“I’m learning,” she said. “And you’re distracting.” The scent of him played with her focus, interrupting the mental paths of workers’ movements she’d been drawing in her mind, smudging the lines and rerouting the grooves.
“Maybe you need a break. Fiona and John aren’t here. We have the office to ourselves.” He pulled a lock of hair out of her chignon, sending a shiver right through her and causing her knees to go weak. His arms tightened around her in response, keeping her upright.
“We are supposed to be working,” she hissed, but she couldn’t keep her eyes on the factory floor beneath her. Instead she closed them, focusing her senses on the hot press of his chest against her back.
“Since when are you so dedicated to work?” he asked, leaving a trail of kisses from her nape to the collar of her dress. “It’s such a common endeavor.”
“Since I discovered that I’m rather good at it.”
And she was.
And it meant something.
Her entire life she’d been told that her only worth was the title she would marry, so she’d become excellent at everything a duchess should excel in—embroidery, watercolor, piano, polite conversation. All pointless activities which she didn’t particularly enjoy that served no purpose other than to generate praise and prestige.
But this past fortnight, she had made a real, useful difference.
According to Oliver, productivity was up by half a percent—not much in the grand scheme of things but a solid indicator of what was possible if she really applied herself. And while some of the workers were less than impressed at her “interfering” with their schedules, John and Fiona had been very clear. Her skills were wanted and appreciated.
And Benedict? He treated her like a partner rather than an accessory. After dinner they’d retire to his library, pour two glasses of brandy, and discuss the day.
A discussion usually followed by passionate lovemaking.
Benedict traced patterns across her ribs with his fingers. Each touch left traces of pure joy. She was happy. Against all expectations, she was happy.
“For an aristocrat, you have a good head for business,” Benedict said. “The place has never run more smoothly.”
His wife gave a satisfied little hmph—a sound he doubted she even noticed making. The same smug hmph that had infuriated him so many times. Her I’m-right-and-I-know-it hmph that had made his teeth grind only weeks earlier now ignited a little ball of pride inside him. That small sound felt like a whole different thing when they were working on the same team.
“Who needs society when you fit in here so perfectly?” he said as he pulled her closer. He rested his chin on the top of her head, fingers brushing against her hips, and looked out at the bustle of activity beneath him. This was his life’s work, and he’d never enjoyed it as much as he did now, with her beside him.
“He-hem.” Oliver cleared his throat. Somehow neither Benedict nor Amelia had heard him come up the stairs.
Amelia sidestepped out of Benedict’s arms. As much as the ice princess had warmed up in private, she was a stickler for propriety when others were around.
“I’m going to inspect the builders at the house,” she said. “They’re clearing out the old orangery, and I want to see the progress.” She gave an embarrassed little nod to Oliver and left.
“She runs a tight ship, that one. Wouldn’t have thought her so at home in a place like this.”
Neither had Benedict. That Amelia had not only accepted his line of business but worked to be part of it had shocked him. Where his mother would have been horrified, Amelia was determined. Where his mother would have cried and then pretended it didn’t exist, Amelia had balked, considered, embraced.
Everything his mother had taught him to be ashamed of felt normal—desirable even—around his wife.
She’d never shied away from his bulk or turned her face away in disgust when he’d lifted something heavy. She didn’t want him to be delicate or dainty. She would run her fingers through the hair on his chest like she was reveling in his size.
He wasn’t the fine and graceful gentleman his mother had wanted, or that Amelia was used to, but that was fine. She liked him just the way he was.
And that unexpected acceptance had begun to heal wounds he hadn’t cared to admit he had.
The fact that she was happy, here, with him and without the trappings of London society was more than he could ever have asked for.
And once the contract was signed, the firm in full production, life would be complete.
Chapter 18
As Amelia was handed down from the carriage by one of the new footmen, she couldn’t help but wish there was a little more gilding on the door frames, that the wood had been a little more polished, that the wheels were a little less mud-covered.
There was little chance that Lady Karstark was at this moment looking out from one of the many windows that faced the drive, but it was possible. And what Amelia wanted, more than anything, was to ensure one foot was firmly planted in the world of the ton.
She’d enjoyed her work at the firm, more than she expected to. And she had every intention of continuing with it. But Benedict’s comment yesterday about leaving behind society had been the reminder she needed that she had two lives—there were two different parts to her—and the key to happiness was not leaving one behind but finding a way to be true to both.
A relationship with Lady Karstark, regardless of how Benedict felt about it, was essential to keeping the former part of her alive. It was the proof Amelia needed of her place in society.
She smoothed the folds in her dress, tugged on the fur edge of her kidskin gloves, and squared her shoulders.
There was no reason for the squirming in her midsection. Her father’s country homes had been as large as Karstark Place by half again. She was born to be mistress of a home like the one in front of her. She certainly was good enough to be a guest.
Swallowing, she glided forward. The door was open before she’d reached the landing. The butler bowed but didn’t move aside.
“Lady Amelia Asterly. Here to pay a call to Lady Karstark.” She handed across her card.
