He was denying her the company of her friends, and he felt like a cad for doing so. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be what you need in this situation. But you’ve married a businessman, not a duke.”
“Wildeforde is not the issue here.”
“Is he not? If you had married him, you could have had as many house parties as you liked. He might be a deceitful arse, but he rubs elbows with the best of them.” Benedict tried to keep the bitterness from his voice but couldn’t keep his contempt from showing.
“What happened between the two of you?” Amelia asked. “Sometimes I get the impression that you were friends, but at times like this, you seem to despise him.”
Benedict rubbed at the spot between his eyes. “We were close. Hell, at school we were inseparable. There’s a certain safety in numbers when you’re outcasts.”
She wrinkled her nose and cocked her head to the side as she absorbed the information. “It’s hard to think of Edward as an outcast,” she finally said. “He’s so well-admired.”
“When we met—it wasn’t long after his father had died—the other students at Eton had stripped him naked and shoved him into a trunk. So no, he was not exactly admired. He was bearing the brunt of his father’s scandal. John and I heard him yelling and went to help. I was big, even then, so there was no fight. The curs only ever came for me when I was alone. From that day forward, our continued proximity to each other was the only thing that kept the three of us from being thrashed daily.”
Amelia brushed her fingers across his cheek. “That doesn’t sound like a bond one grows out of.”
He caught her hand. He didn’t want her sympathy. His school years had been hard, but they’d taught him better lessons than Latin and algebra. They’d taught him that the upper classes looked on everyone else as no better than dogs, and smart men kept as far away from them as possible.
“Wilde is no better than the rest of them. He’ll use people—a woman even—and discard them without thought. He caused a lot of hurt for someone I care for, and I don’t know if I can forgive him.”
She dropped his hand and stood back. “Someone. A woman. While he was engaged to me, I’m presuming, since we were betrothed since childhood. Goodness, for a man who prides himself on propriety, he manages to make shocking choices.” She brushed her skirts with force enough to dent steel.
“You care,” he said flatly. Of course she did. She’d said she’d never loved Wildeforde, but he’d been everything she had ever wanted. Benedict had been a fool to think she could ever have valued him more than a duke.
“Well, it’s not quite flattering to know your fiancé was off cavorting with other women.”
“And that hurts.”
She noticed something crushed in his expression or tone because she sighed and took his face in both hands, forcing him to look at her. “It hurts my pride, you dummy. That’s all. And if you were to choose a darned color, it might not even hurt that.”
“Easy now,” Amelia said as the men lifted the giant anvil used to shape the steam chest. The weight of the thing was immense, and everyone gasped as one of the blacksmiths’ knees buckled under the pressure. Oliver, who was bearing the bulk of the load, exhaled sharply, his eyes widening from the unexpected strain. Two others rushed forward to shore up support in that corner.
Amelia’s heart thudded as she waited for each man to confirm that they were right to keep moving. After a moment, they all nodded at her. “Everyone to my left in three, two, one,” she said.
Slowly, inch by inch, the men began to move the anvil toward the trolly, which would be used to reposition it to the other side of the room. As they set it down with a satisfying thud, Amelia wiped her slightly sweating hands on the pair of breeches Fiona had given to her. That had been a touch more trying than she had anticipated. If the anvil had fallen on any of the men as they moved it, the injury would have been severe.
She was so preoccupied with the progress of the transfer that she didn’t notice Benedict’s approach until he was right beside her. “What are we doing?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, eager to show off her idea, “Oliver and I are rearranging the workstations. It’ll be about a three-day delay in production while we do so, but the time saved ongoing will be roughly twenty hours per month. It takes far too long for items to be transferred from one bench to another when the benches are on opposing sides of the factory. By ordering the workstations in a line from one production step to another, we should be able to increase production speeds.” She offered him the planned layout Oliver had signed off on.
“Huh.” Benedict studied her sketch, nodding as he did. “I’m impressed. This is why you’ve been standing on the mezzanine watching?”
Initially, she’d been standing there just to take it all in; this environment that was so different from anything she’d seen before. But as she’d stood there, she’d noticed patterns in the way the men moved—tangled patterns like embroidery threads that had been carelessly tossed in a bag—and she’d needed to neaten them.
“This is remarkable,” he continued. “But I’d actually come to ask if you’d seen the invoice for the latest coal shipment. I need to get that paid as soon as possible.”
“It’s in the new filing cabinet on the right of the door. Second drawer down under the letter C.”
“Thank you.” Ben hooked a finger into her waistband. “I don’t suppose you want to come upstairs and help me find it?”
“Of course not,” she hissed and batted his hand away. They were working, and there were people around. Honestly, her husband could be so inappropriate at times.
“I know, but these breeches…”
A flush of embarrassment crawled up her face. “They are a necessary requirement when working on the factory floor. My skirts literally caught fire yesterday when I walked too close to the forge.” Normally, she’d be horrified to have a bucket of dirty water thrown at her, but had been grateful for the blacksmith’s quick thinking. Her dress was ruined beyond repair, but she hadn’t been injured.
