seen her this way. He couldn’t imagine when he could have done. “I was looking at the stars,” she said.

He looked up. He couldn’t not, after such a statement.

“I was waiting for the clouds to pass,” she explained.

“Why?”

“Why?” she echoed, looking at him as if he was the one who’d just made an incomprehensible statement.

“It is the middle of the night.”

“Yes, I know.” She tucked her feet under her, then pushed down against the ground with her hands and stood. “But it’s my last chance.”

“For what?”

She gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know.”

He started to say something, to scold her, shake his head at her foolishness. But then she smiled.

She looked so beautiful he almost felt struck.

“Amelia.” He didn’t know why he was saying her name. He had nothing specific to tell her. But she was there, standing before him, and he had never wanted a woman-no, he had never wanted anything-more than he wanted her.

On a damp lawn, in the middle of Ireland, in the middle of the night, he wanted her.

Completely.

He hadn’t let himself think about it. He desired her; he’d long since given up pretending he didn’t. But he had not let himself dream it, not let himself see it in his mind-his hands on her shoulders, sliding down her back. Her dress, falling away beneath his hungry fingers, exposing her perfect-

“You need to go inside,” he said hoarsely.

She shook her head.

He took a long, haggard breath. Did she know what she risked, remaining out here with him? It was taking all his strength-more than he’d ever dreamed he possessed-to keep himself rooted to his spot, two proper paces away from her. Close…so close, and yet not within his reach.

“I want to be outside,” she said.

He met her eyes, which was a mistake, because everything she was feeling-every hurt, and wrong, and insecurity-he saw them, hovering in her amazing eyes.

It tore through him.

“I was upstairs,” she continued, “and it was stuffy, and hot. Only it wasn’t hot, but it felt like it should be.”

It was the damnedest thing, but he understood.

“I’m tired of feeling trapped,” she said sadly. “My whole life, I’ve been told where to be, what to say, who to talk to…”

“Who to marry,” he said softly.

She gave a small nod. “I just wanted to feel free. If only for an hour.”

He looked at her hand. It would be so easy to reach out, to take it in his. Just one step forward. That was all it would take. One step, and she would be in his arms.

But he said, “You need to go inside.” Because it was what he was supposed to say. It was what she was supposed to do.

He could not kiss her. Not now. Not here. Not when he had absolutely no faith in his ability to break it off.

To end a kiss with a kiss. He didn’t think he could do it.

“I don’t want to marry him,” she said.

Something within him curled and tightened. He’d known this; she’d made it more than clear. But still…now…when she stood there in the moonlight…

They were impossible words. Impossible to bear. Impossible to ignore.

I don’t want him to have you.

But he didn’t say it. He could not let himself say it. Because he knew, come morning when all was revealed, Jack Audley would almost certainly be proven as the Duke of Wyndham. And if he said it, if he said to her, right now-be with me…

She would do it.

He could see it in her eyes.

Maybe she even thought she loved him. And why wouldn’t she? She had been told her entire life that she was supposed to love him, to obey him, to be grateful for his attentions and for the luck that had bound her to him so many years ago.

But she didn’t really know him. Right now he wasn’t even sure he knew himself. How could he ask her to be with him when he had nothing to offer?

She deserved more.

“Amelia,” he whispered, because he had to say something. She was waiting for it, for his reply.

She shook her head. “I don’t want to do it.”

“Your father-” he said, his voice choked.

“He wants me to be a duchess.”

“He wants what’s best for you.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

The look she gave him was devastating. “Don’t say that. Say anything else, but don’t say I don’t know my own mind.”

“Amelia…”

“No.”

It was a horrible sound. Just that one syllable. But it came from deep within her. And he felt it all. Her pain, her anger, her frustration-they sliced through him with startling precision.

“I’m sorry,” he said, because he did not know what else to say. And he was sorry. He wasn’t sure what for, but this horrible aching feeling in his chest-it had to be sorrow.

Or maybe regret.

That she wasn’t his.

That she would never be his.

That he could not set aside the one little piece of him that knew how to be upstanding and true. That he could not say to hell with it all and just take her, right here, right now.

That, much to his surprise, it turned out that it wasn’t the Duke of Wyndham who always did the right thing.

It was Thomas Cavendish.

The one piece of himself he would never lose.

It was ironic, Amelia had thought more than once during the journey to Cloverhill that she had recently become so enamored of cartography. Because she was only just now coming to realize how thoroughly her own life had been mapped out by others. Even with all her plans torn asunder, her new map, with whatever routes her life was meant to take, was being drawn by others.

Her father.

The dowager.

Even Thomas.

Everyone, it seemed, had a hand in her future except for her. But not tonight.

“It’s late,” she said softly.

His eyes widened, and she could see his confusion.

“But not too late,” she whispered. She looked up. The clouds had blown off. She hadn’t felt the wind-she hadn’t felt anything except for him, and he hadn’t even touched her. But somehow the sky was clear. The stars were out.

That was important. She didn’t know why, but it was.

“Thomas,” she whispered, and her heart was skipping. Pounding.

Breaking.

“Thom-”

“Don’t,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say my name.”

Why?

It was on the tip of her tongue, desperate to be voiced, but she didn’t ask. Somehow she knew she shouldn’t. Whatever the answer was, she didn’t want to hear it. Not now, not when he was staring down at her with such a hot, sad intensity.

“No one is here,” she whispered. It was true. Everyone was asleep. And she wasn’t sure why she was saying something so obvious. Maybe she just wanted him to know…without saying it so clearly. If he leaned down, if he kissed her…

She would welcome it.

He shook his head. “Someone is always here.”

But he was wrong. It was the middle of the night. Everyone was asleep. They were alone, and she wanted…she wanted…

“Kiss me.”

His eyes flared, and for a moment it almost looked as if he were in pain. “Amelia, don’t.”

“Please.” She smiled, as cheekily as she could manage. “You owe it to me.”

“I-” First he looked surprised, then amused. “I owe it to you?”

“For twenty years of engagement. You owe me a kiss.”

He slid into a reluctant smile. “For twenty years of engagement, I should think I’d owe you several.”

She wet her lips. They’d gone dry from the fast rush of her breath. “One will suffice.”

“No,” he said softly, “it wouldn’t. It would never be enough.”

She stopped breathing. He was going to do it. He was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss her, and by God, she would kiss him back.

She stepped forward.

“Don’t,” he said, but his voice was not firm.

She reached out, her hand coming within inches of his.

“Amelia, don’t,” he said roughly.

Oh no. He was not going to push her away. She would not let him. He was not going to say it was for her own good, or that he knew best, or that anyone knew best except for her. This was her life, and her night, and as God was her witness, he was her man.

She launched herself at him.

On him, really.

“Am-”

It might have been her name he’d been trying to say. Or it might have been a grunt of surprise. She didn’t know. She didn’t care. She was much too far gone to worry over such trivialities. She had his face in her hands and she was kissing him. Clumsily, perhaps, but with all the crazy energy that was burning through her.

She loved him.

She loved him. Maybe she hadn’t told him, and maybe she’d never be given the opportunity to do so, but she loved him. And right now she was going to kiss him.

Because that’s what a woman in love did.

“Thomas,” she said, because she would say his name. She’d say it over and over if he’d only let her.

“Amelia…” He put his hands on her shoulders, preparing to push her away.

She could not allow it. She threw her arms around him, pressing the length of her body against his. Her hands sank into his hair, pulling him toward her as her lips pressed against his. “Thomas,” she moaned, the word sinking into his skin. “Thomas, please…”

But he didn’t move. He stood stiffly, with no reaction to her onslaught, and then…