Page 45 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

She did not answer right away. Then: “Yes.”

He opened one eye. “Really?”

“No.”

“But sometimes?”

She felt herself smiling. “Sometimes. A little more than sometimes, when I’m with my sisters.”

“Good.” He closed his eyes again. “I can’t bear a female without a sense of humor.”

She thought about that for a moment, trying to figure out why it did not sit well with her. Finally she asked, “Do you find humor and sarcasm to be interchangeable?”

He did not answer, which led her to regret the question. She should have known better than to introduce a complicated concept to a man who reeked of liquor. She turned and looked out the window. They had left Stamford behind and were now traveling north on the Lincoln road. It was, she realized, almost certainly the same road Grace had been traveling the night she and the dowager were waylaid by highwaymen. It had probably been farther out of town, however; if she were to rob a coach, she would certainly choose a more out-of-the-way locale. Plus, she thought, craning her neck for a better view through the window, she did not see any good hiding spots. Wouldn’t a highwayman need a place to lie in wait?

“No.”

She started, then looked at Wyndham in horror. Had she been thinking aloud?

“I don’t find humor and sarcasm interchangeable,” he said. His eyes, interestingly, were still closed.

“You’re only just answering my question now?”

He shrugged a little. “I had to think about it.”

“Oh.” She returned her attention to the window, preparing to resume her daydreams.

“It was a complicated query,” he continued.

She turned back. His eyes were open and focused on her face. He appeared a bit more lucid than he had just a few minutes earlier. Which did not lend him the air of an Oxford professor, but he did look capable of carrying on a basic conversation.

“It really depends,” he said, “on the subject of the sarcasm. And the tone.”

“Of course,” she said, although she was still not sure he had all his wits about him.

“Most people of my acquaintance intend their sarcasm as insult, so no, I do not find it interchangeable with humor.” He looked at her with a certain level of question in his eyes, and she realized he desired her opinion on the matter. Which was astounding. Had he ever requested her opinion before? On anything?

“I agree,” she said.

He smiled. Just a little, as if anything more vigorous might make him queasy. “I thought you would.” He paused, just for a heartbeat. “Thank you, by the way.”

It was almost embarrassing how lovely it felt to hear those words. “You’re welcome.”

His smile stayed small, but turned a little wry. “It has been some time since someone has saved me.”

“I imagine it has been some time since you needed saving.” She sat back, feeling oddly content. She believed him when he said he did not make a habit of drunken revelry, and she was glad for that. She had little experience with tipsy males, but what she had seen—usually at balls at which her parents had allowed her to stay later than usual—had not impressed her.

Still, she could not help but be glad that she had seen him this way. He was always in charge, always supremely composed and confident. It wasn’t just that he was the Duke of Wyndham, second in rank to but a handful of men in Britain. It was simply him, the way he was—his authoritative manner, his cool intelligence. He stood at the back of the room, surveying the crowds, and people wanted to let him take charge. They wanted him to make their decisions, to tell them what to do.

John Donne had got it wrong. Some men were islands, entire of themselves. The Duke of Wyndham was. He always had been, even to her earliest memories.

Except now, just this once, he had needed her.

He had needed her.

It was thrilling.

And the best part of it was that he hadn’t even realized it. He hadn’t had to ask for it. She had seen him in need, judged the situation, and acted.

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