Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

“ W ill you desist!” Amelia’s father, Francis Thorne, the Duke of Lisbret, snapped.

Amelia jumped in fright, nearly dropping the needle she had been shakily threading through her embroidery hoop. She glanced at her father and dropped her gaze, uncertain of what she had done to displease him.

“Tapping your foot like that—it will not do, Amelia,” Francis muttered. “It is incredibly distracting.”

Distracting you from what, exactly? She would not have dared to say such a thing out loud, but her father had done nothing but stare at the window for the better part of an hour. Martin, at least, was pretending to read a book. She knew he was pretending because it was a history written in Greek, and he did not speak or read a word of Greek.

“I apologize, Father,” she said as meekly as she could, stifling a hiss as the needle pricked her finger.

“Did you just hiss at me?” Francis demanded to know, leaning forward in his chair.

Amelia shook her head slowly. “No, Father. I hurt my finger.”

A bead of blood rose up, and before she could stop herself, she put her finger in her mouth. It was the quickest way to stem the bleeding, everyone knew that, but one would have thought she had just hitched up her skirts and started running barefoot through the streets, babbling like a madwoman.

“Get a handkerchief at once!” her father ordered. “What is the matter with you this morning? It is like a fishwife has taken the place of my daughter. Disgraceful.”

Martin peered at her over the top of the book he could not read, tutting under his breath. She gripped her embroidery hoop a little tighter, wondering if she ought to take her chances and hurl it at her brother’s head.

No, Amelia. You have to be on your best behavior today, she reminded herself, relaxing her grip. If the Earl of Westyork had truly meant what he said about accepting the proposal, then he would be calling upon her any time now. She could not risk her father rejecting the proposal because she had lobbed a bit of wood and fabric at Martin’s face.

“I am sorry, Father,” she murmured, rising from her seat.

“Where are you going?” her father barked.

She smoothed out the frown that threatened to form. “I was going to fetch a handkerchief, Father, as you instructed.”

“Well, now is not the time,” he muttered in reply, waving a hand at Martin. “Give her yours.”

Martin balked. “I do not want her blood spoiling my silk, Father.”

“Are you questioning me, boy?” Francis replied, his eyes steely.

It was not often that Martin received any sort of chiding, so the sight of him squirming in his chair, torn between ruining his newest purchase and doing his father’s bidding, was rather satisfying to Amelia. Almost as satisfying as giving him a smack across his wretched, rosy cheeks.

“You can buy me another with your pin money,” Martin seethed, handing over the square of light green silk.

Amelia took it and wrapped her finger in it, taking care not to show her delight as she sat back down. “Of course, Brother. I apologize for inconveniencing you.”

“As you should,” Martin said, folding his arms across his chest, giving up on his book altogether.

She knew what her father and brother were waiting so eagerly for, but they did not know what she was waiting for. She had overheard them at breakfast discussing the approximate arrival of Baron Hervey, deciding that he would probably call upon the household before luncheon.

Amelia, however, suspected the Baron would not call at all, for the last time she had seen him in the Assembly Rooms, he had tripped drunkenly over a boot scraper, coming in from the courtyard, and had fallen face first into the solid marble floor. There had been blood, hastily attended to by servants, but she was in no doubt that the Baron had broken his nose and would not deign to call upon anyone in such a state.

Then again, stranger things have happened. A chill beetled down her spine, as she peeked to see if the bleeding on her finger had ceased.

Indeed, the entirety of the previous night had been one strange occurrence after the other. Oddest of all, that the gentleman who had caught her staring at the ball had turned out to be the Earl of Westyork. She could never have anticipated that , for not a single other person had noticed him, though almost everyone had been talking about him.

Why did he do that, I wonder? Why did he not announce himself? She was grateful, of course, for she would not have had the opportunity to get ahead of the crowd of mothers with unwed daughters otherwise. But it continued to intrigue her, as did the man himself, and the generosity with which he had accepted her bizarre proposal.

Just then, the bell rang, jangling through the townhouse and joining the chill in prickling down her back. Martin and Francis exchanged a conspiratorial look and sat up straighter in their armchairs, while Amelia froze, praying it was the Earl, but not entirely sure it would not be the Baron.

A moment later, the butler came bustling in, eyes wide as if he had seen a ghost. “Your Grace, there is a… caller.” He cleared his throat, pointing back at the hallway. “He is asking to speak with you about Lady Amelia.”

“I know, you halfwit!” Francis grumbled. “He is expected. I hope you have not left him standing on the porch?”

