“How was your day?” she asked Amelia. He had resigned himself to the fact that, for now at least, Amelia held his sister’s attention more than he did.
“It was fine, poppet. These are for you.” Amelia placed the bag of a thousand and one ribbons in Cassandra’s arms and turned to Tom, who had his arms out ready to take her coat. “I’m going upstairs. This will need to be cleaned.” Each word was short and clipped and perfectly moderate. She handed over her pelisse. “As will my dress and my shoes. Please send Daisy up to help me change.”
And without looking at him, she left.
“What did you do?” Cassandra hissed.
“I didn’t do anything,” he hissed back. Which technically he hadn’t. Not today, anyway. He probably shouldn’t have told Alastair his marriage was a catastrophe, but that had been weeks ago.
Benedict looked to where Amelia’s skirts were swishing out of view. Today she had been warm and funny and—relatable. But there was nothing warm about her now.
He had made such strides in bringing her into his world today. All ruined by a petty Scotsman who couldn’t resist throwing a punch. God only knew when he’d be able to get her back into the pub.
“I’m going upstairs,” his sister said pointedly and made ready to follow Amelia like a lovestruck puppy.
He held her back with a hand on her shoulder. “Best you give her some space, poppet.”
“Why? She’s not angry with me. She loves me.”
The words caused a wave of fear and jealousy to run through him. Fear that Cassandra was going to get her heart broken when Amelia inevitably left, just as his mother had. Jealousy that his sister could make Amelia happier than he could.
Cassandra gave him a consoling pat on the arm. “She might love you too if you stop making her angry.”
Benedict’s heart flip-flopped in his chest. He wanted his wife to love him. He wanted the warmth and playfulness she shared with his sister to be shared with him.
At first, he’d never understood the ice princess’s appeal. Now he wondered how many London men had been on the receiving end of her warmth. He felt sick at the thought of her lavishing her wit on others—the foppish men from town who were more her type than a big lummox from the country.
He was going to have to woo her. To show her a life so unlike her past yet rich and gratifying. To convince her to leave her life in London behind. And maybe his sister was the first step in that.
“Fine, head upstairs. But if she doesn’t answer her door, you’ll need to find something else to do.”
Tom approached. “Letters, sir.” From a silver platter—one Benedict had never seen before—he handed over three envelopes.
The first was for Amelia, from a Lord Hemshire. He’d be best off letting Daisy deliver that one.
The second was a bill for the new curtains his wife had ordered—for the entire house, not just his mother’s wing. He made a mental note to ensure the old curtains were distributed among those in the village who needed some.
Benedict ripped the third envelope open. Competing feelings of relief and trepidation settled over him. The Americans were coming to visit. He would have a chance to plead his case, to convince them he could work well with the British. But to do that, he needed the help of his not-currently-speaking-to-him wife.
Damn it.
Chapter 14
And turn, turn, take his hand and curtsey.” The book slid off Cassandra’s head and onto the carpet. Amelia winced as it thumped. For the fortieth time.
Cassandra threw her head back, groaning at the ceiling. “I am never going to get this right.”
Amelia tsked. “Of course you are. You’ve made excellent strides since this morning. I’ve never had a student with such potential.”
“Really?” Cassandra’s eyes brightened.
Well no, not really. But the truth wasn’t going to be much use. “Absolutely. Now back to the beginning, please.”
Training had begun at the bright and early hour of ten in the breakfast room. A full tea set, which had been discovered in the attic, was now cleaned, polished, and laid out, ready for its first use in decades.
Horrifyingly, Cassandra had no idea what half the items were, let alone how to use them. Once they’d reached the point where she knew all the steps to a perfect cup of tea, even if she was somewhat sloppy on the execution, they’d moved on to dancing.
And that’s where they’d been for the past hour. Cassandra moved with the grace of a dozen children storming a sweet stall in Hyde Park. Not that she could be blamed for it. Poise took practice, and most females began when they were still in the nursery. Assuming there was an adult with some sense there to teach them.
Which just made Amelia more determined. The greater the challenge, the more she relished the success. A lesser tutor would have given up well before now.
“Having a dance partner will help. Not that you want to rely on him to keep you steady. Half the men at a ball are either too old or too soused to stand steady.”
“But who can I dance with? Ben is at work.”
And there was the conundrum. It wouldn’t be appropriate for Cassandra to dance with any of the manservants. Generally, one would have a sister, a cousin, or dancing master. At the very least a—
Perfect.
“Daisy can help. She’s practically a lady’s maid now. Not a spectacular one, but certainly adequate for this.” She pulled the rope by the doorway.
Within a few seconds, Daisy appeared. Gone was the drab brown dress and serviceable grey smock Amelia was so familiar with. Instead, Daisy wore a simple floral day dress that was only a few years out of fashion, and her hair was up, only slightly askew, in the new style they’d been practicing.
“Daisy, you look quite pretty,” Amelia said. “Green suits you.”
“Th-thank you, m’lady.” She flushed as she curtseyed.
