16. Delusional

DELUSIONAL

" I wasn't sure you'd would want to join me." He was seated at the far end of the table… and unlike when they'd dined at the inn, he refrained from standing. "Seeing as I'm a smuggler."

Amelia hadn't wanted to join him. Initially. The servant who'd knocked on her door that evening had asked if she wished to have a meal brought upstairs or join Mr. Beckworth in the dining room.

Of course, he would give her a choice—a concept that he, ironically, had introduced her to. So even though she was inclined to crawl into the lovely bed in her chamber, she'd agreed to join him.

She was a lady, after all.

A very embarrassed lady.

"Right," she said, sliding into the chair adjacent to his without anyone to assist her. Before she even opened her napkin, she took a deep breath and dove right in. "I owe you an apology," she said.

There. She'd done it.

His brows shot up.

If she was going to apologize, she supposed she ought to do it properly. "You never did anything to lead me to believe otherwise," she added. "And, well, after everything else, I suppose it would be silly to hold that against you."

When he failed to respond, she lifted her stare to meet his, which looked a little incredulous.

"I see," he finally said. "I admit, I didn't expect you to take such issue with it. To be honest, I thought you just… knew."

Amelia flushed. "You must think me incredibly stupid."

"No." He shook his head. "Just incredibly trusting, in a generous way."

Amelia considered this, turning his words over in her head. Trusting and generous sounded far better than what she would have called it.

"I don't know why I didn't realize before…"

Mr. Beckworth paused, his expression focused and utterly serious. "Not all people cope with adversity in the same manner," he said.

But the next moment, he was interrupted as the doors to the dining hall pushed open and a handful of servants entered, carrying a variety of dishes. One of them brought a bottle of wine, and Mr. Beckworth murmured a quiet "thanks" once it was poured. Rather than reach for any of the serving dishes, however, he stared at his wine with a frown.

"Your assumption is understandable, considering the situation. I've seen it all. Some people fight and claw. Some become despondent and defeated. Others"—he tilted his head toward her meaningfully—"try to make the best of the situation."

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself for coping in your own way. That would be unfair."

Amelia hummed. It did make her feel a little better, and he wasn't wrong exactly, but that wouldn't protect her from the reality. "Life isn't fair though, is it?"

He dipped his chin, conceding the point. "No, I suppose not. If it was, I daresay you'd be the Countess of Winterhope now."

But would she be? Amelia tried picturing herself as the mistress of Winter Castle and suddenly found it incredibly… stifling.

"Regardless." He cleared his throat. "It makes sense, that you'd feel safer to imagine me a gentleman."

Amelia had been about to take a bite of tender buttered carrot, but froze at his words. "You think I mistook you for a gentleman?"

"I didn't say that."

"That's exactly what you said."

"Then we'll go back to your first idea. You were naive and gullible."

"I've never once imagined you to be a gentleman." Heat pricked the back of her neck. "Well, except for when you first stopped my father's coach. I'd read stories, you know, about gentlemen highwaymen. The kind who stole from unsuspecting travelers in order to maintain their lifestyle within society."

"So you created this little…" Mr. Beckworth circled his fork in the air. "Fantasy. As I said."

"I realized you weren't a gentleman when you declined to take my father's valuables and abducted me instead." When he'd thrown her over his shoulder. When he'd dared to strike her. Still, she wondered. "Why wouldn't a smuggler take his valuables?"

"I could be holding you for ransom."

She entertained the notion for half a second, then shook her head. "But you could have had hundreds of pounds worth of jewels without the trouble of keeping me."

"Perhaps you're more valuable than jewels." His voice, which had seemed cool and level, sounded gruff.

They were going in circles. But wait, had he just said she was more valuable than jewels? Amelia's heart skipped a beat.

She made a valid attempt to sweep the stars out of her eyes.

He didn't mean he personally considered her valuable. The statement was a practical one—not a romantic declaration.

And yet she couldn't forget those few minutes at the window upstairs. His affection had been fleeting, but she had not imagined it.

"Am I?" She felt incredibly brave to ask the question.

His ebony gaze flared, and tension squeezed Amelia's chest as the air in the room thickened around them.

