Chapter 18
It was Letitia’s idea to take breakfast outside. At first, the idea shocked Amelia. After all, in her experience, ‘outside’ meant filthy, smoggy streets, with foul smells hanging in the air, mixed with the constant chatter and bustle of people and carts rolling by.
Their old house had a small garden at the back, all lovely and green, but the back door of their current house opened onto a filthy alleyway.
They avoided using the back door whenever possible, because whenever they opened the door, the foul smells rushed into the house and took too long to dissipate.
Judging by the wide eyes of Marjory and Nancy, they had thought the same. It was easy, after all, to forget where they were.
At Letitia’s insistence, the footmen gathered up the breakfast dishes from the table and carried them outside.
Several tables waited on the terrace, overlooking a smooth, pleasant green lawn, dotted with daisies and buttercups.
Tablecloths white as snow covered the tables, and Amelia knew just how much work went on behind the scenes to keep them white.
The food was laid out, chairs pulled up, and the four of them sat.
Only four, because Stephen had not come down for breakfast.
His absence made Amelia uneasy.
Is he angry at me? Offended?
But then, if he was furious, perhaps he’d throw her and her sisters out of the house. They could get on with their lives.
Yes, certainly, it would be an adjustment. It was remarkably easy to get used to luxury. But they would manage it.
“Amelia? Did you hear what I said?”
Amelia blinked, dragging her gaze up from her untouched plate of food. “I… I didn’t, Letitia. I’m sorry.”
Letitia gave a tut and a smile, not seeming offended. That was something, at least. If she had offended Stephen, at least Letitia still liked her.
“I was just saying how sweet and genteel Marjory looks. She is a natural, I think. It will serve her well if she intends to write more as she grows older. It’s hard enough for a woman to write, but if she can blend into high society, so much the better.
That is, assuming that she does not write under a male name.
Personally, I believe the day is coming when ladies can write under their own names.
What do you think? I think she could certainly do it. ”
Marjory, who was sitting on Letitia’s left, glowed with praise. Amelia noticed that her sister had carefully adopted the same posture as the older woman, teacup raised, ankles crossed.
She bit back a smile. It would do Marjory good to have a grandmother figure to look up to.
“You think I could do it?” Marjory managed a smile. “I could be a real writer?”
“Why, of course,” Letitia laughed. “You’re already doing it, aren’t you? But you don’t need me to reassure you, I’m sure your sister tells you what a wonderful writer you are all the time.”
“She does,” Marjory confessed, shooting an apologetic look at Amelia. “I suppose sometimes I just don’t believe it. Not when it comes from family.”
Letitia winced, nodding. “Yes, it’s a common failing, is it not? The ones we love most can sometimes be the ones we trust least. We don’t believe compliments from our family, or even from our close friends. Somehow, praise always sounds better from strangers.”
“I suppose we imagine that our loved ones are too close to us,” Amelia offered. “That they must be biased.”
“A fatal flaw in us all,” Letitia agreed.
Their conversation was interrupted by Nancy, who was sitting on the ground at the edge of the terrace, trying determinedly to make Dust learn to sit on command.
“Sit. Sit!” she ordered, pointing.
Tiny’s haunches plopped down onto the grass. The cat stared up at her with mild irritation, his tail flicking.
Nancy tutted, sighing. “You can do it, I’m sure you can! See how Tiny does it! Tiny, sit.”
Tiny, who was already sitting, gave a mournful whine and slapped his tail sadly against the grass.
Amelia bit back a smile, shaking her head.
How easily we’ve gotten used to this place. Surely that cannot be a good thing.
The air smelled of rain from all the downpours they’d had over the past few days.
At home, when it rained, the water mingled with the filth and rubbish in the streets, creating a vile sort of soup that stunk up the air even more once the rain stopped and the sun came back out.
If it rained hard enough, some of the worst filth might be rinsed away, but it always piled up again. Always.
Here, the air was fresh and clean, smelling of grass and clean rain. Amelia could smell the tang of their well-cooked bacon, mingled with fresh fruits and spicy sausages.
What a pity that one has to be in a duke’s house to breathe deeply in London. Apparently, we are not all entitled to breathe the same air.
Her heart clenched at the thought of returning to their quiet, dingy little home. After all, she might return more quickly than she had expected.
Perhaps Stephen’s seduction last night was what he’d planned all along. Perhaps he’d intended to make me his mistress right from the very start. After all, considering who we are, one might see how he’d believe that I would go along with it.
