“Yes,” Amelia clipped. “Sartin Trading Company employs him.”
Constance’s lips thinned. “Employs?”
“Darling,” Amelia reminded, “I am employed by Sartin Trading Company.”
“You own the company.” Constance set back her shoulders. “Entirely different.”
That.
Amelia scowled.
That was why she was never entirely comfortable with Constance.
Constance deemed people in trade beneath her. All except Amelia. Could a friend be a friend if they thought of you as “the exception”?
“If it helps,” Amelia said wryly, “his mother is Lady Dorothy, daughter of the late Earl Wentworth.”
Constance’s smile returned. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” She looped her arm through Amelia’s. “You may introduce us.”
“You want me to introduce you to Mr. Bellamy?”
“Yes. Of course. Why not?”
Why not, indeed.
Amelia grasped for a valid protestation; none made sense.
Because she’d known Bellamy since he’d come to George on his uncle’s recommendation over a decade ago, a lanky, awkward seventeen-year-old, hungry for knowledge?
Because George, like the unique, kindhearted, ambitious cultivator of talent he’d been, had made Bellamy his own, second only to the nephew they’d practically raised?
Because, after George passed, Bellamy encouraged her decision to defy advice and remain the force behind her late husband’s banking, trading and shipping companies?
None of those were reasons she should object to an introduction.
Nor did she have any claim on him. They merely spent day after day together.
…And the occasional long night.
Bellamy was loyal. He was smart. He was sincere. Most importantly, he was essential. But he was one other thing Amelia hadn’t noticed, one thing made plain by the gleam in Constance’s eyes.
Bellamy was a man. Full Stop.
A man uncommonly attractive in eveningwear—even outdated eveningwear.
She’d been restless before.
She was positively alarmed, now.
CHAPTER TWO
Matthew Bellamy was out of sorts, out of place, and, if his mother had her way, out of time. The grand Lady Dorothy had plucked him from his life, dusted and polished him, and would marry him off to a lady of her choosing before he had a chance to gather his wits.
Case in point?
Despite vehement protestations, he was attending a fancy soiree, sipping some sort of horribly spiced red wine, listening to his mother whisper-list the pedigrees of every ‘suitable’ young lady in sight, obstinately oblivious that Matthew clearly did not belong.
Yes, investments had made him comfortable enough, and he was only one family tree limb from a solid peerage connection, but, as he looked around him, he felt no affinity. None.
If power and influence were a clock, he was neither fit to be the hours’ stout, stately hand, nor the minutes’ long, graceful arm. Matthew was decidedly a gear.
A gear—he drained his glass—at a gathering full of pretty clock faces.
He searched the room for one real thing. Real, like the shapes of the numbers in his ledgers. Real, like the flush of excitement in his employer’s cheeks when she completed a successful negotiation.
He twirled his glass.
Only a gear.
There was nothing wrong with being a gear. Someone had to keep things ticking. But posturing and presentation? Not his forte.
Take his clothes, for instance. Even he could tell his trousers were too loose, and his collar was…
He spotted a fashionable, fire-haired gentleman across the room and discreetly compared their shirts, trying to discern how his was wrong.
He gave up.
His collar was just off, devil knew why.
Lord, how much he wished to be back in the rational confines of his office.
He. Did. Not. Belong.
But nothing he tried had convinced his mother.
Nothing.
Not swearing on the three, individual graves of his father, uncle, and mentor he would set up a household.
Not promising she would certainly have her own chambers in said household. Chambers she could decorate however she wished—no expense spared.
Not pleading he hadn’t the time or inclination for the courtship she intended for him.
And certainly not his final attempt—putting his foot down with a resolute no.
Please, Bellamy. If you truly intend to set up a household, you must be reintroduced to society. The first Darlington Soiree of the Season is the perfect choice. Lady Darlington invites peers, ministers of Parliament, and even men of trade.
The worst part? His mother had whispered men of trade.
She refused to accept that, while Matthew’s grandfather, uncle, and, now, cousin had been Lords Wentworth, Matthew belonged to the whisper-shamed category, now.
Although his position hadn’t left him without attention tonight.
While some chaperones immediately averted their gazes, others lingered speculatively. No doubt, Lady Dorothy had dropped a hint or two about her son’s worth. The curious chaperones’ blatant attempts to calculate Matthew’s finances left him off-kilter.
Ill, in fact.
He was miserable.
And, he had the nagging feeling things were about to get even…
He glanced up to see his employer, gliding across the room on the arm of a woman who looked as if she were dressed as the crown jewels come to life.
…worse.
Suppressing his affection had become second nature in the office, where Mrs. Sartin was often intent on her work. How could he do the same here, when carefully applied kohl made summer skies of her eyes, a color further accented by the blue silk shimmering around her legs, light as a lover’s whisper?
Airy as she appeared, he understood her attire for what she intended her clothes to be—armor.
Shiny protection. A cultivated exterior allowing her to flout convention and confound her critics. A way to keep the ton guessing.
Protective warmth thread through his being.
She needn’t have taken so much trouble. Her true gifts were anticipating need and putting people at ease. For those things powerful members of the ton would always be in her debt.
