Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

L ionel sat in the annex of his study, looking out at the gardens. The first fluffy flakes of snow had begun to fall from bruised clouds, though he did not know if they would stick.

What has she done to me? He shook his head, knowing he should return to the endless mountain of work that awaited him in his study. He had tried to concentrate on it, but his thoughts kept wandering to Amelia: how… pleasant it had felt to hold her in his arms. And her eyes had shown no fear or distaste, gleaming with a warmth that had radiated into him, so that he had not felt the cold.

“I must persuade her to return to London,” he said to the empty annex. “I must remove her from my presence. If I do not…”

It did not bear thinking about.

Turning away from the snow, a plan began to form in his mind. Rebecca would not be disappointed if he suggested the women all returned to London, where they would be more comfortable in the townhouse. He would have to involve Caroline in the plan, of course, for she was the only one who might understand.

But first, this ball… He grimaced, uncertain of how he was going to manage it while keeping his distance from his wife. Everyone would expect a display of affection, of unity, but he no longer knew if he trusted himself to be close to her.

The modiste arrived the following morning with an entourage of three assistants, all brushing snow from their hair and shivering in the entrance hall, where there were no fireplaces to fend off the chill.

“Heavens, you must be frozen stiff!” Rebecca cried, rushing to greet them with Amelia in tow. “I do not know what my brother was thinking, asking you to come here in such inclement weather.”

The modiste, known only as Betsy, put on a practiced smile. “When it comes to fashion and transforming ladies into glorious butterflies of sartorial excellence, there is no such thing as bad weather.” She glanced at Amelia. “I assume you are the Countess?”

“What gave me away?” Amelia asked hesitantly, suddenly very conscious of herself.

The modiste chuckled. “That glow of new love, My Lady. It is unmistakable.”

“Love?” Amelia choked, eyes wide.

“Do not be coy, My Lady. There is not a lady in all of England who could resist falling in love with the Earl of Westyork.” Betsy took hold of Amelia’s arm, addressing Rebecca, “Now, where might we begin? Is there a dressing room for us?”

Rebecca grinned, evidently delighted by the situation. “Certainly. Please, follow me.”

Two hours later, Amelia felt as if she had tried on every gown in Christendom, pulled and prodded and tugged every which way, her hair teased and wrangled into countless different fashions, her forearms tingling from the number of gloves she had pulled on and had peeled off.

“That is the one!” the modiste announced, peering over Amelia’s shoulder to view the reflection in the mirror. “Yes, this is it. This is the gown to make your memorable debut.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “I made my debut four years ago.”

“No, My Lady, your new debut,” Betsy said, patting Amelia’s shoulder as if she were an imbecile. “Your debut into society as the Countess of Westyork. Oh yes, this is certainly the gown: the color, the sheen, the embroidery, the way it drapes—perfection! Well, almost.”

She snapped her fingers at her assistants, who hurried forward with long pins and other sewing paraphernalia. Without verbal instruction, they set to work, making adjustments to the gown, which would be properly sewn and amended later.

“I quite agree,” Rebecca said from a chair by the window, a small smile upon her lips. “It is a beautiful gown, Amelia. You will certainly be remembered.”

Amelia blushed. “It is not my usual color.”

“It becomes you well,” Rebecca assured.

Just then, a knock came at the music room door, for Rebecca had insisted it was the only room large enough for Betsy and her entourage, and the endless trunks of garments they had brought with them.

“Who is it?” Rebecca called.

“It is me,” Lionel’s voice replied.

With a shriek, as if it were Amelia’s wedding day and not merely preparation for a ball, Rebecca gestured for the modiste to cover Amelia’s gown. The assistants hurried to do so, grabbing a large white sheet and wrapping the new Countess in it.

“You may enter!” Rebecca said.

The door opened and Lionel peeked in, his hesitancy rather endearing. “I just came to… give something to my wife.” He entered with greater authority, his eyebrow arching as he took in his Countess, swaddled in a dust sheet. “Forgive me, for I have no concept of fashion, but I do not think that will be appropriate for a ball.”

Uncertain of whether or not he was joking, Amelia just smiled.

Meanwhile, Rebecca burst into laughter. “Can you imagine, Brother? It would certainly set tongues wagging if she were to choose the Roman style of a toga. Now, with respect, you are interrupting very important work.”

Lionel hesitated. “Be that as it may, I would like a moment alone with my wife.”

The modiste and her assistants vacated the music room without delay, while Rebecca lingered, apparently refusing to move from her chair. Amelia did not know whether to be grateful for that or whether she should insist that it was quite all right; she was not perturbed by the idea of being alone with her husband.

Might he embrace me again? She pushed away the silly thought. Of course, he would not. Not unless she slipped and risked breaking her neck.

“Sister,” Lionel said in a warning tone.

Rebecca groaned and got to her feet. “Very well, but do not —and I repeat, do not— even think about taking a peek at her gown. You will see it at the winter ball, and not a moment before.” She jabbed a finger in her brother’s direction. “I mean it. I shall be furious if I find out you have seen it already, and I shall know from your reaction if you have.”

