Amelia moved toward the stairs to go in search of her mother. She sighed as she descended the stairs and then hesitated when a sharp pain jabbed her temple. Her stomach rolled in protest. Goodness, she’d not eaten all day. Perhaps she ought to grab a slice of bread before finding her mother and talking with her. Yes, that was the best course. Turning toward the kitchen, Amelia hurried her steps. As she neared the room, she frowned at the unexpected sounds of clattering pans and― Was that humming? She quickened her step, a smile tugging at her lips. Was Mother actually cooking dinner? Joy and relief filled her, but when she pushed through the kitchen door, she paused at the sight of a rather rotund but seemingly cheerful woman stirring a pot.
The woman stopped mid-stir, withdrew the spoon, and set it down. She faced Amelia and curtsied. “Good evening, my lady. You must be Lady Amelia.”
“Yes, I am,” she said coming to stand in front of the woman. “Who might you be? Did my mother hire you?” Amelia could scarcely believe Philip would let them spend money on an interim cook or that her mother had rallied herself enough to take such an interest in helping to run the household, but surely both things had occurred. Happiness bubbled in her. Perhaps things would be all right after all.
The woman shoved a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear and smoothed her hands over her starched white apron. “Yes, my lady. I met her several hours ago along with Lord Harthorne and the Duke of Aversley. After your mother approved of my qualifications, your brother arranged for me to work here for the next week.”
“That’s splendid,” Amelia cried out, thrilled she would no longer have to eat eggs for every meal and that they could afford to pay another servant. Perhaps they were not as purse-pinched as she had previously thought. “What are you cooking?” Amelia took a deep breath and caught a whiff and her mouth immediately started to water.
Cook grinned. “Goose and braised ham for the meat. Peas and asparagus as sides. Turtle soup to start. But my specialty”―the woman waved Amelia over to the oven―“is pastries.” The cook opened the oven door, and Amelia inhaled the delicious aroma of baking sweet treats.
“Apple tarts?” she asked hopefully.
The cook nodded. “Especially for you.”
“Did my mother tell you they were my favorite?”
“No, my lady. Actually, it was the Duke of Aversley who mentioned it.”
“That’s odd,” Amelia mumbled. His Grace had no way of knowing apple tarts were her favorite, nor was it his place to recommend to the cook to make special dishes for her. It would look particularly odd if he went around doing such things and people assumed they held a tendre for each other only then for her to become betrothed to Charles. She was going to have to set the duke straight on a few boundaries of this wager.
“I look forward to dinner,” Amelia said, grabbing a piece of bread off the counter and departing to find her mother.
Amelia headed to the drawing room, and grinned at the sight of her mother sitting on the settee, still dressed in her frothy gown. She looked very fresh, except for the dark circles under her eyes. With a swift look around the room to ensure they were alone, Amelia strode over to the settee and returned Mother’s wan smile as she sat. She grasped her mother’s hand and was baffled when her mother flinched at the touch. “Is everything all right?”
“Certainly. Why do you ask?”
“You seem a bit nervous.”
“Not at all,” Mother assured, though the wringing of her hands was rather the opposite of reassuring.
They had always been able to speak openly to each other, but something seemed to have changed in her mother. Amelia chose her words with care. “I’m glad to see you are feeling well enough to go out for rides and visits and join us for supper. How was your time with Lord Huntington and his sister?”
“Lovely,” her mother replied, her voice somewhat strained.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Amelia. These questions are tiresome, though. There is no need to be concerned about me. I haven’t even had one drop of laudanum today.”
Amelia pressed her lips together on pointing out that she had smelled laudanum on her mother earlier. Instead she said, “I was pleasantly surprised to find you and Philip decided we could hire a temporary cook until Uriah’s return.”
Her mother tugged her hand away. “The duke insisted on the cook. His Grace was adamant that you have proper meals to ensure you look your best when you go off to London next week. The cook is only here until we all leave for Town, thanks to the duke’s generosity.”
“Mother, do you mean to say they already spoke to you about the arrangement and you have given your consent?”
“Certainly,” her mother said, patting Amelia’s hand. “I jumped at the suggestion, truth be known. I have been desperately trying to find a way to get you out of the house and wed as soon as possible, and I had almost given up hope until this solution fell into my lap. His Grace must be rather bored indeed to take an interest in remaking you.”
Amelia let the comment about the duke go unremarked upon. It was the furthest thing from the truth to say His Grace’s interest in her was born from boredom, but perhaps it was better to let her mother think so. If she explained the duke had concocted the whole plan to ensure he could help Philip out of debt, Mother might let the secret out while under the influence of her laudanum.
Amelia focused on her mother’s comment about needing to get her out of the house. “I did not realize you wanted me gone so badly.” She tried to keep the hurt from her voice, but when her mother grasped her hands and squeezed, she knew she had failed.
“Amelia, darling, things are not as they seem to you. I’m trying to protect you.”
“Protect me from what?”
“Good evening, ladies,” a deep voice called from the door.
