All day, Amelia was consumed by wallpaper samples, training her staff on the proper way to set a table, and helping Cassandra master the art of small talk.
The task was tremendous. Every inch of the house needed to be scrubbed and polished. The workmen who came through to fix cracks in the plaster, unstick old windows, and repaint the interiors tracked in mud and dirt that left the floors in the sorriest state Amelia could imagine. Thank goodness new carpets had been ordered.
Getting the house to rights in time to host a contingent of British ton required more manual labor than the small village of Abingdale was able to provide.
So with a grimace, Amelia rolled up her sleeves—Daisy’s sleeves, to be exact—and got to work with an old cloth, polishing brush, and jar of beeswax.
Polishing was deathly dull. It ranked somewhat below embroidery—which at least had the joy of creating something pretty—and somewhat above spending an hour in the company of the Fairbrights, a family with more money than sense whose small talk was very small indeed.
First, she hummed, hoping to distract herself with a pretty tune. Then she turned to counting backward. By the time she reached zero, she should be done. Four hundred and sixty. Quartre cent cinquante-neuf. Fünfhundert achtundfünfzig. Four hundred and fifty-eight. Each number was accompanied by the sweep of her arm.
By four hundred, her arms hurt so much her strokes had sunk to half their original size. By three hundred, her knees hurt so badly they were bound to be bruised. By two hundred, the muscles in her hands had seized around the brush so tightly she might never be able to pry it from her fingers. She would be forced to go to bed with it. By one hundred, her entire back was in spasms.
Five, four, three, two, one.
She sat back. The floor looked spectacular. At least the twenty percent she’d managed to polish looked spectacular.
Grinding her teeth, she wiped sweat from her brow. She was sticky and grotesque and desperate for a bath. Writing to her “friends” and telling them to visit in a year was more and more appealing. To hell with the contract.
“Well, there’s a sight I’ll never forget.” Benedict’s voice was tinged with laughter.
For an engineer, he wasn’t very smart. Anyone could see she was two brush strokes from murder.
She turned to him. “If that’s the case, then the threshold for your amusement is pitiably low.” She stood, leaning to the left, then right, forward and backward, trying to stretch out the kinks that had developed.
“The famous Lady Amelia Crofton on her knees with a scrubbing brush. I daresay that’s a tidbit that would amuse the entire ton.”
“I swear, Benedict. If you tell anyone about what you just saw, I will teach Cassandra the most annoying and banal piece of music I can find and insist she perform it for you. Nightly.”
He grabbed the hand she had pointed at him and tugged her close. Her body melted at the feeling of him against her. In the week since their argument, they’d tried to move forward. But despite their efforts, interactions between them had felt formal, their conversation stilted, their kisses perfunctory, and their nights spent in separate bedrooms.
Apparently, all she’d needed to breach the wall between them was to be caught looking completely disheveled.
“Your utterly shameful secret is safe with me. No one will know how delightfully determined you really are.” He ran a trail of kisses along her neck.
“Stop. I look horrid. I’m filthy.” The dress was ill-fitting and now covered in grey marks. She had streaks of dust up her arms and, she suspected, everywhere else.
“Then perhaps you need a bath. And someone to help you with it.” He ran his hand down her back and cupped her bottom, sending a line of heat coursing through her body.
“Now?” she asked.
“I’ve missed you,” he murmured into the crevice of her throat.
She reached up greedily and drew his head to hers, desperate for a kiss.
He obliged, his tongue teasing against hers. She could feel his cock jutting against his breeches. She wriggled against it.
“We should stop.” He dragged himself away from her.
“Why?” She didn’t want to stop. She wanted him to take her upstairs and make love to her.
“It’s ungentlemanly to consort with the help.”
“You wretch.” She batted him on the shoulder.
He laughed. “Well if the bounds of propriety aren’t going to get in our way…” Scooping her into his arms, he carried her up to her bedroom, taking the steps two at a time.
