Page 74 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

She nodded. “Ah, here we are.” She pulled forth a small stack of paper, then looked up at him with a grimace. “I must go write your grandmother’s letters now.”

“She does not write them herself?” he asked with surprise.

“She thinks she does. But the truth is, her penmanship is dreadful. No one could possibly make out what she intends to say. Even I have difficulty with it. I end up improvising at least half in the copying.”

He chuckled at that. Grace was such a good egg. He wondered why she’d never married. Were the gentlemen too intimidated by her position at Belgrave? Probably. He supposed he was at fault, too, so desperate to keep her on as his grandmother’s companion that he had not done as he ought and provided her with a small dowry so she might rise from employment and find a husband.

“I must apologize, Grace,” he said, walking toward her.

“For this afternoon? No, please, don’t be silly. It’s a terrible situation, and no one could fault you for—”

“For many things,” he cut in. He should have given her the opportunity to find a husband. If nothing else, she wouldn’t have been here when Audley had arrived.

“Please,” she said, her face twisting into a miserable smile. “I cannot think of anything for which you need to make amends, but I assure you, if there were, I would accept your apology, with all graciousness.”

“Thank you,” he said. He supposed he felt better for that, but not much. And then, because one could always find refuge in the obvious, he said, “We depart for Liverpool in two days.”

She nodded slowly. “I imagine you have much to do before we leave.”

He thought about that. Not really. He’d spent the last four days under the assumption that he’d return to England with nothing, so he’d worked himself into a frenzy, making sure every last corner of the Wyndham estates was as it should be. He would not have anyone saying he’d sabotaged the new duke.

But he’d finished it all. There was a grain order to review, and his own personal packing to supervise, but other than that…

His days as the duke were over.

“Almost nothing,” he told Grace, unable to keep the bite from his voice.

“Oh.” She sounded surprised, not so much by his answer, but by the fact that he’d voiced it. “That must be a pleasant change.”

He leaned forward. He could see that she was growing uncomfortable, and he’d had just enough to drink to enjoy that a bit. “I am practicing, you see,” he said.

She swallowed. “Practicing?”

“To be a gentleman of leisure. Perhaps I should emulate your Mr. Audley.”

“He is not my Mr. Audley,” she immediately replied.

“He shall not worry,” he continued, ignoring her protest. They both knew she was lying. “I have left all of the affairs in perfect order. Every contract has been reviewed and every last number in every last column has been tallied. If he runs the estate into the ground, it shall be on his own head.”

“Thomas, stop,” she said. “Don’t talk this way. We don’t know that he is the duke.”

“Don’t we?” Good Lord, which one of them was she trying to fool? “Come now, Grace, we both know what we will find in Ireland.”

“We don’t,” she insisted, but her voice sounded wrong.

And he knew.

He took a step toward her. “Do you love him?”

She froze.

“Do you love him?” he repeated, losing patience. “Audley.”

“I know who you’re talking about,” she snapped.

He almost laughed. “I imagine you do.” And he thought to himself—they were doomed. The both of them. Amelia was lost to him, and Grace had gone and fallen in love with Audley, of all people. Nothing could happen there. He knew that he might have got away with marrying someone of Grace’s status, but Audley never would. Once he became the duke, he’d have to marry some horse-faced girl whose birth was as high as his own. There would be skeptics and detractors aplenty. The new duke would need a brilliant marriage to prove to society that he was worthy of the title.

And besides, Audley was an irresponsible fool, clearly unworthy of a woman like Grace.

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