Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T hat night, Amelia waited until the household had fallen silent, everyone asleep in their beds, and went in search of her husband. She had a promise to keep, and she meant to follow through with it, whether he wanted her care and attention or not.

She had already spoken with the cook, who had agreed to make the special tea she had requested. And as Amelia stole through the silent manor, a thrill rippled through her. She would not have dared to act so boldly on her own before.

But what if I anger him? What if I push him further away? Her excitement dwindled, transforming into worry. She still did not know what she had done wrong, prompting him to separate from her in haste, but maybe he would explain if they were alone together.

Maybe he will kiss me, this time. Her excitement soared again, her determination fierce as she hurried on through the darkness to the kitchens, to retrieve the special tea. Indeed, if Lionel slept well because of her efforts, perhaps that would encourage him to reward her with a kiss.

“I made it just as you instructed, My Lady,” Mrs. Bishop said as Amelia entered the steamy heat of the kitchens. “It doesn’t smell very appealing, but medicine never does. My own ma used to tell me that the worse a remedy tastes, the better it is for you.”

Amelia chuckled. “That is what my mother used to say, too. But she would always add some honey, and it tasted much better.”

“Well, there’s honey here.” The cook gestured to a little glass pot. “I reckon you’ll need the entire thing to improve the flavor.”

Amelia took the cup and saucer, inhaling the bitter scent of the tea, and diligently drizzled in a healthy dose of the viscous honey. As she did, she became aware of Mrs. Bishop watching her closely.

“Might I ask what you want the tea for?” the cook asked at last.

“To help with sleeping,” Amelia replied, deliberately vague.

Mrs. Bishop quirked an eyebrow. “You’re still having trouble? I could make you some warm milk again.”

“No, thank you. This will work wonders, I assure you,” Amelia replied, inhaling the scent of the tea again. The almost floral sweetness pleased her senses, all hint of the earthy bitterness gone. At least in the smell of it.

The cook shrugged. “Well, you let me know if it doesn’t. I’ll be awake for a few hours yet.”

“I will,” Amelia promised, heading back out with the herbal brew.

Now, all she had to do was find her husband. He had alluded to the fact that he slept wherever he liked, which meant she had an entire manor to search. The only place she knew he would not be was his bedchamber, unless he had suddenly decided that he liked beds after all.

She began in the library, working her way through the rooms of the lower floor, finding each one empty in turn. Even his study was empty of him, though she paused there for longer than the other rooms, listening out for any sign of his nightly distress.

Puzzled and increasingly desperate, she began a search of the upper floors, leaving only the servants’ quarters on the topmost floor undisturbed.

But her husband was nowhere to be found, as if he had known that she might look for him, and though she did not want to admit defeat, the cup of medicinal tea had already gone cold. Disheartened and dismayed, she trudged back to her own bedchamber and slipped into the comfort of the bed, the end of it heated by a warming pan so her feet would not get cold.

Setting the untouched cup of tea on her bedside table, she frowned at it for a moment, unease prickling through her. Where on earth could he be?

Amelia had hoped to ask Lionel where he slept the night before, but his evasion tactics had bled into the following day. She had breakfasted with Caroline and Rebecca, wandered in the gardens for a while, had luncheon with the two women, then headed to the library to read. She had barely managed a couple of hours of peaceful reading before she had been ushered upstairs to prepare for the evening’s ball.

Even in the carriage on the way to the ball, some two hours away from Westyork, she had not caught so much as a glimpse of Lionel. Apparently, he was going to meet them there, though Amelia could not escape the feeling that she probably would not see much of him that night either.

Surely, he should tell me if I am at fault. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do. She had become ever more certain that Lionel’s desire to keep his distance from her had something to do with the moment when she had thought he might kiss her. Still, she would have liked an explanation—anything to stop her mind from racing with worry.

“Do not be nervous, dear girl,” Caroline said, mistaking Amelia’s silent anxiety. “They are all just people. Indeed, in my own youth, all I had to think was, ‘every last one of you has and uses a chamber-pot’ and I found that not a single soul could ever intimidate me or make me nervous again.”

Amelia blinked at the older woman, still getting used to her unique sense of humor. “If I thought that, I doubt I would be able to look anyone in the eye again.”

