Page 75 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“How long have you been here?” he asked, trying to locate the answer through the fog in his brain.

“At Belgrave? Five years.”

“And in all that time I haven’t…” He shook his head. “I wonder why.”

“Thomas.” She eyed him warily. “What are you talking about?”

“Damned if I know.” He laughed bitterly. “What’s to become of us, Grace? We’re doomed, you know. Both of us.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to pretend he hadn’t been crystal clear. “Oh, come now, Grace, you’re far too intelligent for that.”

She looked to the door. “I should go.”

But he was blocking her way.

“Thomas, I—”

And then he thought—why not? Amelia was as good as gone, and Grace—good, solid, dependable Grace—was right here. She was lovely, really, he’d always thought so, and a man could do far worse. Even a man without a farthing to his name.

He took her face in his hands and he kissed her. It was a desperate thing, born not of desire but of pain, and he kept kissing her, because he kept hoping that maybe it would turn into something else, that maybe if he tried hard enough, for long enough, something would spark between them and he would forget…

“Stop!” she pushed at his chest. “Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a helpless shrug. It was the truth. “I’m here, you’re here…”

“I’m leaving.” But one of his hands was still on her arm. He should let go. He knew he should, but he couldn’t. She might not have been the right woman, but maybe…maybe she wasn’t entirely the wrong one. Maybe they could make a go of it, they two.

“Ah, Grace,” he said. “I am not Wyndham any longer. We both know it.” He felt himself shrugging, and then he held his hand toward her. It felt like he was finally allowing himself to surrender to the inevitable.

She stared at him curiously. “Thomas?”

And then—who knew where it had come from, but he said, “Why don’t you marry me when this is all over?”

“What?” She looked horrified. “Oh, Thomas, you’re mad.”

But she did not pull away.

“What do you say, Gracie?” He touched her chin, tipping her up to look at him.

She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no. He knew she was thinking of Audley, but just then he didn’t care. She felt like his only hope, his last shot at sanity.

He leaned down to kiss her again, pausing to remind himself of her beauty. That thick, dark hair, those gorgeous blue eyes—they should have had his heart pounding. If he pressed her against him, hard and demanding, would his body tighten with need?

But he didn’t press her against him. He didn’t want to. It felt wrong, and he felt dirty for even thinking of it, and when Grace turned her head to the side and whispered, “I can’t,” he did nothing to stop her. Instead, he rested his chin atop her head, holding her like he might a sister.

His heart twisted, and he whispered, “I know.”

“Your grace?”

Thomas looked up from his desk the following morning, wondering just how much longer he might be addressed in that manner. His butler was standing in the doorway, waiting for acknowledgment.

“Lord Crowland is here to see you, sir,” Penrith said. “With Lady Amelia.”

“At this hour?” He blinked, glancing for the clock, which had gone unaccountably missing.

“It’s half nine, sir,” Penrith informed him. “And the clock is out for repair.”

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