Page 9 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

He didn’t mean to look. The lord knew he didn’t want to look. Looking could only lead to inconvenience. There was nothing more untidy than finding someone where he (or more often, she) was not supposed to be. But of course he looked, because that was simply how his evening was progressing.

He looked, and then he wished he hadn’t.

“Your grace.”

It was Lady Amelia, most assuredly where she was not supposed to be.

He stared at her forbiddingly, deciding how to approach this.

“It was stuffy inside,” she said, coming to her feet. She’d been sitting on a stone bench, and her dress—well, truth be told, he couldn’t recall what color her dress was, and in the moonlight he certainly couldn’t tell for sure. But it seemed to blend in with the surroundings, which was probably why he hadn’t noticed her right away.

But none of that mattered. What mattered was that she was outside, by herself.

And she belonged to him.

Really, this would not do.

It would have been a far grander exit had Amelia been able to sweep out of the assembly hall and leave the premises entirely, but there was the pesky matter of her sister. And her other sister. And her mother. And her father, although she was fairly certain he would have been happy to follow her right out the door, if not for those other three Willoughbys, all of whom were still having a grand time.

So Amelia had made her way to the side of the assembly hall, where she could wait for her family to tire of the festivities on a small stone bench. No one came out this way. It wasn’t in the garden proper, and as the purpose of the assembly was to see and be seen—well, a dusty old bench didn’t really advance the cause.

But it wasn’t too chilly, and the stars were out, which at least provided something to look at, although with her abysmal talents at spotting constellations, this was only likely to keep her busy for a few minutes.

But she did find the Big Dipper, and from there the little one, or at least what she thought was the little one. She found three groupings that might have been bears—really, whoever had devised these things must have had a liking for the abstract—and over there was something she could have sworn was a church steeple.

Not that there were any steeply constellations. But still.

She shifted her position—better to get a look at the sparkly blob off to the north that might, with enough imagination, prove itself an oddly shaped chamber pot—but before she could squeeze her eyes into a proper squint, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone tromping through the garden.

Coming her way.

Oh, bother. Her kingdom for a private moment. She never got any at home, and now it appeared she wasn’t safe here, either.

She held herself still, waiting for her intruder to leave the area, and then—

It couldn’t be.

But of course it was.

Her esteemed fiancé. In all his splendiferous glory.

What was he doing here? When she’d left the assembly hall, he was quite happily dancing with Grace. Even if the dance had drawn to a close, wouldn’t he be required to escort her to the edge of the floor and indulge in a few minutes of useless conversation? Followed by several more minutes of being accosted by the many various members of Lincolnshire society who were hoping that their engagement might fall apart (whilst not wishing the prospective bride any ill will, to be sure, but Amelia had certainly heard more than one person ponder the possibility of her falling in love with someone else and racing off to Gretna).

Really, as if a body could escape her house without someone noticing.

But it seemed that his grace had managed to extricate himself with record speed, and now he was slinking through the back garden.

Oh, very well, he was walking straight and tall and insufferably proud, as always. But even so, he was definitely sneaking about, which she found worthy of a raised eyebrow. One would think a duke had enough clout to make his escape through the front door.

She would have been content to spin embarrassing stories about him in her head, but he chose that moment—because she was clearly the unluckiest girl in Lincolnshire—to turn his head. In her direction.

“Your grace,” Amelia said, because there seemed little point in pretending she was not aware that he’d seen her. He did not make a verbal acknowledgment, which she found rude, but she didn’t think she was in a position to abandon her own good manners, so she stood, explaining, “It was stuffy inside.”

Well, it was. Even if that hadn’t been her reason for leaving.

Still, he didn’t say anything, just looked at her in that haughty way of his. It was difficult to hold oneself perfectly still under the weight of such a stare, which she supposed was the point. She was dying to shift her weight from foot to foot. Or clench her hands. Or clench her teeth. But she refused to offer him that satisfaction (assuming he noticed anything she did), and so she stood utterly still, save for the serene smile on her face, which she allowed to shift just a little as she tilted her head to the side.

“You are alone,” he said.

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