Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“ D o I look presentable?” Amelia asked, turning this way and that as she looked at her reflection in the long, oval mirror.

She was bathed and dressed, her hair coiffed into a bun, wearing her mother’s necklace for courage, and a few dabs of her favorite perfume. It had been a gift from Valery to celebrate her debut four years ago, and it had continued to be her one rebellion. Her father thought the scent was vulgar, so she hid the bottle in her reticule, waited until they were at a ball or gathering, and dabbed it on her wrists and hair so she could blame the scent on the throngs of other ladies if he noticed it.

“Presentable?” Bea chuckled. “You look magnificent! Like a true Countess.”

“You really think so?”

Bea nodded effusively. “I wouldn’t lie to you, My Lady. I’m fairly certain I’m not allowed to.” She grinned. “I have to say, I’m mighty glad that you and His Lordship are dining together tonight. Not that we don’t like having you in the kitchens, of course, but we were all wondering if you were ever going to dine together.”

You were not the only ones… She held her tongue, not wanting any of the staff to know that there was anything amiss with the marriage, even if they could probably deduce that for themselves. A couple who spent the first four days of their honeymoon apart would naturally beg some questions.

“Are you looking forward to it?” Bea prompted.

Amelia hesitated, pursing her lips. “I think so.”

She did not altogether recognize the woman staring back at her through the mirror, wearing an elegant gown of lavender muslin; the woman in the mirror had brighter eyes, more color in her cheeks, and more confidence in her posture than the Amelia that she knew. Whether she had realized it or not, the past four days of freedom had done Amelia some obvious good, reflected in her demeanor if not her mind.

It is because you are not afraid of being shouted at. Your nerves are not on the knife edge that they once were. At home with her father and brother, unless both had ventured out somewhere, she had been on constant tenterhooks, waiting to be scolded for one thing or another. She had been cautious about every movement, every action, but that anxiety had not followed her to Westyork.

Even Lionel scolding her for eating with the servants had been mild in comparison. Perhaps, that was why she had felt able to stand her ground for once.

“It is almost seven,” Bea said. “Do you want me to escort you down?”

Amelia shook her head. “No, thank you. I will go alone.”

And hope that my husband is still a man who keeps his promises…

Smoothing down the front of her skirts, though there was not a crease to be seen, she headed out of her bedchamber. The short distance from there to the dining room below seemed to stretch with every step she took, her confidence waning, her nerves returning with a vengeance.

What if he was not there? What if he did not think she was dressed appropriately? What if they had nothing to say to one another? What if he spent the dinner telling her about her shortcomings, which he had apparently heard from someone? She assumed it was Mrs. Scanlon who had informed Lionel of her new dining habits, but she did not blame the housekeeper; the older woman was just doing her job, keeping the Earl informed of the household’s goings-on.

Making shaky progress down the stairs, she crossed the entrance hall and went a small distance down the hallway to get to the dining room. There, she halted outside, perfectly still and holding her breath, listening out for any sound within.

“If you linger out there, you will be late,” Lionel’s voice called from inside. “Unless you would prefer me to pass your dinner under the door? The fish and the meats might fit, but I am dubious about the vegetables.”

She clamped her hand over her mouth to smother the sudden snort that came out of her, imagining the mess if he tried to slide her plate under the door.

Gathering herself, she entered… and stopped sharply at the sight of her husband. He was bathed in amber candlelight at the farthest end of the dining room, where he leaned casually against the drinks table with a glass of wine in his hand, and another sitting on a silver tray.

He looked… breathtaking, a world away from the disheveled man she had intruded upon a few hours earlier. Although, there had been an odd charm to him, too.

His hair was clean and combed, the stubble shaved from his face, his complexion less gray, his attire elegant and expertly tailored, highlighting his athletic physique. But, to her dismay, he was not wearing his spectacles, which she had recently found so very endearing. They softened his appearance somehow and, without them, he had become marginally more intimidating again.