The butler hesitated. “But… it is not the Baron, Your Grace. It is… someone else.”

“Someone else?” Francis rose from his chair, casting a dark look at Amelia. “Who else would be calling upon us to speak about her?”

“That would be me, Your Grace,” a rich, masculine tenor replied, preceding the tall and intimidating figure of the Earl of Westyork.

He wore a beautiful tailcoat of burgundy velvet, his waistcoat half a shade lighter, while his cravat was half a shade darker. It had a striking effect upon his posture and his appearance, making him appear somehow taller and broader than she remembered. From the pocket of his dark trousers, a scarlet watch fob provided a simple but impactful embellishment, a ruby glinting at the end of the strip of scarlet silk.

“Lionel Barnet, Earl of Westyork,” he said, putting out his hand.

Wearing a dazed expression, Francis took Lionel’s hand and shook it. “And… to what do we owe this unexpected visit?”

“You should sit,” Lionel replied. “There is a lot to discuss. It would be uncomfortable for us both if we were to talk standing. I find it to be poor etiquette.”

Francis backed up, lowering himself down into the armchair with all the obedience of a schoolboy. “Of course, Lord Westyork.”

“Might you move?” Lionel turned to Martin next, his voice twice as commanding as it had been the previous night. “I should hate to have to shout the purpose of my visit to your father.”

Martin blinked, his mouth partially falling open in an expression of confused insult.

“Martin!” Francis snapped, jolting his son into action.

Clearly displeased, Martin got up and joined Amelia on the settee, though he made sure to sit as far away from her as possible. He leaned an arm against the armrest in a slovenly fashion, jigging his leg in agitation.

How does it feel, Martin? Amelia smiled, relief sweeping through her like the heat of a fireplace on a frosty day.

Lionel settled himself down in the vacated armchair and glanced at Amelia for a moment. Instinctively, she went to bow her head, but caught the faintest shake of his head. It was subtle but undeniable, and though it went against her very nature, she kept her chin up and held his gaze a second longer.

“Have you had tea already?” Lionel asked, returning his attention to Francis.

Amelia’s father seemed transformed beneath Lionel’s stern, cold gaze, becoming a flustered, fumbling creature; the likes of which Amelia had never seen from her father before. Indeed, though Francis was a Duke, and outranked Lionel, one could have been forgiven for thinking it was the other way around.

“Goodness, no. We have not. Would you care for some?” Francis replied, ringing the small bell on the side-table next to him.

“I thought you would never ask,” Lionel said, not smug in his control of the situation, but quietly confident. He had said nothing to outright embarrass Francis, making subtle suggestions that got the point across instead.

Quite a skill, Amelia mused, wondering if it was something someone was born with, or that someone could learn. Then again, he had not become the wealthiest gentleman in England without having some talent for persuasion and authority.

The butler hurried in. “Yes, Your Grace? How may I be of service?”

“You have left myself and the Earl without anything to refresh ourselves!” Francis said curtly, diverting the blame. “Have a tea tray and cakes brought at once.”

The butler blinked. “Of course, Your Grace. Immediately.” He bowed his head to Lionel. “My sincerest apologies, My Lord.”

“They will not be necessary,” Lionel replied courteously. “I was not expected; how were you to know to expect me.”

For a moment, the butler looked like he might faint, but whether it was due to the remarkably kind words or the fact that he would be punished later for not doing his job, Amelia did not know. Either way, the butler rushed back out in pursuit of refreshments.

In the servant’s absence and the brief silence afterward, Amelia could not help but stare at Lionel. He was even more handsome in the daylight, with a strong jaw, sculpted cheekbones, a straight and sloping nose, full lips, and eyes that she now knew to be the color of the fir trees that grew in the grounds of the Lisbret Estate. A dark and earthy green, so remarkable that she would have liked to admire them a little longer.

Kind to servants, bordering on impudent with my father, able to evict my brother from his armchair… If she had not already proposed marriage to him, she would have done so there and then.

“Now, to the matter at hand,” Lionel announced. “I mean to marry your daughter, so if there are any obstacles that might hinder such an event, I suggest you get rid of them. I know you to be a powerful and capable gentleman, so I doubt you shall have any difficulty.”

Martin rocked forward, almost propelling himself off the settee. “Pardon me, My Lord, but… I do not understand. Why would wish to marry my sister?”

“Will you sit back and be quiet,” Francis retorted, shooting an icy glare at his son. “Let the Earl speak, for goodness’ sake.”