“Out. Now!” Lionel replied with a half smile.

With a playful glare, Rebecca departed the music room, leaving Lionel and Amelia alone again for the first time since the bridge. He had retreated to his study again after that, but Amelia had not minded as much, now that she had the company of Caroline and Rebecca to entertain her. And, in truth, they were excellent company—amusing and chatty and affable, never leaving her out of the conversation.

“I shall not trespass on your time for long,” Lionel said flatly, approaching her. “Turn to face the mirror.”

Suddenly anxious, a warmth creeping up her neck, she did as he asked.

His eyes did not meet hers through the reflection, though she observed his expression closely. He seemed… pensive, almost sad, as he produced something from his tailcoat pocket and brought it over the top of her head.

Amelia’s eyes widened as he lay the necklace gently against her chest and fastened it at the nape of her neck, his fingertips lightly brushing her skin. A tingle tickled down her spine, the creeping warmth of her throat making its way up into her face, where she saw her cheeks flush a patchy pink.

“I… cannot accept this,” she gasped, astounded by the glittering jewel that rested below the notch at the base of her throat. It was as large as a robin’s egg—an exquisite gem that almost matched the color of her eyes. “It is too valuable. Far too expensive for the likes of me.”

He finally met her gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “Nonsense. The price is nothing. You are the wife of one of the wealthiest men in England; you should only wear the best, and be seen wearing the best. And I want you to begin thinking that way, buying what you please, discovering your taste, as I believe you have not had that opportunity before.”

“I have not,” Amelia agreed shyly, “but I do not know that I could ever feel comfortable spending your money.”

He sighed. “You must learn from my sister and my grandmother. You must learn how to be your own woman. There are no heirs to this estate and title, Amelia, so if anything were to happen to me, there are instructions in place for you. That is why you must learn how to be a Countess.”

“Lionel!” she gasped, horrified. “That is… awfully morbid. Nothing is going to happen to you. Do not say such things.”

Her heart felt sore, unease slithering among the butterflies in her stomach. Lionel was a young, healthy gentleman; it was obvious in his vitality and his physique. Why would he have any reason to worry about his longevity?

“Nevertheless, it is prudent to prepare for all possibilities,” he said, his gaze flitting to the jewel at her throat. “It was my mother’s. It is yours now.”

Ah… that is why. Evidently, in thinking about his mother, he had been dwelling upon his own mortality. That was something she could understand, for whenever she thought of her own mother, she too considered what might happen if she died young.

A sudden memory came to her, her eyes widening with something like excitement.

“Your nightmares!” she gasped, clasping her hands together. “Goodness, why did I not think of it before? I have been wracking my brain, trying to think of a solution, and it was right there!”

Lionel’s head jerked back. “I do not wish to discuss my nightmares, Amelia.”

“Yes, I know, but I really do think I can remedy them,” she urged. “When I was a child, I used to suffer from terrible night terrors. My mother used to make me a special tea to help me sleep, and as long as I drank it, I never had night terrors again. Well, I had the occasional one, but otherwise… nothing but deep and pleasant dreams.”

To her surprise, he smiled. “With respect, Amelia, I do not have the same sort of nightmares that a child might have, nor do I think that a simple tea will help. I have already tried every tea and tincture and tonic—all the Ts—that the best apothecaries could conjure. Unless you are a secret witch, I doubt you can do anything for me.”

Amelia turned away from the mirror, gazing up at him, her resolve unwavering. “But it is not just the tea, Lionel.”

Hesitantly, she raised her hands to his face, resting her fingertips upon his temples. He frowned but he did not pull away, and as she slowly began to massage in small circles, remembering how that same touch had felt when her mother did it, and how she had tried to mimic it by herself when her mother was gone.

A moment later, Lionel’s eyes closed, the tension fading from his face, a deep sigh making his chest rise and fall.

When his eyes opened again, they were glassy with relaxation, shining with a warmth she had not seen in his gaze before. Not directed at her, at least. It encouraged her to keep massaging, taking a half step closer so she could apply more pressure without straining her arms.

“That is… not unpleasant,” he murmured, gazing down at her.

Her breath caught in her throat as his eyes flitted to her lips and his head bowed slightly, as if he meant to bend all the way to press his mouth to hers in a kiss. He paused, splitting his attention between her eyes and her lips, as if asking permission.

She began to breathe quickly, so flushed she felt like she had a sudden fever. Half of her wanted to step away to avoid temptation, while the other half was stronger, keeping her where she was, offering her silent permission to him.

His hands came up to cradle Amelia’s face, his thumb lightly brushing the hot apple of her cheek. His head bent lower and she raised her chin up, ready to meet his kiss with one of her own. Perhaps, this was the beginning of something more for them—the real beginning of a real marriage.

A mere inch from her lips, he stopped and pulled back. “No,” he said, though she did not know if he meant the promise of a kiss or something else. “I do not think that will work at all. If you will excuse me; I have taken up enough of your time.”

He drew his touch away from her face and turned without another word, leaving in such haste that she could only wonder what she had done wrong.