“I certainly could have handed you the wine through the door, though Mrs. Scanlon would not have been particularly pleased by it,” he said, picking up the second glass and walking toward her.

Amelia could not move or breathe as she watched his approach: the height of him, the broadness of his shoulders, the confidence of his strides, the gleam in his eyes, and the ghost of a smile upon his lips. Not to mention the memory of his bare chest just visible through the brazenly unbuttoned collar of his shirt, when she had walked in on him in his study. His collar was buttoned now, but her imagination remembered.

“Drink this,” he said, handing her the glass. “It will make dinner much easier for us both.”

She eyed the red liquid. “Should I be worried?”

“Not unless you drink too much.” He took the glass back and sipped it in a rather generous show of reassurance. “It is just wine, Amelia. Very good wine, but nothing nefarious.”

He passed the glass back, though she did not immediately bring it to her lips. Staring at the rim, she could not recall which side he had sipped from. What if her lips pressed against the same place as his? Why, it would be tantamount to a kiss.

“Please, sit,” he instructed, moving to the nearest chair.

Two places had been set, with a candelabra between, the flames flickering softly. He pulled back the chair and gestured, and though she had been content with not obeying anyone’s commands, she obeyed his.

With her seated, he walked around to the opposite side and sat down, whipping out the napkin and laying it on his lap. That done, he gazed at her for a moment.

Figuring that he wanted her to do the same, Amelia draped her own napkin across her lap… but he continued to gaze at her, until her traitorous cheeks began to burn hotter than the candleflame.

“Do I have something on my face?” she asked quietly.

He blinked as if he had not realized he was staring. “Hmm? No, nothing like that.”

He did not elaborate, and she did not ask him to, for the servants took that moment to enter with the first course of the evening: a shallow bowl of watercress soup.

As soon as the bowls were placed, the staff made themselves scarce again, disappearing through the servants’ doorways, vanishing from sight. How they had known when to begin serving was a mystery to Amelia, for Lionel had given no signal that she could see.

“Do you like watercress soup?” Lionel asked, scooping up a spoonful.

Amelia hesitated. “I do.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

She blushed furiously. “It is neither my favorite nor my least favorite soup.”

“Let the cook know your preferences,” he said flatly, as silence prevailed once more, peppered only by the faint clink of spoons against bowls.

It was little better than if she had been dining alone, but Amelia was not prepared to endure however many courses in stilted quiet. She had managed to get him to come to dinner with her, she could at least attempt to make it a not unpleasant occasion.

“I read that watercress is very good for one’s eyes,” she said, swallowing a mouthful of the upsettingly green soup.

“Do you think that if I eat enough, I will not have to wear spectacles anymore?” he replied drily.

“That is not what I meant,” she mumbled, her throat tight. “Have you… um… always worn spectacles?”

He shook his head. “No.”

That awful silence returned, while Amelia floundered for something else to say.

“Do you play an instrument?” she asked, forcing a smile.

“Several. Badly.”

She waited for him to ask her in return, but he did not. “And dancing—do you like to dance?”

“Not particularly. If I did, I might not have found the idea of attending balls in search of a wife so tortuous.”

She swallowed thickly. “Why did you not announce yourself at that ball?”

He scooped up the last of his soup, holding the spoon halfway between the bowl and his mouth as he visibly considered her question. “I did not want to be set upon by the motherly hounds of society. They would have torn me apart.”

It was the first honest answer she had received, and while she probably should have left it there, she allowed herself to be encouraged instead.

“I did pity you that night,” she said. “You were all anyone could talk about… though, if they had not gossiped, I might never have heard about your search for a wife. My brother liked to burn the scandal sheets before I could read them, you see. He deemed it improper for a lady to read such things.”

Lionel gave her a look that made her wonder if he agreed with Martin. There was certainly a hint of disapproval on her husband’s face, but she could not tell if it was the conversation as a whole, or just that part. Either way, she squirmed, hating the silence, but not wanting him to deem her improper.

