Mr. Cavendish, I Presume by Julia Quinn Page B

was Elizabeth’s, but even so, she would never have committed such a betrayal. It was simply not in her. Even if she had thought herself in love with him, even if she’d thought a dalliance could lead to marriage, she would not have been so ill-bred or disloyal as to—
    “Amelia?”
    Amelia blinked her sister’s face into focus.
    “Are you unwell?”
    “I’m perfectly fine,” she said sharply, because the last thing she wanted was everyone looking at her when she was certain she’d gone quite green.
    And of course, everyone was.
    But Elizabeth was not the sort to be put off. She laid 62 Julia
    Quinn
    a hand on Amelia’s forehead, murmuring, “You’re not warm.”
    “Of course not,” Amelia muttered, brushing her away. “I was just standing too long.”
    “You were sitting,” Elizabeth pointed out.
    Amelia stood. “I believe I need some air.”
    Elizabeth also rose to her feet. “I thought you wanted to sit.”
    “I’ll sit outside,” Amelia ground out, dearly wishing she had not outgrown her childhood penchant for smacking her sister on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” she muttered, crossing the room even though it meant she had to brush right past Wyndham and Grace.
    He had already risen, gentleman that he was, and now bowed his head ever so slightly as she passed.
    And then—oh, God, could anything be more mortifying—out of the corner of her eye she saw Grace elbow him in the ribs.
    There was a terrible moment of silence, during which he was surely glaring at Grace (Amelia had already made it to the door, and thankfully was not required to look at his face), and then, in his usual polite voice, Wyndham said, “Allow me to escort you.”
    Amelia paused in the doorway and slowly turned around. “Thank you for your concern,” she said carefully, “but it is not necessary.”
    She saw on his face that he would have liked to accept the exit option she’d offered, but he must have felt guilty for ignoring her, because he let out a crisp, Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
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    “Of course it is,” and the next thing she knew, her hand was on his arm and they were walking outside.
    And she wanted to don her blandest smile and say—
    Oh, how lucky I am to be your bride.
    Or if not that then—
    Will I be required to make conversation?
    Or at the very least—
    Your cravat is askew .
    But of course she didn’t.
    Because he was the duke, and she was his betrothed, and if perhaps she’d managed a small show of spirit the night before . . .
    That was before he’d kissed her.
    Funny how that changed everything.
    Amelia stole a glance at him. He was staring straight ahead, and the line of his jaw was impossibly proud and resolute.
    He hadn’t looked at Grace in that manner.
    She swallowed, suppressing a sigh. She couldn’t make a sound, because then he would turn, and then he’d look at her in that way of his—piercing, icy—really, her life would be so much simpler if his eyes were not quite so blue. And then he’d ask her what was wrong, but of course he would not care about the answer, and she’d know that from his tone, and that would just make her feel worse, and—
    And what? What did she care, really?
    He paused, a slight break in his stride, and she glanced up at him again. He was looking over his shoulder, back at the castle.

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    Back at Grace.
    Amelia suddenly felt rather sick.
    This time she was not able to suppress her sigh. Apparently she cared rather a lot.
    Blast it all.
    It was, Thomas realized almost dispassionately, a spectacular day. The sky was equal parts blue and white, and the grass just long enough to ruffle gently in the breeze. There were trees ahead, a peculiarly wooded area, right in the middle of farmland, with gentle hills sloping down toward the coast. The sea was more than two miles away, but on days like this, when the wind came in from the east, the air held the faint tang of salt.
    There was nothing but nature ahead, left as God had made it, or at least as