Chapter 10 Sleepless Before the Wedding
Sleepless Before the Wedding
The silk whispered against Amelia’s skin as the dressmaker fussed with the hem. She stared at her reflection, hardly recognizing the woman in the elegant ivory gown.
“You’ll need to stand straighter, my lady,” the dressmaker muttered around a mouthful of pins. “The line of the dress requires—”
“I stand as straight as I’m able, Madame Beaumont.” Amelia’s fingers twisted in the delicate fabric. “Perhaps we should consider a different style.”
“Nonsense,” Elisha said from her perch near the window. “The dress is perfect. I’m sure our esteemed madame will create something magnificent with the measurements she has if you need to rest. You look like you’re attending your own funeral rather than your wedding.”
“Aren’t I?” Amelia caught her friend’s eye in the mirror. “In three days, I’ll be Lady Hereford, bound to a man who finds me barely more tolerable than a head cold.”
“Hold still, my lady,” Madame Beaumont commanded, tugging at the skirt. The movement caused Amelia to shift her weight, her wooden leg protesting after standing so long.
“I need a moment,” she said, stepping carefully off the fitting platform. “Some tea, perhaps.”
Once the dressmaker had bustled away, Amelia sank onto the divan next to her friend, her composure cracking. “How am I to do this, Elisha? The dress, the ceremony, the… wedding night. My leg—”
“Stop.” Elisha gripped her hands. “Your leg has never defined you. Don’t let it start now.”
“It will when I’m sharing a home with a man known for his appreciation of physical perfection.” Amelia’s laugh held no humor. “Have you seen the women he favors? I’m hardly in their league even with two good legs.”
“You’re not seeing what I see.” Elisha’s voice softened. “The way he watches you when he thinks no one’s looking.”
“With horror, no doubt.”
“With fascination.” Elisha squeezed her hands. “As if you’re a puzzle he can’t quite solve.”
“Fascination,” Amelia repeated softly, unsure how to feel about this observation.
In three days, she would become this man’s wife. The thought terrified her, but why did it make her nervous with anticipation as well?
*
“I assume the dowager marchioness had opinions about your choice of bride?” Lancaster’s voice held careful neutrality.
“Mother threatened to disinherit me,” Hereford said, leaning against White’s leather-padded window seat with forced casualness. “Then she remembered she can’t.”
Patrick Adams choked on his brandy while Lancaster tried to hide his smile behind his glass. The three men had retreated to their usual corner of the club, seeking refuge from the torrent of gossip Hereford’s hasty engagement had unleashed.
“‘Have you lost your mind?’” Hereford mimicked his mother’s shrill tone. “‘A newspaper editor? A cripple? Charles, darling, what of the succession?’” He drained his glass. “She’s written to every eligible debutante’s mother in Hampshire, apologizing for my temporary insanity.”
“And yet you’re going through with it,” Patrick observed.
Hereford’s fingers tightened on his empty glass. “Better me than Norwich.”
“Is that the only reason?” Lancaster’s shrewd eyes studied his friend. “You’ve been rather distracted lately. Especially when a certain lady editor is mentioned.”
“Nonsense.” But Hereford’s gaze drifted to the window, where a glimpse of a woman with chestnut hair passing on the street had caught his attention.
Not Amelia. She would be at the Review’s offices at this hour, but the similarity made his pulse race inexplicably.
“She’s made her opinion of me quite clear.
I’m merely saving her from a worse fate. ”
“And yet you’ve read every edition of her newspaper for the past few months,” Patrick said. “Including that rather pointed editorial comparing your behavior to that of a lazy housecat.”
“Know thy enemy.” The words felt hollow even to his own ears.
“Enemy?” Lancaster’s smile widened. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“I must be mad,” Hereford muttered, turning back to his friends. “Marrying a woman who can barely stand the sight of me, all because Norwich…” He broke off, the memory of Norwich’s words about Amelia warming his bed still rankling.
“Because Norwich what?” Patrick pressed.
“Nothing.” Hereford signaled for another brandy. “It’s purely a business arrangement.”
“Of course,” Lancaster said mildly. “Though you might want to inform your face of that. You’ve been staring into space with longing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” But Hereford couldn’t quite stop his mind from wandering to thoughts of Amelia, wondering what she was doing at this moment. Writing another scathing editorial about him, perhaps? “I simply want to ensure she’s prepared for her new position.”
