Julia Quinn - The Lost Duke of Wyndham

“No, of course not,” Grace said hurriedly. What was she to say to Amelia-that she was so desperately in love with him herself that she could not imagine anyone not wanting him? “It’s just that he’s so handsome,” she improvised.

Amelia gave a little shrug. “I suppose.”

She supposed? Hadn’t she ever seen him smile?

But then Amelia said, “Don’t you find him a little too charming?”

“No.” Grace immediately looked down at her hands, because her no had come out in not at all the tone of voice she’d intended. And indeed, Amelia must have heard it, too, because her next words were-

“Grace Eversleigh, do you fancy Mr. Audley?”

Grace stammered and stumbled, and managed a rather croaky, “I-” before Amelia cut in with-

“You do.”

“It does not signify,” Grace said, because what was she supposed to say? To Amelia, who might or might not be engaged to marry him.

“Of course it signifies. Does he fancy you?”

Grace wanted to melt into the seat.

“No,” Amelia said, sounding highly amused. “Don’t answer. I can see from your face that he does. Well. I certainly shall not marry him now.”

Grace swallowed. Her throat tasted bitter. “You should not refuse him on my account.”

“What did you just say?”

“I can’t marry him if he’s the duke.”

“Why not?”

Grace tried to smile, because really, it was sweet of Amelia to ignore the difference in their positions. But she could not quite manage it. “If he is the duke, he will need to marry someone suitable. Of your rank.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Amelia scoffed. “It’s not as if you grew up in an orphanage.”

“There will be scandal enough. He must not add to it with a sensational marriage.”

“An actress would be sensational. You will merely be a week’s worth of gossip.”

It would be more than that, but Grace saw no point in arguing further. But then Amelia said-

“I do not know Mr. Audley’s mind, or his intentions, but if he is prepared to dare everything for love, then you should be, too.”

Grace looked at her. How was it that Amelia suddenly looked so very wise? When had that happened? When had she stopped being Elizabeth’s little sister and become…herself?

Amelia reached out and squeezed her hand. “Be a woman of courage, Grace.” She smiled then, murmuring something to herself as she turned and looked out the window.

Grace stared straight ahead, thinking…wondering…was Amelia right? Or was it just that she had never faced hardship? It was easy to talk about being courageous when one had never come face-to-face with desperation.

What would happen if a woman of her background married a duke? Thomas’s mother had not been an aristocrat, but when she married his father, he was only third in line to inherit, and no one had expected her to become a duchess. By all accounts, she had been dreadfully unhappy. Miserable, even.

But Thomas’s parents had not loved each other. They had not even liked each other, from what Grace had heard.

But she loved Jack.

And he loved her.

Still, it would all be so much simpler if he turned out not to be the legitimate son of John Cavendish.

And then, out of nowhere, Amelia whispered, “We could blame the dowager.” As Grace turned to her in confusion, Amelia clarified, “For this. You said it would be easier if we had someone to blame.”

Grace looked over at the dowager, who was seated across from Amelia. She was snoring softly, and her head was perched at what had to be an uncomfortable angle. It was remarkable, but even in repose her mouth was pinched and unpleasant.

“It’s certainly more her fault than anyone else’s,” Amelia added, but Grace noted that she tossed a nervous glance at the dowager as she spoke.

Grace nodded, murmuring, “I cannot disagree with that.”

Amelia stared off into space for several seconds, and then, just when Grace was convinced that she did not plan to respond, she said, “It didn’t make me feel any better.”

“Blaming the dowager?”

“Yes.” Amelia’s shoulders slumped a bit. “It’s still horrible. The whole thing.”

“Dreadful,” Grace agreed.

Amelia turned and looked at her directly. “Sodding bad.”

Grace gasped. “Amelia!”

Amelia’s face wrinkled in thought. “Did I use that correctly?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, come now, don’t tell me you haven’t thought something just as unladylike.”

“I wouldn’t say it.”

The look Amelia gave her was as clear as a dare. “But you thought it.”

Grace felt her lips twitch. “It’s a damned shame.”

“A bloody inconvenience, if you ask me,” Amelia responded, fast enough so Grace knew she’d been saving that one.

“I have an advantage, you know,” Grace said archly.

“Oh, really?”

“Indeed. I am privy to the servants’ talk.”

“Oh, come now, you won’t be convincing me that the housemaids at Belgrave talk like the fishmonger.”

