5

And Amelia might have sunk into the floor in a puddle of embarrassment, or slapped Kipling for making her think he had feelings for her.

But what stopped her was the look on his face; he looked awkward and uncomfortable yes, but more than that…he'd looked sad. Like it wasn't what he'd intended.

So unlike the brilliant, beautiful expression on his face when he'd told her he'd cared for her, that she was the reason he'd fled.

So he used to care for you. Two years is a long time, especially when he has been abroad flirting with gorgeous mademoiselles in France, and returned home a duke . Just because he once cared for you does not mean he still does.

Yes, well. The argument was nothing new.

Amelia frowned at her reflection in the mirror.

Her subconscious had been reminding her of this approximately every twelve minutes for the last several days. She woke up thinking of Kipling, and went to bed thinking of Kipling.

In fact…

Amelia's eyes cut to the side, resting on the small bookshelf. There, hidden between a treatise on the feeding habits of goats and volumes one through thirty-seven of Birds of Britain by Ava Ian, her battered copy of A Harlot's Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts was hidden.

How many times over the years had she pulled out the book, hidden beneath her covers, and touched herself breathless, thinking of Kipling Mancheste?

Well, last night, she'd done it again—only this time, it was with the knowledge that at one point, he'd cared for her. Wanted her. Lusted after her.

Could he care for her again? Could he still care for her?

Not if he is bringing his betrothed to your home for dinner tonight .

Ah, yes, there was that.

Amelia sighed, stomach in knots. She had no idea what tonight would bring, but she was ready. As ready as she would ever be, she supposed. Tucking one last strand of hair behind her ears, she heard a distinctive cluck behind her.

"I know, I know. I am being silly."

She twisted in her chair to see Becky pecking at the fringe on the bottom of her curtains. "He either cares for me, or he does not, and worrying will not change that."

When she crossed the room, her dear pet lifted her head, gave a happy little cheep just as she had when she'd been tiny, and toddled across the room toward Amelia. She scooped up Becky and cuddled her under her chin.

"You are a good little friend, are you not?"

she murmured, stroking the hen's feathers. "So beautiful. So sweet."

Dumb as a bowl of corn, but still, sweet.

Becky tried to gobble at her pearls.

"Come along, dearest. Let us get you out to the garden with your brother before the guests arrive."

But as she stepped onto the landing, the bird tucked up against her chest, she realized she was too late. Had she really lingered in her room so long? The butler was accepting wraps from Lady Stallings and Lady Emma, while Olivia urged them to join her and Mother in the parlor.

Drat .

Amelia shrank back against the wall.

Perhaps they wouldn't see her. Perhaps she could hide here, and once they all retired to the parlor for a visit before dinner, she could sneak Becky out to the garden, then join them.

As she watched, Kipling stepped up and offered Emma his arm. Amelia wanted it to be perfunctory, cold…but he was incapable of being impolite, she knew.

And Emma simpered happily as she slid her arm through his proprietarily. As if she owned him already.

Amelia felt her chest clench. Perhaps it was the truth. Perhaps Kipling had chosen that woman for good by now. Emma said something, and Kipling's lips twitched. Yes, as Amelia watched, he turned down to the beautiful blonde woman at his side, and quipped something in return, which caused Emma to laugh—a tinkling laugh as beautiful as she was.

Amelia hated it as much as she hated the crushing weight in her chest, the knowledge Kipling Mancheste would never be hers…and now she was going to have to pretend to be polite all through dinner.

Perhaps she could feign a headache and stay in her room.

In her arms the hen shifted, and Amelia knew she needed to get the bird to the garden, lest she risk chicken shite on her pink gown.

"Shh,"

she murmured, stroking the hen as below Emma tossed her head back and laughed gaily yet again. Anger spiked in Amelia's throat. "Oh my God, Becky. Look at her duke."

Becky, showing all the social nuances of a brain the size of its eyeball, squawked loudly.

Lord and Lady Stallings had already entered the parlor, but Emma swung around, taking Kipling with her, as her gaze went unerringly to the landing.

"Why, it is little Lady Amelia, our favorite animal lover! Amelia, darling, are you feeling quite well? Your throat is paining you?"

The mockery in her tone made it clear she knew Amelia's reputation, so there was nothing to do but lift her chin, gather her skirts—and chicken—and march down the stairs. "Lady Emma,"

she acknowledged coolly. "Your Grace."

Emma tsked . "You should greet His Grace first, you know. He is a Duke ."

As if Amelia could forget. She turned her full attention to the man standing stiffly beside Emma. "Kipling,"

she managed, past a lump in her throat.

Something flashed in those beautiful blue eyes, something like…gratitude? "Taking Becky out for a walk?"

he asked nonchalantly.

