Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

“ A melia?” Lionel prompted, slowly getting used to the way her name felt in his mouth.

He rarely called anyone by their given name, so it was something of an adjustment. Nor was he certain when he had dropped the ‘Lady,’ though he supposed it did not fit anymore. She was not ‘Lady Amelia,’ she was ‘Lady Westyork.’

“Hmm?” Amelia shook her head slightly, as if dispersing some lingering thought.

“Am I to understand it that I was Baron Hervey’s replacement?”

Her eyes widened a little. “Mercy, no! A replacement for Baron Hervey would be a lopsided sack of potatoes with a nasty smirk drawn on the front.”

It took a great deal of willpower to keep a smile from creeping onto his face at that, for he had agreed to this dinner as a means of putting distance between them, not bringing them closer. If he laughed, he might give her hope, and he was already veering too close to the line.

Several times, he had heard his voice soften, prompting him to school it back into cold indifference. Or what he hoped sounded like cold indifference, anyway.

We should have no acquaintance beyond toleration. I will not warm to her. I cannot. Indeed, even the topic of conversation was becoming dangerous, opening up avenues of familiarity that should stay closed.

“Apologies,” she said hastily. “As you can tell, when it comes to Baron Hervey, I transform into some other creature with a rude tongue and rash behavior.”

Lionel nodded. “I believe Baron Hervey has that effect on everyone he meets. You are, in truth, being rather polite.”

Stop jesting with her! he scolded himself, concerned that his tongue and his brain were not quite cooperating with each other.

“In truth, I came to your townhouse that night because it was the only thing I could think of. I never considered how it might appear to you.” Her brow creased in consternation. “Goodness, I hope you did not—and do not—think I am some manner of fortune hunter. It truly does not interest me. Your name was in my head, that is all, and I knew where you lived because one of the gossiping mothers revealed it, and… the rest you know.”

Lionel poured more wine for them both from the carafe, though he suspected he should not drink too much more. He needed to keep his wits about him.

“You can rest assured that I do not believe you are a fortune hunter,” he said. “Mrs. Scanlon told me that you looked horrified at the prospect of purchasing new armchairs when there were two perfectly good ones in the rear parlor you could use.”

Her cheeks flushed afresh with that pretty dusting of pink, her eyes shining in the glow of the candles. “I have never liked spending money on myself, or for frivolous purposes. And those armchairs are wonderful. I have spent many glad hours already in their comfort, with my books.”

“Yes, I heard you visit the library often. You must enjoy reading a great deal?” he remarked, cursing himself.

He needed to be quiet, he needed to show no curiosity, he needed to resort to one-word replies; what he did not need to do was find out more about her. Yet, he could not help it, as if compelled by a force beyond his control.

“Oh, it is my happiness, Lionel.” She sighed, her eyes sparkling with that inner light that had nearly made him spill an entire inkwell earlier. “It is my truest joy, and you have such an excellent library. I was able to find all the books that my brother took and hid from me, or burned, deeming them inappropriate.”

If I ever cross paths with you again, Martin Thorne, you shall have a lot to answer for. And I shall ask with my fists. Irritation prickled in Lionel’s belly, disgusted that any brother could treat their sister like that. Since meeting Amelia, he had been filling in the details between the short, saddening tales that she revealed, and he did not like the picture that it painted of the life she had lived before this.

“You are welcome to read whatever you please here,” he told her, more forcefully than he had intended. “I shall not censor you. As long as it is nothing French.”

Dismay crossed her beautiful face, the light in her eyes dimming. “But I adore so many French stories.” She paused. “And you spoke to me in French. You recited Perrault to me.”

It appeared that she was aligned with Caroline and Rebecca when it came to his sense of humor, missing his jokes entirely.

“Oh!” she gasped, that glorious light returning brighter than before. “You were jesting with me! Oh, goodness—I was prepared to be devastated just then.”

“It was no jest,” he replied, trying to claw back some coldness. “What I meant was, nothing French . I trust you understand my meaning.”