“No, but sometimes the footmen do.”

“In front of you?”

“Not on purpose,” Grace admitted, “but it happens.”

“Very well.” Amelia turned to her with quirked lips and humor in her eyes. “Do your worst.”

Grace thought for a moment and then, after darting a quick glance across the carriage to make sure that the dowager was still asleep, she leaned forward and whispered in Amelia’s ear.

When she was through, Amelia drew back and stared at her, blinking three times before saying, “I’m not sure I know what that means.”

Grace frowned. “I don’t think I do, either.”

“It sounds bad, though.”

“Sodding bad,” Grace said with a smile, and she patted Amelia’s hand.

Amelia sighed. “A damned shame.”

“We’re repeating ourselves,” Grace pointed out.

“I know,” Amelia said, with a fair bit of feeling. “But whose fault is it? Not ours. We’ve been far too sheltered.”

“Now that,” Grace announced with flair, “really is a damned shame.”

“A bloody inconvenience, if you ask me.”

“What the devil are the two of you talking about?”

Grace gulped, and she stole a glance at Amelia, who was staring at the now quite awake dowager with a similar look of horror.

“Well?” the dowager demanded.

“Nothing,” Grace chirped.

The dowager regarded her with a most unpleasant expression, then turned her icy attentions to Amelia. “And you, Lady Amelia. Where is your breeding?”

And then Amelia-oh, dear heavens-she shrugged her shoulders and said, “Damned if I know.”

Grace tried to hold still, but her shock positively burst out of her, and she rather feared she spat upon the dowager. Which did seem ironic, that the first time she did such a thing, it should be accidental.

“You are disgusting,” the dowager hissed. “I cannot believe I considered forgiving you.”

“Stop picking on Grace,” Amelia said. With surprising force.

Grace turned to Amelia in surprise.

The dowager, however, was furious. “I beg your pardon.”

“I said, stop picking on Grace.”

“And who do you think you are, to order me about?”

As Grace watched Amelia, she would have sworn she changed right before her very eyes. Gone was the unsure girl, in her place was: “The future Duchess of Wyndham, or so I’m told.”

Grace’s lips parted in shock. And admiration.

“Because really,” Amelia added disdainfully, “if I’m not, what the devil am I doing here, halfway across Ireland?”

Grace’s eyes darted from Amelia to the dowager and back. And then back again. And then-

Well, suffice it to say, it was a monstrously long moment of silence.

“Do not speak again,” the dowager finally said. “I cannot tolerate the sound of your voices.”

And indeed, they all remained silent for the rest of the journey. Even the dowager.

Outside the carriage, the atmosphere was considerably less tense. The three men remained on horseback, never quite in a line. Every now and then one of them would increase his pace or fall behind, and one horse would pass another. Perfunctory greetings would be exchanged.

Occasionally someone would comment on the weather.

Lord Crowland seemed rather interested in the native birds.

Thomas didn’t say much, but-Jack glanced over at him-good Lord, was he whistling?

“Are you happy?” Jack asked, his voice a bit short.

Thomas looked back in surprise. “Me?” He frowned, thinking about it. “I suppose I am. It’s a rather fine day, don’t you think?”

“A fine day,” Jack echoed.

“None of us is trapped in the carriage with that evil old hag,” Crowland announced. “We should all be happy.” Then he added, “Pardon,” since the evil old hag was, after all, grandmother to both of his companions.

“Pardons unnecessary on my account,” Thomas said. “I agree with your assessment completely.”

There had to be something significant in this, Jack thought-that their conversation kept returning to how relieved they all were not to be in the dowager’s presence. It was damned strange, to tell the truth, and yet, it did make one think…

“Will I have to live with her?” he blurted out.

Thomas looked over and grinned. “The Outer Hebrides, my man, the Outer Hebrides.”

“Why didn’t you do it?” Jack demanded.

“Oh, believe me, I will, on the off chance I still possess any power over her tomorrow. And if I don’t…” Thomas shrugged. “I’ll need some sort of employment, won’t I? I always wished to travel. Perhaps I shall be your scout. I’ll find the oldest, coldest place on the island. I shall have a rollicking good time.”

“For God’s sake,” Jack swore. “Stop talking like that.” He did not want this to be preordained. He did not want it to be understood. Thomas ought to be fighting for his place in the world, not blithely handing it over.