Amelia snorted. “Only if you wish to be a real friend.”
“I’ll have to think about this one.” Constance drummed her fingers against the bench. “You know, I have always thought of you as someone who didn’t care much for the opinions of others—including my own.”
Amelia lifted her chin. “I don’t.”
“So what has you all feathered up, then? And none of that lips are sealed nonsense.”
Amelia rubbed her forehead. “As my nephew says—I am in a devil of a pickle.”
“Sounds terrible.” Constance shuddered. “A man is involved, I’m sure. Perhaps not Markham, but if you give me a moment, I bet I can—”
“Do you remember the gentleman I introduced you to at Lady Darlington’s soiree?” She hadn’t the patience for one of Constance’s guessing games.
“Your secretary, you mean?”
Amelia’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, him.”
“Him? Well, obviously, you are in love with him.”
Amelia’s gaze shot back to Constance. “How did you know?”
“Friends. Remember?” She rolled her eyes. “If you hadn’t any attachment to him you would have teased me about him for weeks. I’ve just been waiting for you to realize your sorry state.”
“Happy to be so obvious.”
Constance shrugged. “I hadn’t considered the possibility you’d act on your feelings. Does he care for you in the way you care for him?”
“Yes.” A searing pain clenched her stomach. “He told me he wants to marry me. What should I do? ”
“What should you do?” Constance clapped in front of Amelia’s face. “Why you should marry him, of course.” She clapped again. “Wake up.”
Amelia pushed Constance away. “You, of all people, know how impossible—”
Constance tsk ed. “Why should I know such a thing?”
“You said I should relish my freedom or some such nonsense.”
“Did I? Well, then. I must have been confusing you with me.”
“I’m Matthew Bellamy’s employer.”
“Yes,” she sighed. “There is that.”
“Although he intends to leave Sartin Trading Company once Mr. Pritchett is settled.”
“Ah! There you have it.” Constance smiled. “Problem solved.”
“Hardly. That only takes care of one reason why he is not suitable for me. It doesn’t solve any of the reasons I am not suitable for him. You saw his mother making the rounds at Lady Darlington’s soiree. She was dangling him beneath the nose of every young lady in possession of connections and a sizable dowry. She would be horrified if he soiled his lofty chances on me.”
“Soiled?”
“Yes, soiled. She’s Lady Dorothy. Do you’d think she’d celebrate her son’s marriage to me when I’m ten years his senior, his employer, and in trade?”
“Perhaps not.” She harrumphed. “How very rude of Lady Dorothy.”
Amelia arched a brow. “You distain marriages between pedigree and trade.”
Constance tilted her head. “I might have said a derogatory thing or two in the past. How appalling of me…not-to-mention terribly pompous. Especially when I do so appreciate the fruits of trade.” She adjusted her fur. “Consider me chastened.”
“Chastened?” Amelia chuckled. “You?”
“Is it so unbelievable that I could see and correct my faults?” Constance lifted a brow. “I love you. I’m willing to change. And that, as they say, is the end of that.”
“I’m astonished.”
“Are you?” Constance looked genuinely pleased. “I live to astonish.”
She slanted Constance a glance. “I know.”
“Now back to your pickle. Wait—the pickle had a name…what was it?”
“Bellamy. Mr. Matthew Bellamy.”
“Mrs. Bellamy.” Constance nodded to herself. “I could get used to that.”
So could Amelia.
“Do you really think I should agree to become his wife?”
“Would I have said so if I did not?” Constance shrugged. “I’m willing to change. The question is—are you?”
Amelia lifted the curtain and cast her gaze out the window. Two by two, couples strolled along the Serpentine. Talking, laughing, sharing the fine autumn afternoon.
The seen was lovely, and yet every single one of the couples were as vulnerable as Amelia felt. And, every single one of them had chosen joy.
If all these strangers—and Matthew—could find the courage to follow their hearts, then so could she.
When Amelia departed, Matthew had told her he’d wait. In fact, however, once she’d gone, he’d been unable to sit still.
And since neither careening through London in desperate search for Amelia, nor sitting in his chamber in a self-indulgent sulk would do anything to hasten her final decision, he did the only rational thing he could think of—he acted as if the future he’d chosen for himself was already a certainty. He acted as if she’d said yes.
His first stop? Lady Dorothy.
He paced the length of the drawing room of Wentworth house.
Again.
When his uncle had been earl, his mother had a suite of rooms, including a sitting room adequate to entertain guests. However, since the new earl had taken the helm, his mother had been relegated to a higher floor, and thus had to receive without the benefit of privacy.
He stared out the window into the rear garden, where the new countess was holding court, surrounded by her fashionable friends—the kind of young people who would laugh at aging widows, as if the elderly no longer mattered, as if they themselves, would never age.
One day—he lifted his brows—they’d be in for an unhappy shock.
“Why, Mr. Bellamy,” his mother entered the room, “what a surprise!”
“Mother.” He kissed her delicate, pale cheek.
“Shall I ring for tea, then?” she asked.
“No need.” They both took seats. “I daresay I won’t be long.”
