Chapter 9
Stephen watched as a maelstrom of emotions flashed across Marjory’s face. Shock, betrayal, anger, understanding, and finally resignation. She glanced up at her sister, as if for reassurance. When Amelia did not yield, she reluctantly turned to Stephen.
Clearing her throat, she tossed back her tangled curls, looking Stephen dead in the eye. “Orio—Your Grace,” she corrected herself swiftly. “I am very—”
“No apology is necessary,” Stephen interrupted before she could finish.
“Your sister is overzealous. I am not offended. A man holding a grudge would not invite his so-called enemies to a feast, would he not? And here I am, inviting you to breakfast. It’s very civilized,” he added, glancing at Amelia and raising his eyebrows.
Amelia’s expression was neutral, unreadable.
In Stephen’s experience, it was unusual to meet a lady of her age with such a high guard.
Ladies of her age were, of course, taught to behave and follow the stringent rules of Society.
However, they were not taught any form of guile.
Many of the ladies Stephen had met did not even realize others could read their expressions.
They had no talent for deceit, no need to conceal their feelings.
He wondered briefly what sort of life Amelia had led to force her into such carefulness. She spoke and carried herself like a lady, but he knew she lacked the status and money to live like one.
Dragging his gaze away from her impassive face, he glanced back down at Marjory, who was regarding him with hesitant hope mingled with a hefty dose of wariness.
Clever girl. Trust no one. Words can be very pretty, but that is all they are at the end of the day—words.
“Are you certain?” she ventured. “I did not mean to insult you. Or to bring Tiny into your house without permission. Or to punch your footman in the stomach,” she added as an afterthought.
A small smile crossed Stephen’s face, hastily restrained. He glanced over at his grandmother, who didn’t bother to hide her amusement.
“Think nothing of it,” he said. “Please, consider this your home for the next few months. Take a seat, Miss Spectacles. And you, Miss Nancy.”
Nancy required little to no urging. She scampered delightedly over to the table, peering at the goodies laden there. Letitia urged the little girl to take a seat beside her and began piling food on her plate.
Marjory glanced back at her older sister once more, and when Amelia gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, she brightened.
“Come. Miss Marjory, is it? Sit beside me,” Letitia urged, patting the seat on her other side. “We’re thrilled to have guests. It’s been too long since I had young people in the house. Would you care for some scrambled eggs?”
Stephen turned away from the table. He could trust his grandmother to amuse the girls, for a while at least. “Miss Amelia, would you care to join me in my study? We have things to discuss, you and I.”
Amelia watched him carefully, her face as unreadable as always.
Why did it bother him immensely? Why did he care that he could not guess what she was thinking? It didn’t matter what she was thinking.
That last thought rang in his head, as wrong as a discord.
Ignoring it, Stephen raised his eyebrows, waiting for Amelia’s response.
“Of course,” she uttered, her words as flat as cardboard.
Whatever she was thinking at that moment, it stayed safely hidden in her head.
She followed him out of the breakfast room. The low hum of conversation and the clinking of cutlery on plates followed them. When Stephen glanced over his shoulder, pulling the door closed behind him, he caught a glimpse of Marjory’s anxious gaze following her sister.
“It’s kind of you to invite my sisters here,” Amelia said, breaking the silence first. “I’m glad to see them. Marjory in particular would have been worried. Nancy is of the age where she believes that everything will be all right, and that the grown-ups around her will manage matters.”
Stephen snorted. “What a terrifying thought.”
“Yes, it is terrifying now that we are the grown-ups. When I was her age, I also believed that my mother and father had everything in hand. I see now that they never did, and imagining that anybody has control of their lives is nothing but foolishness.”
He led the way down the corridor to a wide, iron-studded door that yawned deep in the wall.
It was a remarkably old door, one that ought to be at the front of a castle or perhaps a medieval palace.
Beyond the door lay Stephen’s study. He gestured for Amelia to step before him into the room, aware of a twinge of embarrassment at the mess.
“Goodness,” she remarked, after a moment’s silence. “It’s as though I’m onboard a ship.”
Stephen clenched his jaw, scanning the familiar space. “If it were a cabin, the weight of all this nonsense would sink it,” he responded tartly. “Sit down.”
She glanced around at the various chairs, all piled with boxes, books, trinkets, and more. “Where?”
