Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

She was the reasonably attractive, intelligent (but not— oh, thank you, Mother—too intelligent), well-dowered daughter of an earl. She’d not remain on the shelf for long.

It would all have been perfectly acceptable if she hadn’t gone and fallen in love with him.

Him. Not the title, not the castle. Him.

But he would never understand that.

She hurried across the lawn, hugging her arms to her body to ward off the evening chill. She’d taken the long way around so she would not pass by the drawing room window. It occurred to her that she was getting quite experienced at sneaking around this house.

There had to be something funny in that.

Or at the very least, ironic.

Or maybe just sad.

She could see the gazebo in the distance, its white paint visible in the dimming light. It would only be another minute before—

“Amelia.”

“Oh!” She jumped a foot. “Dear heavens, Thomas, you gave me a fright.”

He smiled lopsidedly. “You weren’t expecting me?”

“Not here.” The gazebo was still many yards away.

“My apologies. I saw you and it seemed impolite not to make myself known.”

“No, of course, I’m just—” She took a breath, patting her chest with her hand. “My heart is still racing.”

There was a moment of silence, and then another.

And then one more.

It was awful. Awkward and empty and all those things she’d thought were normal back before she truly knew him. When he was the duke, and she was his lucky fiancée. And they never had anything to say to each other.

“Here you are.” He thrust a piece of paper at her, folded over and sealed with wax. Then he gave her his signet ring. “I was going to use it on the wax,” he said,

“but then I realized . . . ”

She looked down at the ring, emblazoned with the Wyndham crest. “It would have been funny, actually.”

“Painfully so.”

She touched the wax. It was smooth where it had been pressed down with a plain, flat stamp. She looked up and tried to smile. “Perhaps I shall get you a new one. For your birthday.”

“A new ring?”

Oh dear, that had come out wrong. “No, of course not.” She cleared her throat, embarrassed now, then mumbled, “That would be too presumptuous.”

He waited, then cocked his head forward to indicate that he was still wondering what she’d meant.

“A stamp. For sealing wax,” she explained, and she hated the cadence of her voice. Only four words, but she sounded all babblish. Silly and nervous. “You’ll still need to send letters.”

He seemed intrigued. “What shall you choose as the design?”

“I don’t know.” She looked down at the ring again, then put it in her pocket for safekeeping. “Have you a motto?”

He shook his head.

“Do you want a motto?”

“Do you want to give me one?”

She chuckled. “Oh, you should not tempt me.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that given time, I could come up with something far more clever than Mors œrumnarum requies.”

His brow furrowed as he attempted to translate.

“Death is rest from afflictions,” she informed him.

He laughed.

“The Willoughby heraldic motto,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Since the time of the Plantagenets.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“On the other hand, we do live to very old ages.”

And then, because she was finally enjoying herself, she added, “Crippled, arthritic, and wheezing, I’m sure.”

“Don’t forget gout.”

“You’re so kind to remind me.” She rolled her eyes, then gave him a curious look. “What is the Cavendish motto?”

“Sola nobilitus virtas.”

Sola nobili— She gave up. “My Latin is rusty.”

“Virtue is the only nobility.”

“Oh.” She winced. “That is ironic.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

She didn’t know what to say after that. And neither, apparently, did he. She smiled awkwardly. “Right.

Well.” She held up the missive. “I shall take good care of this.”

“Thank you.”

“Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye.”

She turned to go, then stopped and turned back around, holding the letter about level with her shoulder.

“Should I assume this means that you do not plan to rejoin us at Cloverhill?”

“No. I would not be good company.”

She gave him a little nod, her lips in an awkward, close-mouthed smile. Her arm came back down, and she knew she should leave. And she started to, she really did, or at least she thought about starting to, but then—

“It’s all in there,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?” She sounded a bit breathless, but maybe he did not notice.

“The letter,” he explained. “I laid out my intentions.

For Jack.”

“Of course.” She nodded, trying not think about how jerky the movement felt. “I’m sure you were very thorough.”

“Conscientious in all things,” he murmured.

“Your new motto?” She was holding her breath, delighted to have found a new avenue of conversation.

She did not want to say good-bye. If she walked away now, it was all done, wasn’t it?

He smiled politely and dipped his chin at her. “I shall look forward to your gift.”

“Then I will see you again?” Oh, blast. Blast blast blast. She had not meant that to come out as a question. It was supposed to be a statement, dry and sophisticated and definitely not uttered in that tiny little pathetically hopeful voice.