Page 8 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

Grace stepped back and bobbed, as required by the dance, but he did see her nod her head in acknowledgment. He rarely attended the local assembly, and although Grace did accompany his grandmother when she traveled to London, she was only rarely included in evening outings. Even then, she sat at the side, with the chaperones and companions.

They moved to the head of the line, he took her hand for their olevette, and they walked down the center aisle, the gentlemen to their right, the ladies to their left.

“You’re angry,” Grace said.

“Not at all.”

“Pricked pride.”

“Just for a moment,” he admitted.

“And now?”

He did not respond. He did not have to. They had reached the end of the line and had to take their places at opposite sides of the aisle. But when they came together for a brief clap, Grace said, “You did not answer my question.”

They stepped back, then together, and he leaned down and murmured, “I like to be in charge.”

She looked as if she might like to laugh at that.

He gave her a lazy grin, and when he had the opportunity to speak again, asked, “Are you so very surprised?”

He bowed, she twirled, and then she said, her eyes flashing mischievously, “You never surprise me.”

Thomas laughed at that, and when they met once again for a bow and twirl, he leaned in and replied, “I never try to.”

Which only made Grace roll her eyes.

She was a good sport, Grace was. Thomas doubted that his grandmother had been looking for anything more than a warm body that knew how to say “Yes, ma’am” and “Of course, ma’am” when she’d hired her companion, but she had chosen well all the same. It was a bonus, too, that Grace was a daughter of the district, orphaned several years earlier when her parents had caught a fever. Her father had been a country squire, and both he and his wife were well-liked. As a result, Grace was already familiar with all of the local families, and indeed friendly with most. Which had to be an advantage in her current position.

Or at least Thomas assumed so. Most of the time he tried to stay out of his grandmother’s way.

The music trickled to a close, and he allowed himself a glance at the red curtain. Either his fiancée had departed or she’d become a bit more skilled in the art of concealment.

“You should be nicer to her,” Grace said as she accepted his escort from the dance floor.

“She cut me,” he reminded her.

Grace merely shrugged. “You should be nicer to her,” she said again. She curtsied then, and departed, leaving Thomas on his own, never an attractive prospect at a gathering such as this.

He was an affianced gentleman, and, more to the point, this was a local assembly and his intended bride was well known to all. Which should have meant that those who might envision their daughters (or sisters or nieces) as his duchess would leave well enough alone. But alas, Lady Amelia did not provide complete protection from his neighbors. As well as she was liked (and as best as he could tell, she was, quite), no self-respecting mama could neglect to entertain the notion that something might go awry with the engagement, and the duke might find himself unattached, and he might need to find himself a bride.

Or so he was told. He wasn’t generally privy to such whispers. (For which he assiduously thanked his maker.)

And while there were citizens of Lincolnshire who were not in possession of an unattached daughter/sister/niece, there was always someone looking to curry his favor. It was damnably tiring. He’d have given his arm—well, maybe a toe—for just one day in which no one said something to him because it was what they thought he wished to hear.

There were quite a few benefits to being a duke, but honesty from one’s companions was not among them.

Which was why, when Grace abandoned him at the edge of the small dance floor, he immediately strode toward the door.

A door, to be more precise. It didn’t particularly matter which. He just wanted out.

Twenty seconds later he was breathing the crisp air of the Lincolnshire night, pondering the rest of the evening. He’d planned to go home; he’d actually been looking forward to a quiet evening before his grandmother ambushed him with her plans for the assembly.

But now he was thinking that a visit to Stamford might be more in order. Celeste would be there, his own private widow—very intelligent and very discreet. Their arrangement suited both of them perfectly. He brought gifts—lovely tokens that she could use to supplement the tidy house and modest income her husband had left for her. And she provided companionship with no expectation of fidelity.

Thomas paused for a moment to get his bearings. A small tree, a birdbath, and what appeared to be an over-pruned rosebush…he’d apparently not exited through the door that led to the street. Ah, yes, the garden. With a slight frown, he glanced over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if one could actually reach the street without reentering the assembly hall, but—at this point he could have sworn he heard someone shrill his name, followed by the words daughter, must, and introduce—by God, he was going to try.

Thomas made his way around the birdbath, intending to round the corner of the building, but just as he passed the abused rosebush, he thought he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye.

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