by Regina Scott
He shrugged. “I’ll leave you to argue that with Magnum. He is inordinately pleased with the purple blanket I gave him last year. But I was actually thinking of the way your father responded to our duet.”
“If you tell me a stallion is proud when his colt leads the hunting field, I will not believe you,” she warned.
He chuckled. “I think a stallion is more likely to attempt to race his offspring across the hunting field rather than cheer them on. But the same might be said for your father. His behavior reminds me of the way Magnum treats a strange horse in the pasture, baring his teeth and shaking his head.”
“The thought that my father might somehow find me a threat would not survive its birth,” Amelia insisted. “He is always the one in control. He sent a man to spy on us, John!”
“Apparently to ensure I treated you well,” John replied. “But make no mistake, Amelia. You are a threat to Magnum and to him. I should have realized it before. If you ask me, they are both jealous.”
Amelia stiffened. “Jealous? Why?”
“Magnum sees you as a rival for my attentions. Horses view all relationships as linear—you are either above or below the horse. I am above Magnum, but only by one notch in his opinion. He thinks you are trying to come between us.”
She shook her head. “As if that was possible.”
“And your father?” John continued, as if excited to have understood the dynamics at last. “Power and prestige are everything to him. You said so yourself.” He touched her chin, drawing her gaze to his. “When you sing, Amelia,” he said solemnly, “you are the most important person in the room. That surprised him.”
It was rather heady to think that she might have discomposed her ruthless father. But she did not want to be the kind of person who took pleasure from discomforting others.
“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But it was not my intention, I assure you.”
He lowered his hand, cocking his head. “What was your intention tonight? I will admit you surprised me, as well.”
She sucked in a breath and only succeeded in feeling her tears fall faster. “I wanted your attention, sir, but not for being someone else!” She wiped at her eyes, her gloves dampening with each touch. “Oh, forgive me, John. I’m a mess!”
“You could never be a mess,” he replied. “Although I have seen you look better.”
Amelia felt a smile coming. “Always frank, my lord. I may not have told you before, but I appreciate it. There is no dissembling in you.”
He raised his head. “But there is, Amelia. I’ve done everything to keep you from seeing inside me, but you, your kindness, your dedication, you cracked open my shell. I fear you won’t like what you see.”
Amelia stared at him. “John, how could I not like what I see? You are a fine man.”
His mouth worked, as if he could not decide upon the words. “I could be,” he said. “With you beside me.”
“Oh, John.” She wanted to touch him, but she didn’t trust herself. Instead, she motioned down the sapphire-blue gown. “I wanted to be special tonight, to shine for once, to have you want me beside you. But this? This isn’t me! I’d rather be wearing my plum riding habit!”
He grinned. Her sober, solemn husband looked as if he’d just won the prize for best horse at the annual show. He reached up his fingers to his throat and tugged down on his cravat, ruining the fold.
“And this isn’t me. I will never be perfect, Amelia. But I was willing to dress up like a jackanapes, if it would please you.”
Amelia felt her own smile forming. “You did all this for me?”
Down the corridor, Caro poked her head from the withdrawing room. “John?” she called. “Are you returning? We could use a fourth for a hand of whist.”
“It appears cards are not quite so boring when she suggests them,” Amelia said with an exasperated sigh. She waved down the corridor at Caro. “We’ll be with you shortly.” Lowering her hand and her voice at the same time, she leaned closer to John. “I had another idea for the evening’s entertainment. May I ask you to follow my lead?”
“To the battle and beyond, madam,” he promised, his usual intensity igniting. Together, they returned to the withdrawing room.
Caro had convinced Amelia’s father and the major to take their places around the parquet table for whist.
“How kind of you to see to our guests while I was unavailable,” Amelia told her, approaching the table. “But allow me to propose a new game, twenty questions.”
Her father shoved back from the table. “I told you—I disdain parlor games.”
“I think you will enjoy this one,” Amelia said, steeling herself to continue despite his disapproval. “For I propose a prize to the winner—your choice of mount tomorrow, any horse in John’s stable.” She glanced at John, and he inclined his head in agreement, dark eyes watchful.
Caro leaned forward, eyes lighting. “Any horse? Even the famed Firenza?”
“Even Firenza,” Amelia promised. “Though I reserve the right to try to dissuade you should you choose her.”
“I’m in,” Major Kensington said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his hands together before his gold-braid-covered uniform. “I can’t wait to ride that black brute, Magnum.”
“I also reserve the right to try to dissuade you,” John put in. “Though I fear I’ll be wasting my breath.”
Major Kensington grinned.
They relocated to the sofa and chairs by the fire. All her guests regarded her eagerly now as Amelia took up her place before the hearth. Even her father had a look on his face she’d never seen before. It was as if the fire behind her danced in his eyes.
“Twenty questions,” Amelia repeated, catching each gaze in turn. She could feel John watching her as if expecting her to recite the entire New Testament or the Tattersalls breeding book from memory or do something equally marvelous. His faith in her made her breath come easier.
