Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“Continuing this?” she choked out.

He repeated his kisses on the other side of her face.

“I would never be so crude. I meant the courtship. In the general sense.”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, then finally slid into something that wasn’t sure if it ought to be a smile.

“But that would be cruel,” he murmured.

“Cruel?” she echoed.

“Mmm. Not to continue with this.” He pushed forward. Just a tiny bit, but enough to make her squeak in surprise.

He nuzzled her neck, increasing the rhythm between them. “To start something, and not finish it—that doesn’t seem like the right thing, does it?”

“No,” she answered, but her voice was strained and her breaths were growing ragged.

So he continued. He loved her with his body just as he loved her with his heart. And when he felt her shudder beneath him, he finally let go, exploding inside of her with a force that left him spent, exhausted . . . and complete.

Maybe it wasn’t the right way to seduce the woman he loved, but it had certainly been good.

Chapter 22

In the end, Thomas did do the right thing.

Almost.

Amelia had expected that he would seek out her father the next day and formally ask for her hand in marriage. Instead, he asked her to deliver the note and his ring as planned, adding that he would see her in a fortnight in England.

He loved her, he said. He loved her more than he could ever say, but he needed to return on his own.

Amelia understood.

And so it came to pass that she was sitting in the Burges Park drawing room almost three weeks later, in the company of her mother, all four of her sisters, and two of her father’s dogs, when the butler appeared in the doorway and announced:

“Mr. Thomas Cavendish, my lady.”

“Who?” was Lady Crowland’s immediate reply.

“It’s Wyndham!” Elizabeth hissed.

“He’s not Wyndham any longer,” Milly corrected.

Amelia looked down at her book—some dreadful etiquette guide her mother had termed “improving”—

and smiled.

“Why on earth would he come here?” Lady Crowland asked.

“Perhaps he is still engaged to Amelia,” Milly suggested.

Her mother turned to her with utter horror. “Don’t we know?”

“I don’t think we do,” Milly replied.

Amelia kept her eyes on her book.

“Amelia,” Lady Crowland said sharply. “What is the status of your betrothal?”

Amelia tried to answer with a shrug and a blank look, but it became quickly apparent that this was not going to suffice, so she said, “I am not certain.”

“How is that possible?” Milly asked.

“I did not break it off,” Amelia said.

“Did he?”

“Er . . . ” Amelia paused, unsure of where to direct her reply, as the query had come from five different sources. Her mother, she finally decided, and she turned in her direction and said, “No. Not formally.”

“What a muddle. What a muddle.” Lady Crowland brought her hand to her head, looking much aggrieved.

“You shall have to end it, then. He will not do so; he is far too much of a gentleman for that. But surely he would never expect you to marry him now.”

Amelia bit her lip.

“He is most likely here to provide you with the opportunity to end it. Yes, that must be it.” Lady Crowland turned to the butler and said, “Show him in, Granville. And the rest of you—” She waved a hand in the general direction of her daughters, which was not easy, as they were scattered about the room. “We shall greet him and then discreetly make our regrets and leave.”

“A mass exodus is meant to be discreet?” Milly asked.

Lady Crowland gave her a look, then turned to Amelia, exclaiming, “Oh! Do you think your father should be here?”

“I do,” Amelia said, feeling remarkably serene, all things considered. “I really do.”

“Milly,” Lady Crowland said, “go find your father.”

Milly’s mouth fell open. “I can’t leave now.”

Lady Crowland let out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, was a mother ever so beleaguered?” She turned to Elizabeth.

“Oh, no,” Elizabeth said instantly. “I don’t want to miss a thing.”

“You two,” Lady Crowland said, waving her hand toward her two youngest. “Go find your father, and no complaining about it.” She put her hand to her head.

“This is going to give me a megrim, I’m sure.” When her daughters did not move quickly enough, she added,

“There is nothing to see here! Wyndham—”

“Cavendish,” Milly corrected.

Lady Crowland rolled her eyes. “Whoever heard of such a thing? Long-lost cousin, indeed.” And then, with remarkable verbal agility, she turned back to the two younger girls hovering near the doorway. “Go!”

They went, but not before skidding into Thomas, who had just been shown in. He was holding a rather large, flat package, which, at Lady Crowland’s direction, he set down against the wall.

“Lady Crowland,” he said, executing a deep bow.

Amelia felt an elbow in her ribs. Elizabeth’s.

“He doesn’t look devastated,” Elizabeth whispered.

“Didn’t he just lose everything?”

“Maybe not everything,” Amelia murmured. But Elizabeth did not hear; she was too busy trying not to appear as if she were gawking, which of course she was.