Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
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.
Chapter 20
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 tire-some.
She did not deserve his foul mood, but then again, he had attempted to remove himself from social interac-tion. 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.