The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(82)

When she was through, Amelia drew back and stared at her, blinking three times before saying, "I'm not sure I know what that means."

Grace frowned. "I don't think I do, either."

"It sounds bad, though."

"Sodding bad," Grace said with a smile, and she patted Amelia's hand.

Amelia sighed. "A damned shame."

"We're repeating ourselves," Grace pointed out.

"I know," Amelia said, with a fair bit of feeling. "But whose fault is it? Not ours. We've been far too sheltered."

"Now that," Grace announced with flair, "really is a damned shame."

"A bloody inconvenience, if you ask me."

"What the devil are the two of you talking about?"

Grace gulped, and she stole a glance at Amelia, who was staring at the now quite awake dowager with a similar look of horror.

"Well?" the dowager demanded.

"Nothing," Grace chirped.

The dowager regarded her with a most unpleasant expression, then turned her icy attentions to Amelia.

"And you, Lady Amelia. Where is your breeding?"

And then Amelia - oh, dear heavens - she shrugged her shoulders and said, "Damned if I know."

Grace tried to hold still, but her shock positively burst out of her, and she rather feared she spat upon the dowager. Which did seem ironic, that the first time she did such a thing, it should be accidental.

"You are disgusting," the dowager hissed. "I cannot believe I considered forgiving you."

"Stop picking on Grace," Amelia said. With surprising force.

Grace turned to Amelia in surprise.

The dowager, however, was furious. "I beg your pardon."

"I said, stop picking on Grace."

"And who do you think you are, to order me about?"

As Grace watched Amelia, she would have sworn she changed right before her very eyes. Gone was the unsure girl, in her place was: "The future Duchess of Wyndham, or so I'm told."

Grace's lips parted in shock. And admiration.

"Because really," Amelia added disdainfully, "if I'm not, what the devil am I doing here, halfway across Ireland?"

Grace's eyes darted from Amelia to the dowager and back. And then back again. And then -

Well, suffice it to say, it was a monstrously long moment of silence.

"Do not speak again," the dowager finally said. "I cannot tolerate the sound of your voices."

And indeed, they all remained silent for the rest of the journey. Even the dowager.




Outside the carriage, the atmosphere was considerably less tense. The three men remained on horseback, never quite in a line. Every now and then one of them would increase his pace or fall behind, and one horse would pass another. Perfunctory greetings would be exchanged.

Occasionally someone would comment on the weather.

Lord Crowland seemed rather interested in the native birds.

Thomas didn't say much, but - Jack glanced over at him - good Lord, was he whistling?

"Are you happy?" Jack asked, his voice a bit short.

Thomas looked back in surprise. "Me?" He frowned, thinking about it. "I suppose I am. It's a rather fine day, don't you think?"

"A fine day," Jack echoed.

"None of us is trapped in the carriage with that evil old hag," Crowland announced. "We should all be happy." Then he added, "Pardon," since the evil old hag was, after all, grandmother to both of his companions.

"Pardons unnecessary on my account," Thomas said. "I agree with your assessment completely."

There had to be something significant in this, Jack thought - that their conversation kept returning to how relieved they all were not to be in the dowager's presence. It was damned strange, to tell the truth, and yet, it did make one think...

"Will I have to live with her?" he blurted out.

Thomas looked over and grinned. "The Outer Hebrides, my man, the Outer Hebrides."

"Why didn't you do it?" Jack demanded.

"Oh, believe me, I will, on the off chance I still possess any power over her tomorrow. And if I don't..."

Thomas shrugged. "I'll need some sort of employment, won't I? I always wished to travel. Perhaps I shall be your scout. I'll find the oldest, coldest place on the island. I shall have a rollicking good time."

"For God's sake," Jack swore. "Stop talking like that." He did not want this to be preordained. He did not want it to be understood. Thomas ought to be fighting for his place in the world, not blithely handing it over.

Because he himself did not want it. He wanted Grace, and he wanted his freedom, and more than anything, right at that very moment, he wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Thomas gave him a curious look but said nothing more. And neither did Jack. Not when they reached Pollamore, or Cavan town, or even as they rode into Butlersbridge.

Night had long since fallen, but Jack knew every storefront, every last signpost and tree. There was the Derragarra Inn, where he'd got himself drunk on his seventeenth birthday. There was the butcher, and the blacksmith, and ah, yes, there was the oatmeal mill, behind which he'd stolen his first kiss.

Which meant that in five - no, make that four - more minutes, he would be home.