“ I prefer to think of them all washing their faces and reaching for a cloth that is too far away,” Rebecca interjected, grinning. “No one looks frightening or serious doing that, half blinded by water, helplessly fumbling. Why, we have all looked foolish in our lives, so I imagine them in place of me, during my silliest moment, and all is well again.”

Amelia nodded slowly. “I shall remember that.”

“Your name shall be on everyone’s lips, dear Amelia,” Caroline continued to enthuse. “I doubt I have ever seen a more regal Countess in all my years, and I am so very, very old. That gown is exceptional.”

A different breed of nerves began to jitter in Amelia’s veins. She did not like to be the center of attention. Why, she had avoided it diligently since her debut. But she had been so preoccupied with thoughts of her absent, distant husband that she had not stopped to think of what the guests at the ball might have to say about her.

I doubt I have yet been forgiven for stealing away the most eligible bachelor in the country… Dread sank like a stone in her stomach, though they were too far now to turn back to Westyork. She could not avoid the intense scrutiny to come.

“Are you certain that Lionel will be attending?” she blurted out.

Caroline gestured to the carriage window. “He rode past us not long ago, so I should hope he is attending, otherwise he is going on an extensive and pointless leisure ride.”

Amelia had not seen him pass by, but she had no reason to think that Caroline would lie to her. The ball seemed to be just as important for Lionel’s grandmother and sister as it was to him, like this really was some manner of grand debut.

“Can you hear that?” Rebecca said suddenly, leaping off the squabs to press her face to the window.

Amelia pricked her ears. Sure enough, a pleasing sound drifted toward her—muted by distance but unmistakable. Music. The kind that encouraged dancing, but had always encouraged her to retreat to wherever she would not be spotted or approached.

Surely, Lionel will not want to dance with me tonight.

He had mentioned that he did not like to dance if he could help it, and though it had fleetingly disappointed her at the time, she hoped he would stand by his remark that night. No one needed to see her stumbling and floundering on the dance floor, especially as she had not practiced in the exquisite gown she wore.

Before long, the carriage passed through a set of towering gates and rattled down a short gravel driveway, joining a line of other carriages that were waiting to deposit their passengers.

“Oh,” Rebecca cried, clapping her hands together, “I feel like this shall be a night to remember!”

Or one to quickly forget. Amela held a hand to her chest, feeling her pounding heart.

“You make sure you are on your best behavior,” Caroline warned her granddaughter in a mild voice. “It is by the generosity of the Duke of Thornhill that you are invited tonight, even though you are not yet ‘out’ in society. Do not draw too much attention to yourself.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes. “What do you take me for?”

“An overly excited young lady who cannot help but cause mischief,” Caroline replied with a grin. “I should know; I used to be just like you. But this is Amelia’s night. Remember that.”

Amelia was about to protest that she would be glad of someone else taking the attention away from her, but the carriage stopped outside the manor entrance, and the door opened to a familiar face.

Lionel had never looked more handsome, in a tailcoat the same color as his eyes, standing tall and proud. Though, once again, Amelia found herself wishing that he was wearing his spectacles.

Does he prefer to not see properly? Does he think people will not take him as seriously? She could not fathom it, but she did not feel it was her place to tell him that he should wear his spectacles as often as possible.

“We have brought your darling wife to you in one safe piece, dear boy,” Caroline said, nudging Amelia forward. “Now, let us dazzle everyone with her exceptional beauty!”

Panic slithered around Amelia’s chest like a serpent, constricting tighter and tighter until she could barely suck in a breath at all. At the same moment, Lionel reached up his hand to her, his expression blank.

She took the proffered hand and stepped down from the carriage, noting as she did that Lionel’s eyes widened slightly. His lips parted a little too, his gaze swiftly taking her in.

“You look… very presentable,” he said stiffly.

Amelia’s hopes sputtered. After hours of being prodded and poked and beautified, enduring endless brushes through her hair and decorative, jewel-topped pins stabbing at her scalp, not to mention the last-minute adjustments to the gown that had turned her into a pincushion, she had anticipated more of a reaction than ‘very presentable.’

Lionel pulled her arm through his and led her up the steps to the manor, as Rebecca and Caroline bustled along behind, whispering between themselves.

“Barnet!” a bright voice yelled, as the couple stepped into the entrance hall: a busy spot for congregating, countless voices melding together in a jarring din that made Amelia wince.

