Chapter 16
“How was Mrs. Timmons?” Amelia asked, recalling the name of Letitia’s friend with effort.
“Oh, the same as always. Keen on gossip, glad for a guest, thrilled to see me,” Letitia responded with a sigh.
“I took the liberty of inviting her myself to our party, but of course, she’ll receive an official invitation, too.
Oh, let me write that one out myself, my dear.
The Winslows will recognize my handwriting. They do so love a personal touch.”
Amelia obediently handed over the blank card.
Letitia had returned from her visit full of energy, pulling Amelia into the writing room—a large library-like space full of desks and high-back chairs, each writing desk stuffed with all kinds of stationery—to get a start on writing out the invitations for the house party.
Gathering together the invitations they had already finished, Amelia paused, squinting at the names.
“These gentlemen are from rival clubs, aren’t they? This fellow is a member of the Ton’s Devils, and this one is a member of the Orion. I’ve seen their names in the scandal sheets Marjory writes for.”
“Oh, I imagine so,” Letitia responded, unperturbed.
“Some hosts care about that sort of thing, but I consider it a waste of time. These clubs are all very well, but if we allow them to create real divisions in our society, we shall pay the price soon enough. I expect my guests to bring their manners with them and leave their memberships at home.”
“I suppose you are right.”
“I am usually right,” Letitia countered, winking. “Where are the girls, by the way?”
“I believe that Marjory found the library soon after arriving,” Amelia responded. “Nancy is racing up and down the hallway with Tiny. A hapless footman has been assigned to make sure she does not slip and crack open her skull.”
“Wise.” Letitia gave a smile. “And how is your room?”
Amelia paused before answering, conjuring an image of a cavernous room, all done out in rich blush-colored silk, with a bed that was probably as large as their parlor back home.
“Large,” she managed.
Letitia snorted. “Yes, this is a big house. I forgot how big. We will have to open up all of the rooms for the party, of course, but once things have settled down, we should probably close up some of the extra bedrooms and private parlors. I cannot imagine that we’ll be entertaining that many guests. ”
She rambled on and on about party plans and which rooms would be closed and which would be left open.
Amelia let her mind drift off, thinking of something else. She picked up another blank invitation card. This one was to be addressed to the Smythe-Truffle family.
What a name.
Her mind conjured up an image of Stephen. She saw him in the carriage quite clearly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring up at her with such intensity that it seemed as though he wanted to eat her.
Worse than that, she wanted to let him.
“Amelia? Amelia, wake up!”
She flinched, jerking upright, and found Letitia staring at her, laughing.
“We shall have to throw away that invitation,” she remarked, nodding downward.
Amelia glanced down and winced. She had put the nib of her quill to the paper, but had not written or moved it at all. A blob of ink was spreading out from underneath her quill, creeping across the paper and completely ruining the invitation.
Reddening, she lifted her quill. “Forgive me, I was thinking of something else…”
Just don’t ask me what.
“Never mind,” Letitia chuckled. “We don’t need to write out all the invitations today, but I would like to complete the guest list. Now, I asked the butler where Stephen had gone, but he seemed to believe that Stephen had retreated to his room.
Would you go to him and ask him briefly who he would like to invite? Take a pencil and a piece of paper.”
“I… Go to his room?”
“Yes, but he has a series of rooms, including a private parlor, so it’s not as if you are knocking on his bedroom door.”
Amelia felt color touch her cheeks. “I don’t know if I should. Could a maid or footman be sent?”
“They’re all preparing dinner,” Letitia said, bending over a blank card.
“The staff is rather small at the moment. We came home rather suddenly and didn’t give the poor housekeeper time to hire new people.
It will take fifteen minutes or so to wrangle a footman, and even then, Stephen will probably send him off with a flea in his ear.
But you could be there and back in five minutes flat, and I know that you won’t take no for an answer.
Go on, my dear. Oblige an old woman, won’t you? ”
Amelia climbed yet another flight of stairs, huffing and puffing and cursing her own weakness. She should have been firm with Letitia.
Too late now.
Why on earth did Stephen insist on having his chambers right at the top of the house? Wasn’t an advantage of being the man of the house that he could have his rooms within easy strolling distance? No stairs?