Amelia hefted the chicken slightly. This was an easier conversation if she pretended Emma wasn't here. "She helped me get ready. Now I need to deposit her in the garden with Charles."

It was clear Emma was irritated at being left out of the conversation. "Charles?"

She laughed shrilly. "A servant?"

Kipling stiffly explained, "Charles is Becky's brother. Another Shanghai white."

He…remembered Becky's breed?

Amelia felt the band around her heart loosen a little.

"You have chickens ,"

Emma stated, as if she couldn't quite comprehend something so ridiculous. "Which you carry around? As if they were…reticules?"

She burst into laughter. "Oh, how delightful. I knew you were eccentric, Lady Amelia, but this is preposterous!"

Before she could give anyone a chance to answer, she'd tugged Kipling toward the parlor. "Come along, Your Grace. You must introduce me formally to the Duke of Effinghell!"

Over his shoulder, Kipling shot Amelia an apologetic glance, but it didn't help, not really.

Sighing, Amelia turned toward the back of the house and the kitchen gardens. This was going to be a truly terrible dinner.

Dinner was truly terrible.

Oh, Emma was polite enough, and Mother and Lady Stallings dominated the conversation, sharing stories of their time in school. Their shenanigans kept Alistair's wife, mother, and sister Amanda giggling throughout, which was a bit of relief.

But Kipling was incredibly uncomfortable. It just seemed like such bad form to have invited the Stallingses to Alistair's home, when the man was so reclusive.

Remember, Alistair suggested it .

In fact, the man seemed completely oblivious to any sort of tension. He ate his chicken à la King , he sipped his wine, he watched indulgently as his new wife Olivia kept the conversation moving…but he didn't participate.

The other person at the table who didn't participate was Amelia. In fact, she hadn't looked his way since they'd all been seated. She took an occasional sip of water, she pushed her rice around her plate, and she occasionally picked out a mushroom or two…but she absolutely wasn't enjoying herself.

Anyone could see that.

Anyone who could be bothered to really see her, that was.

Every once in a while, Alistair would catch Kip's eye and dart a gaze toward Amelia, and Kip would have to press his lips together and study his own dinner. He didn't know what to say to her…how to engage her in conversation after that stunningly awkward encounter in the hall.

How to engage her at all .

She thinks ye're betrothed to Emma, and ye've really done nothing to disabuse her of that. Especially the way she saw ye follow Emma like a dog with yer tail between yer legs .

He'd thought it best to leave Amelia to her chickening alone, but now he wondered if he ought to have gone with her to the gardens, to have the conversation he so desperately wanted to have.

Across from him, Emma was clearly disgruntled by not being the center of attention. She frumped, she frowned, she sighed deeply…but she didn't interrupt.

He should've known she was just waiting for an opening. After a particularly funny story Mother told about Lady Stalling's attempts to sneak into the stables to win a dare by painting a horse red, the laughter had died down and Emma clearly decided it was her time to strike.

"Lady Amelia, are you not hungry?"

Her tone was overly sweet, too solicitous. "I notice you are not enjoying this scrumptious meal. I hope you are not ill?"

Amelia's head jerked upward, but she seemed confused, surprised at being addressed. What had been occupying her mind?

Before she could decide how to respond—thank goodness—Olivia answered. "My sister-in-law doesn't eat meat, Lady Emma. Unfortunately this dish can't really be altered much to suit her tastes."

"Does not eat meat ?"

Emma sniffed, still staring down her nose at Amelia. "How freakish . And such a headache for the rest of you, I am certain."

As Amelia blinked in surprise, Alistair began to frown, and the others at the table stifled their gasps at the insult. Again, Olivia responded, her tone sharper. "Amelia's preferences cause no headaches for us. Our cook is supremely talented with cheese and eggs and all sorts of non-meat options. This is her home, after all. We often partake in such fare ourselves."

It was clear Emma understood when she was being put down, because she offered the hostess a weak smile. "How…delightful."

"Emma,"

murmured her mother, but Emma merely waved away the warning and pierced Amelia with another glare, another too-sweet smile.

"I am surprised, Lady Amelia, that you are not choosing to partake in this particular dish, even so."

Kip watched Amelia swallow. "Oh?"

He wanted to reach for her. To protect her. To block her from Emma's snide tongue.

"Indeed. While we were waiting for you to join us in the parlor—so strange that you were not on hand to greet guests, I thought—I overheard the servants chatting about tonight's dinner. Apparently the chicken was one the cook caught in her own garden! I assumed, with your interest in animals, you would find that fascinating."

Amelia had gone suddenly, alarmingly pale. "The garden?"

she croaked. "Our garden? Out back?"

