“Why ever not?” Reggie asked, his brow furrowed. “With Marshall gone, you are his sole heir. His dukedom must pass to someone.”
Amalia sucked in a slow deep breath and blew out her cheeks. She looked at him. “I know,” she replied, her voice soft. “But how can I be certain it is me my future husband wants, and not the wealth and titles and estates?”
Something odd flashed across Reggie’s expression, and his face closed as he glanced away. Confused, Amalia watched him gaze straight ahead through his horse’s ears before he finally turned back to her. “Then I suppose you should choose wisely then.”
Chapter 2
Reggie helped Amalia down from the carriage onto the wide circular drive at the immense London mansion belonging to the Duke of Thornhill. He tried to ignore the sharp ache in his chest that happened whenever he was near her, a sickness of his heart that only Amalia’s love could cure. She did not regard him as a potential husband; she did not return his passionate feelings, and most likely never would.
His hand still in hers, he gazed down into her golden-brown eyes, wishing, yet feeling hopeless, that one day he would see the love and not simple friendship within them. “Will His Grace be able to join us for supper?” he asked, making useless conversation as a means to allay that unceasing pain.
“I hope so,” Amalia replied, striding up the steps to the front doors. A pair of bowing footmen swung them wide, and Reggie accompanied her across the wide echoing foyer. His father and hers had been friends as well as business associates, so Reggie spent a great deal of time in this house as a child, then as a young man. His own townhouse lay in the same neighborhood not far away, and many members of London’s high society owned stately homes along the quiet, tree-lined road.
The butler, who had been employed by the former Duke of Thornhill, bowed as Reggie and Amalia strolled across the grand entryway. “Hello, Perkins,” Amalia said. “Do you happen to know where my father is?”
“Yes, My Lady, he is having a drink in the library.”
As far as Reggie knew, the aging butler had never been addressed as anything except Perkins. If he had a first name, he never knew what it was, and it was impolite to ask.
As he and Amalia climbed the stairs toward the second floor, he bent to her ear. “You realize he was old when we were quite young? He does not seem to age at all.”
Amalia giggled. “I know. But he is getting old, Reggie. He does not look it, but he is having difficulty with his joints these days. He will never admit it, of course, and would be scandalized if Father offered to limit his duties for the sake of his health.”
“He is one of those who will serve until the day he dies, I expect.”
“I know, and it breaks my heart.”
Reggie eyed her sidelong. “How so?”
“He is a member of the family, Reggie,” she said with a hint of impatience. “The thought of losing Perkins is akin to losing my father.”
“I have always loved that about you, Amalia,” Reggie commented, his grin returning. “How much you care for your servants.”
“Yes. Well, I know you do, too. I do not understand how so many people of our station do not regard them as people, but only tools. I never liked that.”
At her knock on the library door, a gruff voice invited them to enter. Reggie opened it for her, and they strolled into the vast, book-lined room. His Grace, Noah Gallagher, the Duke of Thornhill, glanced up from the book he was perusing and smiled broadly at the sight of him.
“Reginald,” he exclaimed, rising as Reggie bowed. “What a most welcome surprise. Come in, have a drink. Brandy?”
“Yes, Your Grace, thank you.”
Amalia curtseyed before planting a kiss on her father’s cheek. “You look better, Father,” she said as the Duke gestured for a footman to serve Reggie with brandy and Amalia with wine. “I am so pleased to see it. I invited Reggie to supper. I hope you do not mind.”
“No, of course not, Amalia, it has been too long since Reginald came to visit. How are you, boy?”
“Quite well,” Reggie answered, sitting down after the Duke did. “Amalia tells me you have been ill.”
“Yes, but I will be fine in a day or two. Tell me what has been happening around the realm.”
Keeping his eyes from Amalia with a concentrated effort, Reggie spoke of his estates in Northumberland and his thriving horse and cattle business. She listened to their conversation and sipped her wine. She, no doubt, was unaware of how her stunning eyes on him merely forced his heart into a renewed ache. How can I talk of business when I want to ask her to marry me? I have been in love with her since I was twelve years old.
