Page 111 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“What did you find?” the dowager practically screamed.

Amelia stared at Thomas. He did not speak.

“He is Wyndham,” Jack finally said. “As he should be.”

Amelia gasped, hoping, praying that she’d been wrong about the look on Thomas’s face. She did not care about the title or the riches or the land. She just wanted him, but he was too bloody proud to give himself to her if he was nothing more than Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire.

The dowager turned sharply toward Thomas. “Is this true?”

Thomas said nothing.

The dowager repeated her question, grabbing Thomas’s arm with enough ferocity to make Amelia wince.

“There is no record of a marriage,” Jack insisted.

Thomas said nothing.

“Thomas is the duke,” Jack said again, but he sounded scared. Desperate. “Why aren’t you listening? Why isn’t anyone listening to me?”

Amelia held her breath.

“He lies,” Thomas said in a low voice.

Amelia swallowed, because her only other option was to cry.

“No,” Jack burst out, “I’m telling you—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Thomas snapped. “Do you think no one will find you out? There will be witnesses. Do you really think there won’t be any witnesses to the wedding? For God’s sake, you can’t rewrite the past.” He looked at the fire. “Or burn it, as the case may be.”

Amelia stared at him, and then she realized—he could have lied.

He could have lied. But he didn’t.

If he’d lied—

“He tore the page from the register,” Thomas said, his voice a strange, detached monotone. “He threw it into the fire.”

As one, the room turned, mesmerized by the flames crackling in the fireplace. But there was nothing to see, not even those dark sooty swirls that rose into the air when paper burned. No evidence at all of Jack’s crime. If Thomas had lied—

No one would have known. He could have kept it all. He could have kept his title. His money.

He could have kept her.

“It’s yours,” Thomas said, turning to Jack. And then he bowed. To Jack. Who looked aghast.

Thomas turned, facing the rest of the room. “I am—” He cleared his throat, and when he continued, his voice was even and proud. “I am Mr. Cavendish,” he said, “and I bid you all a good day.”

And then he left. He brushed past them all and walked right out the door.

He didn’t look at Amelia.

And as she stood there in silence, it occurred to her—he hadn’t looked at her at all. Not even once. He had stood in place, staring at the wall, at Jack, at his grandmother, even at Grace.

But he’d never looked at her.

It was a strange thing in which to take comfort. But she did.

Chapter 20

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