Julia Quinn - Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

Amelia choked back a cry. He had lost the title. He didn’t have to say a word. He did not even have to look at her. She could see it in his face.

“How dare you leave without me?” the dowager demanded. “Where is it? I demand to see the register.”

But no one spoke. Thomas remained unmoving, stiff and proud, like the duke they’d all thought he was, and Jack-good heavens, he looked positively ill. His color was high, and it was clear to Amelia that he was breathing far too fast.

“What did you find?” the dowager practically screamed.

Amelia stared at Thomas. He did not speak.

“He is Wyndham,” Jack finally said. “As he should be.”

Amelia gasped, hoping, praying that she’d been wrong about the look on Thomas’s face. She did not care about the title or the riches or the land. She just wanted him, but he was too bloody proud to give himself to her if he was nothing more than Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire.

The dowager turned sharply toward Thomas. “Is this true?”

Thomas said nothing.

The dowager repeated her question, grabbing Thomas’s arm with enough ferocity to make Amelia wince.

“There is no record of a marriage,” Jack insisted.

Thomas said nothing.

“Thomas is the duke,” Jack said again, but he sounded scared. Desperate. “Why aren’t you listening? Why isn’t anyone listening to me?”

Amelia held her breath.

“He lies,” Thomas said in a low voice.

Amelia swallowed, because her only other option was to cry.

“No,” Jack burst out, “I’m telling you-”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Thomas snapped. “Do you think no one will find you out? There will be witnesses. Do you really think there won’t be any witnesses to the wedding? For God’s sake, you can’t rewrite the past.” He looked at the fire. “Or burn it, as the case may be.”

Amelia stared at him, and then she realized-he could have lied.

He could have lied. But he didn’t.

If he’d lied-

“He tore the page from the register,” Thomas said, his voice a strange, detached monotone. “He threw it into the fire.”

As one, the room turned, mesmerized by the flames crackling in the fireplace. But there was nothing to see, not even those dark sooty swirls that rose into the air when paper burned. No evidence at all of Jack’s crime. If Thomas had lied-

No one would have known. He could have kept it all. He could have kept his title. His money.

He could have kept her.

“It’s yours,” Thomas said, turning to Jack. And then he bowed. To Jack. Who looked aghast.

Thomas turned, facing the rest of the room. “I am-” He cleared his throat, and when he continued, his voice was even and proud. “I am Mr. Cavendish,” he said, “and I bid you all a good day.”

And then he left. He brushed past them all and walked right out the door.

He didn’t look at Amelia.

And as she stood there in silence, it occurred to her-he hadn’t looked at her at all. Not even once. He had stood in place, staring at the wall, at Jack, at his grandmother, even at Grace.

But he’d never looked at her.

It was a strange thing in which to take comfort. But she did.

Thomas had no idea where he intended to go. When he moved through the rectory, brushing past the housekeeper, who’d gone from disinterest to unabashed eavesdropping; when he walked down the front steps and into the bright Irish sunlight; when he stood there for a moment, blinking, disoriented, he only had one thought-

Away.

He had to get away.

He did not want to see his grandmother. He did not want to see the new Duke of Wyndham.

He did not want Amelia to see him.

And so he hopped on his horse and rode. He rode all the way to Butlersbridge, since it was the only place he knew. He passed the drive to Cloverhill-he was not ready to go back there, not when the rest of them would be returning so soon-and continued on until he saw a public house on his right. It looked reputable enough, so he dismounted and went in.

And that was where Amelia found him, five hours later.

“We’ve been looking for you,” she said, her tone trying to be bright and cheerful.

Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing one finger along the bridge of his nose before he replied. “It appears you have found me.”

She sucked in her lips, her eyes resting on the half-empty tankard of ale that sat before him.

“I am not drunk, if that is what you are wondering.”

“I would not fault you if you were.”

“A tolerant woman.” He sat back in his chair, his posture lazy and loose. “What a pity I did not marry you.”

Not drunk, perhaps, but he’d had enough alcohol to have become a little bit mean.