Benedict frowned. “You didn’t tell me you were almost hurt.”
“It was my own fault for not paying attention. And the issue is resolved. Fiona lent these to me, and Bessie is sewing me a set of my own. And if you’re very good, I’ll model them for you when they come in. At home. When we’re alone.”
Benedict leaned close, his breath sending shivers through her. “I’ll be good.” The words ignited a warmth between her legs. She swallowed and was almost ready to suggest they head home now when one of the floor assemblers approached them, scratching his head.
“Excuse me, m’lady. Pardon the interruption but we’ve had a delivery arrive. It must be some kind of mistake. There’s a cart chock-full of bed linens, towels, and tablecloths.”
Oh, good heavens. “Thank you, Paul. They should be sent to the house. I’ll be up to deal with it in a minute.” Maybe, if she was lucky, Benedict’s lusty thoughts would prevent him from putting two and two together. She’d had every intention of telling him about her plans to continue with the house party. She just hadn’t yet. Things had been so nice between them, and she hadn’t wanted to ruin it with an argument, so she’d put it off.
She turned to him, as businesslike as possible. “As I said, on the right, second drawer down. I’ll see you at home.” She spun, and for a moment thought she’d gotten away with it, but at the last second, he grasped her elbow.
“Chock-full of linens?” he asked. “Why would we need more linens?”
“Well…” She couldn’t think fast enough, and with her moment’s hesitation, his face darkened.
“Shall we go to the office for a moment?” He gestured to the stairs.
She could protest. She could insist on seeing to the man with the linens. But this argument was going to come sooner or later, and Mrs. Greenhill was more than capable of managing a delivery.
As she climbed the stairs, she laid out her case in her head, the way she had every night for a
week now. Once they’d entered his office, she leapt into it before he could take control of the conversation and she ended up on defense rather than offense.
“I’ve already sent out the invitations. They were dispatched yesterday to a select group of influential members of the ton, comprised of friends I desperately want to see again and men whose interests likely align with those of the Americans. And the Americans themselves, obviously.”
“Without my permission?” He was as furious as she’d ever seen him. He glared at her, his arms crossed, practically looming like an angry cloud over her. And while it might have been sensible to talk to him soothingly, to placate him, she was also madder than she’d realized.
“You were being irrational on this issue.”
“Amelia, we discussed this.” He rubbed at his temples. Good. He deserved whatever headache was coming.
“We did not discuss this. You spoke, loudly and at length, and then refused to hear a word I had to say. And if you weren’t going to be reasonable, then why should I?” Hands on hips, she stepped closer to show him that, while he might intimidate others, she was unfazed.
He cursed under his breath. “Fine. Convince me. But if you can’t, then you’re going to have to write to every one of those people and rescind the invitations.”
Perfect. Time to explain her thinking was all she needed. “You said the Americans were concerned that there was bad blood between you and their English investors.”
“Yes, but—”
“And you said they were planning to visit soon—”
“Yes, however—”
“And is there a better way to show them how well you get along with the English than to have everyone together in a convivial house party?”
“That’s not enough.” He took a seat by the table and folded his hands in his lap. It was like a criminal trial, and he was positioning himself as the judge. Very well. She was more than capable of playing the part of barrister.
“You claim to have had your business reputation ruined, something that could negatively impact not just our family, but the future of all of those that work in your factory.”
Benedict grunted but said nothing.
Gathering steam, she swept her arms wide, as though addressing a room full of critics. “You cannot rescue your own reputation. It’s a task that can only be accomplished by people of influence, which includes those that I have invited. Together, we will show them that you are a gentleman and the allegations against you are false.”
“Hmmm.”
It was time for her most salient point. She moved closer to him, crouching until her gaze was level with his, her hands pressed against each other like a church steeple. “I’ve been reading up where I can on these Americans, and Mr. Grunt has brought his two daughters to England with him. If we make some exceptional introductions, potentially facilitate an engagement with a lord, the Americans will give you anything you want. And in turn, you can provide those that work for you with everything they need.”
It was the best argument she could make. This hunt would get him the contract he so desperately wanted. And she could tell that it landed because he rubbed the back of his neck.
“We can’t. The villagers wouldn’t like it. Anti-aristocratic sentiment runs deep.”
“They will like the extra work, and the money it brings.”
He sighed. “Can’t we just have a dinner? You can ask Wildeforde to come, the devil knows he owes us a favor, and won’t that be enough to show the Americans that we can all play nicely?” His face was so hopeful that she was tempted to acquiesce, but it wouldn’t be enough. Not for him and not for her, so she kept silent.
“Fine,” he said. “But the Karstarks are not welcome. Invite whoever else you please, but not them.”
It was a reasonable compromise. The benefits of pursuing a relationship with Lady Karstark probably weren’t worth actually having to spend time with her anyway. “It’s a deal.”