“I am thinking of something,” she told her guests. “It is your task to ferret out the answer. You may ask me yes or no questions only, in turn, and no more than twenty in all. Whoever guesses first wins. Caro, please begin.”
Caro preened, patting the curls beside her feathered bandeau. “Is it a man?” She fluttered her lashes at John, but he kept his gaze fixed on Amelia.
“No,” Amelia replied, turning to the next guest. “Major Kensington?”
“Is it a woman?” he asked, watching her.
Amelia smiled. “No.”
“Is it a horse?” her father asked before she could turn his way.
John stiffened, but when Amelia answered, “No,” he relaxed again. She would not have dared to attempt to do justice to one of his darlings.
Caro leaned forward, her gown rustling, to take her turn. “It is an object, then,” she surmised. “Is it larger than a teapot?”
“Yes,” Amelia agreed.
“Larger than a horse?” Major Kensington asked.
Once again, John perked up. What was it with these gentlemen and horses! But she must answer, regardless.
Amelia thought a moment. “Forgive me, but I cannot respond with a yes or no. It would depend on the horse.”
Both John and Major Kensington looked thoughtful.
Her father was regarding her with narrowed eyes, as if he had a glimmer of an idea of what went on in her head. That alone would be amazing!
“Is it something a woman would use?” he asked.
“Yes,” Amelia admitted, “though men have been known to use it, too.”
Caro straightened, eyes brightening. “Is it a hairbrush?” she cried.
“A hairbrush?” Major Kensington stared at her. “It’s as big as some horses!” He snorted. “A hairbrush, she asks.”
Caro glared at him.
“No, it is not a hairbrush,” Amelia said, far more kindly, she hoped. John nodded his encouragement for her to continue.
“Is it a carriage?” Major Kensington asked with a thoughtful frown. “Perhaps a small one, like a
gig?”
“A carriage?” Caro sneered. “You think a carriage is the size of a horse? Why does it take a team to pull one?”
Now Major Kensington glared at her.
This was not going the way Amelia had hoped. “Not a carriage,” she emphasized. “Allow me to offer a hint. It is something you would find indoors.”
Caro and the major glanced about the room as if seeking inspiration. John had narrowed his eyes now, as if he, too, was centering in on an answer, even though he was not one of the players in this game.
“Is it currently in this house?” Amelia’s father asked quietly.
“No,” Amelia admitted.
Caro and Major Kensington’s gazes collided, and they both frowned.
“What color is it?” Caro asked, voice tinged with suspicion. Did she think Amelia had colluded with her father in this?
Major Kensington, however, rolled his eyes. “You have to ask yes or no questions. That’s part of the rules.”
Caro threw up her hands. “Oh, and you always play by the rules, don’t you, Major?”
He stiffened. “My battlefield promotion was well gazetted, I’ll have you know. You can ask Wellington to his face.”
“I shall, the next time I’m in London,” Caro threatened.
Amelia raised her brows, trying to think of a way to intervene.
“I believe,” John said in the angry silence, “it is Caro’s turn for a question.”
Caro tossed her head at the major, then turned her attention to Amelia. “Is it pink?”
“Pink?” Major Kensington all but choked.
“No,” Amelia hurried to answer. “At least, not that I’ve ever seen. And you are halfway through your questions.”
She could see Major Kensington’s lips moving as if he was reviewing the facts so far before asking his question next. Then his face brightened.
“Is it a stove?” he guessed. “One of those great black models the prince insisted on for Brighton?”
Caro looked impressed that he would know about such things.
“No,” Amelia replied.
He deflated.
“Nice try,” Caro whispered in encouragement.
“Is it a pianoforte?” her father asked.
Amelia couldn’t help smiling at him. “Yes, Father, it is. You win.”
A smile curved her father’s lips. “It wasn’t tremendously difficult to guess. You’ve ever been fond of music.”
Although he always spoke with authority, his voice held a timbre she hadn’t heard before, as if the memory pleased him. Had he known more about her activities than she’d thought? She felt as if something inside her was warming, melting.
Caro and Major Kensington were less delighted with the result. They both sank back in their seats, and Major Kensington crossed his arms over his braid-draped chest, but neither was willing to gainsay Lord Wesworth.
“As a consolation prize,” Amelia said, “perhaps John could choose the perfect mount for each of you.”
Everyone brightened at that, and conversation turned to where they might ride the next day and what time everyone could be ready. As if particularly eager, they all agreed on an early night.
“Well done,” John murmured as Amelia passed him for the stairs.
“Thank you, my lord.” A shiver of anticipation ran through her. All that had happened tonight had almost made her abandon her original plan for the evening. But the next part was the most important.
“Would you be so kind as to follow my lead one more time?” she asked her husband. “Meet me in the library in a quarter hour. There’s something I must discuss with you.”
He frowned as if he wasn’t sure what she was about, but nodded. “As you wish.”
Amelia nodded her thanks as well, and watched him head in that direction. She felt as if she and John had reached an understanding tonight, but if the next hour went as she hoped, her marriage would be on much sounder footing by morning.