Perturbed at the untimely interruption, Amelia glanced toward the drawing room entrance where His Grace glided through the door. The bottle-green superfine coat he wore fit him to perfection and enhanced the broad expanse of his chest, but it was his eyes that captured her attention, melted her annoyance, and held her bewitched. From her spot on the settee, she could see the happy crinkle around his hazel eyes. He stopped in front of her and took her hand―ungloved, she belatedly realized. He brushed his lips to her skin, and an undeniable tremor ran through her.
It amazed her that a man she knew perfectly well had absolutely no interest in love whatsoever could so easily cause such strong reactions in her. And all this time she had thought herself so very sensible. Of course, she had enough sense to know she would never marry a man who did not want her love and plan to give it in return, which in addition to the fact that she already loved Charles was precisely why she would never marry the duke. He wanted to marry for convenience. She wanted a marriage of supremely divine inconvenience full of passion, devotion, laughter, and joy.
He smiled, almost secretly as if he had noticed her body’s response to him, but he quickly moved away from her and repeated the same kiss on the back of the hand to her mother. Amelia felt daft. She was not special. He kissed every woman on the back of the hand. He had probably kissed a thousand hands in his life.
“It’s good to see you finally up.” His tone was jovial even as his gaze travelled over Amelia and lingered on her hair.
She glowered at him. “My head aches or I would have set my hair to rights.”
“I can fix that.”
“Beg pardon?” she said sharply. Immediately, her mother gently nudged her in the side.
Amelia cleared her throat and strove for a more conciliatory tone. “Do you mean to say you can fix my aching head or my hair?”
He laughed, and the low, smooth sound curled around her. “I’ve no experience whatsoever fixing women’s hair, but I have a great deal of knowledge on how to help an aching head.”
“Truly?” she quirked an eyebrow, and he nodded solemnly in response.
“Truly. If you will but come with me to the kitchen, I can prepare you a t
onic that you can drink before dinner. It works faster on an empty stomach.”
Amelia glanced to her mother, sure she would protest Amelia traipsing off to the kitchen with the duke, but her mother was vigorously nodding. “Do go, dear. I’m fine to sit here alone until Philip comes down for dinner.”
Things were becoming odder around here by the minute, and it had all started when the Duke of Aversley had arrived. Before that, Mother never wanted to be left unaccompanied, even for a moment, unless she had taken to her bed for one of her long sleeps. Amelia stood and locked gazes with His Grace. He waved her toward the door and fell into step directly behind her. As they entered the long hallway that would take them around back to the kitchen she said, “I suppose I am in your hands now.”
Fingers came to her arm and stopped her progress. She glanced back over her shoulder, her heart jolting at the way his gaze softly caressed her. “You were already in my hands, Lady Amelia, but I’m glad to hear you accept it.”
“You presume too much, Your Grace. I am in my own hands, but I am allowing you to help me so that I can assist my brother and mother.”
He winked at her. “I like your independence.”
“Good. Then we shall rub along nicely while we are working together.” Turning on her heel, she made her way toward the kitchen, but as they passed her brother’s study the duke once again stayed her with a hand to her shoulder. Her skin tingled with his touch, and she fought to keep the odd reaction at bay while slowing turning toward him.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to need some whiskey.”
Amelia quirked an eyebrow and smiled. “Do you mean to cure my megrim by getting me foxed? I daresay my mother will not like that.”
“I daresay she wouldn’t,” he concurred. “The whiskey is for the cooling wash I’m making for your head. I only need a bit. Does your brother have some in his study?”
“Yes.” Amelia entered Philip’s study and led His Grace to the sideboard. “How do you know so much about curing megrims? Do you get many?”
“Not a one,” he replied, rather evasively. He took up the whiskey bottle and tucked it under his arm. “Come with me.”
With a frown at his commanding tone, Amelia reluctantly followed him to the door and stopped when he did, at the end of the hall where you could turn left or right. He faced her with a grin. “I just realized I’ve no idea how to get to your kitchen. Serves me right being so high-handed.”
His smile was so infectious that she grinned back. “I’m pleased to see you can admit your flaws.”
“Are you?” His voice had taken on a low, silky tone that made her heart quicken.
When he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, she froze. The moment his fingers grazed her skin, it was as if electricity raced from the point of contact and spiraled out through the rest of her body. He leaned in a fraction, but that little bit was all it took for the heat radiating off his body to surround her. His eyes took on a dangerous glint. “Do you know you make disheveled hair look quite lovely?”
His softly spoken compliment made her belly flutter. Was he going to kiss her? Heavens! Where had that thought come from? She scrambled back a step and blurted, “I am in love with Lord Worthington.”
He shrugged dismissively. “Yes, I know you think you are. It was a compliment, Lady Amelia…and your first test, which you failed.”
He said one thing with his words, yet his voice vibrated with an odd note of tension. She had a suspicion he was not being completely honest again, yet she certainly could not say that. “What sort of test?”
Colin tensed. Lady Amelia’s question was an excellent one, and normally, he would have a quick and ready answer for the lie he had just told―not so this time. The compliment had fallen from his tongue and had been the absolute, astonishing truth. He thought her lovely just the way she was. She was untarnished. Or he thought she might be. Or maybe he was acting the fool falling for her ploy. Yes, devil take her, that had to be it. Her strategy had to be to play the part of the utter innocent, and he was acting like a green lad entertaining her ruse. “I was testing you to see if you know how to flirt, and you failed.”