“Good evening, Mr. Bellamy.”
“Mrs. Sartin.” He bowed, ignoring his heart-thump. “May I introduce…” Matthew looked around, only to realize his mother had vanished.
Fancy that.
Another mark in Mrs. Sartin’s favor. She’d done the impossible. She’d granted him a reprieve.
“Shall I make introductions, then?” Mrs. Sartin turned to the woman at her side. “Lady Constance, may I have the honor of introducing Mr. Matthew Bellamy?”
“Charmed,” Lady Constance said, blinking hard, as if trying to expel a stray eyelash.
He bowed over her extended hand, his heart still fixed on Mrs. Sartin. “Likewise.”
“I am,” Mrs. Sartin paused, “delighted to see you enjoying the pleasures of town, Mr. Bellamy.”
He knew her expression of delight; the one she wore now didn’t come close.
“You know what they say…” Lady Constance leaned forward and touched his arm. “…All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”
“…And all play and no work makes Jack a mere toy.”
He’d simply quoted the rest of the age-old proverb, but Lady Constance swished her fan and tittered as if he’d said something outrageous.
He sent Mrs. Sartin a subtle frown. This is your friend?
She returned his silent query with a nearly imperceptible shrug. You judge too quickly, Mr. Bellamy.
Gratifying to know they could communicate in silence outside the office. Perhaps—he drifted closer as he gazed down into her eyes—the evening could be salvaged. After feeling so out of place, so terribly alone, he was suddenly—
�
��Look, Amelia,” Lady Constance whispered. “He’s here!”
“Who’s here?” Mrs. Sartin asked, breaking their connection.
“Lord Markham, of course.”
Mrs. Sartin turned toward a stylish young man—the man with the modish collar Matthew had noticed earlier.
Her cheeks pinked. She swayed a little. Then, she smiled.
The secret, intimate nature of her smile sent a surge of heat through Matthew.
“Bellamy!”
His name came out of the blue, shrouded within a clenched-teeth utterance only he had heard. He squinted through the palm beside them and into his mother’s fierce glare. She jerked her head to the side and mouthed, “Now.”
“I must apologize, ladies. It appears my presence is required.”
Mrs. Sartin’s gaze returned his his—briefly. “Go. Enjoy yourself, Mr. Bellamy.” Her sigh was audible relief. “And remember, cares are not permitted at Lady Darlington’s soirees.”
“Absolutely forbidden,” her friend Lady Constance chimed. “Until we meet again, Mr. Bellamy.”
“Lady Constance.” He nodded. “Mrs. Sartin.”
The ladies moved away, but Mrs. Sartin’s citrus scent lingered.
Perhaps it was the candlelight, the music, the gentle swell of gaiety in the air, but as her presence faded, Matthew found it impossible to deny the obvious.
His symptoms?
Jealous heat, revolting moistness at the center of his palms, spots of fire dotting his cheeks.
Signs of a wasting sickness, perhaps. More likely, peril’s proof, though either explanation would necessitate getting his affairs in order.
Life may be short, but its brevity did not excuse the crossing of certain lines.
Chasms, really.
For instance, one did not develop a single-minded, one-sided devotion to the person responsible for one’s wages. And, if enthusiasm, quite by chance, stumbled into the forbidden territory of admiration, one absolutely did not permit an accompanying…there was no other word for it—lust.
Oh, hell.
Where Amelia Sartin was concerned, he was no longer battling affection alone.
“One wonders if you made such a study of Mr. Sartin, rest his soul.”
“Mother.” Matthew acknowledged her with a nod. “You required my presence?”
“I required that you cease conversation with that… with that…that unnatural woman.”
Unnatural because she had talent? Unnatural because she had ambition? “I’d be careful how you refer to the family responsible for changing our fortunes.”
His mother lifted a haughty brow. “Must you bring that up all the time? What’s done is done. I cannot understand what is keeping you from putting that disgraceful business behind you. Your investments have given you choices you could not have dreamed!”
Yes, he knew. “I enjoy my work with Sartin Trading Company.”
“Yes, dear. But you promised to set up a household and, for that, you’ll need to put your days in trade behind you.” His mother huffed. “As for Mrs. Sartin…well, her actions speak for themselves, do they not?”
Across the ballroom, Mrs. Sartin passed the fire-haired young man with the fancy collar. Lord Markham. Markham responded to the flash of her blue eyes with a smile. Holding Markham’s gaze, she took up a space by a Grecian column and swept open her fan.
Matthew did not know the language of the fan. Yet, his ignorance wasn’t enough to prevent him from realizing the two were planning an assignation. He shrugged his shoulders—attempting to subsume a second flare of jealous heat.
Why him? Why Lord Markham? What could the young aristocrat possibly know about Mrs. Sartin’s true magnificence?
Amelia.
Matthew frowned as she disappeared onto the terrace. A few moments later, his lordship followed.
Matthew turned back to his mother. “I trust you will not mind returning to Wentworth house with my cousin?”