*
John smiled to himself as he sat on an armchair by the fire. Then he paused to settle himself more firmly in the seat. This worn gold-threaded armchair, which had once been exiled to the attics, was far more comfortable than the leatherbound seats that had squatted here before Amelia had redecorated. He would have to compliment her on her choice.
He could find any number of things for which to praise her tonight, most of all her courage. She was no more comfortable in groups than he was, yet she’d found a way to brighten the evening, entertain their guests. And even he looked forward to the morrow.
At a cough, John turned to see Mr. Hennessy standing in the doorway. His butler advanced into the room, head down like a bull about to charge.
“My lord,” he said, “this is highly unusual, and I want you to know that I do this under extreme duress.”
What on earth? John rose to meet him. “What’s wrong, Mr. Hennessy?”
His butler held out a folded note with a gloved hand that shook with indignation even John could not have missed. “I have been instructed to deliver this to you, and I have done so. And if you decide to answer it, I will tender my resignation this very moment.”
John’s brows shot up, but he accepted the thing from his butler. Even as he opened it, the heady scent of roses drifted upward, and he knew who the author was before he read a single word.
“My dearest John,” Caro had written.
I can no longer hide my feelings for you, and I sense you feel the same. I realized you were singing to me tonight, and I want you to know that I have taken your words to heart. I have heard that lack of consummation is no reason to annul a marriage, but perhaps we can think of some way we can be together. Come to me tonight, and we can plan our escape.
Ever yours,
Caro
John crumpled the note in his fist and tossed it toward the fire. “There will be no answer.”
Hennessy snapped a nod. “Very good, my lord. Shall I request that her ladyship’s maid begin packing?”
“Immediately,” John replied.
Hennessy fought a grin, but lost. “Thank you, my lord. It would give me the greatest of pleasure. Will you need anything more tonight?”
“No,” John told him. “I’ll see that the lights are put out before I go upstairs.”
“Very good. Good night, my lord.” He bowed himself out.
John shook his head. What had he done to make Caro think he would welcome such a note? After the way he had kissed Amelia, had the woman any doubt on his feelings?
Did Amelia doubt him?
He snorted, turning for the desk. Why even ask the question? Somehow his actions signaled something other than his intentions. He must give off a scent, turn his head to the right instead of the left.
Lord, You must understand me. You made me. I thought I’d disgusted You, but I see now You never left me and You knew just what I needed to be the man You intended. You gave me Amelia.
Thanksgiving rose up inside him at the thought. The feelings were strong, but they were pure, bright, banishing the darkness he’d struggled with for so long. He had to put those feelings into words. He went to the desk, sat behind it, picked up the waiting quill and began writing.
He had filled a half page when a movement caught his eye. Looking up, he saw that Amelia had entered the room. She still wore the blue dress, the satin rippling like a river in the candlelight. But she’d brushed out her hair, and it flowed about her like moonlight as she walked toward him.
His wife. The woman he loved. He couldn’t speak for the emotion rising inside him.
“It’s all right,” she said with a smile, turning toward the chairs by the fire. “I can see you’ve started something. Finish what you’re doing, then join me.”
He nodded in thanks. One or two more words, before he lost his courage. Then he’d hand the letter to her, and she would know exactly what she meant to him.
Please, Father, give me the words. She is a greater gift than I will ever deserve. And she deserves to know i
t.
A sharp intake of breath told him something was wrong. Looking up, a fist twisted in his gut.
Caro’s note had apparently missed the hearth, for Amelia was standing, staring down at it in her hand.
John jerked to his feet. “Amelia,” he started.
Shaking her head, she turned, dropped the note and fled from the room.
Chapter Twenty
Amelia ran for the stairs, her hands pressed against her lips. What, did some part of her think that would hold in the pain?
He didn’t love her. He loved Caro. Amelia had given him a home, helped with his work, tried to be someone else, done things that made her uncomfortable to spare him discomfort and still he preferred another.
Hadn’t she learned by now that nothing she did was good enough? She never managed to earn love.
She stumbled on the second flight and clutched the banister with both hands to keep from falling. Her emotions felt like a hive of bees inside her, all so furiously buzzing that it was hard to tell one from the other.
Why did she keep trying? She had done everything to try to make first her parents, and then John love her. Until this moment, she’d never realized how wrong she’d been. Love, true love, wasn’t earned. It was a precious gift. A gift she’d hoped to offer John tonight.
“Oh, Heavenly Father,” she murmured aloud. “What was I thinking?”
“Amelia!”
She heard John’s voice behind her even as his feet pounded on the stairs. But she couldn’t face him, not here, not now. She lifted her skirts and dashed up the last flight, then threw herself across the landing to the little bedchamber.
Turner looked up as Amelia slammed the door shut and leaned against it. Then the maid’s eyes narrowed, and she advanced on the door, pushing up her sleeves as she came.
“If Major Kensington is behind you,” she said, “you just leave him to me.”
“Amelia!” John demanded from the other side of the door, and the handle rattled. Amelia stared at Turner. The maid’s determination melted into panic.
“Oh, my word, it’s the master.” She took a step closer and lowered her voice. “Shouldn’t we let him in?”