But then his jaw ticked, and with a shrug, his attention returned to his food.

"I suppose that's up to your father to decide."

Leopold stood on the edge of the cliff watching shadowed figures moving about on the beach below. The wind from earlier that day persisted, creating difficulties they'd rather have avoided, and a few wispy clouds muted the moonlight.

"They're bringing the last load up now, Boss," Fitz announced from three steps behind Leopold. Through years of trial and error, Leopold and his men had worked their system of loading and unloading down to an almost perfect science. If not for the fickleness of nature, they'd have finished unloading a few hours earlier. "Captain sent word that another unidentified vessel is trolling the coast, and has been for the past three days."

Leopold nodded. It could be the one Crossings was waiting for.

If they'd had the support Leopold's men did, and the experience and the discipline, they would have attempted to land tonight as well, and Leopold knew from past accounts, that Crossings' men knew their business.

The fact that they hadn't made an attempt was concerning. If Crossings wasn't pressuring his captain to land, it was highly likely that the duke had no intention of paying his investors.

Speaking of payment…

Leopold reached into his pocket and withdrew a thick envelope—the agreed upon sum, plus a surety for the next trip. "Send this out with Nick. Along with my thanks."

"Sure thing." Fitz nodded, pocketed the envelope, and strode off as quietly as he'd appeared.

Leopold's biggest buyers, shopkeepers on Bond Street, would be happy to take ownership of the contents of this week's haul—colorful silks, intricate lace, and no less than a dozen barrels of rare spices.

Leopold would inspect the goods in the morning before sending it all off to London.

There might even be some yarn that Amelia might appreciate…

Amelia had said she wouldn't miss the Season, but did she miss shopping on Bond Street? Folding his arms across his chest, he allowed his thoughts to go where he'd purposely denied himself all night.

He'd almost felt… like a bloody gentleman, sitting at his table across from a beautiful lady. But she wasn't just any lady. No. She was…

Amelia.

By God, the sooner he conceded that notion, the sooner he'd stop being taken by surprise.

Her insights, her observations and revelations, had knocked him off balance more than once.

He wasn't used to it.

And he shouldn't like it.

Leopold dropped his arms and fisted his hands. Like some besotted suitor, he'd said she was more valuable than all her father's jewels.

Am I? she had asked without guile, wanting to hear what ought to be obvious.

Of course she was more valuable than jewels. No amount of money could compare to her worth.

Much earlier that day, while showing her one of his favorite views from the house, he'd barely kept himself in check.

He'd felt the pulse racing in her wrist. And although he knew for a fact that she couldn't be wearing perfume, her scent never failed to make him want more of her.

To taste her.

And he might have, if she hadn't come to her senses.

He would have laughed if he hadn't been reeling from the sting of rejection.

Of course he was a bloody smuggler.

He'd assumed she saw him for who he was—an orphaned thief. She ought to have realized he was a man who'd done unthinkable things to scrape his way out of the gutter.

When she'd revealed how utterly delusional she'd been about the matter, thinking he was someone upstanding despite all evidence to the contrary, it had felt like a slap in the face.

But they'd cleared that up for now.

At least he hoped they had.

Of course you're more valuable than jewels, you're… so much more .

But he hadn't answered her plea.

Their acquaintance would be over in, at most, a few months; more likely, a few weeks. Crossings would either be killed or put in Newgate, and Amelia would go back to being…

Lady Amelia .

He'd told Winterhope he would treat her like a lady. And last he'd heard, protecting did not include any of the ideas Leopold was getting.

She was all innocence—not a child, but virginal. He, quite the opposite.

And yet… she had pressed her back against him while they stared out the window.

Her eyes had pleaded for reassurance from across the table.

She might well still be in shock from having been so violently taken from her father's carriage. For Leopold to act on what she imagined to be romantic attraction would be foolish and criminal. She was so frightened and lost that something deep inside had been attempting to shield her from what he was, idolizing a mere fantasy in order to protect her from the truth of the matter.

She couldn't know what she wanted, because she'd never been given any choice. Perhaps, in the future, when the situation was no longer so fraught...

He shook his head and backed away from the cliff. He hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in nearly a week.

Perhaps he was the one being delusional.