Lionel inclined his head to Francis. “Very gracious, thank you.” He paused. “I wish to marry her because she is the only lady of society I deem suitable to be my Countess. She is quiet, she seems to cause no trouble, and she seems to know how to behave herself. What more could a gentleman ask for?”

Amelia’s eyes widened, hearing her own words echoed back to her. Her cheeks warmed with mild embarrassment, but as he turned his gaze toward her, they flamed with the fire of something else entirely. His green eyes met hers with an intensity that closed her throat and stirred up her nerves, for though it was not the look of a man who harbored any sort of affection, it was certainly the look of someone determined, someone who had seen right through her. And was doing it again.

“Quite right!” Francis crowed. “As for any… obstacles, there are none, Lord Westyork. None whatsoever.”

Martin put up his hand. “But, what about?—”

“Another word from you and I shall send you from this room,” Francis hissed, staring at Martin as if he were an idiot. “As I said, Lord Westyork, there are no obstacles. There was a minor show of interest from a terribly unworthy fellow, but it was not an official pursuit, and he was not at all suitable for my dear daughter. It will cause no disruption to you, I promise.”

Lionel was still looking at Amelia, but he turned at that. “Excellent, then I shall proceed with acquiring a special license.”

“Pardon?” Francis furrowed his brow.

“It is my intention to marry her by the end of the week,” Lionel replied casually. “I rarely like to spend the winter in London, and if I do not have to stay longer than necessary, I shall not. I trust that is acceptable to you?”

The end of the week! Amelia’s heart dropped, for that was no time at all. She had hoped for at least three weeks, in order to spend as much time as possible with Valery and Isolde while she could. And she had definitely not expected to be leaving London before the Spring.

“Why… certainly, it is.” Francis clapped his hands together, his face a picture of dazed delight, as if he had just been handed a rare and precious gift.

You could act less excited to be rid of me. Amelia rewrapped the handkerchief around her finger, frowning down at the floor.

She was so invested in her thoughts and the pattern of the Persian rug that she gasped as a figure crouched in front of her, rough hands, covered in thin scars, taking hold of her own.

“Are you injured?” Lionel asked.

She gaped down at him, noting the slight flare of disapproval in her father’s gaze, out of the corner of her eye. “I… pricked my finger, that is all. I believe I shall survive.”

“You say that, or perhaps you will sleep for a hundred years,” he replied, whispering in a low voice, “ Elle tombera seulement dans un profond sommeil qui durera cent ans, au bout desquels le fils d’un Roi viendra la réveiller.”

She will fall into a deep sleep that lasts a hundred years, and be awakened by a King’s son… She could not have been more shocked if Martin had started dancing in celebration of the upcoming marriage, toasting to the happiness of his only sister. Lionel had just quoted Perrault’s ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ In French. For her ears only.

“You should bathe it in vinegar or brandy, just to be certain you are not cursed,” Lionel added, taking the handkerchief and wrapping it more tightly, and more carefully, around her injured finger.

He tied a knot and stood up, dipping his head to Francis. “You should take good care of her until our wedding day, Your Grace. I do not want my bride walking down the aisle in bandages.” He shot a darker, colder look at Martin. “You too. It is a brother’s duty to protect his sister until a husband comes along to take that duty from him. Remember that. Now, if you will excuse me, I have much to do.”

He left without ceremony, the drawing room deathly silent in the wake of his departure. Martin sat, astounded, as if he had been physically struck, while Francis sat back in his armchair and nodded to himself, apparently satisfied with the entire thing.

Meanwhile, Amelia gazed down at the handkerchief Lionel had tied around her finger, remembering his proviso the previous evening: As long as you remember that this will only be a marriage of convenience. He must have had his reasons for accepting her middle-of-the-night proposal, and none were based on affection or the promise of it.

She could not afford to fool herself into thinking this would be anything other than it was—two strangers helping one another out. A bargain of mutual benefit. He got a wife of convenience; she got an escape from being the Baroness of Hervey. Him quoting Perrault meant nothing, and though she relished reading, she could not read into his actions too deeply. Why, he had likely only wrapped up her finger so he could spurn Martin.

Indeed, as the enormity of what had been agreed began to dawn on her, she could not help but feel like she had just trapped herself in a different, but no less restricting, situation. She was merely exchanging one gaoler for another.

And I know nothing about him… She clasped her hands in her lap, fighting against the tremors that quaked through her veins. Oh heavens, what have I done?