“Of course, you couldn’t. You jumped in with both feet to save your brother’s dreams.”
“It wasn’t that altruistic. It was a piece of him, a little piece I could hold on to. I couldn’t help him. I got sick first, and yet I lived.”
“You are still a far better sibling than I.”
She was puzzled at that. Amelia reigned in her horse to look at him in confusion.
“I find you have spoken harsh words, but they could not be truer.” He continued without quite meeting her eyes. “I wrote to my sister, begging correspondence of her life and conditions. She eagerly shared with me. When I accepted her invitation, I found her words to be true to a certain degree, but it was obvious she lives at a station beneath her. I have made certain arrangements to fatten their coffers. I find that I must also beg your forgiveness. I have been remiss in thinking that family was about duty, when it can be much more than that.”
Amelia gaped in stunned silence. He had not stopped but continued at a slow pace and she had no choice to follow "Your Grace, it is I who must beg your forgiveness.”
“No indeed.”
“It is indeed,” she protested mildly.
“Then we shall each forgive the other?” he asked with the ghost of a smile that was so rueful, she found herself smiling back.
“I must confess that I was wary of coming to your father’s lands,” he continued.
“What cause have I given you for such censure?” she asked with a smile of her own now, with amusement written on her face. “Truly, I am overjoyed that the air is clear between us.”
“It is not the countryside that has my censure. I was also invited to a house party that would be very different. It is undoubtably a large company, very boisterous, full of pranks, mischief and card games until dawn. My peers are no doubt indulging in all manners of...”
“I'm sorry, sir, that we offer little by way of diversion.” Lord Windon, no fool was instantly put on guard by her sharp tone.
“I only...” She did not give him chance to remonstrate.
“Of course, I do not want you to be bored. Perhaps you should seek to continue your journey in a trice when you are rested,” she spoke scathingly, spurring her horse forward.
“I did not mean to...”
“Do not offer platitudes if you are here on sufferance.” Surely, she did not think so.
“Your father invited me. I scarcely could be so impolite as to refuse.” That was the exact wrong thing to say and she stiffened. Her horse started to shy back and forth.
“You have, I must say, done your duty by us. We must not stop you from returning to more jaunty haunts.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
“If I might get a word in edgewise, I would...” He tried to raise his voice to get her attentions.
“There is no need for excuses!” She shouted over him.
“I think you are quite mistaken...” Now his voice was raised purely in annoyance and irritation. The conversation had taken a wrong turn.
“I assure you that I am not!” Her voice maintained its domineering attempt to overpower whatever words may come from his mouth.
“Dashed deuce, you are a menace!” He regretted the words as soon as they rent the air. She gasped and paled. She sat glaring and her horse started to shy. He made an effort to collect the reins from her slack hands.
“And you are no gentleman to curse before a lady!” Her horse danced out of his reach and, with that last expletive flung in his direction, she turned her mount quickly and thundered off. Lord Windon followed at a sedate pace behind her, wracked with regrets and defeated by the interlude.
Her flight during their ride that afternoon had stayed with him. He had only been trying to pay her estates a compliment. The quiet had been enjoyable, something he was not afforded on his own estates. But she had leaped to the conclusion that he was typical of other boors in the ton. In a fashion he had begun to associate with Lord Rochester and his daughter, she had refused him to finish his words or get a word in edgewise to show her errors. He had helped the grooms restrain the lathered horses and went in search of quiet in the extensive gardens.
He wondered how his single act of atonement was not going to plan. He had hoped to help her. Upon hearing her predicament from her father, he had resolved to marry her in name alone, and give her access to her estate holdings and monies. It was little to atone for the sins of the male sex on the world of women and his implicit role in following them blindly.
He had hoped to broach the delicate issue during their ride and bring her to a kind agreement, but she had no use for him or his company. She would likely decline, and possibly abhor, his attempts to save her. He gave up then, and resolved to return to London at the earliest convenience.
But he would change his mind before the soup course was cleared off the dining table that evening.
Chapter Seven
She left the grooms to cool the lathered horse as she stomped up to her room. She quickly ordered a bath and, refusing Mary’s help, scrubbed herself until she was pink and pruny. No matter how her maid coaxed her, she would not revealed the source of her grievance. Instead she only bore her ablutions in silence and came down for an early dinner. Her father was indisposed and none of those invited guest could expect their host to keep a late hour.
They sat twelve at the table that night: Amelia, Lord Windon, her father and several neighbors. She was even tempered and allowed the easy conversation to flow around her, managing the occasional comment when a question was directed at her. She had mellowed after her outburst during the disastrous ride with Lord Windon. He sat at her father’s right hand, where he ought to as their honored guest. At the table was the florid country squire, his equally portly wife and their trio of milksop daughters.
Amelia glared at their obvious coy manners in trying to catch Robert’s attention. She was most pleased when their boldest flirtation was met with a bland smile and a prompt change of the topic of discussion. The thin smile, nothing like they shared, was a balm even if she was unwilling to admit her jealousy, even to herself. In this very moment her thoughts were much too chaotic.
