9. Bloody Guilt

BLOODY GUILT

L eopold considered himself a ruthless bastard and was, therefore, unaccustomed to feeling remorse. It was a futile emotion, not only pathetic, but the kind that deceived a person into making poor choices.

So when that itchy, annoying sensation established itself in his person—yet again—he wasn't at all happy about it. It made him grumpy and short, and worst of all, threatened his edge. An edge he relied upon.

But bloody hell. Upon keeping Lady Amelia for less than twenty-four godforsaken hours, he'd nearly cost her her life.

He stared blankly at the back of the coach, trotting along at a mind-numbing pace. He did not see the trunk strapped onto the back, or the wheels turning; he could only see her tired eyes, her wan cheeks, and heart-shaped lips that had nearly turned blue.

What had he been thinking when he'd taken on this mission? A better question, perhaps, was what had Malum and Winterhope been thinking to assign it to him?

Leopold had seen the darkest side of life, and that darkness had imprinted itself onto his soul. He had no business being charged with the care of someone like Lady Amelia.

Shifting in his saddle, he couldn't shake the fear he had experienced in that moment…

"I can't breathe…"

That bloody, pox-ridden, fucking corset! He'd felt the ridges when he tackled her in the pasture. He should have realized... An even heavier wave of remorse washed over him.

Blast and damn!

Leopold had considered the most minute of details—or so he'd believed.

He'd chosen his most trusted team—mapped out the safest route. Hell, thinking her a delicate sort of flower, he'd given up his own bed so she could have a comfortable bed for the night.

But, having grown up in another world, sleeping in doorways and thieving to keep his belly full, he'd been ignorant as to the needs of a high-born lady: clothing, and apparently, assistance getting in and out of it.

Even their men employed a servant to hold their pants for them to step into—something Leopold would never understand. Blasted nobs.

Did he harbor a healthy bitterness toward most of her sort? He wouldn't deny it.

He had not forgotten how she'd overlooked him when he'd visited Winterhope Downs—or the twinge of disappointment he'd felt. But he needed to be invisible. Hell, he preferred it that way.

So yes, it had been amusing to throw her over his shoulder, to land a few swats to her soft bottom when she'd dared try to defy him. But perhaps he'd enjoyed it a little too much…

Lady Amelia's hesitant promise came to mind. He'd accepted her word that she'd stay put. Perhaps he shouldn't have, but… damned if he didn't believe her.

Not enough to afford her unfettered freedom when they'd stopped to change out the horses, but enough to leave her alone in his carriage. Enough to trust she wouldn't try jumping out whilst in motion, anyway.

Which, all things considered, wasn't much.

But it wasn't so much about trapping her as it was about protecting her.

From herself. From strangers.

From Crossings, and possibly her own father.

Leopold cursed the stab of guilt in his gut. Bloody guilt. He had a job to do. More than one, actually. Being led by his emotions was a sure-fire way to botch his responsibilities.

The sound of approaching hooves finally wrested his attention from his thoughts, and Leopold looked up to see one of his forward riders coming toward him. After a moment, the indistinct figure resolved into his right-hand man, and then Fitz was circling around the carriage to draw up again from behind. "Was thinking I'd ride on ahead to The Goat's Tail ," Fitz announced as he pulled abreast of Leopold. "Meet with Billings and have a look at the inventory."

Tonight would be their last overnight stop, just outside of Exeter, at another one of Leopold's properties. Although The Goat's Tail wasn't the most luxurious of Leopold's holding, it was one of his most frequented. Because of its proximity to the coves and London, it was the most strategic.

But the managers of the inn, Mr. Tom Billings and his wife, had only been working for Leopold for half a year. It would take considerably longer before they fully earned Leopold's trust.

Fitz would not only be confirming their accommodations, but taking a look at the books, inventory, and if necessary, putting the fear of God into Billings if he suspected any discrepancies. Or, more accurately, the fear of the King…

Leopold smirked, and just as he began to nod, held up a hand.

"Hold up." He drew his mount to a sudden stop, and dismounted so he could dig around in his saddle-bag.

After a moment, he drew out the bundle of muslin he'd stuffed inside earlier and, picking through the mess, cast a few items onto the ground in disgust.

"Give this to Mrs. Billings," he said. "She can use it as a measure to purchase a few items Lady Amelia can wear." Handing it over, he added with a mischievous grin, "She can't exactly go about in your ugly scraps, now, can she?"

"I don't suppose that would be proper," Fitz agreed, unphased by the teasing as always. "The mercantile ought to have something appropriate. Won't be fashionable, like she's accustomed to, but anything will be better than what she's got on now."