“You have your father’s gift for horses,” the Duke commented, his eyes, so much like Amalia’s, glinting. “As well as his business sense. You will do well, Reginald.”
“Why have you never called him ‘Reggie’ like everyone else?” Amalia complained.
The Duke snorted. “He is always Reginald to me, daughter. Did I tell you Patrick arrived while you were out?”
Amalia brightened. “No, you did not. Why is he not here with you?”
“I believe he mentioned the desire to write a few letters before supper. He will join us then.”
Feeling a small stab of jealousy at the knowledge that Amalia’s cousin was in the house, Reggie tried to squash it. The Duke’s younger sister’s second child, Patrick Miller, had grown up as close to the Gallagher siblings as he himself had. His status as a second son prevented him from ever courting Amalia, yet Reggie could never seem to be able to drop his possessiveness of her whenever Patrick was near.
“What is he doing these days?” Reggie took a mouthful of his brandy in an effort to swallow the pang.
“He is currently working as the export manager for the Earl of Bainbridge,” the Duke replied. “I am considering offering him better wages if he consents to work for me instead.”
Reggie inwardly winced. That would mean he would be around Amalia that much more. “Splendid idea, Your Grace. He must be performing excellently for His Lordship.”
Amalia clapped her hands. “Keep everything in the family.”
The Duke nodded. “Yes, I have been hearing great things about my nephew in the city. Very smart young man. He will go far, you know.”
I prefer him to be in Scotland. Not even the Orkneys are far enough away for my comfort. “Then, he will be a wonderful asset.”
“Of course, he will,” Amalia replied, her smile full and happy.
His jealousy merging into dull anger, Reggie understood his own reaction to Patrick. While they were all close as youngsters, and once Reggie realized there could be no wife for him save Amalia, anyone else Amalia loved became a target for his enmity. Even if a blood cousin who had no claim on her hand in marriage, all that mattered was that Amelia loved him.
She loves you, too, you remember. Except I want—no, I need—her to see me as a potential husband and life partner.
Hiding his emotions behind a pleasant façade, Reggie absently wondered what her reaction might be if he, at last, confessed his feelings for her. She is too well-bred to laugh in my face. But I could not stand it if she looked at me with pity and said she could never feel the same.
Thus, Reggie kept his love for Amelia closed inside him, a burning ache that might never find a cure.
Chapter 3
Patrick Miller knew his uncle Noah, the Duke of Thornhill, was a stickler for propriety and punctuality at mealtimes. Although a genial, even-tempered man, the Duke politely but firmly demanded family and guests dress properly and arrive at the dining room promptly. As a young prankster, Patrick would enter the dining room one minute late and still garbed in his less-formal clothes.
He tried that only once.
Grinning at his reflection in the looking glass as he brushed his hair, he recalled the incident with humor. “I certainly learned my lesson that day, Uncle,” he muttered. He now planned ahead what he would wear and how long it would take him to get ready
for supper.
His happy mood faded upon reaching the dining room exactly on time and discovering the presence of Reggie Davidson, the Marquess of Lyonhall, escorting Amalia. Covering his burst of annoyance, he bowed low. “My Lord. Amalia.”
Even as Amalia greeted him warmly and offered her cheek for his kiss, he saw Reggie’s eyes shutter. Lord Lyonhall was even less happy to see Patrick than Patrick was to see Lord Lyonhall. “Mr. Miller,” Reggie intoned coldly.
Amalia gazed between the two of them, a small frown on her beautiful face. “What is wrong? Why are you both so formal with each other?”
“I suppose it has been too long since we have seen one another,” Patrick suggested. He held out his hand. “Reggie.”
With a tight smile, Reggie accepted it. “Patrick. I have heard good things about you.”
“Really? I am certain they are not true.” Patrick grinned.
