And then it was the morning of her wedding. Mary rose her early and laid out her best dress, the pale blue silk with silver lace that she had worn to make her coming out. Amelia was docile as a doll, allowing Mary to curl her hair with hot tongs, pinning it up with pearl-tipped pins. “There, milady. A little more rouge? A bride is expected to blush.” Amelia was startled to see a lovely pale creature in the mirror. Was that hope in her eyes? “Thank you, Mary. You have done a wonderful job.”
The head gardener gave her a bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers. She clutched them tightly on the steps of the church. The sight of his bright red hair and broad shoulders caused life to course back through her veins. This was her bridegroom. This was her future. His hands were warm and dry as he slipped on her wedding band. The grey despair gave way to golden peace. He looked startled at her broad smile, and then covered it with a quick kiss. They were married.
They did not have the opportunity to talk, but Amelia was sure that he also felt this strong conviction. She accepted congratulations and felt a little bubble of giddiness at her new name. Lady Windon, Robert’s wife. For the first time she wondered about the new estate where they would live. Did it have a formal garden, or a nature park? Should she move the racing stable there, or perhaps hire a racing master to oversee the operations here? She looked around to quiz her husband about her new home just in time to see his grey morning coat leave the room. She hurried after him.
"Robert." The word stopped him, but he didn't turn around. “I wondered if you would tell me a bit more about the stables at Windon Park.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.
He let out a snort. “Of course. They are quite large, but rather antiquated. I have several mares I am quite proud of. You shall have a fine mount when you visit.”
“Visit?” Her step faltered, “What do you mean?”
He continued on, walking away from her. “You are welcome anytime, of course.”
“Are we not going together, today?”
“There is no need.”
Amelia worried her bottom lip. “But what about, the marriage night?”
“You made it clear that this was not that sort of marriage.” He tried to force the words out evenly. She looked untouchable and sweet in that confection of a dress, but he knew there was fire under the ice.
"I don’t understand.”
"Did you think I would break my word?" He turned on her with a roar. She shrank back, and he put his passions back on a much mended leash. "I wish you well, Amelia. This will be an easy marriage for you. Most brides have to leave home, but you can stay here."
"You are making me the chatelaine of Mossford?”
"I signed the estate and your dowry funds to you completely, just as I promised," he replied. He turned towards her before the full import of his words hit her. She did not respond to him, so he turned away from her and out the room.
"Robert." He paused at the door.
"It is done Amelia, it is done." His voice sounded tired even to his own ears. “The horses have been standing for too long. I must go."
"Robert." This time he did not stop.
"Send me word as soon as possible." It was foolish to desire correspondence. He desired to have her give him something, even if it was merely news of her estates and the occasional line about herself.
"Farewell." There was nothing left to do. Despite their recent bout of vitriol, he knew she sincerely wished him well.
"See me to my horses." She paused, looking at him. "It is a wifely duty." The words were said without an intention of maligning her, and she took it as such. She nodded once and fell into place beside him. They continued in silence until they reached the wide hall and then down through the doors to the stairs.
With a handshake given to Lord Rochester, who was vastly improved, he bid him farewell and entered into his vehicle. With a crack of the whip the horses moved, pulling the carriage down the driveway, away from her. He didn’t look back. There was nothing to look at. Only a woman who had persecuted him for loving her. He could finally admit to himself that he loved her now, when it didn’t matter. He had started when she had challenged him for blindly following Society and goaded him into rediscovering his sister’s affection. Then surviving her fiery temper as he attempted to deliver his convoluted compliment. That had been a lesson to him, hard learned but well learned. From that moment he had endeavoured to speak as frankly as possible. With his truest emotion.
That was one of the reasons he had fallen into temptation with her. When she had asked for his touch and had confessed a desire for him it had thrilled him, too much. He had completely forgotten the rules of Society while in her thrall. He was confident that desire had been genuine on her part. He knew he ached for her.
But in the morning—the morning she had turned away from him. He was to blame that even now she refused him. She was only resigned to being bound to him by marriage. It was enough to make a man fall to his knees and bemoan his fate. Amelia had flashing green eyes that shone with sincerity yet he couldn’t look at those eyes. The truth was hidden in them and he was not prepared for them yet, maybe never.
Chapter Fifteen
Amelia watched the black carriage emblazoned with the ducal coat of arms pick its way down the driveway and she felt a sudden need to cry. She had barely survived one visit of the man. In barely a month she had lost her virginity and become married to him. Both incidents had happened closely, but not in the conventional sequence. Damn him, had it been merely sport to him?
"It is done then?" Her father’s voice cut through the fog in her mind.
"What, Papa?" She turned to find him regarding her with a small smile.
"Your discussion with your husband," he answered with not a little glee.
"It is done." She nodded.
"I have a letter for you," he continued.
"I know of it," she answered.
"Tell me, is he not a good match?" her father asked with a little concern.
"He is, Papa."
"But you are not happy." It was a statement.
"Happiness is difficult, Papa."
"You will adjust, I, for one, am in raptures that my daughter will not spend the rest of her life in a foreign land." That drove a surge of guilt through her.
