Page 56 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

Your cousin?

Indeed. He might be the duke.

Then who are you?

Excellent question.

Not to mention the other excellent questions she was sure to come up with, most notably—what, exactly, was the state of their betrothal?

Good God. The mind boggled, and his mind, on the mend but still worse for the wear after a night of drink, preferred to remain boggle-free.

It would be so easy to insist that they not go to Belgrave. He was used to making the decisions, and she was used to having to abide by them. His overriding of her wishes would not seem at all out of character.

But he couldn’t do it. Not today.

Maybe her mother would not seek her out. Maybe no one would ever know that she’d not been where she said she’d be.

But Amelia would know. She would know that she had looked him in the eye and told him why she needed to go to Belgrave, and she would know that he had been too callous to consider her feelings.

And he would know that he’d hurt her.

“Very well,” he said brusquely. “We shall head to Belgrave.” It wasn’t exactly a cottage. Surely they could avoid Mr. Audley. He was probably still abed, anyway. He didn’t seem the sort to enjoy the morningtide.

Thomas directed the driver to take him home and then climbed into the carriage beside Amelia. “I don’t imagine you are eager for my grandmother’s company,” he said.

“Not overmuch, no.”

“She favors the rooms at the front of the castle.” And if Mr. Audley was indeed awake, that was where he would also be, probably counting the silver or estimating the worth of the collection of Canalettos in the north vestibule.

Thomas turned to Amelia. “We shall enter at the back.”

She nodded, and it was done.

When they reached Belgrave, the driver made straight for the stables, presumably, Amelia thought, on the duke’s orders. Indeed, they reached their destination without ever coming within sight of the castle’s front windows. If the dowager was where Wyndham had said she would be—and indeed, in all her visits to the castle, Amelia had only ever seen the dowager in three separate rooms, all at the front—then they would be able to carry out the rest of the morning in relative peace.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been ’round to this side of Belgrave,” Amelia commented as they entered through a set of French doors. She almost felt like a thief, sneaking about as she was. Belgrave was so still and quiet over here at the back. It made one aware of every noise, every footfall.

“I’m rarely in this section,” Thomas commented.

“I can’t imagine why not.” She looked about her. They had entered a long, wide hall, off which stood a row of rooms. The one before her was some sort of study, with a wall of books, all leather-bound and smelling like knowledge. “It’s lovely. So quiet and peaceful. These rooms must receive the morning sun.”

“Are you one of those industrious sorts, always rising at dawn, Lady Amelia?”

He sounded so formal. Perhaps it was because they were back at Belgrave, where everything was formal. She wondered if it was difficult to speak guilelessly here, with so much splendor staring down upon one. Burges Park was also quite grand—there was no pretending otherwise—but it held a certain warmth that was lacking at Belgrave.

Or perhaps it was just that she knew Burges. She’d grown up there, laughed there, chased her sisters and teased her mother. Burges was a home, Belgrave more of a museum.

How brave Grace must be, to wake up here every morning.

“Lady Amelia,” came Thomas’s reminding voice.

“Yes,” she said abruptly, recalling that she was meant to answer his question. “Yes, I am. I cannot sleep when it is light out. Summers are particularly difficult.”

“And winters are easy?” He sounded amused.

“Not at all. They’re even worse. I sleep far too much. I suppose I should be living at the equator, with a perfect division of day and night, every day of the year.”

He looked at her curiously. “Do you enjoy the study of geography?”

---