Biting back a sigh, Stephen swept a pile of books off the seat nearest his desk and gestured for her to take it.
It was true, his study was remarkably cluttered. Bookshelves lined the walls, packed with books, maps, manuscripts, and more. Pictures crowded any spare wall space. And then there were his trinkets, souvenirs, and the like.
There was a box of unusual, pretty rocks on the chair near the empty fireplace, and he knew well there were at least two more such boxes. Where he had run out of shelves, his books were piled haphazardly on the ground, near to toppling over in places.
Where did I even manage to acquire all of these things?
It didn’t matter. Stephen had no intention of being parted from them, and it wasn’t as if Amelia would be joining him in his study very often.
Flashing her a brittle smile, he swept a case of preserved beetles off the chair behind his desk and sat down.
“We have things to discuss,” he repeated, fixing her with a firm look. “We must discuss the events of this morning and last night.”
She was not listening. He watched in resignation as she leaned forward, poring over the clutter on his desk.
“I thought a gentleman’s study was always kept immaculate,” she murmured.
“Father kept a study in our old house. Whenever I went in, everything was so very neat. All his papers and books were tidied nicely away on the shelves. The maid dusted it daily, and the carpets and curtains were swept and beaten often. He did not care for trinkets, but he had a collection of coins. He kept them in glass-fronted cases, up on the walls.”
“How pleasant for him,” Stephen responded. “My study is my own business.”
“Of course, of course.” She paused, picking up a complex brass instrument. “What is this?”
“It is a sextant.”
“A what?”
He sighed, leaning forward, and plucked the instrument from her hands. “It is a navigation tool. See, you place your eye here, and you angle the other end toward the sun at noon or toward Polaris at night. From the reading’s position, you calculate exactly where you are at sea.”
“How intriguing,” she murmured. He shot her a sharp look, certain she was mocking him, but there was no hint of amusement on her face. “Is it a complex reading?”
“It can be,” he responded, placing the sextant back on his desk.
“What would you do if it were cloudy?”
“Hm?”
She tilted her head. “You say you use the sun or Polaris, the star, but what if it is cloudy, or foggy, and you cannot see either?”
He gave a tight, brittle smile. “Then we wait for the clouds to clear and pray hard. Sailors’ prayers are not often answered, however.”
“You must be fond of sailing, then.”
Something bubbled in his gut.
“No,” Stephen answered shortly. “I am not. Let us get to business, Amelia.”
She blinked, as if waking from a reverie. He sensed that he had said the wrong thing. The open interest in her eyes was gone, replaced by that blank, protective stare from earlier.
“Of course,” she murmured. “I should apologize for my sisters’ bringing Tiny here. I did not think they would bring him, but if he is left alone at home, he howls horribly. We haven’t the heart to chain him outside.”
Stephen grunted. “I have no objection to your dog’s presence here. I only ask that he does not bother my cat.”
Amelia paused, tilting her head. “You did not strike me as the sort of man to have a cat.”
I should have known this would happen.
Sighing, Stephen folded his arms across his chest. “Yes, I suppose I have a cat after all. The fellow followed me home and set himself up here as regal as a lord.”
“That’s cats for you.”
“Hmm. He was once a ship’s cat, and remains an excellent mouser.”
He should have known that mentioning the creature would summon him. Not unlike a biblical demon, in fact.
A gray, shaggy mess uncoiled itself from a nest among some boxes. It arched its back, stretching with slow ease. Then it picked its way toward the desk. A low rumble echoed through the room, aimed at Amelia.
“Is he purring?” she asked, blinking.
The cat weaved around her ankles, twisting round and round, rubbing his furry cheek against her skirt.
“He has taken a liking to you,” Stephen sighed. “My apologies.”
“Why are you apologi—argh!” Amelia gasped as the cat jumped onto her knees, revealing that it was approximately twice the size of an ordinary cat, and certainly at least twice as heavy.
He circled a handful of times on her knees, and Stephen knew from experience that he would be thoughtfully pressing his thick, sharp claws into her lap. The horror on her face was almost amusing.
“His name is Dust,” Stephen offered. “He must have used up eight of his nine lives at least, and I am confident he will find a way to wring more lives out of Death himself when the time comes.”