"Papa..." she started, but he continued.
“I know it was not your desire, but truly Lord Windon is a kind man who loves you and will bear your eccentricities well."
"I am not eccentric," she murmured under her breath, loud enough for her father to catch.
"You are, my darling, but that is one of the things I love about you, poppet," he replied with an indulgent smile.
"Papa. I love you too." Lord Rochester caught his daughter in a quick, feeble embrace. It was unconventional, as was her life.
"I must retire now or draw the wrath of my physician." They both shared a laugh at that. The thought of Mister Grimsby, Lord Rochester’s physician who visited daily, in a wrath was impossible. The man was as soft spoken as to plead with a patient instead of giving orders. Still, he was skilled and, most importantly, did not believe in bloodletting.
Amelia pecked her father as he turned back into the house and she turned towards the gardens. Amelia stroked a fuzzy Lamb’s Ear plant and walked on. The house guests were all gone and the gardener was done with work for today. She anticipated solitude, the better to think with. But still she couldn’t bring herself to quiet contemplation. She forced herself to move and dwell on other subjects. If she allowed herself to think about it, she would cry. A slow sense of loss had grown in her heart at the moment of parting from him, growing with every distance covered by Robert’s carriage back to London and onward to his estates. She had steeled herself to speak with him before he left, but as she watched him go her victory had collapsed into ashes. Everything she had fought to gain was dross. Truly, she had given herself to him in love, or something closely akin. She had resigned herself to a life with no one in it and had foolishly desired a night
of passion. She had desired him and he had been willing.
For the first time since it occurred, Amelia allowed the scene to hurl upon her in the full glory of the memory. Her need to sample lust had quickly morphed to become an act of trust and, if she could admit it to herself, it had been an act of love. But the morning after the act had not gone as she envisioned, and she had sulked like a petulant child.
Now that she thought about it, it had been naturally an awkward scene. How was one to treat the daughter of the manor when he was a guest in her own home and had only just deflowered her? He had gone ahead to do the honorable thing and marry her. They had discussed the possibilities at the lake, so the matter was not too strongly a shock, but she had even driven herself into a bigger rage. She had thought he was trying to claim her vast holdings, but he had proved her wrong. Yet she could not find it in herself to be civil to him.
Was it through? Was she suffering from a malady of discontent that spinsters suffered from? Many failed Seasons she had considered herself on the shelf, by polite rules and by choice. Married she still rebelled, even if there was no battle to be won.
Truth be told, Robert intrigued her more than any man during her stay in London. Finally she could admit to herself that she found no one she would rather wed in all the ton. Why then, was she discontent? Love, her thoughts answered fleetingly, and she almost wept. She loved him, truly, irrevocably, and he knew nothing but honor and duty. The realization brought a dagger bite to her heart. But it did not strike deeper than the thought of the lonely and cold marriage looming before her if she let the arguments stand.
Like a woman possessed, Amelia headed for the stables. Her dress was unsuitable and she was even wearing house slippers instead of proper riding boots, but she called for her horse. The groom led out the black stallion Lord Windon had ridden. She had made it a gift to him when he was visiting, something she had never done with any of her other horses. Maybe even then she had loved him. And though he didn’t love her, she couldn’t allow him carry the memory of her screaming like a harridan with him until he deigned to visit her. Now, she was going after him now. They needed another conversation and, she decided as her heart lurched in her chest at the realization, another goodbye.
Chapter Sixteen
The horses stepped high, the slap of leather and click of metal competing with the sound of horseshoes on the packed dirt road. It would get better, it had to. Even if it was now a raw ache that threatened to drive him to tears. He could not cry, surely not in the presence of his valet and the groom riding the box. Maybe later. He was wont to measure the situation, check the nuance a million times, but that would not make for a consolation. It wouldn't rid him of the cutting pain that their parting had been. He had known her barely a seenight and she ruled his thoughts completely. Robert turned his black gaze from glaring at the confines of his box to gazing outside to the passing scenery.
Even that proved to remind him of her large estate, the spring season was turning the country a pale green. The streets were simple but clean, a sure sign that Lord Rochester and the landed gentry took care of their neighbors.
The occasional cart, a curricle and the frequent riders on horseback passed them on the road. They duly moved aside for the crested carriage. People in the streets paused their chores to watch the grand coach and the outriders pass by. The sun shone around a cloud and the dour morning was suddenly illuminated. With it a smell of lemons suddenly flitted past his nose and he paused. Another deep breath confirmed the scent was gone. The longing it evoked woke in him with a vengeance he had managed to ignore. She would haunt him for life. If he was to live the rest of his days away from her, he would have her know the truth.
Mayhap she might reconcile herself to their union in time. Women were known to need a period of adjustment. But for the sake of their union, their friendship—though dim now—and all the love he bore her in his heart, he couldn’t continue on without a word of truth. He made a split-second decision. "Turn around." The growl filled the small confines of the carriage.
"Your Grace?" His harsh command started his valet. The poor man jumped out of his skin and looked at his lordship with fear.