Lionel raised a hand in greeting. “Good evening to you, Lockie.” He whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Duncan Lock. Duke of Thornhill.”

Amelia took a relieved breath, making a note to thank her husband later. She had spent four years in society, and had an excellent mind for retaining names and information, but she was terrible at putting faces to those names.

“There she is!” Duncan Lock crowed, halting in front of Amelia and Lionel, opening out his palms in a displaying gesture. “The infamous Countess of Westyork. The early bird who snatched up the juiciest worm in England. And what a rare bird you are, Lady Westyork.”

Amelia stared at the Duke, not knowing what to say to such an intense introduction. “You are… kind to say so, Your Grace,” she managed to reply. “I hope I shall not ruffle any feathers this evening.”

Duncan grinned and burst out in a laugh. “Witty, too, I daresay.” He offered out his hand and she had no choice but to give her own, considering his station and that he was the host of the evening.

He kissed her gloved hand, peering up at her as he continued, “One has to wonder what made you settle for a gentleman like Lionel here—a man so obsessed with his work that it has surprised us all that he managed to find time to gain a wife. You will find no fun with him, dear Lady.”

“And any lady would find too much fun with you, Lockie,” Lionel replied, withdrawing his arm and slipping it around Amelia’s waist, startling her.

There are people watching! she wanted to say, but his tight grip felt… almost pleasant. Safe.

Duncan smiled. “Lady Westyork, I believe I am the one ruffling feathers.” He released her hand. “Accept my apologies. You are most welcome here, and I am certain that you shall be the belle of my humble ball. That gown is exquisite! If you do not have half the ladies here asking where you purchased it, I shall eat my cravat.”

Amelia stifled a laugh, hiding her smile behind her hand. Duncan was certainly charming, with an easy manner and an air about him that suggested he did not take himself too seriously. The opposite of Lionel, in many ways.

Lionel’s grip tightened around Amelia’s waist. “You are embarrassing my wife, Lockie. I had hoped you would mature out of that bad habit, but I see you are still determined to see ladies blush.”

I am not embarrassed, Amelia considered saying, for though she was exceptionally prone to blushing, Duncan’s words had not had that warming effect. She found him… amusing, but nothing more. And she could not deny that she appreciated his compliment about her gown, saying more than just “very presentable.”

“It makes them all the prettier,” Duncan replied with a mischievous wink. “And you, without doubt, have the prettiest lady upon your arm. What a fortunate creature you are. Like a cat—always landing on your feet.”

Lionel pulled Amelia closer to his side, glancing down at her. “We should dance.”

“Barnet, no—do not hurry away! I have not seen you in months !” Duncan urged, throwing up his hands. “I was jesting, my good man! You know I relish a jest, and I should like to get to know your wife better. Nor can you deny me some overdue time with your glorious grandmother.”

Amelia frowned. It appeared that Duncan and Lionel knew one another better than she had thought, though she realized that the informal names of ‘Barnet’ and ‘Lockie’ should have been an indication of an acquaintanceship.

“You exaggerate. It has been no more than six weeks,” Lionel replied coolly, his entire demeanor stiff and not exactly approachable. “And what is a gentleman to do during the month of his honeymoon but dance with his wife.”

He steered Amelia away, leading her through the considerable crowds to the ballroom at the far end of a long, opulently decorated hallway. The music that she had heard from the carriage grew louder, and as Lionel opened the door to the ballroom and ushered her inside, the sound bombarded her ears.

She stood frozen on the threshold, terror clawing its way up to her chest as she looked upon the array of guests. Lionel had promised her it would be an intimate ball, but this was far grander—and far busier—than that. It might have been a summer celebration; there were so many people in attendance.

“The Earl and Countess of Westyork!” the announcer boomed across the packed ballroom, before anything could be done to silence him.

At that, the entire congregation turned and stared, and Amelia wished the parquet floor would crack and swallow her down. Ladies whispered behind fans, mothers openly scowled, while unease clawed its way up Amelia’s throat.

“That dance I mentioned; I think now would be a good time to begin,” Lionel said, pulling her toward the dance floor.

Amelia did not have the strength nor the consciousness of mind to resist, praying she was not about to make a spectacle of herself, embarrassing them both at their first ball as man and wife.

All these years I have eagerly devoured the scandal sheets—I never thought I would find myself written within its pages.