Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

The night was clearly drawing to a close. Thomas noted that the musicians had set down their instruments and the crowd had thinned a bit. Grace and his grandmother were nowhere to be seen.

Amelia’s parents were in the far corner, chatting with a local squire, so he steered her across the floor, nodding at those who greeted them, but not choosing to pause in his journey.

And then his future bride spoke. Softly, just for his ears. But something about the question was devastating.

“Don’t you ever get tired of the world ceasing its rotation every time you enter a room?”

He felt his feet grow still, and he looked at her. Her eyes, which he could now see were somewhat green, were open wide. But he did not see sarcasm in those depths. Her query was an honest one, fueled not by spite but by quiet curiosity.

It wasn’t his practice to reveal his deeper thoughts to anyone, but in that moment he grew unbearably weary, and perhaps just a little bit tired of being himself. And so he shook his head slowly, and said, “Every minute of every day.”

* * *

Many hours later, Thomas was climbing the steps to his bedroom in Belgrave Castle. He was tired. And in a bad temper. Or if not bad, exactly, then certainly not good.

He felt impatient, mostly with himself. He’d spent the better part of the evening ruminating on his conversation with Lady Amelia, which was annoying enough—he’d never wasted quite so much time on her before.

But instead of coming straight home from the assembly, as had been his original intention, he’d driven to Stamford to visit Celeste. Except once he’d got there, he hadn’t particularly felt like knocking upon her door.

All he could think was that he’d have to talk with her, because that was the sort of friendship they had; Celeste was not a high-stepping actress or opera singer.

She was a proper widow, and he had to treat her as such, which meant conversation and other niceties, whether or not he was in the mood for words.

Or other niceties.

And so he’d sat in his curricle, parked in the street in front of her house, for at least ten minutes. Finally, feeling like a fool, he left. Drove across town. Stopped at a public inn where he was not familiar with the cli-entele and had a pint. Rather enjoyed it, actually—the solitude, that was. The solitude and the blessed peace of not a single person approaching him with a query or a favor or, God help him, a compliment.

He’d nursed his pint for a good hour, doing nothing but watching the people around him, and then, noticing that the hour had grown preposterously late, he went home.

He yawned. His bed was extremely comfortable, and he planned to make good use of it. Possibly until noon.

Belgrave was quiet when he let himself in. The servants had long since gone to bed, and so, apparently, had his grandmother.

Thank God.

He supposed he loved her. It was a theoretical thing, really, because he certainly did not like her. But then again, no one did. He supposed he owed her some fealty.

She had borne a son who had then married a woman who had borne him. One had to appreciate one’s own existence, if nothing else.

But beyond that, he couldn’t think of any reason to hold her in any affection whatsoever. Augusta Elizabeth Candida Debenham Cavendish was, to put it politely, not a very nice person.

He’d heard stories from people who’d known her long ago, that even if she’d never been friendly, at least she had once been perhaps not so un friendly. But this was well before he’d been born, before two of her three sons died, the eldest of the same fever that took her husband, and the next in a shipwreck off the coast of Ireland.

Thomas’s father had never expected to become the duke, not with two perfectly healthy older brothers.

Fate was a fickle thing, really.

Thomas yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth, and moved quietly across the hall toward the stairs.

And then, to his great surprise, he saw—

“Grace?”

She let out a little squeak of surprise and stumbled off the last step. Reflexively, he sprang forward to steady her, his hands grasping her upper arms until she found her footing.

“Your grace,” she said, sounding impossibly tired.

He stepped back, eyeing her curiously. They had long since dispensed with the formalities of titles while at home. She was, in fact, one of the few people who used his given name. “What the devil are you doing awake?”

he asked. “It’s got to be after two.”

“After three, actually,” she sighed.

Thomas watched her for a moment, trying to imagine what his grandmother could possibly have done that might require her companion to be up and about at this time of night. He was almost afraid even to ponder it; the devil only knew what she might have come up with.

“Grace?” he asked gently, because the poor girl looked truly exhausted.

She blinked, giving her head a little shake. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Why are you wandering the halls?”

“Your grandmother is not feeling well,” she said with a rueful smile. And then she abruptly added, “You’re home late.”

“I had business in Stamford,” he said brusquely. He considered Grace one of his only true friends, but she was still every inch a lady, and he would never insult her by mentioning Celeste in her presence.

Besides, he was still rather annoyed with himself for his indecisiveness. Why the devil had he driven all the way to Stamford just to turn around?

Grace cleared her throat. “We had an . . . exciting evening,” she said, adding almost reluctantly, “We were accosted by highwaymen.”

“Good God,” he exclaimed, looking at her more closely. “Are you all right? Is my grandmother well?”