The silver was polished and glinted brightly in the abundance of candlelight. There were beautiful Wedgewood crystal cups shaped like tulips and edged with swirls of gold. The handles of all the silverware were beautifully crafted with the family crest. The tablecloths were pristine white and starched to the proper amount of stiffness. Course followed course, an extravagant display of wealth that could only be rivaled by the Robert’s own table.
The entire household was on its guard to impress Lord Windon, who would most probably be their lord if gossip was to be believed. They were eager to serve and did so like a well-oiled machine with the minimum of fuss. And it was obvious they were properly trained, carrying out their duties without a single mishap and with a dedication that was exemplary. Lord Rochester was kind to his staff and his daughter in charge of the household accounts was very generous with their pay. And they did have a duke to impress.
Cook outdid herself and mouthwatering dishes were presented to the guests, who lavishly praised the culinary creations. That brought a bittersweet smile to Amelia’s lips, recollections of the last time such a thing occurred and how the evening had ended. A quick glance told her that Robert remembered too. The same smile was on his face.
She turned away from him and contemplated her cherry tartlet, appetite fading and confusion crowding in. She wondered why Lord Windon’s words had affected her until she had lost her temper and made a spectacle of herself.
So it was that she found herself among unknown guests, in the presence of a man that her father insisted she engage but whom she detested with all her heart. Even if she could not bring herself to stop stealing glances at him. The looks brought flutters to her stomach. Every time she looked she found him regarding her boldly, even when he was in the thick of conversation with others.
She glowed. Sitting regally at the opposite end of the table. She had looked
fetching in her riding habit and had been exquisitely gowned at the soiree of their introduction, but that paled to the picture she was now. And she did not acknowledge him with anything more than a brief inclination of her head but she smiled at the other men invited to dinner.
He suffered, as she bestowed them with smiles and turned a blank stare to him. It seemed the whole of London would find the favor of her smile, but he was not afforded the same luxury. She had the men on either side of her hanging on her every word, sharing that excellent wit with them no doubt. He had never struggled through a meal like he had at Lord Rochester’s table. She put the trio of trilling girls to shame with her poise. Her quite grace was nothing the matron in the room could ever hope to aspire. He stared boldly. He couldn’t pull his stare away even though it bordered on impolite. He tried to rein it in but he found himself behaving like a green lad. He was lost in the conversation but the callow girls only giggled at his awkward pauses and tried their best to bat their lashes at him.
The ladies retiring to the drawing room to drink tea, leaving the gentlemen to their harder liquors. The squire filled their drinking interlude with county laws to which he could contribute to tolerably well, affording him time to better hide his distraction.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies, one of the squire’s girls offered to play on the harpsichord with another singing. The guests enjoyed a clear tenor that lent a satisfactory air to the room and was complimented by all and sundry. Lord Rochester proposed they play whist and by a machination he partnered his daughter with Lord Windon. She almost demurred and tried to offer her place to the squire’s wife but her father was not in the mood for her false modesty. She curtsied quickly and sat at his side. Lord Windon accepted the proffered cards and started to shuffle them. She was suddenly engrossed with the play of light on his wrist, hidden by a froth of lace, and motion of his deft fingers with the single ring which bore his seal. The gold glinted against the lace and she wondered how they would feel against her own unadorned hands.
As soon as the thought came she blushed heavily, something her father did not miss. She ducked to find Lord Windon looking at her with a single card clasped between two fingers. A subtle tension pervaded the small group as Lord Windon dealt the cards. Amelia made a show of assessing her card.
Lord Windon addressed his host. “I do not know the rules of your house. Do you prefer to play for stakes or forfeits?” He indicated the cards in his hands.
“I cannot abide gambling. It is the devil’s own game.” The vicar interjected from his position to the side with an apologetic but firmly stern stare.
“I confess I am averse to lining another’s pocket with my coin.” Lord Rochester himself confessed as he assessed his own cards and placed a card on the velvet covered table between them.
“Indeed. Forfeits are much more sporting.” The squire agreed in a gruff voice as the play turned to him. He squinted good naturedly at his cards and looked up.
“My lady?” Lady Amelia blinked once as the other players looked at her. Usually her opinion was not asked but Lord Windon had asked and the others graciously followed his lead. She did not think it was because she was in her own parlor.
“I believe the pleasure of the game is in the skill,” she answered diplomatically and the men nodded in agreement.
“And the company no doubt.” Her father added as a gracious afterthought, or so it would appear.
“But of course.” The rest of the table muttered while Amelia ducked her head again and played her hand. Her father was being blatantly obvious.
The squire and Lord Rochester played whist with a magical merging of wit. Although Lady Amelia barely acknowledged Lord Windon, still her presence so close wreaked havoc on his senses. He could not remember the cards.
They lost decisively, a show of skills and a fine merging of cards by their opponents. The squire was affable in his win and her father was amusing. Lord Windon drew a forfeit and looked dangerous instead of ridiculous following the instructions, ‘Lie on your back and stand up without using your hands.’ She was uncomfortably aware of the muscles in his back and torso he used to make such a fluid motion. She had seen that forfeit once before, a callow youth who had flopped on the floor like a fish before rolling over and standing like a yearling calf.
