Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“ G ood morning to you, brother,” Amelia said, her head bowed, immediately returning to the nervous creature that Lionel had witnessed—albeit blurrily—at the Assembly Rooms.

Even so, she looked beautiful. Lionel had missed the sight of her, far more than he cared to admit. Indeed, where his nights used to be plagued by terrors, they had recently been plagued by far pleasanter, yet altogether more worrying, dreams of her.

He dreamed of dancing with her in an empty ballroom; he dreamed of wandering the grounds in the summer sunshine with her at his side, their hands entwined; he dreamed of kissing her in the heavy snowfall of winter, giving her his warmth, before retreating inside to share a cup of mulled wine that he would taste on her lips when he kissed her again; he dreamed of happiness with her, so rich and rare that he had been waking up with an aching heart.

“I heard you were taking your breakfast,” Martin said sourly, flashing a pointed look at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. “What sort of hour is this to take breakfast? I do hope you have not become lazy, sister.”

Lionel bristled, opening his mouth to defend his wife, but she spoke first.

“I had breakfast with the Dowager and my husband’s sister,” she replied quietly. “They favor a late breakfast.”

Martin glanced at Lionel, as if for confirmation.

“She is Lady of this house,” Lionel said coolly. “If she chooses to take her breakfast at three o’clock in the afternoon, that is her prerogative.”

Martin sniffed, pulling a face. “I suppose every household is different.” He paused, a sly smirk on his lips. “Have you had tea already?”

A harsh laugh formed in the back of Lionel’s throat as he stared at the wretched man, knowing exactly what Martin was doing. Evidently, Martin was holding something of a grudge from their first proper encounter at the Thorne townhouse, and thought he was capable of gaining his justice now, by repeating Lionel’s clever words back to him.

“Why would we have tea?” Lionel asked, feigning disapproving astonishment. “It is not yet ten o’clock. That is no time for tea, and certainly not after we have all just had our breakfast.”

Martin’s mouth fell open, but it was not his expression that Lionel was interested in. He discreetly glanced at Amelia, hoping to see some sort of smile upon her face, but she remained silent and withdrawn, taking her seat at the other end of the settee where Lionel sat.

“Would you like some refreshment, brother?” she asked, a moment later, her voice hollow.

“No, thank you,” Martin replied bitterly, clearly annoyed that it was not Lionel who had offered refreshment.

They sat in stilted silence for a while, peppered occasionally by the sound of the birds in the gardens outside and the whistle of the winter wind creeping in through unseen gaps. Martin kept looking at Lionel, as if expecting him to begin a conversation, but Lionel preferred to watch Martin squirm.

“You must be eager to return to your work,” Martin said, a few minutes later. “I imagine these weeks of your honeymoon are something of a nuisance.”

“Not at all,” Lionel replied evenly. “I have always been good at managing my time.”

Martin nodded slowly. “But it must be costly, to have so many weeks away?”

“It is not,” Lionel said.

“As you know, I have recently entered the world of business myself,” Martin continued, perhaps getting to the point of his visit at last. “ I could not imagine taking any time away from it.”

I wager my mother’s bracelet that he is about to ask for money… Lionel had grown accustomed to the sound of a person’s voice when they were about to request funds, and Martin’s echoed it exactly.

“No, but then I do not imagine you ever thought you would work, either,” Lionel said with a ‘polite’ smile.

There were only two reasons that members of the peerage suddenly had a desire to work for their income: either they were reasonably wealthy and looking to elevate themselves, or they were on the verge of being destitute and had become desperate. Martin reeked of that desperation.

“In truth, I did not.” Martin flashed back a tight smile. “No Duke, nor heir to a dukedom, does, but when friends of mine were discussing their various endeavors and speculations, I found myself extremely interested. I could choose not to work, of course, but I am so compelled by such work that I cannot help it.”

Rather, your accounts mean you cannot help it. Lionel held his tongue, though he had evidence enough to trample Martin’s pride if he wanted to. For one thing, Amelia’s dowry had been minuscule—not the sort of dowry one would expect to receive for a Duke’s daughter. Lionel did not care for the money, and had set it aside for Amelia’s sole use, but it was symbolic of a greater deficit in the Thorne coffers.