Her crestfallen look made his gut clench, but he continued. “We will have to allot some time for your learning to effectively play the seductress.”
She blinked and her eyes widened while her cheeks turned bright pink. “If you think so.”
He did think so. In fact, too much. He was getting hard simply imagining the lessons.
Pulling his thoughts in order, he asked, “Where is the kitchen?”
“Follow me.”
As Amelia walked ahead and her hips swayed gently back and forth, his thoughts set his blood to fire once more. He forced himself to look higher, at her head. There. Much better, when he focused on her hair―long, luxurious, inviting― He groaned and moved past her to barrel through the door. He came to an abrupt halt as he faced the cook he had hired and had no intention of dismissing when he left for London in a week. He was positive their cook was never coming back, and he was not going to let them live forever on eggs, no matter Harthorne’s pride.
“Ms. Darlington, would you be so kind as to bring me salt, vinegar, water, and a cup. Lady Amelia has a megrim, and I’m going to make her a tonic to cure it.”
To Ms. Darlington’s credit, she clamped her gaping jaw shut and bobbed a curtsey before issuing a quick, “Certainly,” and scurrying around the kitchen to collect the items.
A few moments later, Colin handed the cup to Lady Amelia. She took the drink, sniffed the contents, and shook her head while thrusting the tonic back toward him. “I’ll not drink that.” Her nose had wrinkled adorably, and he had to fight the desire to smile.
“I insist. We cannot have our first lesson tonight if your head is still bothering you.”
“It’s better,” she murmured and cast her gaze down.
Ah, so Lady Amelia did not like to lie. He was rather glad of that. He hooked a gentle finger under her chin and raised her face until her gaze met his. “Let’s be honest, shall we?”
Her chin notched up in a rather defiant gesture that both amused him and made him oddly proud at her show of backbone. She jerked her head in agreement. “Fine, let us be truthful. If you tell me how you know how to make a tonic to cure megrims, I’ll drink the nasty-smelling concoction.”
“My father taught me how to make the tonic.”
“Oh, I see,” Amelia said slowly, a frown puckering her brow. “Was your father plagued with megrims?”
Colin nodded. “Yes, a rather big megrim about your height with long brown hair.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t,” Colin said, raking his hands through his hair. Why had he not simply lied? Why was his tongue―so silent all these years―suddenly loose with this woman he barely knew?
“I’m told I can be a very good listener if you care to explain it to me.”
Tension drained from Colin like the rush of a river breaking a dam. Not one woman he had slept with had ever offered simply to listen to him. They’d offered a multitude of things, but understanding had never been one of them. He took Amelia by the elbow and led her out of the kitchen and away from the prying ears of the cook.
Once they stood alone in the hall, he spoke. “My mother loved to drink about as much as she loved to breathe. Because of her habit, she was plagued with megrims, and my father did his best to hide her shameful state from everyone. Part of his efforts included being the one to always to fix her special tonics to cure the megrims. Later, when he fell ill, he begged me to do it, and I agreed.”
He had glanced down at his hands while he spoke, but when he finished he forced himself to look up, though he did not want to see the pity that would be in her eyes. Her matter-of-fact expression surprised him.
“My aunt drank too much,” Amelia blurted with a decisive nod of her head. “Though she passed away some years ago, it is still a family secret, but given what you just told me, I fe
el safe revealing it to you. I did not have to live with her. Thank goodness,” Amelia said, a shudder coursing through her slender body. “That must have been dreadful if your mother behaved anywhere near as bad when in her cups as my aunt did. I bet you were counting the days you could put distance between the two of you.” Amelia paled and put her hand to her lips then slowly lowered it. “That was unaccountably rude of me to say that. I’m terribly sorry. I simply meant I’m sure her drinking drove you to want to leave.”
“It did.” But not near as much as watching how her indiscretions killed his father. Colin scowled.
“Does she still imbibe?”
“No.”
Amelia smiled. “That’s wonderful. Have the two of you reconciled?”
“No. It was not simply her drinking that drove me from her.”
“Oh dear.” Lady Amelia sighed and cocked her head. “Do you care to talk about it?”
He would have thought his reaction would have been a violent no, but something about Amelia was pleasantly disarming and luring. Yet the habit of hiding his mother’s infidelities was not so easily let go of. Perhaps someday. He glanced at her open, expectant face. Little minx. Did she think he was so easily wrapped around her finger? It was time to get her to cease her questions. He brushed his hand across her pale, silky cheek.
“Perhaps I’ll tell you one day after we have been married for many years.” The comment was meant to goad her. Nothing more. He did not really want to win. Did he? No, of course he did not. That would prove he was right about women, and he would frankly love to be proven wrong, as doubtful as it was. Though he would be left with the problem of finding an indifferent wife to marry if Philip won the wager, but Colin would welcome the loss.
My Fair Duchess (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel Book 1) Page 13