“But, Amelia. If this goes bad, it will be on you.”
Chapter 20
The morning started like every morning in the fortnight before it. They woke in his bed. They made love. They dressed. They breakfasted. He went to work, where she planned to join him for a few hours in the afternoon.
It was all decidedly civilized. Homey. Close to a perfection she’d never known she wanted.
Amelia sank farther into the cushions on the chaise longue. This sitting room had been the first room of the closed wing to be opened, aired out, and refurbished. She could see why Benedict’s mother had loved it. The windows were wide and looked out onto the gardens. They were expertly planted and maintained—with winter jasmine forming graceful, pale yellow arches. The sun streamed in from late morning until mid-afternoon. It was the perfect place to curl up with a novel.
Across the room, Cassandra had her feet on the lounge, her own nose also deep in a book. They had spent the past three hours in complete silence—a silence filled with fictional voices and sounds and images. Amelia could read for days. She’d missed a whole lifetime of novel reading so far, and now she planned to dedicate serious hours to catching up.
Greenhill entered. He’d yet to master the expressionless façade of a true butler, and the concern on his face had her sitting up quickly.
“Greenhill, what’s wrong?”
“Lady Karstark is here to see you, my lady.”
Amelia’s heart thudded. It was the first time she’d been paid a call since she left London. Clearly, she was making progress. Not progress Benedict would be happy with or that she was particularly looking forward to, but progress nonetheless.
She shoved the book under the cushion and straightened, neatening her hair as she did so.
“Cassandra, book away. Come sit by me.”
The young girl’s face screwed up in protest, but she carefully placed her bookmark and crossed the room.
Amelia yanked the hem of Cassandra’s dress. How reading caused so many wrinkles she had no idea.
Grabbing the embroidery that had gone untouched by the chaise for the past few weeks, she tossed a piece onto Cassandra’s lap. What she couldn’t fix she would hide.
“Show her in, Greenhill,” she said. “And please ask Mrs. Greenhill to bring some tea.”
“As you wish, my lady.” He wasn’t happy—obviously—but he knew well enough to leave it alone.
As he exited, Amelia allowed herself a small smile. She might have taken a step backward in her quest for social domination, but like Wellington, she could not be put down for long.
“Benedict doesn’t like Lady Karstark,” Cassandra whispered.
“Well, I doubt he’s spent much time in her company. Learn to judge for yourself, poppet.”
They were prevented from saying any more by the woman’s appearance in the doorway. Amelia stood, followed a half second later by Cassandra.
“Lady Karstark. What a pleasant surprise.”
The smile she got in return was cold. “I was in the neighborhood,” Agatha said.
“Lucky us.”
They’d been making strained conversation for thirty minutes by the time Benedict barged in. By the looks of him, their groom had ridden down to the firm, and Benedict had run back.
“Lady Karstark.” His voice was cold, clipped, his expression closed as he walked to the chaise longue and put a hand on Amelia’s shoulder. He didn’t sit. Either he didn’t plan on staying long or he was about to boot Agatha from his house—a distinct possibility given his recent decree that “that woman will never be welcome. Ever.”
The old woman’s face barely changed. Her lips remained pursed as if current company left a bad taste in her mouth, but her eyes took on a nasty gleam. “Benedict. You continue to grow. It’s quite unseemly.”
He didn’t respond, but Cassandra flinched. “That is very rude. You shouldn’t say mean things.”
Whether the shock on Agatha’s face was due to the censure or simply because a child was talking, Amelia couldn’t tell.
“What are you doing here?” he asked bluntly once Cassandra was out of earshot.
Amelia sighed and made a mental note to chastise whoever had decided to fetch the master of the house. “Lady Karstark is paying a social call,” she said.
Be nice, she wanted to yell.
“Your house looks adequate. I suppose that’s her doing.” Agatha squinted at the furnishings as though she had just walked in.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
Agatha took a sip of tea. “I wanted to express my sympathies. I was so sorry to hear that no one was coming to your hunt. I was quite looking forward to some proper society.”
As the meaning of Lady Karstark’s words sank in, Amelia clenched her stomach and calves and thighs and jaw—everything she could clench to avoid tightening her fists and giving that woman any satisfaction in her distress.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she managed to say evenly. “I’ve had an excellent response. I’m afraid I’ve invited far too many people and am trying to work out how to house them.”
It was a lie. Agatha knew it.
She gave a horrid, knowing smile over the rim of her teacup. “What a relief. How mortifying it would have been to host your first event as a married woman and to have no one attend. I shall have to inform my sister that her information is faulty.”
Agatha’s sister was Lady Merwick—the biggest gossip London had ever seen—and her information was always annoyingly accurate.
She’d received one reply—a polite decline from the Duke of Camden—but he had always been fastidious in his correspondence. Most of the ton took longer to respond to an invitation.
That was why she’d not received any other responses. Because her friends were fashionably late in all things. Surely. And if they were running a little bit later than fashionable?
How to Survive a Scandal Page 17