The footmen swung open the doors to the dining room, and Patrick yielded entrance to Reggie due to his superior rank. His Grace stood just inside, speaking with the old butler, and glanced up as the three of them offered their respects. “I was beginning to think you were late,” he commented as Perkins bowed and retreated. “Come in, sit.”
As the lowest ranking person at the table, Patrick was seated furthest from the Duke while Reggie sat at his right hand. His annoyance grew as His Grace ignored his nephew for a time and spoke to Reggie about horses, a topic that he felt he knew more about than the upstart Marquess. I should have been born first.
His resentment at being the second son of the Viscount of Martindale had burned within him since the day he understood what that meant. His older brother, the current Viscount, had married a wealthy heiress and already had an heir and a spare, which meant Patrick had little chance of ever inheriting anything. It is not fair that the eldest gets everything. It never has been.
The Duke’s voice broke into his thoughts. “How are you doing under Lord Bainbridge, nephew?”
“Very well, Uncle,” Patrick replied, covering his lapse easily. “Though he has not followed up with his promise of a higher salary.”
“Indeed?” The Duke frowned slightly. “That is hardly good business. After supper, we will go into the drawing-room and talk. You know I refuse to talk business at the table.”
“Of course, Uncle.”
Patrick observed Reggie studiously not looking at him, and inwardly chuckled. He knew the man was desperately in love with Amalia, and that his cousin merely considered Reggie a friend. He also realized that was the source of Reggie’s cold enmity toward him, even though Patrick could never aspire to marry her. The blood relationship might not hinder a courtship; however, the Duke would never consider it, even if Amalia loved him that way.
She did not.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Amalia glancing between them, her brow puckered in confusion. No doubt his cousin, sensitive to nuances and emotions, suspected the undercurrents of anger and resentment beneath the pleasant dinner table facades.
“I have a friend arriving in London soon,” Patrick said, carefully watching Reggie’s reaction without seeming to. “The Earl of Eastcairn.”
“Is his family name Watson?” the Duke asked, frowning slightly. “I believe I knew his father.”
“Yes, Uncle. Frederick Watson. I will introduce you to him, Amalia. You will like him.”
Patrick almost chuckled aloud at the flicker of anger in Reggie’s piercing blue eyes. “Was he not a school friend, Patrick?” Reggie asked, his voice cheerful.
“Yes. We met at Oxford, and became friends even though he is older than I.”
“I should like to meet him as well,” the Duke said, cutting into his roast lamb. “Perhaps you will arrange an introduction, nephew.”
“Gladly, Uncle.”
“He has estates in Scotland as well as England,” his uncle went on thoughtfully. “His father left him quite well off.”
“He would make an excellent match, Amalia,” Patrick commented, slyly watching Reggie from the corner of his eye. What he saw did not disappoint him.
Amalia shook her head, her ringlets of her vibrant dark brown hair bouncing at her slender neck. “I am not interested in being matched, Patrick.”
The Duke frowned at her. “You must start considering a husband, daughter. You cannot remain a spinster all your life.”
“I certainly can,” she replied, her tone tart. “With Marshall gone, I want to stay in this house and look after you.”
“You are a stubborn child. You certainly did not get that trait from me.”
Amalia’s grin blossomed, and she lifted a glass of wine. “You know I did, Father. Along with your eyes.”
At last, the Duke smiled fondly at her. “So, you did at that. But I refuse to cease nagging you about a husband. I must see you are provided for before I pass on.”
“That will not be for years, so you can cease and desist with the nagging.”
The Duke eyed her sharply. “And your brother was taken from us when he was five and twenty years old. You of all people should understand that nothing in life is certain.”
Amalia flushed to her hairline and studied the plate in front of her. “I do understand that, Father,” she said, her voice hard. “Just as I am terrified of losing you.”
Embarrassed by the sharp voices at the table, Patrick continued to eat his lamb, yet flicked his eyes around to gauge reactions. Reggie appeared mortified, his brow furrowed, and his lips thinned slightly, while his uncle’s expression had softened as he gazed at Amalia.
