by Tuft, Karen
“Lady Walmsley!” Amelia exclaimed.
Lady Walmsley’s comment gave Anthony more hope than he had had in days.
“Now,” he said once he had closed the sitting room door behind them. “We are going to talk. Please have a seat.” He gestured to the sofa.
“I prefer to stand,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“Very well.” He turned to her, and she backed a few steps away from him, but he was undeterred. “I have come to see you every day since we were together in the park,” he said in a low voice. “And every day I have been turned away.”
“There was no need for you to call, Lord Halford. I am not your responsibility. I thought I made that perfectly clear to you.”
“I did not call because I felt responsible for you. I called because I care.” He locked eyes with her. “I care, Amelia. And I was not happy when you ended our betrothal so abruptly.” He took another step, successfully trapping her against the back of the sofa. He placed a hand on either side of her. “Not happy at all,” he whispered. “I do not intend to leave you here until we understand each other on this matter,” he said.
He nuzzled the soft skin behind her ear, making her shiver, before kissing her there. “The last few days have been torture,” he murmured as his lips traced her jawline. “I needed to see you, and I felt frustrated and helpless but not because I felt responsible, Amelia. Do not mistake me about that.”
“Oh,” she said breathlessly.
She had stopped trying to push him away and was trembling, so he told her what he had come to say. “When I saw you, I neglected to see the strong, independent woman before me and instead saw a vulnerable one who could not sense the danger that surrounded her.”
“I was in no danger,” she said.
“A woman is always in danger. I learned that at Badajoz,” he said.
“Oh, Anthony,” she said softly. “I am not a casualty of war, but I fear you are.” She stroked a soft hand down his cheek before turning her mouth to his.
He gloried in the offering she was giving him, relief flooding through him. Her lips were giving and sweet, and he was desperate for them. His hands moved to her waist and then made their way up to caress her back and press her close. She was so alive, and when he was with her, he felt alive too.
Her hands went around his neck and then in his hair, and it felt like heaven, but Anthony was aware, despite the delicious distraction that Amelia was, that Lady Walmsley could interrupt them at any moment. Reluctantly he ended the kiss.
She had ended their betrothal, though Anthony had a differing opinion of the matter. His best recourse, he realized, was to court her, convince her of his intentions, and use the special license he’d procured as quickly as was prudent.
She looked at him then, her beautiful eyes like deep green velvet, her lips rosy from his amorous attention to them, and his heart somersaulted in his chest. He wanted her to be his own. He intended to make her his countess. Whether she was the granddaughter of a viscount or the daughter of a simple vicar, it mattered not to him. The scandal would pass quickly enough and all would be well. He would make certain of it.
It was time for battle once more, and former Captain Lord Anthony Hargreaves vowed to himself it would be an all-out assault. He would lay siege to Amelia’s arguments against the match, convince her it was not mere attraction or a passing fancy or—heaven help him—responsibility he felt toward her. And she was attracted to him, he knew, or she would never have allowed herself to be caught in a situation that would compromise her in the first place. One did not spend twenty-two years as the daughter of a vicar to behave with anything but the highest propriety. That she had succumbed to him that first time as she had again today explained a great deal.
“Amelia,” he said. “I do not want the betrothal to end. Give us—me—more time before you make a decision. Please do not end it based on our conversation in the park.”
“I cannot see how it can ever work,” she said, those beautiful eyes full of sadness . . . and longing.
The longing gave Anthony hope.
“One week,” he said. “One week is all I ask, and I intend to court you properly for that week. At the end of that time, if you still feel we do not suit, I will walk away and never bother you again. But if at the end of the week you consent to be my wife, we will marry the week after.”
“So soon?” she asked, her brows drawing together. “But—”
“Yes. I do not want to give you time to change your mind again.”
He kissed her again with the intent of persuading her to his point of view.
* * *
Lady Walmsley, informed that Amelia and Anthony had come to an agreement, invited Anthony to join them for dinner that evening. After dinner they retired to the music room, where Amelia played the pianoforte while Lady Walmsley did needlework and Anthony pretended to read.
Amelia could tell he was pretending because whenever she looked at him—which was more frequently than she was willing to admit—she caught him gazing at her instead.
Knowing he was watching her so carefully, she used what little skill she had gained from her mother and played from her heart, trying to express through her music what she did not dare say to Anthony in words. She loved him, but she was afraid. Was it enough to marry the man she loved, even if he did not love her in return? Or would she come to resent the fact that he only cared for her but did not love her? There was a huge difference between the two.
Eventually Anthony gave up the pretense of reading. He shut his book and simply sat and listened, his eyes closed. It was the most serene Amelia had seen him. Playing the pianoforte had always been a blessing in her life. It had allowed her, even at an early age, to express a wide range of emotions—anger, passion, reverence—through the notes of the great composers. Her fingers would fly over the scale passages of Haydn and Mozart or plumb the hidden harmonic and emotional depths of Beethoven. But whatever the case, her playing was a source of peace.