Leaning forward, Stephen tapped his fingertips on the desk in the hope of distracting the formidable cat away from Amelia, who almost certainly preferred dogs and was beginning to look rather cornered.
Losing interest in Amelia, Dust leaped gracefully onto the desk, winding his way expertly through the clutter toward Stephen.
His purring intensified into a small roar, and he confidently rubbed his cheek against Stephen’s shoulder.
Stephen absently let his fingertips rake through the dense fur atop Dust’s head.
Stroking Dust was always a tricky business. The cat had a talent for making people around him believe that he was desperate for petting and attention, only to sink his claws or teeth into an unfortunate’s hand as soon as they obliged.
Stephen found that he did not want Dust to claw at or bite Amelia. The poor woman had suffered enough already.
It is not her I wish to punish, he reminded himself. It is her brother. He is the one with the sin.
“Your father kept a study at your house?” he queried, more to dispel the silence than anything else.
Amelia’s expression tightened. “Yes. Our old house. We had to give it up when Papa died.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Papa owned it, and so there was no rent to pay. But when he died, my brother inherited it. He threw us out before the funeral even took place. He barely gave us a handful of days to find somewhere else to live. I am concerned about the rent, Your Grace.”
“Your Grace,” he huffed, shaking his head.
“Should I call you Orion instead?”
“You should call me Stephen. Don’t worry about the rent.”
Amelia blinked, something like uncertainty creeping into her expression. “I see.”
“I told you, you have nothing to fear from me. Assuming, of course, that you adhere to the rules I have put in place,” he added, his face darkening.
“You shall stay here for three months. No escaping. You can go back to your old life as soon as the time is up, or until I decide to let you go, whichever comes first.”
“My work—”
“Will be waiting for you when you return,” he promised.
There was a moment of silence after that, broken only by Dust’s determined purring. The cat had seated himself on a few spare inches of space at the edge of the desk, as if he were a third participant in the conversation.
Amelia’s eyes drifted toward the cat, and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I’m still surprised that you would have a cat.”
Stephen lifted an eyebrow. “And why not?”
“Well, I simply didn’t think that you would care for animals at all, certainly not cats.”
“And why would I not like cats?”
She shrugged, a most unladylike gesture that would have brought a world of censure on her head if she were a member of the ton.
“I never imagined that you would be so…” she trailed off.
What was it she was going to say? Kind? Sweet? Loving?
Best not to imagine.
“I am full of surprises,” Stephen responded tightly.
It would be wise to change the subject. He was beginning to understand what a mistake it had been to bring Amelia here alone. Desire was beginning to coil in his gut, the same powerful sensation that had made him act so recklessly last night. So stupidly.
“On that note,” he continued, meeting her gaze squarely. “I would like to offer my apologies for last night. I tend to act recklessly after a moonlight swim. I should not have kissed you.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
Did she mean it? Was she relieved?
Watching her carefully, he continued, “I promise that there’ll be no repeat of such nonsense.”
“If you say so,” she answered, and now her voice was mild and bland.
Mildness and blandness, however, did not fit what he already knew about Amelia Holt.
Stephen pushed out his lips and narrowed his eyes. “I mean it, Amelia,” he said. “I shan’t trouble you again. I should have let you go last night.”
She rose gracefully to her feet, shaking out her skirts. Patches of iron-gray hair clung to the fabric. She made an abortive move, as if she planned to reach out and stroke Dust’s head, then wisely changed her mind.
“I am glad you did not,” she responded simply.
He had not expected that. The words landed in his mind like a punch to the gut, their implication blooming.
“I…” he managed, a tightening sensation curling around his abdomen.
Amelia did not elaborate, nor did she wait to hear what he would say in response. She turned away rather abruptly, hurrying out of the room before he could speak.
A draft caught the door as she hurried back into the hallway, making it slam shut. Dust chirruped in annoyance and leaped down from the desk, twisting around to regard Stephen with a questioning green gaze.
“Yes, I agree,” Stephen said, nodding to the cat. “She is going to cause me a great deal of trouble, I think. I ought to cut her loose, but somehow I know that I am not going to do that.”
Reaching over, he picked up the sextant, feeling its familiar weight in his hands. When was the last time he’d used it?
I can still feel the warmth of her hands on the brass. What on earth has she done to me?