Page 42 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

Amelia thought quickly, then said to Milly, “Tell her that Grace had to leave straightaway, so I didn’t have time to come in and inform her of the change of plans myself. Tell her Grace had no choice. The dowager needed her.”

“The dowager,” Milly echoed, nodding. They all knew the dowager.

“Mother won’t mind,” Amelia assured her. “She’ll be delighted, I’m sure. She’s always trying to send me over to Belgrave. Now go.” She gave her sister a little push, then thought the better of it and yanked her back. “No, don’t go. Not yet.”

Milly looked at her with patent aggravation.

“Give me a moment to get him out of view.”

“To get yourself out of view,” Milly said pertly.

Amelia jammed down the urge to shake her sister senseless, and instead gave her a hard stare. “Can you do this?”

Milly looked miffed that she’d even asked. “Of course.”

“Good.” Amelia gave her a brisk nod. “Thank you.” She took a step, then added, “Don’t watch.”

“Oh, now you ask too much,” Milly warned her.

Amelia decided she couldn’t push the matter. If their positions were reversed, she would never look away. “Fine. Just don’t say a word.”

“Not even to Elizabeth?”

“No one.”

Milly nodded, and Amelia knew she could trust her. Elizabeth might not know how to keep her mouth shut, but Milly (with the proper motivation) was a vault. And as Amelia was the only person who knew precisely how Lord Crowland’s entire collection of imported cigars had gotten soaked by an overturned teapot (her mother had detested the cigars and thus declared herself uninterested in finding the culprit)…

Well, let it be said that Milly had ample motivation to hold her tongue.

With one final glance in her sister’s direction, Amelia dashed across the street, taking care to avoid the puddles that had accumulated during the previous night’s rainfall. She approached Wyndham—still somewhat hoping that it wasn’t actually he—and, with a tentative tilt of her head, said, “Er, your grace?”

He looked up. Blinked. Cocked his head to the side, then winced, as if the motion had been unwise. “My bride,” he said simply.

And nearly knocked her over with his breath.

Amelia recovered quickly, then grabbed his arm and held tight. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. She looked about frantically. The streets were not terribly busy, but anyone could happen along. “And good heavens, what happened to your eye?”

It was amazingly purple underneath, from the bridge of his nose straight out to his temple. She had never seen anything like it. It was far worse than the time she had accidentally hit Elizabeth with a cricket bat.

He touched the bruised skin, shrugged, scrunched his nose as he apparently considered her question. Then he looked back at her and tilted his head to the side. “You are my bride, aren’t you?”

“Not yet,” Amelia muttered.

He regarded her with a strange, intense concentration. “I think you still are.”

“Wyndham,” she said, trying to cut him off.

“Thomas,” he corrected.

She almost laughed. Now would be the time he granted her use of his given name? “Thomas,” she repeated, mostly just to get him to stop interrupting. “What are you doing here?” And then, when he did not answer her: “Like this?”

He stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“You’re drunk,” she whispered furiously.

“No,” he said, thinking about it. “I was drunk last night. Now I’m indisposed.”

“Why?”

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