Amelia’s dance card was no longer the pleasure it had once been. Oh, it filled as quickly as it had before, and the same men still jockeyed for pride of place, but the dancing itself was no longer enjoyable.
She strained against Lord Lionell’s inappropriate hold, trying to maintain the acceptable distance between them. But there was nothing she could do about the slow lowering of his hand below her waist.
“How is Lady Lionell? Is she still volunteering for the children’s hospital?”
“Wouldn’t have a clue,” he responded. “She has her business. I have mine.” His leer suggested that his business did not involve charitable work.
“She’s so admirable, your wife. I must call on her now that I’m back in London.”
He grinned. “Call on Thursday. She has some book group or needlework thing and will be out for hours.”
Amelia shuddered. He was the third man to proposition her in as many hours. “Have you met my husband?”
“I don’t think so.” His voice was as dismissive as the slight shrug he gave.
“Oh, you’d remember if you had. He’s six feet six inches with fists the size of Christmas hams. And you know those common-born types. Such hotheads. I once saw him destroy a door because it didn’t open quickly enough. Split the thing in two. I’m forever having to replace furniture. I will pass on your regards.”
The blood drained from Lord Lionell’s face, and he released her as though she were burning a hole through his gloves. “There’s no need…That is to say, I hope you didn’t misinterpret…I…”
“Thank you for the dance.” She swept into a deep curtsey to hide her smile. If she was to be subjected to constant solicitations, then she might as well enjoy making them panic.
Her friends were gathered halfway between the entrance and the refreshment table, framed by exotic plants and a chandelier—the perfect position to see everything and be seen by everyone. Men rotated in and out of orbit around them, hoping for a dance. A cluster of debutantes lingered a few feet farther out, desperate for some attention.
Amelia had a place there, right at the center. But she hung by the refreshment table, delaying her return. There was only so much petty gossip one could handle in an evening.
On the other side of the room—looking very comfortable on furniture by the wall with no flattering lighting—sat a group of women the old Amelia had dismissed out of hand. Women who had been too bookish, too unconventional, too frightfully uncaring of society’s expectations.
I’d wager their conversation is interesting.
But the question remained, how could she approach these women who didn’t give two figs for her?
Fiona would know. Fiona would just stroll on over and say something exceptionally interesting and thought-provoking, and these women would welcome her with eager arms.
What Amelia wouldn’t give to have her friend with her now. What she wouldn’t give to have anyone from home.
She and Cassandra had exchanged letters almost daily, but there had been nothing from Benedict. Not since she’d walked out.
Which was good. He was respecting her decision.
But also bad. Because she wasn’t sure she’d made the right one. He hadn’t been entirely wrong in his accusations.
She swallowed. A crowded ballroom was no place for emotion. She had hurt the one person who truly saw her, and losing him was something she was just going to have to live with—her penance for being too caught up in what other people thought.
One of the tepid swains who circled the room cleared his throat, trying to get access to the punch she was blocking. With a last look at the probably-interesting group of women, she made her way back to her “friends.”
“Lord Lionell seemed to be enjoying the dance,” Luella tittered as Amelia approached. “I’ve heard he’s very generous to his mistresses.”
Hmmm.
Benedict’s temper had clearly rubbed off on her because she had to stop herself from slapping the girl. But she just smiled sweetly. “Manage to find a husband, Lulu, and an affair with Lord Lionell is yours for the taking.”
Luella’s eyes narrowed. “Not all of us will have husbands content to leave us so completely to our own devices. I’m quite jealous, Amelia, that your husband is so hands-off.”
It was the perfect jab. A reminder of what she’d lost in a saccharine wrapping that didn’t go unnoticed by those around her. Barely suppressed smiles had her shaking in anger and embarrassment. If she opened her mouth, it would be a firestorm of fury that poured out. So she kept her mouth shut and raised an eyebrow in the most condescending stare she could imagine.
The cluster of debutantes around them watched to see who would break first in this silent-staring struggle for dominance.