“Speaking of heirs,” Martin continued haltingly, “I expect you are eager to perpetuate your legacy. I do hope my sister is being an obliging wife in that regard.”

Amelia paled, staring wide-eyed at her brother as if she could not believe that had just come out of his mouth.

“You have not been disobedient or neglectful, I hope,” Martin added, staring coldly at his sister. “Do not be afraid to strike her if she misbehaves or tries to defy you, Lord Westyork. She rarely behaves unless there is a threat of punishment. She has always been that way: a great burden to us. So unruly and?—”

“Watch your tongue, Martin,” Lionel growled, leveling him with the kind of scowl that had once made enemy soldiers tremble. “I will not have you speak to or about my wife like that.”

Martin sneered, though two streaks of pink across his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment. “She is my sister. I know her better than you, but if you do not want words of wisdom and warning, then so be it. More fool you. I could have helped you to bring her to heel, but?—”

“Speak to me like that, and I will take your shoes and your horse and make you return home barefoot,” Lionel snarled, feeling a rather strong impulse to punch the wretched man as hard as possible. “Apologize.”

Martin huffed and puffed for a few moments, pressing one foot against the other as if that would be enough to stop Lionel from carrying out his threat.

But then, with a distasteful look upon his face, Martin shrugged. “I apologize. I spoke out of turn to you. I meant nothing by it.”

Lionel did not believe that, but nor was he finished with Martin. “Now, apologize to my wife.”

“What?” Martin hissed while, at the other end of the settee, Amelia gawped.

“Apologize. To. My. Wife,” Lionel repeated.

“Why should I?” Martin retorted, his lip curling.

“Because you were rude,” Lionel said calmly. “And you deigned to give your opinion in this household, even though you have no say in our lives, especially in the matter of my heir. You are not even a guest here, Martin. Not an invited one, anyway.”

Martin’s face went through a carousel of emotions: disgust, outrage, confusion, embarrassment, and back around again. He was huffing and puffing so much that Lionel almost told him to go outside to get some fresh air before he passed out.

“This is my sister we are talking about,” Martin seethed, once he had managed to find enough breath for words. “I may say what I like about her. I certainly will not apologize to a woman, least of all her .”

Lionel leaned forward, his eyes cold. “No, Martin, it is my wife you are talking about, and if you want your new ventures into business to succeed—mercy, to even continue—I suggest you be very careful of how you address her.”

At the end of the settee, Amelia had withdrawn fully, her head bowed, her knees drawn together beneath her dress, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles whitened. But Lionel could not see her face to know if it was pretense or true worry that had her so hunched and small.

Across from Lionel, however, Martin had turned very pale indeed. “You would not hinder me.”

“I would,” Lionel reassured him frostily. “I have more connections amongst the ton than you could dream about. I am wealthier than almost every peer in England, and certainly wealthier than you if my suspicions are correct, so you can either apologize or leave this estate immediately and never return.”

A shudder ran up his spine, remembering a very similar sentiment, spoken by him some two years ago upon his return from war. Although, with his uncle, Lionel had not stopped at the man merely leaving the estate, but the entire country. A distance far enough away that Lionel, Caroline, and Rebecca would never have to think about him again, and the chaos he had wrought upon the family fortune. The ruins from which Lionel had been forced to rebuild everything.

Martin jumped up and, for a second or two, it looked like the weasel might try to hit Lionel. Lionel did not move, continuing to level his coldest stare at Martin. If the wretch wanted to fight, Lionel would not refuse, but Martin would have been a prize idiot to attempt it.

“I would die before I apologized to an inferior woman,” Martin spat, turning on his heel and leaving with a few choice grumbles under his breath.

It should have been a satisfying victory, made twice as gratifying by the fact that Martin would never bother Amelia again, but as silence descended across the room once more, he rather wished he had stayed ‘underground.’

“Why did you do that?” Amelia whispered, her voice thick.

“If you will excuse me, I have much to attend to,” he replied, getting to his feet.

But Amelia was faster, grabbing his hand and holding it tightly. “Not before you answer me,” she urged, her eyes slightly wild. “Why did you do that for me?”

Because I cannot help it, he wanted to say, but the words would not come.