Mr. Cavendish, I Presume (30 page)

Her father.

The dowager.

Even Thomas.

Everyone, it seemed, had a hand in her future except for her. But not tonight.

“It’s late,” she said softly.

His eyes widened, and she could see his confusion.

“But not too late,” she whispered. She looked up. The clouds had blown off. She hadn’t felt the wind—she Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

295

hadn’t felt anything except for him, and he hadn’t even touched her. But somehow the sky was clear. The stars were out.

That was important. She didn’t know why, but it was.

“Thomas,” she whispered, and her heart was skipping. Pounding.

Breaking.

“Thom—”

“Don’t,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say my name.”

Why?

It was on the tip of her tongue, desperate to be voiced, but she didn’t ask. Somehow she knew she shouldn’t.

Whatever the answer was, she didn’t want to hear it.

Not now, not when he was staring down at her with such a hot, sad intensity.

“No one is here,” she whispered. It was true. Everyone was asleep. And she wasn’t sure why she was saying something so obvious. Maybe she just wanted him to know . . . without saying it so clearly. If he leaned down, if he kissed her . . .

She would welcome it.

He shook his head. “Someone is always here.”

But he was wrong. It was the middle of the night.

Everyone was asleep. They were alone, and she wanted . . . she wanted . . .

“Kiss me.”

His eyes flared, and for a moment it almost looked as if he were in pain. “Amelia, don’t.”

“Please.” She smiled, as cheekily as she could manage. “You owe it to me.”

296 Julia

Quinn

“I—” First he looked surprised, then amused. “I owe it to you?”

“For twenty years of engagement. You owe me a kiss.”

He slid into a reluctant smile. “For twenty years of engagement, I should think I’d owe you several.”

She wet her lips. They’d gone dry from the fast rush of her breath. “One will suffice.”

“No,” he said softly, “it wouldn’t. It would never be enough.”

She stopped breathing. He was going to do it. He was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss her, and by God, she would kiss him back.

She stepped forward.

“Don’t,” he said, but his voice was not firm.

She reached out, her hand coming within inches of his.

“Amelia,
don’t
,” he said roughly.

Oh no
. He was not going to push her away. She would not let him. He was not going to say it was for her own good, or that he knew best, or that anyone knew best except for her. This was her life, and her night, and as God was her witness, he was her man.

She launched herself at him.

On him, really.

“Am—”

It might have been her name he’d been trying to say.

Or it might have been a grunt of surprise. She didn’t know. She didn’t care. She was much too far gone to worry over such trivialities. She had his face in her Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

297

hands and she was kissing him. Clumsily, perhaps, but with all the crazy energy that was burning through her.

She loved him.

She
loved
him. Maybe she hadn’t told him, and maybe she’d never be given the opportunity to do so, but she loved him. And right now she was going to kiss him.

Because that’s what a woman in love did.

“Thomas,” she said, because she
would
say his name.

She’d say it over and over if he’d only let her.

“Amelia . . . ” He put his hands on her shoulders, preparing to push her away.

She could not allow it. She threw her arms around him, pressing the length of her body against his. Her hands sank into his hair, pulling him toward her as her lips pressed against his. “Thomas,” she moaned, the word sinking into his skin. “Thomas, please . . . ”

But he didn’t move. He stood stiffly, with no reaction to her onslaught, and then . . .

Something softened. First it was in his chest, as if he’d finally allowed himself to breathe. And then one of his hands moved . . . slowly, almost shaking . . . to the small of her back.

She shivered. She moaned against him. She let one of her hands sink into his hair. And then she begged.

“Please.”

If he rejected her now . . . She didn’t think she could bear it.

“I need you,” she whispered.

298 Julia

Quinn

He went very still. So still that she thought she’d lost him. But then he exploded with passionate energy. His arms wrapped around her with stunning speed, and he wasn’t just kissing her back . . .

Dear God, it felt as if he were devouring her.

And she wanted to let him.

“Oh, yes,” she sighed, and she sank more deeply into him. This was what she’d wanted. She’d wanted him, yes, but more than that, she’d wanted
this
. The power, the knowledge that
she
had started something.
She
had kissed
him
.

And he wanted it. He wanted
her
.

It made her shiver. It made her melt inside. It made her want to knock him to the ground and straddle him and—

Good God, what had become of her?

Whoever she was, whoever she’d been just hours earlier—that woman was gone, replaced by some wanton spirit who had not spent twenty-one years of life learning to be a proper lady. When she’d kissed him—no, when she threw herself at him, praying he wouldn’t push her away—it had been a thing of her emotions.

She was angry, and desperate, and sad, and wistful, and she’d wanted, just for once, to feel as if she were in control.

But now—emotion was gone. Her body had taken over, fueled by a need she’d only barely tasted before now. It was as if she’d been gripped from within. Something was tensing, twisting. It was deep inside of her, in places she’d never discussed, never even acknowledged.

Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

299

And he—Thomas—only made it worse.

And better.

No, worse.

“Please,” she begged, wishing she knew what she was asking for. Then she moaned, because he was making it better again. His lips were on her throat, and his hands were everywhere—in her hair, stroking her back, cupping her bottom.

She wanted him closer. Most of all, she wanted
more
.

She wanted his heat, his strength. She wanted his skin, burning against hers. She wanted to arch her back, to spread her legs.

She wanted to
move
. In ways she’d never dreamed possible.

Squirming in his embrace, she tried to shrug off her coat, but it only made it to the crook of her elbows before he groaned, “You’ll be cold.”

She struggled to free her right arm from its sleeve.

“You can keep me warm.”

He pulled back, just enough so she could see his haggard expression. “Amelia . . . ”

She heard the old Thomas in his voice. The one who always did the right thing. “Don’t stop,” she begged him. “Not tonight.”