Both men took a moment to stare at the disappearing conveyance, almost as though they could see right into it.

"Seems like she should know the truth about all this…" It was Fitz who broke the silence.

"Right." Leopold didn't want to get into this now. "Tell Mrs. Billings to buy a larger size, so they fit looser." He gestured to his midsection. "I'll not be replacing that ridiculous undergarment." The reminder that she'd spent the entire night struggling to breathe pained him more than he'd like to admit.

"I believe it's called a corset, sir."

"Bloody torture device." Leopold frowned. "Lady Amelia will need a hot bath when we arrive. And make arrangements for some sort of lady's maid… Be sure the chit knows something about hair and whatnot…"

"Anything else?"

And because that pit of guilt remained, Leopold didn't stop there. "Supper in a private dining room." Feeling somewhat foolish, he finally dipped his chin. It didn't make up for his stupidity, but it helped.

A little.

The water was tepid and the soap rudimentary, and yet Amelia couldn't remember ever enjoying a bath so much.

She tilted her head forward, closing her eyes as a maid poured one last pitcher of water over Amelia's head.

"How old are you, Sally?" Amelia asked.

"Twenty, I think," she answered. Two years younger than Amelia.

And yet Sally no doubt dressed and undressed herself, worked at an inn, and claimed to be talented when it came to styling hair.

"Not right sure. Was my mum who knew the date, and I lost her a while back."

"I'm sorry," Amelia said automatically, but then, curious as to the life of the working class, asked, "Did you like her?"

Not all mothers were likeable.

"Loved her with all my heart. One day she was fine, and the next, couldn't get out of bed. They say it was cancer. Do you like your mum, miss?" Sally lathered up a washing cloth and handed it over.

Amelia took the cloth and slowly dragged it along her arm, thoughtfully. Did she like her mother? "Not really. But I love her." Amelia didn't usually discuss personal matters with servants, or anyone, really. But she'd been on her own all day, and she'd faced the fact that there were some major gaps in her education.

Doses of reality, perhaps? It was a disturbing thought.

"Aye. They aren't the same thing, really, are they?" It was an astute observation.

"They really aren't…" Amelia loved both of her parents, but in all honesty, she couldn't claim to like them. No, she obeyed them. And although she tolerated Miss Henrietta, she didn't really like her either—Miss Henrietta had a tendency to treat Amelia like a child, telling her what she should wear, accompanying her almost everywhere, and reporting every last detail of any outing to Amelia's mother.

Amelia had imagined that she'd loved Clementine, but she'd liked her as well.

"Do you have any siblings?" Amelia asked.

"Two sisters and three brothers. I'm the youngest though, all the others are married."

Five siblings. It boggled Amelia's mind. What would it be like to be a member of such a large family? "Do you like them?"

Sally strolled across to the window, turned and leaned back against it, and sent Amelia an ambiguous smile. "Most of the time. And they look out for me." And then something lit the back of the young woman's eyes, making her brown irises look almost golden. "Neal, the oldest, he's giving my sweetheart a rough go. Won't give his permission for us to marry until he's finished building his cottage. But he says it's for my own good. If Billy really wants me, Neal says, he'll move heaven and earth to have me." Sally practically glowed as she spoke.

"Will you work after you marry?"

None of the servants who worked for Amelia's parents were married. It was a stipulation of their employment. She had asked her mother about it once, thinking it unfair, but her mother explained that if one of their servants were to marry, then they, meaning Amelia and her mother and father, might no longer be top priority. Servants with family, she'd said, were easily distracted from their duties.

"I'll keep working until a babe comes along," Sally explained, blushing a little. "After that, I'll work from home same as Neal's wife does. I'm handy with a needle and thread. Billy does well at the mill. And we'll farm his little holding…"

"Do you like working?" But then Amelia winced. "Is that an awful question?"

"If it was, I wouldn't have to answer it, now would I?" Sally was nearly as easy to talk to as Clementine had been. "Actually, how I feel at work depends on the people I work with. Most of the girls are nice, which makes time pass quickly." She grimaced. "On the other hand… Verity thinks she's better than everyone else. I'd rather wash chamber pots than work in the pub with her. You'd think she can smell money when it walks in, and when she gets her claws into one of those fellows, she spends more time flirting than serving. Leaves me to take care of everyone else." She walked over to the privacy screen. "I'll give you a few minutes to finish washing up—some privacy to take care of your personal bits. Linens are warming by the heart. Call out when you're ready and I'll bring one in."