She would share that peace with Anthony now. He needed peace.
Eventually her fingers stilled on the keys, and she folded them into her lap.
“Exquisite, my dear,” Lady Walmsley said in a soft voice. “My heart is full from hearing you play.” She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief before placing a finger to her lips. “I believe you have lulled our friend to sleep.”
Anthony had not budged at all.
“I hate to wake him,” Lady Walmsley continued. “I fear if we do, he will be startled and embarrassed.”
Amelia could only stare at his masculine beauty, watch his chest rise and fall in slumber, and fall more in love with him than she already was.
“I believe I shall retire and allow him the privacy he will prefer to discover when he awakens.” Lady Walmsley set her sewing aside and rose from her chair. Then she surprised Amelia by crossing to the piano and kissing her softly on the cheek. “Good night, my dear,” she said. “And do give Lord Halford my regards as well.” She withdrew quietly from the room, leaving the door slightly ajar for propriety’s sake.
Amelia watched her leave and then returned her gaze to Anthony. The light in the room was low, with only a candelabrum on the pianoforte and two others placed on nearby tables, their candlelight flickering softly and casting Anthony’s features in shadow. The air was still, and she was reluctant to disturb the tranquility of the moment.
She allowed herself to dream, to imagine a life with this gentleman—this man. There was such honor in him, a goodness of character she had rarely observed in others, excepting her father, who had cared for his parishioners nearly as much as he had cared for his wife and daughter.
Anthony was such a man.
She rose and silently walked to the wing chair where he sat, his head resting against its high back, a finger tucked between the pages of his closed book, marking his place. Amel
ia sank to her knees and gently drew the book from his hands. “Anthony,” she said softly.
He did not budge.
“Anthony,” she repeated.
When he still didn’t awaken, she decided to let him sleep a bit longer and take advantage of the opportunity to study him at close range. His hair had grown in the weeks since he had returned from Spain. It was thick and had a tendency to wave, and Amelia fought the urge to run her fingers through it, especially since she knew how it felt.
He sighed deeply then, startling her, and shifted his position in the chair. When she realized he hadn’t awakened, she relaxed and returned to her perusal.
She took in his straight, dark brows and the fringe of black lashes that curved against his cheekbones. He had a strong jaw and a firm mouth, with sensuous lips that twitched upward when he was amused or flattened to a thin line when he was vexed. He did not smile enough, she realized. And on the occasions when he did, the smile did not always reach his eyes. She would do something to change that, she vowed.
Could she marry him? Was it possible that the heir to a marquess had chosen her, humble as she was, for his wife? Was he really marrying her by choice and not out of responsibility?
Oh, she wanted to believe it was true. She knew the Earl of Halford was a plum catch in the Marriage Mart because of his title and ancient aristocratic family. Any young lady would be thrilled if she was fortunate enough to catch the earl’s attention. But none of that mattered to Amelia; in fact, it was the reason for her reluctance. It was Anthony Hargreaves she loved. The rest of it was a responsibility they would share together.
And she would help him bear the responsibilities that had been placed on him. She had a lot to learn, and life would be complicated on occasion, but she would do it, for him.
If she married him.
It truly was time to awaken him, she decided reluctantly. Otherwise she might crawl into his lap and sleep with her head nestled on his shoulder, so appealing did he look sitting there. “Anthony,” she whispered again, and brushed his hair from his forehead.
His eyes opened partway, and he seemed surprised to see her there—as if in his slumber he had forgotten where he was. That irresistible mouth of his slowly turned upward in a relaxed, appreciative smile. “I see an angel,” he said in a low, gravelly voice. He blinked a few times and looked around as he gradually awakened and remembered where he was. “Right,” he said. “You were playing the pianoforte.”
“You fell asleep,” Amelia told him. “I was reluctant to wake you; you were sleeping so peacefully.”
“Was I? That will be news to Lucas. I have not done that in longer than I can remember. Quite the contrary, in fact.” He sat up straight and stretched. “It appears I also managed to bore Lady Walmsley enough that she left us to ourselves.” His contented smile turned into a mischievous grin, and he reached for her and tried to tug her onto his lap.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, resisting despite her earlier yearnings to be precisely there. “You are going home to continue that peaceful sleep of yours.”
“You are right, of course, but it doesn’t sound nearly as much fun.” He rose to his feet, drawing her up with him and pulling her close. “Thank you for playing the pianoforte for me,” he said, running his hands up and down her back. “Next time I vow to remain awake for the entire performance.”
“We shall see,” she said. “Good night.”
“Walk me out?” he asked.
They blew out the candelabra, taking a single lit candle with them, and strolled slowly through the dark, silent house, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm.
“What did you mean about your sleeping being news to Lucas?” she asked softly.
Anthony heaved a huge sigh. “Nothing, really. Nothing for you to fret over, at least.”
“Anthony,” she said in a soft, chiding voice. “If we are to marry—if—then we must be honest with each other and share those parts of ourselves that make us feel vulnerable. It is part of the bond of marriage.” She was not so naive that she couldn’t understand that many couples, especially among the nobility, shared very little with each other, but she refused to have such a marriage.