“But the evening is still young, and you haven’t yet—”
“I have a great deal to do in the morning,” he interrupted. “I’m afraid I must go.”
She turned her features into a pout.
“Please don’t,” he clipped. “I’ll see you on Thursday afternoon. I haven’t forgotten my promise to take you to Gunter’s.”
“Very well.” She presented her cheek for him to kiss.
“Good night, Mother.”
“Good night, Mr. Bellamy.”
He made his way to the corridor leading to the entry hall. Through the sliver of an open door, he caught sight of a raven-haired lady with her ear pressed up against a second terrace egress.
Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed Mrs. Sartin and Lord Markham. He wasn’t the only one who cared. Could the raven-haired lady be an admirer of Lord Markham?
Did it matter if she was?
He, at least, had no justification for jealousy.
A footman returned with his things. He slipped his arms into his coat and then headed out into the night.
Whatever was happening on the terrace was none of his concern. Mrs. Sartin would never look at him the way she’d looked at Lord Markham. However, though she may dally with Markham, she needed Matthew.
Need would have to be enough. It wasn’t as if he could even dream of having more.
***
Bereft.
The word settled into Amelia’s heart, providing a name for the emotion gathering as wetness in her eyes, sapping her hauteur. But defining the emotion brought her no closer to understanding the source.
Yes, she and Lord Markham had parted ways for the final time. But she did not hold the young man in any special regard, even if she had appreciated his particular talents.
Besides, she’d been responsible for Markham’s abrupt change of heart, if unintentionally.
She rubbed the spot between her first knuckle and second—the place Markham kissed, just before he bid her adieu.
What had she said to him?
“You’ve no idea how few men place their lover first. Why, when Emily recommended you—”
She winced as she recalled the way his cheeks had darkened into the color of stewed beets.
What had she been thinking?
Of course, he’d been insulted.
Then—she could never leave well enough alone, could she?—she’d mumbled something about his entire generation being too preoccupied with prudery.
…Because that was certainly guaranteed to bring him around.
She rolled her eyes, huffed, and then leaned back against the bench. Rain misted in the air between Lady Darlington’s garden shelter and the still-glittering room beyond. A dulling chill seeped through her clothing and permeated her skin.
Just what she needed.
To cool down.
She shivered as she inhaled.
The night had been a disaster.
First, her odd reaction to Constance’s demand for an introduction to Matthew Bellamy.
Then, the unsettling realization her secretary was, well, manly—a point proven when she’d gazed directly into his deep brown eyes, unfiltered with his ever-smudged glasses, and imagined how his lips would feel against hers.
Exacting. Light, but intent. And, in the end, warmly luscious.
She might have rashly considered acting on her sudden awareness, had she not realized the reason for his presence—Matthew Bellamy was there to seek a bride.
She sucked in her lips to keep them from trembling.
Selfish woman.
Bellamy deserved a good life, a good marriage, only…
The cost of those things was the end to her days as she knew them. Hers would not be the first female face that greeted him in the morning. Her worries would not be his primary concern.
Until tonight, she’d been blissfully unaware of that shatteringly inevitable change.
She closed her eyes. A vacant, vulnerable feeling spilled through cracks in her armor. But what could she do?
Sh
e had no right to demand things remain as they were, no matter how comfortable. How cozy.
So, here she was.
Bereft.
She had better get used to the emotion she’d been running from since poor George had fallen ill.
She hadn’t anywhere left to hide.
CHAPTER THREE
Matthew navigated the crowd of young men waiting to place an order at Gunter’s Tea shop. He’d elected to carry his mother’s ice back to the carriage, where she could enjoy her favorite treat in private.
An offering of sweetness to counteract her unavoidable disappointment in him.
September’s scent—usually masked by less pleasant city smells—filled Berkeley Square, cool and peaty, a harbinger of the damp winter days to come.
He inhaled deep, but his slow smile arrested as he spotted a familiar carriage—Mrs. Sartin’s. The carriage door opened. Mr. Pritchett, her nephew and heir, stepped down into the street.
A sudden burst of sun between the clouds glinted as Mrs. Sartin followed. Regal as a queen, his employer took Pritchett’s arm and began a determined stride toward…
Matthew frowned.
He hadn’t noticed Lord Markham at the rail.
He looked away.
Since when had Mrs. Sartin’s choice of companions become his obsession?
He shook his head to clear his lapse and paused to wait for his cousin’s coachman—gleaming in recently-stitched Wentworth livery—to open the carriage door.
“Thank you,” Matthew said.
The coachman did not answer. His glass-eyed stare remained rooted to an imaginary spot directly in his line of vision.
No doubt he’d been told to remain silent. Lord, his cousin was a pompous ass. Matthew only hoped his cousin spent some money in more constructive ways.
Matthew handed his mother her ice and then climbed into the carriage.
Without order or request, the door clicked closed behind him. The coachman’s boots hit the stones as he marched back into position.
“Does Peter really believe such affectations raise his consequence?”
His mother hissed through her teeth—her version of shush.
“Come now.” Matthew raised his brows. “The coachman didn’t hear me.”
Second Chance Love: A Regency Romance Set Page 2