"Thank you," Amelia said to the other girl's back.

"My pleasure," Sally's voice sang over the screen. "You'll be dining in one of the private rooms, but they'll hold supper until you're ready. So take your time."

Amelia blinked, a little overwhelmed.

Without exception, the Foxbourne household dined at nine—exactly one hour after the dinner bell rang. If Amelia was ever late, her father would demand a very good explanation. But Sally said dinner would be held for her.

The prisoner.

Amelia simply stared at the washcloth in her hand, feeling an unusual calm.

Privacy?

To take care of her personal bits?

Miss Henrietta never left Amelia alone in the bath. Privacy, she'd insisted, was for heathens.

Amelia bent one knee to scrub her foot, and then did the same with the other. After squeezing the cloth out and wetting it again, she scrubbed her calf… her knee, her thigh. She had washed herself before, with Miss Henrietta hovering, of course.

Feeling a flash of rebellion, she dipped the cloth between her legs. Not swift-like, as she would normally do, but leisurely. And then, glancing at the screen behind which Sally had disappeared, Amelia abandoned the cloth, touching herself with her fingers.

In an exploratory way, wondering, at the same time, what she looked like.

The skin was sensitive there. Plump. And while tracing her seam, Amelia's heartbeat sped up. She'd known there was something to this, but never been brave enough to experiment for more than a few seconds.

Her knees fell open and, resting them against the sides of the tub, Amelia tentatively explored her… personal bits , as Sally had called them.

Unbidden, Mr. Beckworth's image danced in her mind. Eyes darker than any she'd ever seen. His scruffy jaw. His throat.

His hands.

She found herself recalling the warm pressure as he'd massaged slow circles on her chest. " I've got you ."

She remembered how she'd appreciated the strength of his hands, a stark contrast to Lord Northwoods', or any gentleman's, really.

Mr. Beckworth's fingernails were not buffed. His hands were not soft.

Rough hands represented labor. Rough hands were indicative of the lower classes. A person with such hands, Amelia had been told, was beneath her.

Was Mr. Beckworth, in fact, actually beneath her?

Not at all!

The thought was as startling as the urge building beneath her fingers.

"These gowns are lovely. Do you want to wear the pink one, with the rosebuds embroidered on the bodice? Or the yellow? It's got daisies with green stems all around the hem."

Amelia blinked. She wasn't alone. Really. But she was close to something…

"You decide." Amelia's voice came out a little strained.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears now, suddenly mortified that Sally might guess what she was doing. Amelia pressed her knees together and frantically searched for the washcloth. When she'd found it, she was sitting up. She splashed some water over her arms and cleared her throat. "I'm ready to get out now!"

"Be right there." And when she appeared, there was nothing unusual about the maid's demeanor. She simply smiled and listed off the attributes of both dresses which had been waiting in the chamber when Amelia arrived.

The maid didn't suspect a thing.

And if she did, she didn't seem to care.

Stepping into the large, warm towel, Amelia breathed a little easier as she cinched it over her breasts.

"Sit by the fire, miss, and I'll brush out your hair."

Amelia lowered herself onto a cushioned stool while Sally went right to work.

"Do you want a twist or braids? I don't have many pins…"

"Braids. If that's easier."

Instead of unsympathetically pulling the brush through Amelia's hair like she was accustomed to, Sally slowly untangled the ends first, holding each section of hair away from her head so it didn't tug so painfully, and then gradually worked her way up the strands. It was soothing. Hypnotizing.

And just when Amelia thought she might drift off to sleep, Sally stepped back. "There you go, then. Have a look in the glass and tell me if you like it."

Staring into her reflection, a smile tugged at Amelia's mouth.

Sally had plaited two sections of hair, it seemed, and then wound them around Amelia's head like a crown. It looked simple but pretty at the same time. Best of all, Amelia hadn't had to endure the pain of having dozens of decorative pins stabbed into her scalp.

"I… love it." Amelia touched the sides. "Is it hard to do?"

"Not really. I do my own the same on Sundays." She was standing behind Amelia and made a face looking in the mirror. "Otherwise, I just tuck the braids under my cap."

She did her own hair!

Was it possible… "Do you think you could teach me?"

"It's easy enough. I'll show you later, after you're done with supper, if you don't mind?"

One would think that, having been taken against her will and after her frustrations the night before, she'd have more serious problems to address. And yet, still staring at the style, turning her head from side to side, Amelia smiled. "That would be perfect," she said. "Just perfect."