Luella was the first to capitulate, diverting her gaze, her ears flushing red. “There’s Miss Penelope. I heard Madame Genevieve refused to dress her—thank goodness. There’d be no fabric left for the rest of us.”
“What has she done, do you think?” one of the new crop of debutantes said. “Made a ballgown from the drapes?”
Amelia looked over at the girl hugging the wall. She was pretty enough, if a little fuller than the current prevailing taste. But hideously dressed. She sported too many freckles to be truly ladylike, and the half-smile she gave to anyone who walked past was too earnest to be fashionable.
Last Season, Amelia would have thought nothing of making some offhand derogatory comment. A flush of hot shame snaked up her neck. Last Season, she hadn’t been a particularly kind person.
Was that why Benedict had pushed her away? Because he saw too much of that person still in her?
She would do better. For him, she would be better.
“Miss Penelope Ainslie, yes?” Amelia asked. “No mother, no sister, no aunts if I recall correctly.”
“And no sense of style. Her first time in London, and she leaves the house in that.”
No wonder the poor girl struggled in the sartorial stakes. She’d been raised by men in the country. A lump formed in Amelia’s throat. How incredibly lost Penelope must be feeling. It was a sentiment Amelia had never understood until her life had been upended by a broken carriage wheel. Ironically it was the same feeling that dogged her now, even though she was “home.”
Lost and in the sights of a horrid young lady who needed to be taken down a peg or two. “I do believe your sense of style was somewhat lacking when you first debuted, Lulu. In fact, I seem to remember a highly amusing incident with an abundance of feathers.”
Luella’s cheeks flushed.
“Didn’t it take two weeks of lessons and three trips to High Street before you stepped out in anything presentable? How grateful you must be that I rescued you from irrelevance.”
There was a collective gasp from the girls around them, followed by utter silence as they waited for Luella’s response.
But while she might have capitulated earlier, there was no surrender this time. “We may all have looked up to you once, Amelia. But that was before you debased yourself. There’s another queen bee now.”
Heads swiveled in Amelia’s direction, eager for a response to the attempted social coup.
It was all rather sad, actually. None of these girls had any real sense of what really mattered in life. Benedict had shown her. He’d seen a kinder person in her and had taught her how to be that. He’d encouraged her to pursue work with the firm that had real meaning.
What other man would offer his wife a partnership in his business? Benedict’s support had allowed her to make herself a better person.
What on earth am I doing back here?
Returning to London had been a mistake. Even if he wanted nothing more to do with her, she could still have found a more productive, worthwhile life to live. She’d been naïve to think she could slip back into her old ways and be fulfilled.
Amelia took Luella’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. They had, after all, been friends at one point. “You’re welcome to the hive, Lulu. I hope it brings you joy.”
Luella’s eyes widened before narrowing suspiciously. “Just like that?”
She was tempted to try to explain it—the superficial nature of what they were focused on, how utterly irrelevant it was—but knew deep down that it took more than words to convince someone. So she smiled, a genuine smile for the first time that night. “I’m off to fly in a different field.”
She curtseyed to the group—a thank-you for their respect back when that was what had mattered to her—and then walked away. The disappearing weight from her shoulders was utterly delightful.
It was time to leave London. Leave this.
She had enough funds to buy a small cottage, somewhere only a few hours’ ride from Abingdale. Cassandra would be able to visit when she was older, and Fiona could come and stay when she needed time away.
Maybe, over time, Benedict would see that she was no longer the selfish, myopic girl he had married. Maybe, over time, they could repair the damage they’d done and start again.
The tenor of the room changed. A chorus of whispers drowned out the orchestra. People were staring at her. News of her showdown with Luella had travelled fast. Nevertheless, she held her head high. She didn’t care. She was making the only decision that was right for her. The only choice that gave her some hope of a life with Benedict.
She turned toward the stairs and froze.
It was not her argument with Luella that made her the center of attention.
He had come.
Moreover, he had not come alone.
It was worse than Benedict had expected. All of London currently had its gaze pinned on him—the enormous violent brute dressed up like a bloody parrot. Standing there naked couldn’t have attracted as much attention.