She drew a more daring forfeit. ‘Kiss the one you love and the best man or lady. They may not be the same person.’ She brushed a kiss on the vicar’s cheek and then marched up to her father and bussed the top of his head proudly. He laughed and hugged her tight. She blushed at this show of paternal affection.
The hour grew late and their guests begged to take their leave. Amelia was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that she sailed through the evening without collecting another kiss. After the last carriage had sailed down the drive, Amelia went to bed.
Chapter Eight
Lord Rochester invited Lord Windon to the parlor for a nightcap. He brought a decanter from a high shelf and proceeded to pour them a generous amount of fine spirit, smuggled goods no doubt. After a moment of idle talk Lord Rochester asked the duke about the state of his suit with his daughter. Lord Windon relayed the events of the day to the dismal earl.
Lord Rochester begged him again, asking for his favor as he was dying and would ask nothing more of seeing his daughter settled. Lord Windon could not refuse a dying man his wish, but he couldn’t disclose to Lord Rochester that he had decided to tarry a while of his own volition.
Sleep claimed him as he played the events of the day through his mind. Lady Amelia deliciously mussed after riding with abandon. And the poised and polished woman at the dinner table. The bright but silent beauty that had trounced her own partner at whist. The contrast was bold and stirring.
The morning repast was a merry affair. Amelia was silent, but Lord Windon and her father were completely engrossed in discussions about the hunting parties they had attended in the past. Lord Windon told of one particular hunt where a hound used in the hunt had led the men away from the fox, it being a foxhound itself. A nonsense joke. The retelling was so comical and unbelievable that her father laughed out loud. Amelia smiled to see her father so animated.
A storm in the early hours of the morning left the weather in a contradictory state for most of the morning. The bright sunshine beckoned but the wet grass and damp air screamed caution. Lord Windon, wanting very much to be left to his own company, did not heed the warning. He was in far too a reflective mood and, having exhausted his current reserves for polite responses to polite conversation, he went wandering off instead to the gardens. They were spectacular, the work of a gifted gardener no doubt. He found himself walking at a leisurely pace through the neatly pruned gardens with the scent of many flowers washing over him in softly fragrant waves of cool air. The only one he could identify were the roses.
He gave a particular decorative arch his interest. It had cherubs carved on it. The rest of the structure was covered in climbing pink and white roses. They blended beautifully, contrasting yet complimenting. He leaned closer and strained a finger across the lips of a tight bud wondering if her lips would be just as soft and warm.
He stumbled at the force of the startling idea that he was lusting after her. The woman who had, in the little time of their acquaintance, insulted him, misconstrued his intentions, told him he was no gentleman, and then ignored him, even if it was hidden beneath a thin veneer of civility.
He couldn’t be lusting after her. He only had only wanted to offer for her hand. He had no intentions on her person at all, but his body was betraying him with traitorous imaginations. That wouldn’t do at all.
He staggered back and stumbled into a conveniently placed stone seat. He took a seat on the damp stone, too lost in thought to register the cold. By Jove, he had damned himself beyond redemption. It wouldn’t do to rescue her and then make carnal demands on her person, even if they were by law his conjugal rights. He was under no illusion that theirs would be more than a marriage of convenience,
but he was most unwilling to set his wife against him. He sighed at the directions of his thought. The lady in question was most unlikely to accept his suit in any event. It wouldn’t do to cast her in the role just yet.
“Your Grace, I am sorry if I am the cause of so thunderous a scowl.” He startled badly and scrambled to his feet to regard the one person who currently possessed his thoughts. She looked beautiful. Her skin was clear and faintly rosy and her hair was a sheet of black that complemented her bright green eyes. It only added to the fear running through him. He wondered if his expression gave away the direction his mind had taken. In a trice his face cleared as he came to his feet.
Amelia had gone looking for Lord Windon after he had excused himself. She had followed him toward the garden only to find him several minutes later, sitting on a damp stone bench and scowling at the roses. The roses were definitely innocent.
“Lady Amelia.” He answered her puzzled looks
“Your Grace.” She started.
“Robert.” He corrected gently.
She waited a moment then nodded “Robert. I do need to speak with you about something.”
“I gathered. Somehow a chance meeting in the gardens was too contrived,” he murmured.
She deflated suddenly. Her eyes fastened on her own wildly gesticulating fingers. “I am sorry, Your Grace. If you found the countryside wanting for excitement, it is no reason to behave the harridan. You are entitled to your opinion no matter how much it differs from mine.”
She looked up at and looked away. The guilt bringing stinging blood to her cheeks. He looked at her with an expression that could be termed benevolent, only the amusement in his smile belied that. “I find, Lady Amelia...”
“Amelia.” It was only fair that she give him use of her Christian name.
Regency Romance Omnibus 2018: Dominate Dukes & Tenacious Women Page 48