Chapter 26
Coach is in the drive!” Cassandra said. She was as excited as Benedict had ever heard her.
She’d been glued to the sitting room window for the past hour waiting for the first of their guests to arrive. While she’d been buzzing with excitement, he’d been sitting in an armchair pretending to read through Fiona’s latest report. In truth, he’d get to the end of a page without having taken in a single detail—his mind kept returning to the approaching hordes. And unlike his sister, he took no joy in their imminent arrival.
Amelia set down her needlework and stood, brushing away the slight wrinkles in her dress, smiling. She appeared genuinely happy, as though she was actually looking forward to having these people in their home.
He had to remind himself that these people were her friends, even if their behavior wasn’t something he’d tolerate in a friendship.
He was nervous—both that their presence would make her yearn for her old life and also that the event wasn’t going to go the way she hoped.
The last thing he wanted was to see her crushed.
“Remember what I said?” she asked Cassandra.
“Curtsey to everyone including the Americans. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Keep my hands clasped in front of me.”
Amelia smiled. “Good. Then let’s go.” They held hands as they left the sitting room, Amelia shooting a demanding look over her shoulder when she realized Benedict wasn’t following. He sighed and folded the paper before trailing after her.
The nervous energy in the house erupted into movement as they entered the hall. Tom handed Benedict a coat, and Daisy helped Amelia with her pelisse. Through the front windows, Benedict could see the rest of the staff marching out into a neat line by the entrance stairs. To their credit, with the exception of a few nervous shared glances, they looked completely unaffected by the arrival of the London crowd—the house’s first visitors since most of them were hired.
“Benedict?” Amelia’s concerned voice interrupted his drifting thoughts. She held out her hand, and he tucked it into the crook of his arm. Theoretically to support her, but they both knew the truth.
With a short nod at Tom to tell him to open the door, they walked out into the pale spring sunshine.
Next to him, Amelia stood calm, still, like a safe harbor. On the other side, Cassandra bounced on her toes, the jig, jig, jig making the curls in her hair dance. Daisy had spent all morning getting his sister’s hair “just right”—more time than she’d spent even on Amelia’s.
He could understand the milestone, Cassandra’s first introduction to society, but it was one he’d hoped to avoid.
Thankfully, Amelia had said Cassandra was too young to join them for dinner and activities. While his sister had been crestfallen, she’d accepted it without an argument. Had it been his refusal to allow her to participate, it would have been a very different conversation.
“I hope they like me,” his sister whispered, looking up at him. She was so vulnerable that all he wanted was to pick her up and carry her away, shutting the doors and keeping out all that might hurt her.
What kind of brother was he, risking her heart like this?
Instead, against all his better instincts, he nudged her gently under the chin. “How could anyone not like you, poppet?”
The giant grin she gave him sank his heart. He should be warning her. Helping her build a wall around her heart so she wouldn’t feel the pain that had de
fined his childhood when these people did reject her.
But it was too late now. Excitement rippled off her in waves.
It was a long drive, and the horses were going slowly. The longer they took, the tighter his clothing felt. His cravat was like a noose around his neck, and the waistcoat and jacket—tightly fitted with unnecessary embroidery and ridiculous jeweled buttons—began to squeeze the life from him. He tried to take a deep, calming breath and failed.
“Quit fidgeting,” Amelia murmured. “I wish you’d let me buy you something with color.”
He looked down at his outfit of charcoal and grey and wished he was wearing anything that let him breathe. Waiting there at the foot of the stairs, flanked by childhood friends dressed like stuffed turkeys, he felt like the worst kind of imposter.
“This is a bloody nuisance.”
She gave him a you-must-be-kidding look. “This ‘bloody nuisance’ is giving those ladder-climbing Americans the opportunity to rub shoulders with the cream of London society. You need this.”
And he damn well knew it.
He grunted and fixed his eye on the coach that was nearing. “Who is this?” There was an elaborate coat of arms on the coach door, but he’d not had the time—or inclination—to bother learning insignias.