“The Most Honorable, the Marquess of Harrington and Mr. Benedict Asterly.”
He swallowed and tried not to pull at the goldwork embroidery of his cravat as he waited for his grandfather to descend the short set of stairs into the ballroom. But the marquess was reveling in the attention and showed no sign of joining the crowd.
Face after face. The room was a kaleidoscope of irritation, amusement, and conjecture. The upper crust wondering what his appearance with the marquess meant. They’d mock him if they knew. It meant that he would do anything to be with his wife—even if that meant making peace with his grandfather.
Harrington put his hand on Benedict’s back, an intimate gesture that doubled as a bold announcement. Asterly is family.
Was it a warning for Benedict to toe the line? Or was the marquess protecting him? Benedict didn’t know. Their time spent together had been cold and stiff, full of broken conversation. Every word had been laden with decades of loathing and mistrust. Eventually, they’d reached an understanding—Benedict would listen to Harrington’s advice in matters related to the running of an earldom—but beyond that the waters were murky, their relationship still undefined.
It wasn’t easy to stand next to the man who’d destroyed his mother, but it had to be done. Partly because he had a responsibility to those he would one day serve but mostly because of Amelia. Because it would show her that he could listen, could change and that he valued her opinion. Amelia was why he’d finally opened those bloody letters in his desk drawer.
He scanned the room. When he finally saw her, he took the first full breath he’d managed in months. He drank in the sight of her, her head held high with her usual confidence, her grace and elegance that was at once gentle and steel-strong, her beauty derived less from her physical perfection and more from her intelligence and wit.
He took another full breath, the tension he’d been carrying dissipating into a calm serenity. He was whole. With her in the room, he was complete.
Amelia’s hand pressed against her lips and her eyes shone. To hell with his grandfather and the peacocking. He couldn’t wait another moment, another second, to have her in his arms. But as he stepped forward, she stepped backward.
Again, he moved toward her and she backed away. Her surprise quickly turned to an expression of horror. With an agonized look, she turned and fled through the crowd, pushing her way through the horde to the balcony doors, where she disappeared into the night.
“Amelia!” As he raced through the ballroom, the crowd parted before him, but by the time he reached the exit, he could see nothing but empty paths into the garden, strung with lanterns. There were two trails she could have taken, one that skirted the edge of the elaborately landscaped maze and another that plunged deep into the heart of it. He knew instinctively which she would have chosen.
“Amelia!” At every turn, he expected her to be just around the corner. At every turn the hollowness inside him spread. She had every right to be angry—he’d said cruel and hurtful things. But he had hoped that reconciling with his grandfather and stepping foot where he’d sworn he’d never tread would have earned him enough time to plead his case.
He ducked through an archway, moving toward a patch of light. Surely, she’d head for one of the lantern-lit groves. The bushes were tall enough that he couldn’t see a clear way to her. He was blind and desperate. “Amelia, please,” he called.
Finally, he rounded a corner, and she was there, sitting on a bench beneath a lamp, head in her hands. “Amelia.”
She looked up. Tear tracks shone under the light, and his heart broke all over again. He’d made a mistake, coming here. He should have left her in peace rather than hurt her again. But the damage was done. All he could do now was ask for forgiveness.
He knelt before her, cupping her hands in his. “I’m sorry. I was a damned fool. Even worse than that, I was deliberately shortsighted. I didn’t want to face my own failings or admit that I’d made mistakes, so I blamed you. It was spiteful and wrong and I’m so, so sorry. You were and always will be the best thing to ever happen to me.”
She looked down at him, her eyes dropping to the carrot-colored cravat that had taken a full hour to knot properly, the contrasting blue and green quilted waistcoat and the bejeweled slippers on his feet. Horrendous, all of it, but he wasn’t a man of words and so this was his love letter to her.
She shook her head, pulling her hands from his. “This is not what I want,” she whispered.
No moment in his entire life had hurt like this one, not even the day his mother had left. A sharp ache formed in the back of his throat. He clenched his fists, digging his fingers into the barely healed blisters on his palms, channeling his grief into that pain.
