Page 116 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“No,” she said immediately. “No. I could never—”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, cutting her off before she could say something that might make him feel even more of a clod. “Merely that you’ve had your life overturned as well.”

He helped her up to her saddle, trying not to allow his hands to linger at her waist. Or to notice that she smelled like roses.

“It’s not far back to Cloverhill,” she said once they were on their way.

He nodded.

“Oh yes, of course you must know that. You’d have ridden past, on the way back from Maguiresbridge.”

He nodded again.

She nodded, too, then faced front, her eyes focused securely on the road ahead of her. She was quite a good rider, he noted. He did not know how she’d fare under less sedate conditions, but her posture and seat were perfect.

He wondered if her spine would soften, if her shoulders might slouch just a bit if she actually turned and looked at him.

But she didn’t. Every time he glanced in her direction, he saw her profile. Until finally they reached the turnoff to Cloverhill.

“The end of the drive, I believe you specified,” he murmured.

“Are you coming in?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t tentative, but there was something heartbreakingly careful about it.

“No.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

He doubted that she did, but there seemed no reason to say it.

“Are you coming back at all?” she asked.

“No.” He hadn’t thought about it until this moment, but no, he did not wish to journey back to England with their traveling party. “I will make my own way back to Belgrave,” he told her. And after that, he could not say. He supposed he’d remain in residence for a week or so to show Jack what was what. Collect his belongings. Surely some of it was his and not the dukedom’s. It would be rather hard to swallow if he did not even own his own boots.

Why that was more depressing than the loss of the entire bloody castle, he’d never know.

“Good-bye, then,” she said, and she smiled a bit. But just a bit. In its own way, her smile was the saddest thing he’d ever seen.

“Good-bye, Amelia.”

She paused for a moment, then nudged her mount to the left, preparing to set off down the drive.

“Wait!” he called out.

She turned in her seat, her eyes shining hopeful. A bit of her hair caught the breeze, lifting through the air in a sinuous arc before she impatiently jabbed at it, shoving it behind her ear.

“I must beg a favor,” he said. It was true, actually, although that did not quite explain the relief he felt when she brought her mount back to his side.

“Of course,” she said.

“I need to write a short letter. To the duke.” He cleared his throat. It was difficult to guess just how long it would take before that rolled off his tongue. “Will you be my messenger?”

“Yes, but I would be happy just to pass along a message. So you don’t have to go to the trouble of…” Her hand worked awkwardly through the air. “Well, to the trouble of writing it, I suppose.”

“If you pass along my words, they will know you have seen me.”

Her lips parted but she did not reply.

“You have your reputation to consider,” he said quietly.

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