I could not bear it if he started scrutinizing everything I do. Although, it would make Westyork feel very like home. She half laughed at the thought, drawing another critical glance from Lionel.

“Why on earth would you pity me?” he asked, perhaps insulted, though it was hard to tell.

She shrugged, setting her spoon down. “Because they all wanted a piece of you. They were fervent and I have no doubt that if you had made yourself known, they would have swarmed you. No one spoke of you , as a person, but of your wealth. As if that was all that was important about you.”

“It was not important to you?” His voice was a note softer, his eyes creased at the corners.

“Oh, well… I am afraid my motivation was far more selfish,” she mumbled, wondering what temperature her blushes could reach before her entire face actually burst into flame. “And, of course, the night I… um… visited you, I did not know you were the same gentleman that I saw in the corner. You cannot imagine my shock when I set eyes upon you.”

Lionel sat back in his chair, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Amelia watched the slow touch of the fabric, mesmerized by the way he pressed it to his lips.

“I imagine it was not unlike seeing a lady dressed as a gentleman in my townhouse drawing room,” he replied, his eyes glinting in the candlelight.

Amelia reached hastily for her glass of wine and gulped down a mouthful. “I admit, that was not my proudest moment.”

“But are you saying you did not know who I was when you called upon me?” he asked, and though she did not meet his gaze, she felt the burn of it.

If it had not gone against years of discipline and etiquette lessons, she would have taken her napkin and fanned her face with it. Why was he looking at her like that, with such intensity? Did he mean to make her uncomfortable, or was she just not used to being looked at while she spoke, as if what she had to say had value?

“I did not,” she replied, almost choking on her wine. “I mean, I knew you were the Earl of Westyork, but I did not know the Earl of Westyork was you.”

Goodness, I sound like an imbecile.

He held the stem of his own wine glass, turning it slowly back and forth. “So, what was the ‘selfish’ reason you came to me? You never did tell me the details in their entirety.”

“No, I suppose I did not.” She paused, more confused than ever as to why he had agreed to her proposal.

He had not known what he was rescuing her from, so it could not be as simple as a chivalric instinct. She remembered being rather vague and rather clumsy with her words, not making the most compelling argument in the world, so why had he accepted her?

“All you said was that you wished to change your fate, and that the alternative would be unbearable,” he prompted.

You remembered that?

She cleared her dry throat. “Indeed. Do you know of Baron Hervey?”

Lionel pulled a face that suggested he did.

“My brother arranged a betrothal between us, without my knowledge or my opinion,” Amelia continued. “It was not official, but the Baron was supposed to come to our house the day after the ball to make it official. The moment I met that—forgive my language—hideous creature, I knew I could never marry him, just as I knew my brother would force me to.

“I am not usually so reckless or daring. In truth, I have always been the epitome of a wallflower. I believe I have a permanent dent in my shoulders where I have pressed myself against the wall so hard, to avoid being noticed. But, that night, desperation awakened a beast in me. A beast who would stop at nothing to be free of Baron Hervey.”

Lionel stopped turning the glass. “A wallflower? I realize I have not known you for long, but I have never thought of you as shy.”

“As you say, you have not known me for long,” Amelia mumbled, touching the back of her hand to her blazing cheeks.

It might have been the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her, for her shyness was always the first thing people noticed, if they noticed her at all.

“So, I was Baron Hervey’s replacement?” he said, taking a sip of his wine.

Amelia watched, transfixed, at the movement of his throat as he swallowed the drink. He really did look so very handsome tonight, and if he had been wearing his spectacles, he might have been the most handsome man she had ever beheld.

What a pity it is all for naught.

Suddenly, she realized he had been vague too. He had told her strictly that he did not want any children, but he had not told her why. By the end of the final course, she intended to have the answer to that, for if he expected her to go through life without ever knowing motherhood, she deserved to know his reasons.

And they had better be good ones…