Mr. Cavendish, I Presume by Julia Quinn Read Free Book Online Page B

ladies.
    Amelia looked at Grace a bit more closely, pondering her dark hair and blue eyes, and realized that she was actually quite beautiful. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise; she’d known Grace her entire life. Before Grace had become the dowager’s companion, she’d been the daughter of a local squire.
    Amelia supposed she still was, only now she was the daughter of a dead squire, which did not offer much in the way of livelihood or protection. But back when Grace’s family had been living, they were all part of the same general country set, and if perhaps the parents had not been close, the children certainly were.
    She had probably seen Grace once every week; twice, she supposed, if one counted church.
    But in truth, she hadn’t ever really thought about Grace’s appearance. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, or that she considered her beneath notice. It was just that
    . . . well . . . why? Grace had always been simply there.
    A regular and dependable part of her world. Elizabeth’s closest friend, tragically orphaned and then taken in by the dowager duchess.
    Amelia reconsidered. Taken in was perhaps a euphemism. Truly, Grace worked hard for her keep. She might not be performing menial labor, but time spent with the dowager was exhausting.
    As Amelia knew firsthand.
    “I am quite recovered,” Grace said. “Just a bit tired, I’m afraid. I did not sleep well.”
    “What happened?” Amelia asked, deciding there was no point in pretending she’d been listening.

    54 Julia
    Quinn
    Elizabeth actually shoved her. “Grace and the dowager were accosted by highwaymen!”
    “Really?”
    Grace nodded. “Last night. On the way home from the assembly.”
    Now this was interesting. “Did they take anything?”
    Amelia asked, because really, it seemed a pertinent question.
    “How can you be so dispassionate?” Elizabeth demanded. “They pointed a gun at her!” She turned to Grace. “Did they?”
    “They did, actually.”
    Amelia pondered this. Not the gun, but rather, her lack of horror at the retelling. Perhaps she was a cold person.
    “Were you terrified?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly.
    “I would have been. I would have swooned.”
    “I wouldn’t have swooned,” Amelia remarked.
    “Well, of course you wouldn’t,” Elizabeth said irritably. “You didn’t even gasp when Grace told you about it.”
    “It sounds rather exciting, actually.” Amelia looked at Grace with great interest. “Was it?”
    And Grace—good heavens, she blushed.
    Amelia leaned forward, lips twitching. A blush could mean all sorts of things—all of them quite splendid.
    She felt a rush of excitement in her chest, a heady, almost weightless sort of feeling—the sort one got when told a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “Was he handsome, then?”
    Elizabeth looked at her as if she were mad. “Who?”

    Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
    55
    “The highwayman, of course.”
    Grace stammered something and pretended to drink her tea.
    “He was ,” Amelia said, feeling much better now. If Wyndham was in love with Grace . . . well, at least she did not return the emotion.
    “He was wearing a mask ,” Grace retorted.
    “But you could still tell that he was handsome,”
    Amelia urged.
    “No!”
    “Then his accent was terribly romantic. French? Italian?” Amelia actually shuddered with delight, thinking of all the Byron she’d read recently. “Spanish.”
    “You’ve gone mad,” Elizabeth said.
    “He didn’t have an accent,” Grace said. “Well, not much of one. Scottish, perhaps? Irish? I couldn’t tell, precisely.”
    Amelia sat back with a happy sigh. “A highwayman.
    How romantic.”
    “Amelia Willoughby!” her sister scolded. “Grace was just attacked at gunpoint, and you are calling it romantic?”
    She would have responded with something very cutting and clever—because really, if one couldn’t be cutting and clever with one’s sister, who could one be cutting and clever with?—but at that moment