Not for Stephen, of course.
Amelia heaved herself up the fourth flight of stairs, grateful for the footman who’d directed her here. He had given her a strange look, even after she’d casually mentioned that Letitia had sent her.
At the top of the stairs was a carpeted hallway. She turned left as instructed, and there, at the end of the hall, was a door. Stephen’s room.
She squared her shoulders as she approached, breathing deeply.
Echoes of their conversation in the carriage kept rolling around in her mind, and she firmly put them aside. Now was certainly not the time.
Before she could change her mind, Amelia knocked briskly on the door. It was a good knock, firm and loud, but a minute passed without a response. She knocked again, harder, and this time the door jerked open an inch.
Not locked, then. Barely even pushed to. Did that mean he was still inside?
Amelia pushed the door a few more inches and caught a glimpse of a fire crackling merrily in a heavy stone hearth. An empty chair sat before the fire. On a low table beside it were an empty tumbler and a book.
“Your Grace?” she called.
No response.
Amelia wavered on the threshold. She really should leave. She should go downstairs and explain to Letitia that she had not been able to find him.
But I already know what Letitia will say. I bet she’ll tell me to go inside. I’ll look like a fool. Aren’t companions supposed to be practical? Problem-solvers? Useful? If I’m going to be here for months, I had better make myself useful.
Steeling herself, Amelia clutched her notebook and pencil to her chest and took a few steps inside.
“Your Grace?” she called again.
Still no response.
The parlor, a large and well-appointed room, was empty. At the end of the room was another door, this one half open.
Amelia tiptoed toward it, the plush carpet muffling her footsteps.
Go back, warned a tiny voice in the back of her mind. And yet her wretched legs kept moving. How tiresome.
She reached the door and poked her head around it.
No prizes as to which room this is, she thought, eyeing the oversized bed. It was even larger than the one in her new room. How many women did he plan on entertaining in that bed?
Don’t think of that. He has a large bed because he is a large man. Well, tall.
Now that she was in his bedroom, which was also empty, it was pretty plain to her that now was the time to retreat. She should certainly not cross the room, stepping over a pile of crumpled clothes, to the ajar door set deep in the corner.
She should certainly not push open the door, letting out a plume of steam, and peer inside. It did not matter that strange noises were coming from inside; she was almost certain that Stephen was not hurt, and she should not go any further.
No. She should do none of those things, without a doubt. She should—
Amelia pushed open the door and found herself blinking through the steam into a moderately sized washroom. It was a highly modern space, with a large clawfoot porcelain bathtub in the center. Hot water dripped from the rim and pooled on the tiled floor.
Stephen, sitting chest-deep in the tub, his hair slicked back from his forehead, leaned forward and stared at her in disbelief.
Water dripped down his bare neck and shoulders, curving over his chest and rejoining the rest of the water in the tub.
His arms were slung over the sides of the tub, water dripping from his fingers, the curve of his biceps clearly visible.
When he shifted, even a little, water sloshed over the rim.
From where she stood, she could see the wobbling outline of his body beneath the water, and she hastily averted her gaze.
“Amelia?” he called. “What are you doing in here?”
Her feet had apparently rooted themselves to the floor. The pencil slipped from her hand, bouncing across the tiles. Stephen watched its progress with consternation.
“You… you’re naked,” she gasped.
He stared at her. “I am in the bathtub, Amelia. How do you take a bath? Fully clothed, I assume?”
“I… I should not have come in. I… I never meant to spy. I’m not spying!”
“Defensively put,” he observed.
“I did not mean to come in here and see you in the… in the bath!”
His earlier surprise had vanished entirely. “Now, that is exactly what somebody would say if they did intend all of that.”
“No, you must believe me, you must! Ask your grandmother!”
“My grandmother told you to come and look at me in the bath?”
“Yes. I mean, no! You are teasing me.”
“Yes,” he drawled. “I think you deserve it, frankly. Why are you here? If you wished to have a peek at me unclothed, you only had to ask.”
She groaned loudly, pressing her hands over her eyes. “Letitia wants a guest list for the party. She told me to come and ask you, that it would take too long to send a servant. I… I tried to say that it wasn’t a good idea, but she would not listen.”