“What could you possibly have to say in such a hurry?”
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “this part should cheer you…I have found a wife.”
“Found a wife?” His mother tilted her head. “My dear boy, a wife is not something one finds like a lost handkerchief. Proper candidates must be vetted, their pedigrees carefully considered.”
“Like livestock, you mean?”
Another narrowed glance. “May I ask the name of this wife you have found?”
He braced. “Amelia Sartin.”
The clock chimed as his mother sat in perfect, frozen stillness. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Bellamy. Do not be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?”
“The sole purpose of marriage is the perpetuation of family.”
“The sole purpose?” His poor father.
“She’s past childbearing age, if you haven’t noticed. Nor can she assist your future any more than she’s already done.”
At least his mother was finally admitting the Sartins had helped him in some capacity. “I don’t know for certain Mrs. Sartin is past childbearing age, actually.” He exhaled harshly. “But, even if she is, my choice would not change. I have no title to confer. I do not need to marry a pedigreed youth to ensure a decent future or secure my happiness.”
“People will talk. And despite what you believe, gossip is not merely malicious, it can very well be ruinous.”
“You care about how the ton perceives me. I do not.”
She stiffened. “And just what is it you care about…if anything at all?”
“Of course, I care. I care about living a life of purpose. A life of integrity. I care about Amelia…and, yes, I even care about you.” Though, if overheard, his tone wouldn’t have convinced anyone he cared. Intentionally, he softened his voice. “In case you have not noticed, your rules belong to a world that is not my world.”
Her already erect spine stretched into perfect alignment. “There is only one world.”
He lifted a porc
elain milk maid from the table. “A quaint representation—and one that likely cost more than a year’s salary for most of the members of father’s congregation…not to mention the lady depicted.”
“Do you think I am unaware of the disparity of wealth? Do you think I am a doddering old fool?”
“Of course not.” He sighed. “I just cannot comprehend why you insist I must marry a woman with a proper pedigree. You didn’t.”
She stood and, with a speed at odds with her age, turned away. “I am under no obligation to listen to a lecture from my own son.”
“A lecture was not my intent.” Good lord. Had she started to cry? “Mother—”
She waved him away.
The door opened and the new Lady Wentworth swept into the room. Her impassive gaze raked Matthew from head to toe before moving to Matthew’s mother.
“Oh,” she pouted, “my husband’s aunt has a caller. Well,” she waved her hand in Matthew’s direction, “depart.”
Matthew stalked over to Lady Wentworth.
“Or,” Lady Wentworth’s voice faltered, “find another room.”
“Lady Dorothy and her caller are not finished,” Matthew said. “I suggest you and your friends gather elsewhere.”
“This is my home.”
“Is it?” He looped his arm beneath Lady Wentworth’s, pulled her into the room, and then shut the door firmly in the faces of her friends.
“Why!” Lady Wentworth exclaimed, “I don’t know who you think—”
“Listen. I was happy enough to lend Peter funds while he was waiting for probate to finish. However, if I were to discover that either of you have been treating Lady Dorothy like anything less than family, I’ll be equally happy to call those funds due. Immediately.”
“You’re Mr. Matthew Bellamy?”
He narrowed his eyes. “We’ve been introduced on several occasions.”
She wrinkled her nose. “This time, you don’t look like you’re in trade.”
His mother came to stand beside him. “If you’ll excuse us, Lady Wentworth. My son and I were discussing a private matter.”
Her gaze passed between them. She yanked back her arm and lifted her chin. “Of course.” She swept across the room. “But don’t be long.”
Behind her, the door slammed closed.
“Heaven preserve us from that soured little profiterole,” Matthew breathed.
Beside him, his mother’s shoulders shook.
“Don’t cry again, Mother. I apologize—to you, of course, not to her. I let my temper get the better—”
She looked up and his words stalled.
She had been weeping—but not this time. His mother—his exceedingly proper mother—was laughing. Her eyes sparkled with shocked amusement.
“I don’t understand,” he stammered.
“No,” she sniffed. “I don’t suppose you do. Suffice it to say I have been very worried about you. I’m not worried any longer.”
He shook his head to clear the fog. “Worried?”
She waved her hands. “I thought you—well, there’s no polite way to put this—I thought you had relegated yourself to a low position because I’d failed you. I thought you were hiding in the shadow of that woman and her company. But, just now, I saw…”
“What did you see?”
“It won’t make any sense to you—but I saw the best of my father. He, too, was quiet. But he took no nonsense.” She reached out and touched his cheek. “I don’t know why I didn’t see him in you before.”
She was right. She didn’t make any sense.
“Now, you may tell me more about your Mrs. Sartin. I cannot promise to love the idea of you marrying a widow in trade, but I will listen.” She glanced to the closed door, chuckling to herself. “And do be sure to take your time.”
Chapter Eleven
“MATTHEW?” AMELIA’S VOICE RANG OUT—a line cast into vast, empty depths. She bumped up against Matthew’s desk as she felt her way through the darkness. “Matthew?” She bumbled on, stubbing her toe against the bookcase and then losing her shoe. “Matthew!”