“Lord and Lady Bradenstock and their son Nathaniel. You might actually like him—Lord Bradenstock. You’ll despise the boy.”
“What am I going to like about him?” It was hard to imagine these people having any useful qualities he’d admire.
“Lord Bradenstock’s quite progressive. He recently purchased a cast-iron plow.”
That was something. The cast-iron plow was an exceptional leap forward in engineering, not that many estate owners had adopted it. There were too many fears that it would poison the earth. They were stuck in traditional ways of doing things, as if accepting the smallest change would start a cascade of dominoes that would overthrow life as they knew it.
“How do you know he has the plow?”
She smiled at him. “I make it my business to know everything, have you not noticed? Information is power, at least…” She trailed off, turning her focus back to their impending guests.
“At least what?”
She kept her gaze dead ahead, not looking at him. “In London. Information is power in London. It’s hard to come by and fairly useless in Abingdale.”
It was just a little criticism. But it was enough to remind him that Abingdale was not her first choice. She seemed happy and enthusiastic, but if another opportunity arose, would she stay?
The coach pulled to a stop. The outriders, whose ridiculous costumes came with bloody two-foot wigs, opened the door.
Lady Bradenstock was a nondescript woman in what he was sure was a very fine dress. Not as fine as Amelia’s, whose blue dress skimmed her curves, but nice enough. The man next to her was equally uninspiring, but the youth that trailed them looked like an overly prissy peacock in a cacophony of colors.
Amelia gave him a quick nudge in the ribs, and Benedict realized this was his part. He bent over the woman’s hand. “A pleasure, Lady Bradenstock.”
The woman took a long, unashamed look at him, from the tips of his perfectly polished hessians to his hair, which was pulled back in a way that Amelia insisted was de rigueur.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” she said. “From footman’s son to the future Lord Hemshire. That’s quite a rise.”
Only a member of the bloody aristocracy would congratulate someone on a man’s death. He was just about to say as much when Amelia surreptitiously stepped on his foot.
Damnation.
He would play nice, or at least play politely. “The inheritance was a surprise. I’m sorry I didn’t know my cousin before he passed. A dreadful waste of life so young.”
Lady Bradenstock’s eyes narrowed, fully aware of his censure.
Amelia interrupted. “May I introduce my sister, Miss Cassandra Asterly.”
Cassandra sank into a deep curtsey, eyes downcast. There was not a single falter where a month ago she would have looked like a wobbly spinning top.
“It’s an honor to meet you, my lady.” Her voice was steady, lower than normal, and lacking her girlish enthusiasm. It made him anxious. And the approving look from the over-powdered, overdressed woman in front of him nudged the anxiety into full-blown panic.
He clenched his hands to stop himself from dragging Cassandra behind his back, out of this woman’s reach.
“You are delightful,” Lady Bradenstock said to her. “I do hope to see you again before we leave.”
His sister didn’t grin or bounce or react in any way that he expected. She simply inclined her head graciously, looking like a tiny replica of Amelia.
Before Benedict could inform Lady Bradenstock that she was unlikely to be seeing his sister again, Lord Bradenstock grabbed his hand and pumped it forcefully.
“I hear you’re an engineer,” the older man said. “Fascinating. Just fascinating. I might have done the same if it were an acceptable profession when I was young.” He seemed utterly oblivious to the insult he’d just given.
Benedict ground his teeth. “It’s funny that scientists gave us bridges and roads and coaches and housing, yet are unacceptable.”
Unlike his wife, Lord Bradenstock did not pick up on the undercurrent of criticism. He just smiled and said, “Perhaps an engineering earl might change all that, eh?”
The sniff that came from behind him was long and dismissive. “I doubt that. You don’t see a dancing monkey and think it belongs in a ballroom.”
It took every ounce of self-control for Benedict not to put his fist into Nathaniel Bradenstock’s pale and limpid face.