She did not reply. Which was probably for the best. If she’d given him the set-down he so richly deserved, he’d have had to respond in kind. Because that was the sort of mood he was in. And then he’d have to dislike himself even more than he did right now.

Frankly, he found the whole proposition rather tiresome.

She did not deserve his foul mood, but then again, he had attempted to remove himself from social interaction. She was the one who had hunted him down, all the way to the Derragarra Inn.

She sat in the chair across from him, regarding him with an even expression. And then it occurred to him-

“What are you doing here?”

“I believe I said I was looking for you.”

He looked around. They were in a pub, for God’s sake. Men were drinking. “You came without a chaperone?”

She gave a little shrug. “I doubt anyone has noticed I’ve gone missing. There is quite a bit of excitement at Cloverhill.”

“All are feting the new duke?” he asked, dry and wry.

She cocked her head to the side, a tiny acknowledgment of his sarcasm. “All are feting his upcoming marriage.”

He looked up sharply at that.

“Not to me,” she put in hastily, raising a hand as if to ward off the query.

“Yes,” he murmured. “All that feting would be a bit awkward without the bride.”

Her mouth clamped together, betraying her impatience with him. But she kept her temper, saying, “He is marrying Grace.”

“Is he now?” He smiled at that. For real. “That’s good. That’s a good thing.”

“They seem to love each other very much.”

He looked up at her. She was sitting very quietly. It wasn’t just her voice, though; it was her demeanor, her aspect. Her hair was pulled back loosely, with a few misbehaving tendrils tucked behind her ears, and her mouth-she wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t frowning, either. Considering all that had transpired that day, she was remarkably serene and composed. And maybe a little happy. If not for herself, then for Jack and Grace.

“The proposal was very romantic,” she informed him.

“You witnessed it?”

She grinned. “We all did.”

“Even my grandmother?”

“Oh, yes.”

He chuckled, despite his determination to remain cross. “I am sorry I missed it.”

“I am sorry you missed it, too.”

There was something in her voice…And when he looked up, there was something in her eyes, too. But he didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to know it. He did not want her pity or her sympathy or whatever it was when a woman’s face held that awful expression-a little bit maternal, a little bit sad, as if she wanted to fix his problems for him, make it all go away with a kiss and a There, there.

Was it too much to ask for a few bloody moments to wallow in his own miseries?

And they were his own. It wasn’t the sort of thing that could ever be classified as a shared experience.

Ah, yes, I am the man formerly known as the Duke of Wyndham.

It was going to be bloody brilliant at parties.

“I think Mr. Audley is scared,” Amelia said.

“He should be.”

She nodded a bit at that, her expression thoughtful. “I suppose so. He will have a great deal to learn. You always seemed terribly busy whenever I was at Belgrave.”

He took a drink of his ale, not because he wanted it-it was his third tankard, and he rather thought he’d had enough. But if she thought he was planning to drink himself stupid, perhaps she’d leave.

It would be easier without her.

Today. Here. He was Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire, and right now it would be easier without her.

But she did not take the hint, and if anything, she seemed to be settling more deeply into her seat as she said, “Grace will help him, I’m sure. She knows so much about Belgrave.”

“She’s a good woman.”

“Yes, she is.” She looked down at her fingers, idly tracing the scratches and grooves in the table, then glanced back up. “I did not know her very well before this trip.”

He found that an odd statement. “You have known her your entire life.”

“But not well,” she clarified. “She was always Elizabeth’s friend, not mine.”

“I imagine Grace would disagree with that assessment.”

Her brows rose, just enough to exhibit her disdain. “It is easy to see that you don’t have siblings.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s impossible for one to have friendships in equal measure with two siblings. One must always be the primary friend.”

“How complicated it must be,” he said in a dry voice, “befriending the Willoughby sisters.”

“Five times more complicated than befriending you.”

“But not nearly as difficult.”

She looked at him with a cool expression. “At the moment, I would have to concur.”

“Ouch.” He smiled, but without much humor. Much being a bit of an overstatement.

She did not respond, which for some reason needled him. And so-even though he knew he was being an ass-he leaned over, peering down at her hands.