Robert was not in the mood to be kindly. The ache in his chest demanded relief. "Have this coach turned around this instant," he ordered again. His voice was less gravelly.
"Ah..." His valet continued to blink, his mouth opening and closing without a sound and looked at him as if he was a man possessed.
"Do not continue your stuttering, my good man, and have the groom turn the horses around," he ground out with a pointed look.
Giles recovered quickly. "But if course, Your Grace. But where are we going?"
He informed the man with a certain kind of gravity in his voice. "We are returning to Mossford." And truthfully the matter was beyond grave.
The valet nodded, a bit of his lip color returning as he knocked at the box seat. The carriage stalled and he opened the door and had a word with the groom. That done he returned to his seat. The groom drove his horse neatly around and made back for where they had started.
"Your Grace..." he started after moments of careful deliberation.
"What is it, Giles?" His voice was easier now. He knew he had done the right thing.
"If I may be so bold to ask, what is the nature of the business driving you back to the estate? You set out for London in quite a haste." It was a bold question, but Robert was not feeling particularly formal at the moment.
He answered with a cool manner. "I have forgotten a rather important thing."
"And this thing is..."
"My wife."
Chapter Seventeen
The groom had gone about his job in a grudging manner that had incensed her beyond reason.
Simmons no doubt was displeased. When she had mounted, his disapproval was rife, but she denied him a reaction and adjusted her skirts until she was decent. As decent as one could hope to be riding astride a stallion. Satisfied, she grabbed the reins on the horse and urged him into a canter. The stallion neighed and took off with hard speed, thundering down the line where Robert’s carriage had passed in the morning. She had navigated the garden rows to cut short the time. It was dangerous to ride at that speed in the branching small paths, but she wanted this, needed this.
Riding fast with the wind whipping through her hair, she headed for the end of the driveway. She swung the horse around in a practiced move and he responded quickly with the lightest of touch with the reins and her foot nudging at his side. She turned into the dusty lane and spurred the horse with a renewed speed. She gave him his head, letting the reins lax in her hands. He beat a flat-out wild pace for London, in the direction Robert had gone.
The scenery was a blur, or almost so, at her speed. The morning crowd stood up to witness the beast eating the ground at a magnificent pace. One could not catch the face of the rider, but the billowing skirts said it was a lady. Light traffic occurred on the road, but Amelia did not slacken her pace. It was not wise perhaps, but speed was better. And she needed the passing miles, rushing beneath the hooves of her stallion, to comfort her. The power of the horse between her thighs, the wind against her skin, and her target growing closer and closer, with each inch covered she was soothed.
She almost went down once on the rough country road, but she held the horse up and he was strong and gallant. She reined him in and lowered his pace to a quick trot when they almost went down a second time. The town gradually turned to fields but the roads were somewhat improved. Here there was no traffic and her fears eased. She slowed to a trot for the horse to recover. The Arabian stallion snorted as she patted him, murmuring her praise as he arched his neck with pride. It steamed in the morning air. It pained her to slow her pace, but she wanted her horse alive. A copse of trees shadowed the road ahead and she headed into them. There should be a stream where the horse could drink nearby.
At the next inn she would trade in her horse for another. It pained her to do so, but he was lathered o
r would be if she demanded another bust of speed from him. She would have the innkeeper return him to the stables and she would have a fresher horse for her journey. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she had not eaten a thing, but she was a woman driven. Even the thought of sitting down to sup held little appeal.
The horse picked its way into the cool area while Amelia was preoccupied. She did not catch the furtive movements in the shadows. Suddenly a figure bolted out of the darkness. The long coat was black and shabby. His hat was pulled low over the face and a kerchief covered his mouth nose and ears so that only his eyes remained, glinting with an unholy light in the relative gloom.
Amelia took it all in with a sudden rush of fear that froze her on the horse. She had not feared for highwayman men when she had stepped out, but now she was accosted by one. Gentlemen did not lurk in the shadowed roads dressed mysteriously enough to strike fear in the passing traveller. She did not see a pistol but that mattered very little. She was only a woman riding on a horse alone.
"Stand and deliver!" The shout rent the air. Her horse, startled by the shout, suddenly reared with a loud neigh, both forefeet off the ground and snorting in fear. The opposite horse and his rider had come seemingly out of the darkness. The sudden motion threw Amelia out of her seat and onto the ground. Her last sight as darkness spiralled in was the sight of her stallion attempting to kick the highwayman.
Chapter Eighteen
The four horses performed admirably. In no time the carriage had thundered past the toll gate and farther back. Suddenly they were at the shadowed copse of trees. A horse galloped wildly through the meadows and patches of trees with its rider hunched over it. The man wore a long coat with his hat drawn low over his brow. The rest of his features were hidden in his flight. A sudden realisation hit him. He must be a highwayman, spurred to flee by the sound of a carriage cantering down the street. It could only mean one thing. There was a victim in that copse of trees that had been relieved of his valuables.
Regency Romance Omnibus 2018: Dominate Dukes & Tenacious Women Page 54
