Page 71 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

Audley’s life would have been secure, and a great deal less complicated, if he was illegitimate.

Which meant that he wasn’t. Somewhere in Ireland there was a church with proof of the marriage between Lord John Cavendish and Miss Louise Galbraith. And when they found it, Thomas knew he would still be Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire, the grandson of a duke, but that would be as close as his connection went.

What would he do with himself? How would he fill his days?

Who would he be?

He looked down at his drink. He’d finished it some time ago, and he thought it was his third. What would Amelia say? He’d told her he did not overindulge in spirits, and he did not, as a normal matter of course. But life was anything but normal lately.

Perhaps this would be his new habit. Perhaps this was how he would fill his days—in the ignoble pursuit of oblivion. Pour enough brandy into him and he could forget that he did not know who he was or what he owned or how he was meant to act.

Or—he chuckled grimly at this—how others were meant to act with him. That would be amusing, actually, watching society scramble and stammer, with not a clue what to say. What macabre fun it would be to drop in at the Lincolnshire Dance and Assembly. London would be even worse.

And then there was Amelia. He supposed he would have to cry off, or at least insist that she do so, since as a gentleman he could not initiate the dissolution of the betrothal contract. But surely she would not want him. And certainly her family would not.

Amelia had been raised to be the Duchess of Wyndham, every bit as much as he had to be the duke. That was no longer a possibility, since he rather doubted that Audley was going to marry her. But there were many other titles in the land, and more than a handful of unmarried peers. Amelia could do far better than a penniless commoner with no useful skills.

No skills useful for anything other than owning large tracts of land and the occasional castle, that was.

Amelia.

He closed his eyes. He could see her face, the sharp curiosity in those hazel eyes, the light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He’d wanted to kiss her the other day, more than he’d realized at the time. He lay awake in bed, thinking about her, wondering if he wanted her now only because he could no longer have her.

He thought about peeling her dress from her body, of worshipping her with his hands, his lips, of making a conquest of her skin, counting the freckles she surely must hide beneath her clothing.

Amelia.

He poured another drink in her honor. It seemed only appropriate, since it was the ale that had brought them together the last time. This was fine brandy, potent and smooth, one of the last bottles he’d acquired before it became illegal to bring it in from France. He lifted his glass. She deserved a toast made with the very best.

And perhaps another, he decided, once he’d drained his glass. Surely Amelia was worth two glasses of brandy. But when he rose and crossed to the decanter, he heard voices in the hall.

It was Grace. She sounded happy.

Happy. It was baffling. Thomas could not even imagine such a simple, unfettered emotion.

And as for the other voice—it only took another second to place it. It was Audley, and he sounded as if he wanted to seduce her.

Bloody hell.

Grace fancied him. He’d seen it over the last few days, of course, how she blushed in his presence and laughed at his quips. He supposed she had a right to fall in love with whomever she wanted, but by God, Audley?

It felt like the worst sort of betrayal.

Unable to help himself, he moved toward the door. It was slightly ajar, just enough to listen without being seen.

“You can call me Jack,” Audley said.

Thomas wanted to gag.

“No, I don’t think so.” But Grace sounded as if she was smiling, as if she didn’t really mean it.

“I won’t tell.”

“Mmmmm…no.”

“You did it once.”

“That,” Grace said, still obviously flirting, “was a mistake.”

---