And when the popinjay bent over Amelia’s hand with a sugary flourish, Benedict was consumed by a sudden, acrid dislike.
Not because of his insults, or the way his lips lingered on Amelia’s fingers—although that was not an act Benedict wished to watch again—but because Nathaniel was fine-boned, delicate, with perfect curls and long lashes, pallid skin and long, delicate fingers. He wore color. Lots of colors. And fabrics that Benedict loved to tear off his wife but would never feel comfortable wearing.
Nathaniel was everything Benedict’s mother had wished for in a son.
Throughout his childhood, Benedict had cursed his tall frame and shaggy hair that fell flat and limp to his shoulders when he tried to grow it into fashionably long curls. His skin had tanned at the very hint of sun, and though he spent months refusing to exercise at all, he was still lumbering.
He had tried hard to be Nathaniel and had never managed it.
To hell with him.
“Welcome to my home,” he ground out, crushing the popinjay’s fingers.
Nathaniel’s look morphed from condescension to apprehension. The boy wasn’t as idiotic as he seemed.
Amelia frowned and took the pretty boy’s arm. “You must want to freshen up from the journey. Let me show you to your room.” She threw a pointed look at Benedict over her shoulder as she left.
Damn, it was going to be a difficult week.
It was as though Amelia had never left London. While the men played billiards and smoked cigars in the billiards room, Amelia spent the day with the women her own age and soaked up the ton gossip. Who had been in town for the little Season. Who had been courting whom. Who had been wearing what and when and how the rest of the ton had reacted.
It had been a shame that she’d missed out on so much, they said. Her absence had been mourned. Society hadn’t been the same. How exciting it was that she’d returned to the fold. What a smashing week this would be.
There was no mention of the circumstances surrounding her marriage. Nor the cartoons in the gossip pages, nor the fact that her letters had gone unanswered, her invitations to visit ignored. In fact, it seemed as though the past three months had been entirely wiped from existence.
And if that needled a little, then she would just push the feeling aside and focus on t
he fact that, for the moment, she had achieved what she wanted. She was a full-fledged member of society once again.
Now she needed to greet her final guests because there was more than one mountain to climb over the next few days.
The coach that was coming to a stop was garishly appointed with complicated carvings covered in gold leaf. Amelia didn’t recognize the coat of arms on the door. Recently created, clearly, given she knew every significant one by sight.
Even if they weren’t the last guests to arrive, she would still have known that it was the Americans. No Englishman outside the royal family would cover their carriage in that much gilding.
Two men exited, both dressed alike in clothes the height of fashion, but in everything else they differed. The tall one—Grunt, Benedict said—was disproportionately wide and had a beard that fanned out like one of her parasols.
In contrast, Harcombe was thin and gangly—the kind of man who could be blown away by a stiff wind. Looks were deceiving, though. According to Benedict, he was by far the more ruthless of the two.
They each held out an arm for the remaining passengers.
“My goodness,” Amelia said as the misses Grunt exited. It was an utterly inappropriate exclamation, but she had never seen such an entrance during daylight hours.
The girls were preened and primped as if ready for a ball. They even had pearls seeded through their black hair. Where most women would have simple jewelry—if any when traveling—the sisters wore ropes of pearls. Their white dresses were made of heavy silk, a fabric more suited to dancing than hours sitting in a carriage.
“Aren’t they cold?” Cassandra whispered. “Why aren’t they wearing cloaks?”
Benedict chuckled. “A cloak would ruin the effect.”
Amelia nudged him in the ribs as discreetly as she could. The last thing they needed was to offend their guests of honor.
“Gentlemen.” Benedict shook the men’s hands. “May I present my wife, Lady Amelia Asterly.”
She curtseyed and gave the men her most charming smile. Her goals this weekend were twofold. Ensure Benedict gained acceptance by the ton and that the firm gained the contract it needed.
How to Survive a Scandal Page 21