Page 101 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“Your father—” he said, his voice choked.

“He wants me to be a duchess.”

“He wants what’s best for you.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

The look she gave him was devastating. “Don’t say that. Say anything else, but don’t say I don’t know my own mind.”

“Amelia…”

“No.”

It was a horrible sound. Just that one syllable. But it came from deep within her. And he felt it all. Her pain, her anger, her frustration—they sliced through him with startling precision.

“I’m sorry,” he said, because he did not know what else to say. And he was sorry. He wasn’t sure what for, but this horrible aching feeling in his chest—it had to be sorrow.

Or maybe regret.

That she wasn’t his.

That she would never be his.

That he could not set aside the one little piece of him that knew how to be upstanding and true. That he could not say to hell with it all and just take her, right here, right now.

That, much to his surprise, it turned out that it wasn’t the Duke of Wyndham who always did the right thing.

It was Thomas Cavendish.

The one piece of himself he would never lose.

Chapter 18

It was ironic, Amelia had thought more than once during the journey to Cloverhill that she had recently become so enamored of cartography. Because she was only just now coming to realize how thoroughly her own life had been mapped out by others. Even with all her plans torn asunder, her new map, with whatever routes her life was meant to take, was being drawn by others.

Her father.

The dowager.

Even Thomas.

Everyone, it seemed, had a hand in her future except for her. But not tonight.

“It’s late,” she said softly.

His eyes widened, and she could see his confusion.

“But not too late,” she whispered. She looked up. The clouds had blown off. She hadn’t felt the wind—she hadn’t felt anything except for him, and he hadn’t even touched her. But somehow the sky was clear. The stars were out.

That was important. She didn’t know why, but it was.

“Thomas,” she whispered, and her heart was skipping. Pounding.

Breaking.

“Thom—”

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