The Jealousy Revelation #2
“And you’re being deliberately evasive.” His voice softened as he drew her slightly closer. “Tell me, Amelia, does it bother you to see me conversing with other women?”
“You’re free to converse with whomever you please,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Our arrangement doesn’t preclude social interactions.”
“Hmm.” His eyes studied her face with unnerving intensity. “So, you wouldn’t mind if I danced with her next? Perhaps even escorted her to the terrace for some air?”
The mere suggestion sent another sharp pang through Amelia’s chest. “Of course not,” she lied. “Though it might raise eyebrows, given that you arrived with me.”
“Ah, so your concern is for appearances,” he said, his tone making it clear he didn’t believe her for a moment. “How considerate.”
“Exactly,” she agreed, relieved to have a plausible explanation. “We must maintain proper decorum.”
“Indeed, we must.” His thumb traced a small circle against her back, the gesture both distracting and intimate. “Though I must say, I find your concern for propriety remarkably selective. For instance, you don’t seem at all troubled by my scandalous costume.”
“That’s different,” she protested.
“Is it?” His voice dropped to a teasing murmur. “I could swear I caught you admiring my ‘impropriety’ earlier.”
Amelia felt her cheeks flush hotter. “You’re being insufferable.”
“And you’re being adorable,” he countered, spinning her through a turn with effortless grace. “Particularly when you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous,” she insisted, though the protest sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“No?” His expression turned thoughtful. “Then you wouldn’t mind meeting her? I should introduce you properly.”
Alarm flashed through Amelia. “That’s hardly necessary—”
“I insist,” Charles said, his eyes dancing with mischief. “In fact, let’s do so now. The dance is ending.”
As the music concluded, he kept her hand firmly in his, leading her through the crowd toward where the Cupid stood by the refreshment table. Amelia tried to pull back, but his grip was gentle yet unyielding.
“Charles, really, this is ridiculous—”
“Nonsense,” he replied cheerfully. “You’ll like her immensely. She has a wicked sense of humor.”
The Cupid turned as they approached, her face lighting with a brilliant smile. “There you are, Charles! I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me entirely.”
“Never,” he assured her. “I was simply dancing with my wife.” He drew Amelia forward. “My dear, allow me to introduce Lady Margaret Sutton. My cousin, my mother’s sister’s daughter. Margaret, this is my wife, Lady Hereford.”
Amelia felt the breath leave her lungs in a rush of relief and embarrassment. His cousin. The woman was his cousin.
Lady Margaret’s laugh was warm and genuine as she extended her hand. “So, this is the woman who finally captured the elusive marquess! I’ve been dying to meet you. Charles has told me so much about your newspaper—it sounds absolutely fascinating.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Margaret,” Amelia managed, taking the offered hand. “I wasn’t aware Charles had family attending tonight.”
“Oh, it was a last-minute decision,” Margaret replied. “I’ve been in Bath for the Season, but I couldn’t resist coming to town for Lady Bancroft’s masquerade. They’re always so deliciously scandalous!”
As the women conversed, Amelia became acutely aware of Charles watching her, his expression a mixture of amusement and something warmer, more tender. When Margaret was momentarily distracted by another acquaintance, he leaned close to whisper in Amelia’s ear.
“Still not jealous?”
She turned to face him, finding him closer than expected. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I am,” he admitted without a trace of remorse. “Though not nearly as much as I’m enjoying the knowledge that you care whom I ‘converse’ with.”
“I—” she began automatically, then stopped herself. “You’re an arse.”
“And yet you want me anyway,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Enough to glare daggers at any woman who dares touch me. Even my cousin.”
The truth of his observation was mortifying, yet Amelia couldn’t bring herself to deny it. Something had shifted between them in recent weeks—the careful boundaries of their arrangement blurring into something more complex, more emotional.
“Perhaps,” she admitted finally, her voice barely audible, “I find I don’t particularly enjoy sharing your attention.”
His expression softened, triumph giving way to genuine warmth. “Then it may please you to know that my attention is entirely yours, Amelia. Regardless of whom I converse with or dance with, it always returns to you.”
The simple admission made her heart race. Before she could formulate a response, Lady Margaret rejoined them, linking her arm through Amelia’s with easy familiarity.
“Charles, you must allow me to steal your wife for a while,” she declared. “I shall introduce her to the ton. Then I want to hear all about how she manages to run a newspaper while navigating Society as a marchioness. It sounds positively revolutionary!”
As Margaret led her away, Amelia glanced back at Charles. He was watching them with evident satisfaction, his posture relaxed and confident. When their eyes met, he winked, the gesture playful and flirtatious.
