Page 12 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

He must have looked at her dubiously, because she said, “You can watch me enter the building, if you like.”

“Why do you not wish to be seen with me?” he murmured. “I will be your husband before long.”

“Will you?”

He wondered where that dazed creature of passion had gone, because now she was watching him with eyes that were clear and sharp. “You doubt my word?” he asked, his voice carefully impassive.

“I would never do that.” She took a step away from him, but it was not a movement of retreat. It was more of a signal—he no longer held her mesmerized.

“What, then, was your intention?”

She turned and smiled. “Of course you will be my husband. It is the ‘before long’ part of it that I question.”

He stared at her for a lengthy moment before saying, “We have never spoken frankly, you and I.”

“No.”

She was more intelligent than he had been led to believe. This was a good thing, he decided. Vexing at times, but overall, a benefit. “How old are you?” he demanded.

Her eyes widened. “You don’t know?”

Oh, bloody hell. The things females chose to get up in arms about. “No,” he said, “I don’t.”

“I’m twenty-one.” She curtsied then, a mocking little bob. “On the shelf, really.”

“Oh, please.”

“My mother despairs.”

He looked at her. “Impertinent baggage.”

She considered this, even looked pleased by the insult. “Yes.”

“I ought to kiss you again,” he said, lifting one brow into a practiced, arrogant arch.

She wasn’t so sophisticated that she had a ready retort for that, a circumstance with which he found himself quite satisfied. He leaned forward slightly, smirking. “You’re quiet when I kiss you.”

She gasped with outrage.

“You’re quiet when I insult you as well,” he mused, “but oddly, I don’t find it quite as entertaining.”

“You are insufferable,” she hissed.

“And yet they arrive,” he sighed. “Words. From your lips.”

“I’m leaving,” she declared. She turned to stalk back into the assembly hall, but he was too quick, and he slid his arm through hers before she could escape. To an onlooker, it would have seemed the most courteous of poses, but the hand that rested over hers did more than cover it.

She was locked into place.

“I’ll escort you,” he said with a smile.

She gave him an insolent look but did not argue. He patted her hand then, deciding to let her choose whether she found the gesture comforting or condescending. “Shall we?” he murmured, and together they strolled back in.

The night was clearly drawing to a close. Thomas noted that the musicians had set down their instruments and the crowd had thinned a bit. Grace and his grandmother were nowhere to be seen.

Amelia’s parents were in the far corner, chatting with a local squire, so he steered her across the floor, nodding at those who greeted them, but not choosing to pause in his journey.

And then his future bride spoke. Softly, just for his ears. But something about the question was devastating.

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