She spoke angrily, this time, and yet she received no answer.
Devilish dark in the office. She felt around for her slipper with her stockinged foot. Hopeless. The dashed slipper was gone. She limped over to the attic doorway and peered beyond the door. Nothing but shadows.
He wasn’t there. Dread bubbled up in her chest. He wasn’t there. She climbed half-way up the stairs and then sunk down onto the steps. He wasn’t there!
She curled over her knees and dropped her head into her hands.
Curse Constance for offering her a stupid, stubborn kernel of hope. Amelia shuddered to think of the coldness she’d shown Matthew just before she’d departed. Her courage had failed. Of course, he had come to his senses and left.
But where could he have gone? His cousin’s perhaps? She couldn’t just show up on Lord Wentworth’s doorstep, tearstained and sobbing, though could she?
She grasped the rail and pulled herself to standing.
What should she do?
Go home?
She pictured her cavernous house, gleaming and expensive…lonely and cold.
To her office?
She wouldn’t be able to concentrate if she tried.
She only wished she could be transported back to this morning. Back to Matthew’s warm embrace and terribly uncomfortable bed. Back into the certainty of his care.
She’d make a different decision this time. She’d choose courage. She’d choose love. The decision she should have made from the start.
One by one, she climbed the steps until she stood in the center of his chamber. Less dark—because of the skylight—but still not clear.
She stumbled over to the bed, losing her other shoe. With a cathartic exhale, she slid between the sheets, happily surrounded by Matthew’s scent.
All could not be lost.
She fluffed the pillow beneath her head and rolled onto her side. The faint outline of the lending library’s copy of Charles Perrault’s fairy tales sat on the bedside table. She reached out and touched the spine as if merely touching the book could release story magic.
She needed magic.
She needed a fairy godmother.
She grasped the blanket and curled the fabric beneath her chin.
If, by some miracle, Matthew were to return, she would apologize. And, she would tell him the truth. He was everything to her. So essential, she hadn’t been able to acknowledge how much she’d come to depend on him—to love him—until her love had grown so big, she feared she would be crushed.
If he were to give her a second chance, she would not allow a day to pass without blessing her good fortune and telling him everything he meant to her.
Because being Mrs. Matthew Bellamy wouldn’t just be good fortune.
It would be the best fortune—better than a duped prince, a pumpkin carriage, and definitely better than a rat-turned-coachmen.
Miracles sometimes happened.
And everyone could use a fairy godmother from time to time.
Hope carried Matthew back to Sartin Trading Company. Well, hope and a well-sprung hackney carriage. If his mother had such a drastic change of heart, then, surely, anything was possible. However, when he arrived and raised his gaze to the windows, he found no light.
Scowling, he climbed the stairs to Amelia’s office.
Silly to have hoped she would be waiting. Just what had he believed Amelia would do? Come to some reflection-inspired revelation the love between them had been quietly growing for years, built on a more solid foundation than any youthful courtship could be?
A foundation of mutual trust and mutual respect.
Amelia’s office was dark. He swung his lamp from left to right. No coat dangled from the wall hook. And, her desktop remained bare.
If she had spent even a moment in her office, her desktop would have been a mess of papers.
He opened the door between their offices and strode through
. Setting down his lamp, he shrugged off his jacket and gloves. How grateful he would be if he could as easily shed his stubborn, clinging anticipation.
But the truth was, she’d rejected him.
Convincing her to change her mind would be neither simple, nor easy. Although he fully intended to try, now was not the time to dash off in desperation.
If bended knee would help, he’d kneel, but he’d create no mortifying moonlit scene in front of her townhouse tonight. Besides, the flower merchants were closed.
Time to admit temporary defeat, climb his stairs and go to bed.
He moved to pick up his lamp and tripped over something on the floor. With a frown, he lowered himself to his haunches.
A shoe.
An impossibly small shoe.
Fragile, too.
He ran his fingers over the silk dotted with tiny, sparkling paste jewels. Jewels clear as glass.
She’d been simply dressed when she’d left this morning. And he certainly hadn’t seen any shoes lying around last week. He lept up and, taking lamp and shoe together, ascended the stairs. Wavy, orange arms of light illuminated the greatest solace he could imagine—a mass of small, blonde curls covering his pillow.
So, no desperate chase.
No bended knee.
No filling her hall with flowers.
Just the two of them, here, together. Precisely as he preferred.
He approached the side of the mattress and set his lamp down on the table, and then the shoe on the floor next to the bed. She stirred.
“May I join you?” he asked.
Her blue eyes opened wide. She searched his expression, revealing nothing. Then, she adjusted her position, scooching to the side so there would be room for him to sit.
He braced himself on the footboard and sat down, stretching his legs opposite hers. “This is…cozy.”
He took her dainty foot into his hands. “Do you object?”
“No.” She reclined against the pillows. “You came back.”
“So did you. Was my return in doubt?”
She nodded, still wide-eyed and serious, as if he might disappear.
“Poor sweet.” He rubbed her sole with his thumb. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”
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