“Move,” he growled at her, but a strange, almost preternatural panic had begun to set in, and she did not want to go into that back room.

“Father…” she tried to say, but the second syllable died on her tongue.

Thomas.

There he was, standing in front of her now that her father had hauled her through the doorway. He was standing very still, utterly expressionless, his eyes focused at a spot in the wall that held no window, no painting—nothing at all, save for his attention.

Amelia choked back a cry. He had lost the title. He didn’t have to say a word. He did not even have to look at her. She could see it in his face.

“How dare you leave without me?” the dowager demanded. “Where is it? I demand to see the register.”

But no one spoke. Thomas remained unmoving, stiff and proud, like the duke they’d all thought he was, and Jack—good heavens, he looked positively ill. His color was high, and it was clear to Amelia that he was breathing far too fast.

“What did you find?” the dowager practically screamed.

Amelia stared at Thomas. He did not speak.

“He is Wyndham,” Jack finally said. “As he should be.”

Amelia gasped, hoping, praying that she’d been wrong about the look on Thomas’s face. She did not care about the title or the riches or the land. She just wanted him, but he was too bloody proud to give himself to her if he was nothing more than Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire.

The dowager turned sharply toward Thomas. “Is this true?”

Thomas said nothing.

The dowager repeated her question, grabbing Thomas’s arm with enough ferocity to make Amelia wince.

“There is no record of a marriage,” Jack insisted.

Thomas said nothing.

“Thomas is the duke,” Jack said again, but he sounded scared. Desperate. “Why aren’t you listening? Why isn’t anyone listening to me?”

Amelia held her breath.

“He lies,” Thomas said in a low voice.

Amelia swallowed, because her only other option was to cry.

“No,” Jack burst out, “I’m telling you—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Thomas snapped. “Do you think no one will find you out? There will be witnesses. Do you really think there won’t be any witnesses to the wedding? For God’s sake, you can’t rewrite the past.” He looked at the fire. “Or burn it, as the case may be.”

Amelia stared at him, and then she realized—he could have lied.

He could have lied. But he didn’t.

If he’d lied—

“He tore the page from the register,” Thomas said, his voice a strange, detached monotone. “He threw it into the fire.”