“Naturally.” Patrick’s voice dripped skepticism. “And I’m sure your sudden interest in newspaper circulation numbers is purely professional as well?”
Hereford didn’t bother responding. He was too busy wondering why the mere thought of Amelia made his chest feel tight.
Three days. In three days, she would be his wife. The thought should have filled him with dread. But it felt instead like standing on the edge of something both terrifying and thrilling.
*
The sharp rap at her door startled Amelia from her work. She glanced at the clock—past midnight. Steven wouldn’t call this late, and Elisha was dining with the Carlisles. She looked through the peephole which Steven had insisted on.
Surprised, she opened the door to find Lord Hereford on her doorstep, his evening clothes immaculate despite the late hour. His eyes swept past her to take in the empty parlor behind.
“You’re alone?” His voice held barely contained outrage. “At this hour? Where is your servant?”
“Mrs. Pierce retires early.” Amelia closed the door and returned to her desk, determined not to reveal how much his unexpected presence frazzled her. “Did you need something, my lord?”
He followed her inside, his tall frame making her modest parlor feel suddenly cramped. “This is completely inappropriate. Any man could call on you. There’s not even a footman—”
“Men like you, you mean?” She shuffled papers with deliberate casualness. “Other than my brother and now you, no one else calls on me. Pray tell. Was there a purpose to your visit, or did you simply come to criticize my living arrangements?”
“Your brother allows this?”
“My brother doesn’t ‘allow’ anything. I’m of age to make my own decisions.” She finally looked up, meeting his thunderous expression. “Just as I’m not yet yours, my lord. Until our wedding, my arrangements are none of your concern.”
“They become my concern when my future wife puts herself at risk.” He paced the small room, his agitation evident in every movement. “What if some drunk decided to call? Or a thief? How would you defend yourself?”
“The same way I’ve defended myself for the past five years.” She gestured to the door. “By not opening it. Though I doubt you came here at this hour to discuss my security measures. What do you want, Lord Hereford?”
He stopped pacing, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I came to discuss the marriage contract. Certain provisions regarding your newspaper—”
“Which could have waited until tomorrow.” She studied him carefully. “Why are you really here?”
“Because I couldn’t sleep!” The words burst from him with force. “Because I keep thinking about this madness we’re about to embark upon, about how you’ll be legally bound to a man you clearly despise—”
“I don’t despise you,” she said quietly.
“No?” His laugh held no humor. “You merely think me an idle aristocrat who contributes nothing of value to Society. Who treats life as a game and women as playthings. Have I missed any of your published opinions about my character?”
“You’ve read my editorials?”
“Every damn one.” He moved closer, looming over her desk. “Tell me, do you truly believe everything you’ve written about me? Or do you simply enjoy proving your cleverness at my expense?”
Amelia stood, refusing to be intimidated by his proximity. “I believe what I observe. A man who spends his days in pleasure while others suffer. Who uses his privilege as a shield rather than a tool for change.”
“You see what you wish to see,” he said, his voice dropping dangerously low. “Just as you’ve already decided what kind of husband I’ll be.”
“Haven’t you done the same?” She lifted her chin. “Already determined I’ll be an unsuitable marchioness? A poor breeder for your precious line? Not to mention being uninspiring.”
Color touched his cheekbones. “How did you hear that?”
“Servants. They hear everything.” She softened her tone, seeing real discomfort in his expression.
“I don’t blame you. You spoke honestly, just as I do in my editorials.
I respect that, at least.” She moved around the desk, needing distance from his unsettling presence.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to finish. ”
“Of course.” His voice turned to ice. “Far be it from me to interrupt your important task of cataloging my many faults. Though surely a writer of your talent could find worthier subjects?”
“I wasn’t writing about you specifically,” she said. “Rather the broader ignorance of aristocrats to the plight of common folk.”
“And I happen to be your favorite example?” His smile held no warmth. “The worst of the breed, am I?”
“I can’t say.” She met his gaze steadily. “Though you do seem to feature rather prominently in the scandal sheets.”
“There’s little I can do about attracting attention.” Frustration and something deeper flashed in his eyes. “Remember, Miss Thornton, you’ve seen only one side of the page. Good night.”
He was gone before she could respond, leaving behind only the lingering scent of his cologne and the uncomfortable feeling that they’d both missed something important in their clash of wills.
Amelia sank back into her chair, staring at the door he’d slammed with rather more force than necessary. In three days, she would be bound to that impossible man for a year.
God help them both.