“We’re practicing the cotillion, and Cassandra needs someone to partner with.” She pointed to a spot in the middle of the room. “Just over there, if you please.”
“I…uh…” Daisy looked over her shoulder toward the door.
“What is the difficulty?” Today was becoming increasingly frustrating, and Amelia couldn’t help the tap, tap, tap of her foot on the floor.
“I think it’s her afternoon off,” Cassandra whispered.
Daisy nodded.
Honestly.
“I’m not asking her to dust the cornicing, although it needs it. It’s dancing. Everyone loves dancing. You don’t mind, do you, Daisy? What could you possibly have planned that’s more diverting than a cotillion?”
Daisy swallowed, her eyes trained on the tips of her toes. “Nothing, m’lady.”
“See.” Amelia turned to Cassandra. “She wants to help. And it’s not every day a maid gets dancing lessons from an expert.”
Cassandra rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“What do you mean? That was just a fact. I can’t help what the facts are.” The words came out quick and terse, off her tongue before she’d even thought them. Cassandra’s accusation stung, whiplike, and only years of training allowed her to keep her poise.
She was perfectly nice, thank you very much. And it was frustrating when her comments were willfully misinterpreted.
“Perhaps we should start the dancing, m’lady.” Daisy stood next to Cassandra. “What would you have me do?”
The altercation soured all of their moods, a feeling that was not improved a quarter hour later when Benedict bellowed from the foyer. “Cassandra!”
“In heeee—errr.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. An entire day spent discussing how to conduct oneself in a ladylike manner and still this.
Benedict walked into the drawing room and sketched a quick bow, one hand kept behind his back. Amelia nodded in his direction, her movements feeling stiff and awkward. He’d apologized for yesterday’s argument, but their interactions were still strained.
“You found us,” Amelia said. “What a r
elief. Why, if it hadn’t been for all the yelling, you might have been wandering for days. Quelle horreur.”
“Lady Amelia, I come in peace.” He produced a single Christmas rose, a faint blush of pink touching each of the perfect white petals. The apprehensive look on his face turned quickly into a smile as she accepted it.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
The scoundrel winked and turned to his sister. “Cassandra, you have a book on your head.”
Giving him an I’m-not-an-idiot stare, Cassandra curtseyed, slowly and with precision, her back ramrod straight. As she rose, she wobbled, and the book slid off.
“Darn.” She caught it before it hit the floor.
“That was close,” Amelia said. “You were very nearly up.”
“Daisy is helping us get ready for London,” Cassandra said.
Benedict cocked his head. “Isn’t it your afternoon off? I’m sure I saw Marcus shuffling his feet by the back door.”
“It is, m’lord.”
“Then off you go. Don’t keep the lad waiting.”
Daisy looked to Amelia, a question written across her face.
Amelia waved her hand. “Very well. Benedict can fill in for you.”
The speed at which Daisy disappeared lodged a kernel of unease in Amelia. She stomped on it. “She wanted to help.” Did she need to protest so loudly? Probably not. But the words were out.
Benedict shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure she realized there was another option,” he said gently. “You can be…inconsiderate.”
The kernel of unease grew.
“Churlish?” Cassandra interjected.
And it sprouted thorns.
“Charmingly self-focused?”
And now it had drawn blood. Amelia stood and tugged the cuff of her sleeve until the muslin was crease-free. “Well, after that rousing assessment of my character, I bid you good day.”
Benedict intercepted her, his hand reaching out and coming to rest against her waist. “I’m sorry. Don’t let me run you off. I interrupted your fun with my unvarnished judgment. Tell me what you were doing.”
Well, fine. If he wasn’t going to let her politely escape, then he could help her with the training, whether he liked it or not.
“We were dancing.”
“Oh.” He took a step back.
“And you’ve arrived at the perfect time to help.”
Hands raised, slight panic on his face, he said, “I don’t know if I can be of help.”
“Your mother taught you how to dance a cotillion, surely?”
He shook his head, another step back bringing him almost to the door he seemed intent on escaping through. “That was a long time ago.”
She took his hand and dragged him into the center of the room, trying hard not to notice that the touch of his bare skin on hers caused her heart to beat a little harder. “I’m sure it will come back to you.”
“My mother likened me to a bull stuffed into tails trying to walk on two legs,” he blurted out.
Her first instinct was to reply with a quip, but he had folded in on himself—his shoulders caving, his head bowed.
Her husband was a strong, successful, annoyingly self-assured man. What cruelty had his mother inflicted that was now turning him into a frightened child?
“I don’t believe that can be the truth. But show me. Cassandra, clap a beat please.”
He inhaled sharply as Amelia slipped her hand into his, the best sign she had that he felt the same energy between them.
She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Step and step. Turn one. Turn two.” As she curtseyed, she looked up at him, fluttering her lashes. “Why Mr. Asterly, I do believe you’re better at this than you think.”
She turned toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder. They moved around the room with just the barest falter. After a handful of turns, his shoulders relaxed, and his face lost the grimace that had been plastered onto it.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “It’s not too awful, is it?”
