Page 86 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“Will you travel if—” She cut herself off, and he did not need to be looking at her to picture the expression on her face precisely.

“If I am not the duke?” he finished for her.

She nodded.

“I expect so.” He gave a little shrug. “I am not sure where.”

Amelia turned to him suddenly. “I have always wanted to see Amsterdam.”

“Really.” He looked surprised. Maybe even intrigued. “Why is that?”

“All those lovely Dutch paintings, I think. And the canals.”

“Most people travel to Venice for the canals.”

She knew that, of course. Maybe that was part of the reason she’d never wanted to go there. “I want to see Amsterdam.”

“I hope you shall,” he said. He was quiet for just long enough to make the moment noticeable. And then, softly: “Everybody should be able to realize at least one of their dreams.”

Amelia turned. He was looking at her with the most gentle expression. It nearly broke her heart. What was left of it, at least. So she looked away. It was too hard otherwise. “Grace went below,” she said.

“Yes, you’d said.”

“Oh.” How embarrassing. “Yes, of course. The fan.” He did not reply, so she added, “There was something about soup, as well.”

“Soup,” he repeated, shaking his head.

“I could not decipher the message,” Amelia admitted.

He gave her a rather dry half smile. “Now there is one responsibility I am not sorry to shed.”

A little laugh rose in Amelia’s throat. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quickly, trying to force it down. “That was terribly rude of me.”

“Not at all,” he assured her. His face dipped closer to hers, his expression terribly conspiratorial. “Do you think Audley will have the nerve to send her away?”

“You didn’t.”

He held up his hands. “She’s my grandmother.”

“She is his, as well.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t know her, lucky chap.” He leaned toward her. “I suggested the Outer Hebrides.”

“Oh, stop.”

“I did,” he insisted. “Told Audley I was thinking of buying something there, just so I could maroon her.”

This time she did laugh. “We should not be speaking of her this way.”

“Why is it,” he mused, “that everyone I know speaks of crotchety old ladies who, underneath their acerbic exteriors, have a heart of gold?”

She looked at him with amusement.

“Mine doesn’t,” he said, almost as if he could not quite believe the unfairness of it all.

She tried not to smile. “No.” She gave up. She sputtered, then grinned. “She doesn’t.”

He looked at her, and their eyes caught each other’s amusement, and they both burst out laughing.

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