Audley gave him a mocking smile, and his left eyebrow rose, just like—good God, it was frightening—
the dowager’s. “Need I worry for my safety?” he murmured.
Thomas forced himself not to respond. The afternoon hardly needed another fistfight. But the insult was acute. His entire life he had put Wyndham first.
The title, the legacy, the lands. Nothing had ever been about him, about Thomas Cavendish, a gentleman born in the English county of Lincolnshire; who loved music but abhorred the opera; who preferred to ride astride rather than in a carriage, even when the weather was inclement; who loved strawberries, especially with clotted cream; who had taken a first at Cambridge and could recite most of the sonnets of Shakespeare but never did, because he preferred to linger over each word in his own mind. It never seemed to matter that he found satisfaction in manual labor, or that he had no patience for inefficiency. And no one cared that he had never acquired a taste for port, or that he found the current habit of snuff asinine at best.
No, when the time came to make a decision—any decision—none of this had ever mattered. He was Wyndham. It was that simple.
And apparently, that complicated. Because his loyalty to his name and his legacy was unchecked.
He would do what was right, what was proper. He
always did. It was laughable, really, too ironic to contemplate. He did the right thing because he was the Duke of Wyndham. And it seemed the right thing might very well mean handing over his very name to a stranger.
If he wasn’t the duke . . . Did that make him free?
Could he then do whatever he wished, rob coaches and despoil virgins and whatever it was men with no en-cumbrances chose to do?
But after all he had done, for someone to suggest that he would put his own personal gain above his duty to his family name—
It did not cut to the bone. It burned.
And then Audley turned to Grace, offering her that annoyingly smarmy smile, and said, “I am a threat to his very identity. Surely any reasonable man would question his safety.” It was all Thomas could do to keep his hands—fisted though they were—at his sides.
“No, you’re wrong,” Grace said to Audley, and Thomas found himself oddly comforted by the fervor in her voice. “You misjudge him. The duke—” She stopped for a moment, choking on the word, but then squared her shoulders and continued. “He is as honor-able a man as I have ever met. You would never come to harm in his company.”
“I assure you,” Thomas said smoothly, regarding his new cousin with a cool eye, “whatever violent urges I possess, I shall not act upon them.”
Grace turned her temper upon him at that. “That is a terrible thing to say.” And then, more quietly, so that only he could hear. “And after I defended you.”
“But honest,” Audley acknowledged with a nod.
The two men locked eyes, and a silent truce was met.
They would travel to the inn together. They would not ask questions, they would not offer opinions . . . Hell, they would not even speak unless absolutely necessary.
Which suited Thomas perfectly.
Chapter 7
Your eye’s gone black.”
That was the first thing Audley said to him on the journey, nearly an hour after they’d departed.
Thomas turned and looked at him. “Your cheek is purple.”
They were almost to the posting inn where Audley had his belongings stashed, and so they had slowed their gait down to a walk. Audley was riding one of the horses from the Belgrave stables; he was, Thomas could not help but note, an extremely accomplished rider.
Audley touched his cheek, and not with any delicacy.
He patted it briskly, the three central fingers of his right hand. “It’s nothing,” he said, apparently assessing the injury. “Certainly not as bad as your eye.”
Thomas gave him a haughty look. Because, really, how could he know? The cheek was purple, quite liv-idly so.
Audley looked at him with remarkable blandness, then said, “I have been shot in the arm and stabbed in the leg. And you?”
Thomas said nothing. But he felt his teeth clenching together, and he was painfully aware of the sound of his breath.
“The cheek is nothing,” Audley said again, and he looked forward anew, his eyes focusing on the bend in the road, just up ahead.
They were nearly to the posting inn. Thomas knew the area well. Hell, he owned half of it.
Or thought he owned it. Who knew any longer?
Maybe he wasn’t the Duke of Wyndham. What would it mean if he was merely another random Cavendish cousin? There were certainly enough of them. Maybe not as first relations, but the country was positively awash with seconds and thirds.
It was an interesting question. Interesting, of course, being the only word he could use that did not make him want to explode in mad laughter. If he wasn’t the Duke of Wyndham, who the hell was he? Did he own anything? Have a stick or stone or rubbly little patch of land to call his own?
Was he even still betrothed to Amelia?
Good God. He looked over his shoulder at Audley, who, damn him, looked cool and unperturbed as he stared at the horizon.
Would he get her? Lands, title, every last penny in his accounts—tally ho, mateys! Let’s toss in the fiancée while we’re at it.
And judging from Grace’s reaction to the annoying
sod, Amelia would be head over heels for him at first sight.
He snorted in exasperation. If the day descended any further, he’d reach the seventh level of hell before nightfall. “I’m getting a pint,” he announced.
“Of ale?” Audley asked in surprise, as if he could not imagine the Duke of Wyndham drinking anything so plebeian.