The butler’s face didn’t change, but the wait was overlong as he stared at it.
She was already drawn tight—the implied censure from a servant brought her close to the breaking point. “I am recently married. I haven’t yet had the opportunity for new cards,” she said sharply.
She was a fool of a woman. She didn’t need to explain herself to a butler.
“Is Lady Karstark at home?”
Surely the woman had to be “at home.” Where else was she supposed to be out here? God knew there was no other society nearby.
“I shall enquire.” He motioned for Amelia to enter and guided her to a small sitting room off the parlor.
Her dratted nerves began to work at her again. There was no reason why Lady Karstark shouldn’t see her. In fact, the woman would no doubt be thrilled to see her given the lack of good society in the area. She was doing the woman a favor by calling.
To distract herself, she began to make mental note of her surroundings. The styling was a little outdated, but that was the norm in households run by the older generation. Yet it was impeccable. The curtains were not faded; the carpet showed no wear. The brass doorknob was polished to perfection; the glass window was clean despite the recent rain and mud.
Several of the rooms in the newly opened wings of her home showed signs of previous vermin infestation. Rugs and skirting boards had been eaten away at, and the air was pungent. There would be no chance of that happening here. This was how a country home was supposed to look. It was how her home would look now that she was in charge.
“Ahem.”
Amelia stood as she turned toward the door. Lady Karstark was exactly as she had pictured. Pin-thin in heavy violet silks and brocade, a tall powdered wig atop her head. Most of society had moved past the heavy, itchy wigs, but some bastions of the old ways clung fast to the
fashions of their youth. Judging by the heavy wrinkles and paper-thin skin, the woman looked a hundred.
“Lady Karstark.” Amelia sank into a deep, perfect curtsey, the kind she reserved for the king and queen.
The older woman inclined her head and moved to the armchair opposite the settee, her cane thudding with each step. It was a long journey. Truly, Amelia aged a year in the time Lady Karstark took to sit.
It was only once the older woman was seated that Amelia followed suit.
“This is quite peculiar,” Lady Karstark said. “To pay a call on a complete stranger. We have yet to be introduced.”
Amelia flushed a little at the censure in the comment. No one understood propriety like Amelia did, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And this was such a minor breach of protocol.
“Forgive my impudence. But I’ve only recently moved to the area, and I wanted to pay my respects. I believe you knew my grandmother, Lady Crofton. She spoke very fondly of you when she was alive.”
It was a wild guess, but the two women were of an age, and grandmamma had known everyone. Everyone who had spent time in London, that is.
Lady Karstark’s expression was skeptical. “I’m surprised. Both that Augustina had anything fond to say about anyone and that you would remember after all these years. She passed away almost fifteen years ago, did she not?”
Clearly the woman was going to make things as difficult as she could.
“You married the Asterly boy.”
Boy was hardly the word Amelia would use to describe him, but perhaps Lady Karstark hadn’t seen him recently.
“I did. We were married several weeks ago.”
“I thought you were marrying Wildeforde.” The woman squinted as she studied Amelia, who refused to flinch under the gaze. She’d been at the center of London’s social scene for years and was well used to being judged.
“Lord Wildeforde and I made a mutual decision to dissolve our engagement.”
“My husband said he dropped you like a hot brick after finding you in flagrante with his friend.”
Every muscle within her tightened at the insult, but outwardly she kept the same pleasant smile on her face. “That isn’t an accurate representation of the events, so either your husband needs his vision checked or he’s being somewhat elastic with the truth in order to manufacture some gossip.”
The woman recoiled at Amelia’s rebuke, but really what did she expect? Amelia was haute ton. The woman was a ghost. One tends to lose one’s standing when one decides to molder away in the country.
Which was why she needed to talk to Benedict about a London house. The Season was fast approaching, and after further thinking, she’d realized that they really should attend.
“So you plan to sell it as what? A love match? Some princess and the pauper fairytale story?”
“Hardly a pauper. My husband’s richer than half of society.”
Lady Karstark thumped her cane. “But an overgrown ass with no manners from what I can recall.”
The words stung mostly because she’d uttered something so similar not long ago, when she hadn’t known any better.
“Manners can be learned,” she said. It took every ounce of effort to respond calmly and not to put the crusty old woman in her place, but Amelia had her eyes on the end goal. Establish appropriate connections in the area. Maintain her status as a popular lady of the ton. “It is not my intention to argue, Lady Karstark. I came to pay my respects with the hope of establishing a friendship.”
Lady Karstark sniffed. “Life in the country must be somewhat duller than you’re used to.”
Amelia thought back to the past weeks spent sparring with her husband and lending her talents to the firm. Nothing about it was dull. “It is not quite how I used to spend my time.”
“His mother found the same thing.”
“Benedict’s mother?” Amelia’s ears perked up instantly. He’d refused to give Amelia any more information than he had that morning, and she hadn’t pressed him because it was clearly too painful to talk about. But that hadn’t stopped her curiosity. “All I know is that she wasn’t happy.”