Perhaps, Amelia thought as she allowed Margaret to introduce her to other members of the ton, their “arrangement” had evolved into something that included the sharp sting of jealousy and the sweet warmth of belonging.
*
Charles observed the distant interaction between his cousin Margaret and Amelia with a mixture of amusement and something deeper—perhaps pride.
Margaret had taken his wife under her wing, introducing her to various friends with the enthusiasm of someone who had found a new favorite.
Amelia appeared reserved but receptive, her natural grace evident even from across the ballroom.
“Your wife seems to be making a favorable impression,” Patrick Adams remarked, appearing at Charles’ elbow with two glasses of champagne. “Lady Sutton has adopted her already.”
Charles accepted the offered glass with a nod. “Cousin Margaret has excellent judgment of character. Always has.”
“Speaking of character,” Patrick lowered his voice, “our mysterious Snowflake has sent another manuscript. I have it with me.”
Interest sparked immediately. “Here? You brought it to a Society function?”
“Where better to conceal such business than amid Society’s gossip?” Patrick’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Besides, I could not wait to show you.”
Charles glanced toward where Amelia stood, now engaged in conversation with Lady Ardley. “Is it another Greek adventure?”
“No, something quite different this time.” Patrick slipped a packet from his inner pocket. “A country house party. Rather detailed descriptions of what occurs after the candles are extinguished.”
Charles took the packet, feeling the familiar weight of high-quality paper. “Let’s find somewhere private.”
They retreated to a small anteroom adjoining the ballroom.
Charles unfolded the pages and began to read, his eyebrows arching appreciatively.
The story opened innocently enough—a young widow attending a house party, a chance encounter in the library with a man described only as “the scholar.” But as the narrative progressed, the tenor shifted dramatically.
“Good heavens,” Charles murmured, his eyes widening at a particularly vivid passage.
“Listen to this: ‘Her fingers ventured boldly where no proper lady would admit knowledge, discovering the tender sac beneath his manhood, like twin plums ripe for harvest. As she caressed this secret garden, he took himself in hand, stroking with increasing urgency until—’”
He broke off, genuinely impressed by both the explicitness and the artful language. “She’s outdone herself this time. The imagery is remarkably specific.”
Patrick peered over his shoulder. “The garden metaphors are inspired. ‘His seed spilled like spring rain upon fertile soil.’ Poetic, yet unmistakable.”
“This will sell extraordinarily well,” Charles said, turning the page to continue reading. “The way she describes the physical sensations is unlike anything I’ve read before—it’s as though she’s combining scientific precision with artistic sensibility.”
He continued reading, drawn deeper into Snowflake’s narrative. As he read further, something about the phrasing caught his attention—an unusual turn of phrase: “like a scarecrow, only observed when the crows are already feasting on the crops.” He paused, the words tugging at his memory.
“What is it?” Patrick asked, noting his hesitation.
“Nothing. Just… the writing style seems oddly familiar.” Charles carefully refolded the manuscript. “Increase her payment by twenty percent. Talent like this deserves proper compensation.”
“Do you think she might be someone we know?” Patrick asked cautiously.
Charles tapped the pages thoughtfully against his palm. “Perhaps. Though London is full of educated women with secret lives.” He tucked the manuscript securely in his inner pocket. “The mystery is part of the appeal, is it not?”
“For the readers, certainly.” Patrick gave him a searching look. “For the publishers, knowledge is sometimes preferable.”
“Let her keep her anonymity,” Charles said firmly. “It’s clearly important to her, and honestly, I am uncertain if I wish to know.”
As they prepared to return to the ballroom, Charles found himself dwelling on the particular phrases, the unexpected literary references.
Whoever Snowflake was, she possessed not just a vivid imagination but an intellect—someone who could quote classics while describing acts that would make a courtesan blush.
They rejoined the festivities just as Margaret was leading Amelia toward a group of elderly relatives. Charles watched his wife’s composed expressions, the careful way she navigated conversation with strangers, and felt a surge of pride. She belonged here, despite her own circumstances and doubts.
Their eyes met briefly across the room. Something in Amelia’s expression suggested she had been tracking his movements. The realization sent a pleasant warmth through him.
When Amelia later returned to his side, there was a subtle shift in her demeanor—a slight softening, a new awareness. The territorial feelings that she displayed had surprised him earlier.
“Cousin Margaret has been most welcoming,” she said, her voice carefully neutral though her eyes held questions about his absence.
“She recognizes quality when she sees it.”
As the evening continued, Charles found himself increasingly attentive to his wife—not merely for appearance’s sake, but from genuine inclination.
The manuscript in his pocket seemed to burn with significance, a reminder that people—women especially—contained surprises and complexities beyond what Society permitted them to show.