It pained him to see that inner glow dim again, though it did not fade as much as before. Rather, it was replaced with rapid blinking, her gaze determined to look anywhere and everywhere but at him. Evidently, she did understand his meaning.

“Of course not,” she choked. “I would never read such things. But what of you, Lionel? We have spoken quite enough about me. What leisurely pursuits do you enjoy?”

Lionel was saved from answering by the interruption of the servants, coming to take away the soup bowls and set down the next course: a delicious piece of cod in a parsley sauce, decorated with fresh parsley from the kitchen garden and delicate slices of lemon.

The servants disappeared again, and for a few quiet minutes, it seemed like the distraction had worked. He observed her as she cut into the flaky fish and popped it delicately into her mouth, a smile tugging at his lips as she closed her eyes, a look of utter contentment falling across her face. She seemed so at ease, enjoying the food, comfortable enough in his company to show it.

When her eyes opened again, he hid his mouth behind his napkin and hoped she had not caught sight of his smile. But when he went to put the napkin back on his lap, the tail of it must have snagged on the stem of the wine glass. It rocked precariously, and he grabbed it with his free hand, one drop leaping out and staining the white tablecloth.

Still, it could have been much worse.

“The fish is delicious,” Amelia said softly.

Flustered, he nodded. “Yes, quite delicious.”

“Now, what were you saying?”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me about yourself,” she urged. “What do you enjoy?”

He sniffed, gathering himself. “I do not have much time for leisurely pursuits.”

“Not at all?” She seemed horrified.

“If I have a spare moment, I walk. That is about the length and breadth of my enjoyments.” He did not care if he sounded boring. Indeed, it was better if he did.

She smiled brightly. “Walking is a fine pursuit, and you have such exquisite grounds and gardens in which to walk. I can entirely understand why that would be your sole enjoyment.” She hesitated. “Please, might you tell me of your sister and your grandmother. What are they like?”

That was a topic of conversation that he did not mind speaking about. A safe subject, for it was highly likely that she would end up knowing the two of them far better than she would ever know him. And that was as it should be.

“My grandmother is the best woman I know,” he said without hesitation. “She is as fierce as she is kind; she is unusual and bold and hilarious—or, she thinks she is—and I am certain you will take to one another well. My sister is so very like my grandmother, and there is nothing that I would not do for her. She is remarkable.”

A peculiar look crept into Amelia’s expression. “Then, if I may be so bold, why were they not at the wedding? I know you said your grandmother had a cold, and your sister was tending to her, but… I have my doubts. From what I have heard from the staff, your grandmother would attend your wedding even if she had just been knocked down by a carriage. Yet, she was not there.”

Lionel froze, his stomach sinking. He should have known that she would ask the staff questions about the family, but he had not thought that his small fib would be uncovered so swiftly. What worried him more, however, was what else the staff might have said to her, about the members of the Barnet family who were no longer living.

“My grandmother did have a cold, that was not untrue,” he replied brusquely, “but I also informed them that there was no need for them to attend. It was a business arrangement. There was no reason for my family to be there and, if they had, they would have been sorely disappointed by the empty church. Their absence was better for everyone.”

He still was not telling the entire truth, but he did not know how to explain to Amelia that Rebecca had not wanted to come. Moreover, that she could probably expect a frostier reception from Rebecca when she and their grandmother finally arrived at Westyork.

By the time they get here, Grandmother might have talked some sense into her… He would not be the reason that his sister and his wife got off on the wrong foot, if Rebecca had already been talked around to the idea.

He watched the disappointment form a line between Amelia’s eyebrows, her smile dwindling away, her eyes downcast as she concentrated a little too intently on her cod.

“I am sure you are right,” she said, her tone more clipped than before. “I… look forward to meeting them.”

In that moment, Lionel knew that he had achieved what he had set out to do, making the dinner so… uncomfortable that she would not ask him to dine with her again. And though he knew it really was for the best—she could trust him on that, at least—he felt a small pinch of guilt that he had obviously upset her.

And though he would not admit it, he was sorry that it would be the last time they ever dined alone together. For a moment there, he had actually started to enjoy himself.