“Fool of a girl eloped with a footman. Marcus Asterly. She thought she could have it all—an inappropriate love match and her old life in society. That notion soon wore off though, once she realized people weren’t visiting, letters weren’t arriving, and her friends were never ‘at home’ when she went to London.”
“That was poorly done of them.” Amelia’s voice didn’t falter, but in her head, she was tallying up the number of letters she’d written, the days since she’d written them, and the lack of replies.
Lady Karstark smirked, as if she could sense Amelia’s rising concern.
“I’m not worried,” Amelia said, as much to convince herself as anyone else. “I’m a very influential person.”
“No doubt.”
“I’m not his mother.” The words came out more forcefully than she intended. “I didn’t marry a footman; I married the grandson of a marquess. I’m perfectly capable of maintaining one life in London and another out here.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps history will repeat itself. I hear Paris is lovely this time of year.”
You devil woman. Agatha Karstark was every bit as cruel as her husband. No wonder the local villagers couldn’t stand them. They were evil incarnate. “I am not abandoning anyone.”
Lady Karstark sniggered. “We’ll see how you feel about it when you’ve been stuck in the country for a few years. When the papers have forgotten you and you miss London so much even its rotten smell of refuse would be welcome.”
Amelia tried to tell herself that this was different. Benedict wasn’t a footman. He was a descendant of the Marquess of Harrington. Yes, he was in trade, but he was wealthy. Wealthier, probably, than the blasted woman in front of her. And if anyone had the clout to make this situation work, it was her.
But all the reasoning in the world couldn’t quell her sudden unease.
Chapter 19
Host a hunt? Are you mad?” Amelia had lost her bloody mind. The thought of a horde of toffs descending on their home sent shivers crawling up Benedict’s spine.
Questioning her sanity had the very effect he should have anticipated. She straightened and tilted her chin defiantly. “Yes, I panicked. Yes, I concocted a cock-and-bull story to save face in front of that cursed woman. And yes, telling her that she’s wrong and we have plenty of influential people coming to visit was probably an error of judgment. But we can’t go back from it now.”
What the devil had happened? Yesterday they’d been all warm and cozy inside their little bubble of home and work. Now she wanted London to come slaughter animals. “I suppose that explains this?” He indicated the mountain of fabric samples that had taken over their drawing room and the neatly stacked pile of fashion plates she’d forced him to look through.
“Your new wardrobe was already in the works. Our house party has simply increased the urgency for it.”
“And what exactly does one wear to send a pack of frothing dogs after a fox? Yellow?” He took a piece of buttery fabric from her hand. “Is this a happy enough color for such festivities?”
“Benedict.”
He heard the warning in her voice as she snatched at the swatch in his hand but didn’t heed it. He was so damned frustrated. He crushed the fabric; it wasn’t remotely satisfying. “Only pompous, useless, entitled aristocrats think foxhunting is a worthwhile way to spend an afternoon.”
She took in a deep breath. He could practically see the ticking down of numbers in her brain. “Careful. These are my friends you’re talking about. Show some respect.”
Respect? Respect? For noblemen who chose barbarous entertainment to fill their empty days?
He didn’t even need to say the words out loud. She threw the remaining fabric in his direction. It fluttered to the floor before it could hit his chest. “Respect for me, you bonehead.”
A headache was forming behind his right
eye. He rubbed his temples in an attempt to keep it from settling in. His wife was an incredibly intelligent woman. She had to understand that a relationship between him and her old chums was not on the cards. “I’ve spent my life working against the absolute rule of these wastrels. I have no interest in entertaining a group of them.”
“I have no delusions of your being entertaining. I swear, Benedict. You are every bit as narrow-minded as you accuse others of being. If you would just take a moment to hear me out, you’ll see that what I’m suggesting is actually a very good idea.”
“A hunt in order to prove to the Karstarks that London still cares for you? Amelia, it’s understandable that you would want to carry on with life as you’d planned it, but it’s not possible.” And it hurt that she would still want to. The past few weeks had been glorious. All his fears and trepidations surrounding their marriage had seemed unfounded. Until now.
And since his distaste for the idea didn’t seem to matter, he turned to logic. “The house isn’t prepared to host a large gathering, for starters.”
Her obstinate look turned pleading. She put her hands on his chest, her fingers curling into his shirt, and looked up at him. “I could make us prepared. It’s what I do. I organize dinners and balls and house parties. I was born for this.”
It was painful to hear the timbre of hope because at some point the desire to make her happy had become a major priority. But it wasn’t his only priority, and he couldn’t give this to her.
“You can’t get me prepared. I’ve no intention of wearing yellows or greens when my current wardrobe suffices. I won’t learn to engage in inane conversation with men I don’t respect. It may seem a great idea to you, but it won’t go the way you think it will. Oil and water don’t mix. Put me in a room with those people and something bad will happen. I know it. This hunt is not happening.”
“You’re not even going to listen to me, are you? You won’t hear me out?” She stepped back, crossing her arms. At first glance, she was angry. Then he noted the way she wrapped her arms around her chest, as though she were hugging herself. How often in her childhood had she had no one else to console her?
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