“This has been hard on us both, daughter,” he said quietly. “I want you to be happy as well as provided for. I cannot see your happiness in watching me into my dotage.”
“And I will be happy with a husband who married me because of what I am and not who I am?” she asked, lifting her eyes. “He marries the heiress, and does not care about the woman? That is not for me, Father.”
“We will talk about this later, Amalia,” His Grace said firmly. “Let us not quarrel in front of our guests.”
Amalia nodded and kept her eyes down for the rest of the meal and did not speak again. Patrick, for his part, felt no little satisfaction in watching Reggie force himself not to blurt out his love for her, and ask for her hand right then and there. He also acknowledged to himself that the match was ideal. Reggie’s lineage was high enough for her, and his own wealth and titles made him the most suitable candidate to become the next Duke of Thornhill.
After supper, Amalia curtsied to her father. “Excuse me, please. I wish to return to my chambers. Reggie, Patrick, it was a pleasure having you here. Goodnight.”
Patrick observed Reggie watching her depart and climb the stairs, his heart in his eyes. Then he caught Patrick watching him, and his jaw tensed. The Duke appeared not to have noticed anything amiss and invited both men to the drawing-room for port. “She is a proper daughter in all things save this,” he slowly said as he gestured for the men to sit. “I fear she may be a bit headstrong.”
“Then the man she marries will have a wonderful, beautiful wife, Uncle,” Patrick replied, accepting a glass of port from the footman.
“I would like you to speak with her, nephew,” the Duke informed him, relaxing on a plush leather sofa. “She may listen to you.”
For a moment, Patrick gaped, and he dared not glance toward Reggie. “Why, whatever I can do to help, Uncle, I will do it.”
“I knew you would. You are a good boy, nephew, and a credit to this family. Now. How would you like to come work for me?”
Chapter 4
Her chest tight with unshed tears, Amalia retreated to her private chambers, her sanctuary. Edwina, her personal maid since she was seven years old, curtsied as she entered, a woman only three years older than she. “My Lady,” she asked, her expression concerned. “What is wrong?”
Fighting to keep her emotions under control, Amalia smiled tightly. “Father. What else could be wrong?”
“Oh, dear.” Edwina p
ut her hands on her hips. “Did you quarrel again?”
“Worse.” Amalia strode across the room and began to unpin her hair. “We quarreled in front of Patrick and Reggie.”
“Let me do that,” Edwina stated firmly. “You will rip your hair out. Your fingers are too tense. Sit.”
Amalia sat dutifully at the dressing table and stared at her reflection before shoving the looking glass away as Edwina more gently pulled the pins from her hair. “Ed, he keeps insisting I marry. That is the last thing I want.”
“I know. Have I not suggested you look at it from his perspective? You are his only surviving child, and he worries about your future.”
“If I am not worried about my future, why should he?”
When Edwina stopped her work, Amalia cringed. “I am sorry for snapping. I should not take my frustrations out on you.”
“That is what I am here for,” Edwina replied cheerfully. “Vent on me, so you do not enrage your father.”
“But that is not fair to you.”
“I can handle it, fear not. I know how badly you need someone to talk to.”
Edwina picked up the brush and stroked it through her long brown locks. “So, continue on. I am all ears.”
“He said I should understand that nothing in life is certain.”
“That is also true.”
Amalia sighed in exasperation. “Ed. Stop agreeing with him. You are supposed to be on my side.”
“Oh, I am, My Lady. When you stop feeling sorry for yourself, you will also see that as well as your father’s point.”
Bursting into shocked laughter, Amalia felt the tightness loosen, and some of her anger and humiliation drain away. “Is that what I am doing?”
“To a degree. I see your point, while I also see His Grace’s. You both want the same things, but you are also demanding he understand you while refusing to see his point.”
Amalia nodded slowly. “Perhaps you are right, Ed. I do want to marry, of course, but I need to attend to Father as well. Nor do I want just anyone drooling over the prospect of becoming the next Duke of Thornhill.”
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