She stepped closer than propriety truly allowed and whispered, “I like the way you move.”
His arm tightened around her.
“That was an awful thing for your mother to say. She should have kept those thoughts in her head.”
“Not ‘she should never have considered such a thing’?” His tone was back to the confident drawl she was used to. It was comforting.
“Well, you can’t criticize what people say in their heads. Goodness, if I was held accountable for my every thought, I’d have no one willing to talk to me.”
He shook his head. “You are a singular woman of many contradictions.”
“Inconsiderate, too, apparently,” she said, still smarting at his earlier words.
“And yet sometimes the sweetest woman I know,” he murmured. “Wanting you makes no sense. But God help me, I do.”
His words made her feel giddy. And safe enough to ask the question that had been niggling at her these past ten minutes. “Did Daisy truly have a caller waiting to take her out?”
“Is that such a surprise?”
“I just…It never occurred to me.”
“That she might have a life outside of waiting on you?”
“No.” Darn it. “Well, yes. I suppose.” It’s not that she actively thought Daisy had no life outside service. She just hadn’t thought about it at all. Had given it no consideration.
Making her inconsiderate and self-absorbed.
Just like he’d said.
Disappointment hung heavy—a giant cloak of failure. And she hated failing.
Benedict tipped her face toward his. His look was kinder than she deserved. “Princess, you’ve spent your entire life seeking the esteem of others…but they aren’t here. So maybe it’s time to put that energy into the people who are here.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start. I have nothing in common with anyone here.”
Benedict chuckled and tugged at her earlobe. “Start with these. Listen, and you might find you have more in common than you think.”
“I just…” She took a deep breath and looked toward the door that Daisy had exited through so quickly. “I just worry that I’m too late. What must she think of me?”
That night, as Daisy pulled the pins from Amelia’s hair, Amelia stared at her lady’s maid in the glass. Amelia did not, as a rule, apologize. So she had no idea where to start.
But their conversation so far this evening had been stilted. And on purpose or not, Amelia had clearly hurt Daisy’s feelings.
“Daisy,” she started. “I am…” And she faltered.
“Yes, m’lady?”
“I am…wondering how your afternoon with Marcus went.”
Daisy’s hands stilled. No doubt she shared Amelia’s surprise at the content of this discussion.
“It was brief, m’lady.” She put down the last of the pins and picked up the brush. “He only gets Thursday morning off, and I only get the afternoon. We make do with an hour together at lunch.”
“Oh. I see.” How could she not? The determined yank of the brush through her knotted hair made it plain.
Regardless, this would be the appropriate time to apologize. She had, after all, robbed the couple of a quarter of their time together.
“Daisy, I’m quite s…” The word just stuck there. Fast. “What I mean to say is, I’m very s…”
Ack.
“M’lady?”
“S…certain. I’m very certain that I want you to swap your afternoon off for the morning. If that’s what you want. It’s not an order. I just thought you might like to. And perhaps take another morning off, once I’m dressed and if one of the new housemaids can pick up the slack.”
Daisy caught her eye in the mirror, and in a look, Amelia tried to convey what her mouth just would not communicate.
“Thank you, m’lady.”
Chapter 15
Up you get, princess.” Benedict wrenched the curtains—new curtains—open. While he hated the fac
t that the old ones had been replaced, he had to admit her room looked cheerier with the bold yellow velvet.
Yellow was not the color of a London lady wasting away in the country. It was the color of a woman making sunshine out of daisies, or whatever the ridiculous saying was.
Which was good. Amelia was going to need that attitude today.
“You are the worst sort of cad.” Amelia pulled the blankets up over her head.
“I brought breakfast…” He dragged a chair to her bedside and took the cover off the plates he’d placed on her bedside table when he’d snuck in.
Breakfast was hot and delicious.
She flipped over a corner of the quilt—not enough for her to emerge, but enough that she could smell the food. “Is aaac acon?” The thick bedcovers muffled her words.
“I can’t hear you,” he said. He picked up a rasher and began to munch on it. “But your bacon tastes delicious.”
She flung the quilt all the way back and sat up, the sheets pulled over her chest. “You wouldn’t.” Her scowl turned into a perplexed smile when she saw the two plates on the tray.
“What? Can a man not eat breakfast with his wife?” He sat back, his ankle crossed over his knee as he balanced a plate on his thigh.
“This is very familiar of you.” She looked longingly at the food but clearly did not want to release the sheets in order to eat, despite the fact that her nightgown reached right to her chin and down to her wrists, with ridiculous little ruffles on the neckline and sleeves.
“You are trussed up like a lamb for sale. I see more of you when we breakfast at the table.” He waved the fork in front of her, her nose following in its wake.
“Fine.” She dropped the sheets and reached for the plate. The nunlike outfit, so prim and proper a minute ago, shifted as she moved, pulling against her breasts, her nipples outlined.
It showed nothing but suggested everything. He shifted the plate from his thigh to his lap.
“Is this a special occasion?” she asked, oblivious to his distress.
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