20. Rule No. One

RULE NO. ONE

A fter inspecting the shipment and then overseeing that they were loaded onto their various vehicles properly, Leopold still couldn't erase the expression she'd sent as he'd stormed out of the dining room. A heart-wrenching twist of confusion and guilt.

He needed to apologize, damn it.

Once inside, however, after making a thorough search downstairs, there was no sign of her anywhere. When he finally resorted to asking Bessie, she informed him that Lady Amelia had spent the entirety of the day in her chamber.

Which, well, that was most likely his fault. He didn't much like that particular feeling.

Leopold rubbed his fist against his sternum.

He'd half-hoped to find her flitting around the manor or to hear that she'd been exploring outside with a few members of his team, but upon finding out that she'd instead cooped herself up all day, the guilt he'd tried tamping down blossomed into a stabbing feeling.

This wasn't the first time he'd experienced the emotion since becoming acquainted with Lady Amelia Crowley. And, most unfortunately, despite his desire to blame her, he wasn't that much of an ass.

All she could be blamed for was proving him wrong. Because she was not, in fact, an emptyheaded, selfish, spoiled debutante.

Not even close.

As he took to climbing the steps at a thoughtful pace, he rehearsed what he might say to her. Perhaps he could get through this easily. They'd made a truce this morning, hadn't they? Before he'd walked out on her at breakfast.

"Come in," she called after he knocked.

Leopold opened the door and had to consciously keep his mouth from dropping open. The very image he'd imagined earlier that morning all but manifested before his eyes.

The warm fire. The crocheting.

The woman.

He had been prepared for her to lob a shoe or a vase or some other weapon at his head the very moment she saw him, but she simply glanced up with a timid sort of smile before dropping her gaze back to her hands.

He closed the door behind him and inhaled. This was, perhaps, worse than if she'd been outright angry with him. But before he could begin his apology, her words cut him off.

"I didn't mean to offend you earlier," she said.

"Offend me?" No matter how prepared he thought he was, he could never quite anticipate what would come out of her mouth next. "How did you offend me?"

And then she lifted her hands, showing the project she'd obviously been working on for some time. It looked like a… toad?

"Talking about the toys—the foundling hospital. But I'd like to explain." And then she gestured to a nearby chair. "Won't you sit down?"

He hadn't intended on spending any more than one or two minutes having this discussion. Even if she'd temporarily abandoned her strict adherence to genteel behavior, Leopold could hardly ignore that this was her bedchamber. And dash it all, she was a lady.

But he could hardly refuse her request. So, intentionally averting his gaze from the large, canopied bed on the opposite side of the room, he did as she asked.

Besides, she'd managed to pique his interest.

"It's clever." Leopold flicked a glance to her hands. "I like the warts."

"Oh." She did nothing to hide her pleasure. "Thank you. At first, I tried making frogs, but the legs proved problematic. Frogs have skinnier, longer legs, and I couldn't get them to hold their shape. Most people think frogs are prettier, but while researching both, I must admit I am partial to the toad."

This was not the conversation Leopold had expected to be having, but he didn't mind it. Feeling more relaxed than he had all day, he reclined into the chair and rested his left boot on his right knee.

"And why is that?" he asked.

"Toads look more regal, don't you think? And their eyes are like jewels." Her hands continued making the same motion, a slow, rhythmic circle. She was creating this little animal from nothing but yarn and her hook. It was oddly mesmerizing.

"What do you use to give them eyes?"

She stopped just long enough to draw his gaze back to hers—inviting blue, firelight flickering in the reflection like a dance.

"I have a jar of beads at home. If none of those seem appropriate, I'll try buttons."

"Ah…" He couldn't help but admit, even if only to himself, that it was adorable.

Hell, she was, in fact, adorable.

"I try to make every one of them special." She sounded so earnest. "I can't meet all the children who get them, but I hope they can tell that I made their toys with love. It's the only way I know to show them that someone cares—that I care."

Leopold swallowed hard. Much more of this and he'd be sobbing into her skirts.

And that wasn't why he'd come. Not even close.

"You didn't offend me," he said, that guilt gnawing silently.

"You don't think this"—she lifted her hands—"is frivolous? I thought…"

And then he realized. They'd been discussing the crocheting, she'd mentioned the toys, right before he'd had to get himself out of there.

"No, I don't."

It wasn't her fault for being so…

Leopold dropped his leg, leaned forward, and dangled his hands between his knees, contemplating what he could tell her.

He didn't do explanations. He rarely apologized. And he'd never lost his head over a woman. When other males in the gangs started mooning over some gel or another, they got careless. They made very bad decisions.

So even when Leopold had found himself attracted, he'd squashed the feeling to the best of his ability. And, although he'd welcomed a few particularly intriguing wenches into his bed, he'd never—ever—let them into his head.

"Why haven't you tried to kiss me?"

Leopold froze, sure he must have misheard. His gaze jerked up to meet her eyes, and his mouth went dry. She looked back at him, almost defiant.

Why haven't you…?

What had happened to conversations about the weather?

If other debutantes acted like this one, it was no wonder all those nobs were dicked in the head. Because she was capable of scrambling his thoughts without even trying.

"That's not my place." It was an automatic response—something he'd known since he'd laid eyes on her at Winterhope Downs.

"But you said you weren't a man of honor. You don't live by society's rules."

"But you do," Leopold countered, and then purposefully added, "my lady."

She carefully placed her little toad and crochet hook on the table beside her and then, turning back to face him, smoothed her hands over her skirt from the tops of her thighs to her knees. "Not when I'm with you." Her voice came out low, but not at all tentative. "So you might as well just call me ‘Amelia.'"

He'd ruined her. Not in the way it mattered to the ton , but on a much deeper level.

"I may not live by society's code of honor, but I do have my own rules," Leopold said. Unfortunately, somewhere between dragging her out of her father's carriage and cutting her out of her undergarments, his rules had collided with hers.

If she'd belonged in his world, he would, in fact, have kissed her.

If he had belonged in her world…

He also would have kissed her.

And if that wasn't confusing enough, her next words landed like a hurricane.

"Can't you break them? Just a little?"

Oh, hell no . This couldn't go on like this.

He'd done his part, hadn't he? He'd done his best. Yes, the Rotten Rakes had requested that he protect her from Crossings and his men, but she was in his world now. And he'd never pretended to be anyone but himself.

A bastard orphan who'd done unspeakable things to pull himself and others out of the gutter. He wasn't one of her dukes or earls or even a bloody baron. No matter how much money he accrued, that would never change. And although some of his own chose to call him King, he would only ever be a king of the lower classes.

Why haven't you tried to kiss me?

Leopold narrowed his eyes.

"If you want to play this game," he said, "You're going to have to break all of yours."

Her pink little tongue swept out of her mouth, moistening the bow of her upper lip.

"I already have." She sounded almost breathless, her voice little more than a whisper.

Well then.

"Rule number one," he said. "You come to me."

Locking her gaze with his, Lady Amelia, the daughter of a bloody marquess, put her hands on the armrests and slowly stood up.