But he didn’t say it. He could not let himself say it. Because he knew, come morning when all was revealed, Jack Audley would almost certainly be proven as the Duke of Wyndham. And if he said it, if he said to her, right now—be with me…

She would do it.

He could see it in her eyes.

Maybe she even thought she loved him. And why wouldn’t she? She had been told her entire life that she was supposed to love him, to obey him, to be grateful for his attentions and for the luck that had bound her to him so many years ago.

But she didn’t really know him. Right now he wasn’t even sure he knew himself. How could he ask her to be with him when he had nothing to offer?

She deserved more.

“Amelia,” he whispered, because he had to say something. She was waiting for it, for his reply.

She shook her head. “I don’t want to do it.”

“Your father—” he said, his voice choked.

“He wants me to be a duchess.”

“He wants what’s best for you.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

The look she gave him was devastating. “Don’t say that. Say anything else, but don’t say I don’t know my own mind.”

“Amelia…”

“No.”

It was a horrible sound. Just that one syllable. But it came from deep within her. And he felt it all. Her pain, her anger, her frustration—they sliced through him with startling precision.

“I’m sorry,” he said, because he did not know what else to say. And he was sorry. He wasn’t sure what for, but this horrible aching feeling in his chest—it had to be sorrow.

Or maybe regret.

That she wasn’t his.

That she would never be his.

That he could not set aside the one little piece of him that knew how to be upstanding and true. That he could not say to hell with it all and just take her, right here, right now.

That, much to his surprise, it turned out that it wasn’t the Duke of Wyndham who always did the right thing.

It was Thomas Cavendish.

The one piece of himself he would never lose.

Chapter 18

It was ironic, Amelia had thought more than once during the journey to Cloverhill that she had recently become so enamored of cartography. Because she was only just now coming to realize how thoroughly her own life had been mapped out by others. Even with all her plans torn asunder, her new map, with whatever routes her life was meant to take, was being drawn by others.

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.