But he wasn’t going to stop trying to win her back. “I need you. We need you. I was wrong to say we didn’t. Nothing works without you. Not the firm, not the house, not me. Every moment is just a fraction of what it would be if you were home. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. Whoever you need me to be, I’ll be it.”
His plea didn’t have the effect he’d anticipated. She stood and walked to the other side of the small clearing, putting as much space between them as she could, hands wiping at her face as she did so.
He stood, straining against the need to go to her.
“I don’t want you here, like this,” she said, gesturing to his outfit. “I don’t want you turning into something you’re not just to make me happy. Can’t you see how much damage I’ve already done?” She hugged her arms around her body as though she was trying to hold herself together.
The regret he’d felt over the past few weeks was tepid and shallow compared to what engulfed him as he realized she’d truly taken his hateful, shameful words to heart.
He covered the ground between them and gathered her into his arms, hoping that the feel of them holding each other once more brought the same sense of relief to her that it did to him. “No, sweetheart,” he murmured. “None of it was your fault. None of it. It was a series of situations that did not go our way.” His arms tightened around her and he kissed the top of her curls, breathing in the familiar scent of her.
“Everyone must hate me.” Her words were muffled as she pressed herself into his chest and sobbed.
He hugged her close, trying to shore up all the pieces of her. “No one hates you,” he whispered. “They all want you back. I need you back. Princess, come home.”
She dragged in a few breaths, and her shaking slowed. She tipped her head back and looked up at him. Her eyes still brimmed with tears, but they held a flicker of hope. “Truly? You wouldn’t prefer just to take your old life back? The one where you didn’t have a wife upending everything?” Her breath hitched on the last note, a hiccup that snagged around his heart.
“Truly. My life needed upending. It was dull and lifeless and far too comfortable before you came along.” He pulled a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and wiped it across her cheek, the tears soaking it.
She swallowed hard and took it from him, blotting her tears and wiping her nose. “You need to promise that you’ll throw this hideous outfit away.”
Relief spread through him, a wash of light across the shadows. They were going to be all right. He stepped back, twirling with every bit of peacockness he could muster. “This? I thought you’d love it.”
She smiled. That she was breathtaking was an understatement. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, even with her eyes watery and her hair all mussed. He didn’t know what force had brought her into his life, but he was going to make damned sure he never risked losing her again.
She smoothed out the creases she had pressed into his jacket, her hand pausing over the gold thread. “I love parts of it. In isolation. Perhaps with a diamond stick pin.”
This was his Amelia. And God he was glad to have her back.
Despite the teasing, she was serious when she took his hand and pressed it against her heart. “I don’t want you to dress differently; I know you hate color. And you don’t need to make amends with the marquess. I can live without London.”
He tipped her chin and placed a light kiss on her lips. “No, you can’t. You love London. You love its energy. You love coming to horrendous parties like this. I don’t want you to give that up.”
“I haven’t loved it lately. My friends are awful.”
He chuckled. “In a city this large, I’m sure you can find some non-awful friends. And I’m sure I can find some men with whom I share some common ground.”
She tightened her arms around him, sighing into his chest. “It’s a deal.”
The moment was wonderful but incomplete. He had come to London determined to bare his soul, and there was still one thing left to reveal. The words caught in his throat. Giving voice to what his heart felt could make the night perfect or turn it sour. Right now, as it stood, they were happy. He didn’t want to jeopardize that. But he also needed her to know.
“I love you, princess.” The words came out with more assurance than he felt. His heart quickened in the silence that followed.
The interminably long silence.
Maybe she hadn’t heard him. Or maybe she had heard him and couldn’t think of a response. Maybe he should say it again, louder. Or not and pretend the words had never been said. Blood rushed through him, creating a pounding in his head that matched any noise his steam engines could make.
Just as he was about to apologize, to take it all back and urge her to forget it all, she looked up at him, reached on her toes, and kissed him. “I love you too,” she whispered. “Now take me home, please.”