Was it too much to ask for a few bloody moments to wallow in his own miseries?

And they were his own. It wasn’t the sort of thing that could ever be classified as a shared experience.

Ah, yes, I am the man formerly known as the Duke of Wyndham.

It was going to be bloody brilliant at parties.

“I think Mr. Audley is scared,” Amelia said.

“He should be.”

She nodded a bit at that, her expression thoughtful. “I suppose so. He will have a great deal to learn. You always seemed terribly busy whenever I was at Belgrave.”

He took a drink of his ale, not because he wanted it—it was his third tankard, and he rather thought he’d had enough. But if she thought he was planning to drink himself stupid, perhaps she’d leave.

It would be easier without her.

Today. Here. He was Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire, and right now it would be easier without her.

But she did not take the hint, and if anything, she seemed to be settling more deeply into her seat as she said, “Grace will help him, I’m sure. She knows so much about Belgrave.”

“She’s a good woman.”

“Yes, she is.” She looked down at her fingers, idly tracing the scratches and grooves in the table, then glanced back up. “I did not know her very well before this trip.”

He found that an odd statement. “You have known her your entire life.”

“But not well,” she clarified. “She was always Elizabeth’s friend, not mine.”

“I imagine Grace would disagree with that assessment.”

Her brows rose, just enough to exhibit her disdain. “It is easy to see that you don’t have siblings.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s impossible for one to have friendships in equal measure with two siblings. One must always be the primary friend.”

“How complicated it must be,” he said in a dry voice, “befriending the Willoughby sisters.”

“Five times more complicated than befriending you.”

“But not nearly as difficult.”

She looked at him with a cool expression. “At the moment, I would have to concur.”

“Ouch.” He smiled, but without much humor. Much being a bit of an overstatement.

She did not respond, which for some reason needled him. And so—even though he knew he was being an ass—he leaned over, peering down at her hands.

She pulled them back immediately. “What are your doing?”

“Checking for claws,” he replied, his very voice a smirk.

She stood. Abruptly. “You are not yourself.”

It was enough to make him laugh. “You’ve only just realized?”

“I’m not talking about your name,” she shot back.

“Oh, it must be my charming attitude and aspect, then.”

Her lips pinched. “You are not usually so sarcastic.”