Thomas took her face in his hands, holding her so their noses were a few inches apart. His eyes caught hers, tortured and bleak. “I don’t want to,” he said, his voice ragged.

But I have to.

They both knew what he’d left unspoken.

“I . . . I can’t . . . ” He stopped, taking a shudder-300 Julia

Quinn

ing breath as he forced himself to step back. “I can’t

. . . do something . . . that will . . . ” He was choosing his words carefully. Either that or he could not manage normal rational thought. “If I do this . . . Amelia . . . ”

He raked his hand through his hair, his nails biting into his scalp. He wanted the pain. Right now he needed it.

Something,
anything,
that might ground him, keep him from falling apart.

From losing the last bit of himself.

“I can’t do something that will decide your future,”

he made himself say. He looked up, half hoping she’d turned away, but no, there she was, staring at him, her eyes wide, her lips parted. He could see her breath in the damp night, each puff whispering through the air.

It was torture. His body was screaming for her. His mind . . .

His heart.

No
.

He did not love her. He
could not
love her. There could be no god so cruel as to inflict this upon him.

He forced himself to breathe. It was not easy, especially when his eyes slid from her face . . . lower . . .

along her neck . . .

The small tie at the bodice of her nightgown was par-tially undone.

He swallowed. He’d seen far more of her, on numer-ous occasions. Evening dresses were almost always lower cut. And yet he could not take his eyes off the little strings, the single loop that had flopped down onto the swell of her breast.

Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

301

If he pulled it . . .

If he reached out and took it between his fingers, would her gown fall open? Would the fabric slide away?

“Go inside,” he said raggedly. “Please.”

“Thom—”

“I can’t leave you alone out here, and I can’t— I can’t—” He drew a long breath. It did nothing to calm his blood.

But she did not move.

“Go inside, Amelia. If not for yourself, then do it for me.”

He saw her mouth his name. She did not understand.

He tried to breathe; it was difficult. He hurt with desire. “It is taking everything I have not to take you right now.”

Her eyes widened, flaring with warmth. It was tempting, so tempting, but—

“Don’t let me become the brute who ruined you, one night before . . . before . . . ”

She licked her lips. It was a nervous gesture, but his blood burned.

“Amelia,
go
.”

And she must have heard the desperation in his voice, because she went, leaving him alone on the lawn, rock hard and cursing himself for a fool.

A noble fool, perhaps. An honest one. But still, a fool.

Several hours later Thomas was still wandering the halls of Cloverhill. He’d waited for nearly an hour after 302 Julia

Quinn

Amelia left to go back inside. He told himself that he liked the cold night air; it felt good in his lungs, prick-ling at his skin. He told himself he didn’t mind that his feet were freezing, surely turning into prunes in the damp grass.

It was all ballocks, of course. He knew that if he didn’t give Amelia ample time (and then some) to get back to her room—the one she thankfully shared with Grace—he would go after her. And if he touched her again, if he even so much as sensed her presence before morning, he would not be able to stop himself this time.

A man had only so much strength.

He’d gone back up to his own room, where he’d warmed his freezing feet by the fire, and then, far too restless to remain in place, he donned his shoes and moved quietly downstairs, in search of something—

anything—that might distract him until morning.

The house was still quiet, of course. Not even the sound of servants, up to perform their morning chores.

But then he thought he heard something. A soft thump, or maybe the scrape of a chair against floor. And when he looked more closely down the hall, he saw a bit of light, flickering onto the floor through an open doorway.

Curious, he moved down the hall and peered inside.

Jack sat alone, his face gaunt and exhausted. He looked, Thomas thought, like he himself felt.

“Can’t sleep?” Thomas asked.

Jack looked up. His face remained oddly devoid of expression. “No.”

Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

303

“Nor I,” Thomas said, walking in.

Jack held up a bottle of brandy. It was more than three-quarters full, attesting to a need for solace, not for oblivion. “It’s good. I think my uncle was saving it,”

he said. He looked down at the bottle and blinked. “Not for this, I imagine.”

There was a set of snifters near the window, so Thomas walked over and took one. It seemed somehow entirely unstrange that he should be here now, drinking brandy with the man who would, within hours, steal everything but his soul.

He sat across from Jack and set the snifter down on the small, low table that sat between the two wingback chairs. Jack reached forward and poured him a generous dose.

Thomas took it and drank. It was good. Warm and mellow, and as close to what he needed as any spirit could strive for. He took another sip and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs as he stared out the window, which he noted with a thankful prayer did not face the lawn where he had been kissing Amelia.

“It will be dawn soon,” he said.

Jack turned in the same direction, watching the window. “Has anyone awakened?” he asked.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

They sat in silence for several moments. Thomas nursed his brandy slowly. He’d drunk far too much lately. He supposed he’d had as good an excuse as any—better than most, really. But he did not like the man he was becoming. Grace . . . He would never have kissed her had it not been for drink.

304 Julia

Quinn

Already he would lose his name, his rank, his every last possession. He did not need to surrender his dignity and good judgment as well.

He sat back, comfortable in the silence as he watched Jack. He was coming to realize that his newfound cousin was more of a man than he’d initially judged him to be. Jack would take his responsibilities seriously. He would make mistakes, but then so had he. Maybe the dukedom would not thrive and grow under Jack’s stew-ardship, but nor would it be run into the ground.

It was enough. It had to be enough.

Thomas watched as Jack picked up the bottle of brandy and started to pour himself another glass. But just as the first drops were splashing down, he stopped, abruptly righting the bottle. He looked up, his eyes finding Thomas’s with unexpected clarity. “Do you ever feel as if you are on display?”

Thomas wanted to laugh. Instead, he did not move a muscle. “All the time.”

“How do you bear it?”

He thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know anything else.”