Her insides tightened, recalling how pleasure had surged through her at Stephen’s touch. She could still feel his lips ghosting across her mouth and down her neck. Sometimes, she even fancied that she could feel his palm sliding down her body, tickling down her ribs, and cupping her hips.
Enough. It will not happen again. It will not.
But if he were offended, all of this could be gone in a moment. It would be best to get the separation over with, of course. She’d miss Letitia, as would Marjory and Nancy, not to mention this place and all the delightful food.
“Amelia?” Letitia’s voice cut into her thoughts again, and Amelia glanced up to find the old woman watching her carefully. “You seem preoccupied. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course,” Amelia managed, offering a faint smile. “I was only wondering why Stephen hasn’t come to talk about the guest list with you, like I told you he would last night.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Stephen does as he likes, as I’m sure you’ve noticed already. I’m sure he’ll join us sooner or… oh, there he is.”
Amelia flinched, stiffening. Her back was turned toward the house, and she didn’t want to embarrass herself by twisting around immediately, like a pet watching its owner return.
“Who’s the man with him?” Marjory ventured, frowning, and then Amelia had to turn around.
Sure enough, there was Stephen, stepping around the blunt corner of the house, with a tall, square-shouldered man at his side. The fellow was dressed like a gentleman and carried himself with the easy confidence of someone with plenty of money and the power to back it up.
Like Stephen, he was no thin, elegant dandy, but a stocky man, power carried in half-flexed hands. Behind him ambled a smaller woman in a voluminous gown and a mane of fair hair.
“Grandmother, there you are,” Stephen called, quickening his pace.
The man at his side kept up easily, but the woman fell behind, pausing to peer down at a half-bloomed purple flower. She wore spectacles, Amelia noticed with surprise. She had thought that ladies of the ton eschewed spectacles wherever they could.
“Well, Tristan, what a surprise,” Letitia remarked, rising to her feet.
Amelia leaped up after her, missing a beat, and warily eyed the guests.
“I hope you don’t mind our unannounced arrival,” Tristan answered, offering a wry smile. “When I heard that Stephen returned home, I had to see for myself. I consider myself pleasantly surprised. I understand there’s to be a house party?”
“Yes, and you, of course, are invited,” Letitia assured him. “Preparations are underway, but we’re counting on you and your wife to join us. Will she manage it in her condition?”
“I doubt that I can keep her away.” Tristan laughed. His gaze danced over Marjory and Nancy, before landing on Amelia. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of being introduced to your companions.”
“Ah, forgive me,” Letitia sighed. “I am getting old, and my manners are remiss. This is Miss Amelia Holt, Miss Marjory Holt, and Miss Nancy Holt. Girls, this is His Grace, the Duke of Tolford. And of course, Her Grace will join us in a moment, when she’s finished inspecting the flowerbeds.”
A duke. Another duke.
Amelia flinched, barely remembering in time to dip into a deep curtsy.
One advantage of working for Emmeline was that she knew how to address just about anyone who might enter the shop.
Lords and ladies of all descriptions might wander into a modiste’s, and tended to take great offence if they were not greeted in a way that they felt was appropriate.
Marjory awkwardly followed her example.
Nancy, of course, saw no reason to curtsy and only stared thoughtfully up at the towering Duke. “I am not very good at curtsying,” she announced.
Tristan’s eyebrow rose. “Nor am I. And since I arrived unannounced, I am sure I have renounced any right to a proper greeting. And what are you about down there, Miss Nancy?”
“I am teaching Dust to sit,” Nancy explained. “On command, like Tiny does.”
“Can I assume that Tiny is this monstrous creature here?”
“Yes, of course,” Nancy answered seriously.
At the sound of his name, Tiny’s tail began to thump the ground. He hauled himself up and went skittering across the patio, nosing his way into Tristan’s half-curled fist. A smile broke out across his face, and he gently stroked the dog’s silky ears.
“Tristan and Stephen are very good friends,” Letitia explained to Amelia.
Stephen’s head snapped up, and he tutted. “We are hardly friends, Grandmother. Colleagues, perhaps. Boxing partners. May I remind you that we are members of rival clubs?”
Letitia rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes. Tristan is a Ton’s Devil, and my grandson here is an Orion. Nevertheless, I would describe their relationship as friendship, if it were up to me.”