Emma tapped a perfect fingernail against the white linen tablecloth. She was trying for thoughtful nonchalance, but her sharp gaze belied the effect. "Yes…yes, I believe that is what they said."

"Excuse me,"

Amelia announced abruptly, shoving her chair away from the table and standing. "I must check…Charles was… Excuse me,"

she repeated, as she stumbled away from the table.

Was Kip the only one who'd seen the tears in her eyes? He wanted to call out to her, to tell her this meal had been cooking since long before she'd even deposited Becky in the garden, but he had no idea how long the other chicken had been outside…or not.

As Amelia fled, her sister made to stand, but caught her mother's eye and slowly sank back down. The responses were mixed; Mother and Lady Stallings hummed in concern, Olivia grabbed Alistair's hand, and Emma…

Emma smiled a wicked, cruel sort of smile and sat back in her chair, as if pleased with herself.

And Kip finally understood what needed to happen.

Tossing down his napkin, he stood. "Lady Emma,"

he began, "I ken our mothers once hoped for a match between us. But ye have proven yerself to be a cruel, spiteful bitch, and although ye've hurt a beautiful soul, I have to thank ye for doing it in front of our families. Now they'll understand my reasons when I tell ye I would never marry a woman like ye."

Emma had sucked in an offended breath and now watched him, wide-eyed. "Why, I—How dare you, sir!"

"That's Yer Grace to ye, Lady Emma."

Kip planted his fists on the table and leaned closer. "And I dare , because Lady Amelia is kind, gentle, passionate about her interests, and wholly without subterfuge. She doesnae deserve the kind of maliciousness ye've heaped upon her."

Emma folded her hands in her lap and sniffed haughtily. "Well, after the way you were cozying up with her at my ball, it suddenly makes sense why you would defend her in such a way, Your Grace. You might think it fine to dally with an Earl's daughter, but surely even a savage Scot like yourself understands there are consequences from ruining a Duke's sister?"

There were more gasps around the table, and Emma's father, the Earl of Stallings, blustered, "I say, gel, shut your mouth."

Kip's eyes narrowed. "If ye're implying I've ruined Amelia in any way—"

"It is obvious, is it not?"

Abruptly, he straightened, his mind made up. "I've no' dallied with ye, Lady Emma, any more than was required of me to satisfy my mother."

He turned to the two ladies. "I will no' be offering for Emma, Lady Stallings. I ken my mother values yer friendship, so I'll no' tell ye what I think of the way ye've spoiled yer youngest daughter."

His gaze swept the table. "I'll no' spread any stories about her hateful tongue, but I make nae promises of others here tonight."

Emma was sputtering. " Hateful! How dare you! Everyone knows Amelia is an oddity, and you have clearly been having your fun with her!"

Kip's smile was slow, wicked. "No' yet."

He nodded to Alistair. "Effinghell,"

he acknowledged. "Ladies."

When he shoved his chair away from the table, Amanda was the one to ask meekly, "And where are you going, Your Grace?"

Kip smiled at Emma when he answered. "To the gardens. To find that odd woman, and beg her to marry me."

Alistair grinned, and Kip felt his heart lighten.

This is what he'd been looking for.

Amelia .

"Charles!"

Amelia had never been so happy to see a chicken in her life. "Oh, Charles, there you are!"

She threw herself forward, not caring that the autumn dirt caked her gown as she fell to her knees, reaching for the white cock. "You naughty boy, I have been looking for you everywhere!"

she declared as she cuddled the bird to her chest.

Well, fine, not really . The garden wasn't that big. Effinghell House was larger than most Town homes, but the garden was still only tucked back near the mews. The cook used it for herbs, and Becky and Charles used it to peck for insects.

And for one, horrible moment, Amelia had believed that the cook had used it to scoop up poor Charles and serve him for dinner.

Do not be silly. Of course that would not happen! Charles and Becky are family!

Charles, and Becky, and Amelia's collection of sea urchins, and the white mice she had to breed to keep her python fed, and the lemurs…

All family. Her family , at least.

The frantic tears which had threatened during her mad rush toward the garden now spilled, even as she felt Becky pecking mindlessly at her slippers.

Her family .

She had Mother, and Amanda, and Alistair and Olivia…and one day, those two would have children and she would become an aunt. Her family, and her animals…

And that was it.

Tonight proved she never had a chance with Kipling. He might have claimed he wasn't officially engaged to Lady Emma Iverson, but he hadn't stood up to Emma's cruelty, had he?

"Come here, Becky,"

she ordered, and reached around to scoop up the hen. When she buried her nose in the fancy ruff of feathers, Becky squawked in what Emma chose to believe was comfort. "You are a good girl, are you not? And you, Charles. I am so pleased you are safe."

"I am too."