“You are an expert, then?” he asked, apparently reluctant to explain his comment.
Amelia didn’t want to push him overly much. She knew he had suffered while in Spain. “I rely on my parents’ marriage for my example, and I witnessed a loving bond between them that shared happiness and burdens equally.”
“You may think in your childlike way that your parents shared equally, but I would venture there were things they each kept hidden in order to spare the other unnecessary pain.”
Amelia thought about it as they walked. What Anthony had said was most likely true. She knew her mother had tried to disguise her pain from both Amelia and her father. Undoubtedly her father had been unrealistically optimistic to her mother when the end was near, for both their sakes.
“But I agree with you in principle,” Anthony continued. “I should prefer my marriage to be an open and honest one, at least as much as possible.”
“That is acceptable,” Amelia replied. She wanted an open and honest marriage, but she also wanted a marriage made of love, especially if Anthony was to be her husband. She did not dare say it though.
Which obviously proved the point Anthony had just made.
“Well,” she said, “I won’t press you about the comment you made about Lucas, then. I will only say that I am glad you were able to sleep peacefully for a while this evening, and if my music had anything to do with it, I shall play for you every evening from now on.”
“I shall hold you to that.”
They had reached the front hall, and Anthony took up his hat from the table. He kissed each of her hands in turn before leaving a final kiss on her lips. “Good night, angel,” he said, then closed the door behind him, taking all of her heart with him as he went.
* * *
The following afternoon, after a night of restful sleep that had continued after listening to Amelia’s music, two large traveling coaches pulled up in front of Ashworth House. Anthony watched in astonishment as his father emerged slowly from the first coach, carefully assisted by a sturdy footman, followed by Anthony’s mother, sister, and brother-in-law.
He hurried down the front steps and took his father’s arm, concerned that he had left Ashworth Park, where he should be continuing to rest and regain his strength.
“Never you mind, Halford,” his father said, waving off his assistance and taking a cane from the footman. “I’ll be hanged if I do not enter my home under my own power.”
Anthony moved to kiss his mother on the cheek, keeping a wary eye on his father nonetheless.
“He really is much stronger, Anthony, or I should never have let him come to Town,” she said, taking his outstretched arm.
“And why did you come to Town?” Anthony asked. “You knew Miss Clarke and I intended to return to Ashworth Park within a week or two.”
“You and Miss Clarke were, were you?” she said, arching an eyebrow at him. “Then why, precisely, did I receive a letter from her informing me that her betrothal and employment were at an end and thanking me for my kindness to her?”
He was saved from answering, fortunately, when Louisa hurried over and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Anthony!” she cried. “I was positively devastated when Amelia wrote Mama and told her the betrothal was off, was I not, Farleigh?” she added when her husband arrived to shake Anthony’s hand.
“Indeed,” Farleigh said, smiling at Louisa.
Anthony had always wondered at Farleigh’s devotion to his pretty but emotional sister. Now that he understood the feelings himself, he wondered no more.
“We took our time traveling so Papa could rest,” Louisa said. “Farleigh insisted I rest too, the dear man.” She shot Farleigh a gaze that rival
ed the one he had given her. “Otherwise we should have arrived yesterday. Oh, please tell us what has happened.”
“Perhaps we should wait until we are inside to have this conversation, my dear,” Farleigh said.
“You’re right, of course. But, Anthony, I have been beside myself with worry, and Farleigh would not have me be so, despite what he just said. Please tell us.”
“I confess to being in a similar state as Louisa over this,” his mother said. “I am quite impatient to learn what is going on.”
“You will both have to be patient a few minutes more,” Anthony said, turning to lead his mother into the house. “How is Father, truly?” he asked in a low voice as Louisa hurried over to Will and Penny’s nurse to make sure all was settled with the children.
“Still weak, but doing much better than Dr. Samuels and I could have hoped. I believe knowing he has a son who lives did much to restore his own will to keep living.”
Anthony rejoiced at her words. He felt as though another burden of responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders.
They arrived in the sitting room, where Lord Ashworth was already seated, his feet resting on a cushioned footstool. He was pale, but Anthony could see that even in the short amount of time since Anthony had left Ashworth Park, his father had gained weight and looked much stronger.
Lady Ashworth rang for tea and then sat on the sofa next to her husband’s chair. Louisa sat by her mother while Farleigh wandered over to the crystal decanter on a side table.
“Brandy, Halford?” he asked, splashing some in a glass for himself. “Ashworth?”
“No, thank you,” Anthony replied.
“None for me,” the marquess said, recognizing the stern look his wife was giving him. “Doctor’s orders and all that.”
The marchioness nodded in approval.
Anthony hid a smile and walked to the fireplace, where he leaned his shoulder against the mantel and crossed his arms. “I cannot believe that a mere lady’s companion can fire off one little missive and my entire family jumps to attention. And yet here you all are.”
