Chapter 19
Once Amelia and Madeline were gone, Letitia turned to Marjory and resumed speaking to her. Nancy set off in a run after the cat.
Left to his devices, Stephen lowered himself into a crouch beside Tristan and scratched the top of Tiny’s head.
“Well,” Tristan murmured, quietly enough so that only Stephen could hear, “I didn’t expect you to give up your privacy so soon.”
“I told you I was doing this, did I not?”
“You did,” Tristan acknowledged. “And Madeline believed that you’d act quickly. I was the one who thought you might delay. After all, I understand the reasons that drove you into hiding. I assume those reasons no longer have a hold over you?”
Stephen clenched his jaw, scratching behind Tiny’s ears. The dog closed his eyes in canine bliss, back leg thumping at the ground.
“I have a plan,” he answered coolly. “I know what I am doing.”
“Don’t you always?”
Nancy returned, carrying Dust in her arms. The cat’s legs swung freely, and his eyes held a distinct glimmer of fury. However, he did not use his claws or teeth to try to get free.
Curious.
“Tiny!” Nancy called, and the dog at once abandoned the terrace, bounding toward her.
Thus left behind, Tristan chuckled, wiped his palms on his breeches, and rose to his feet. Stephen rose with him, and the two men watched Nancy set Dust down beside the dog, seemingly encouraging them to play.
“I’m amazed the child carried that cat of yours so far without losing her eyes,” Tristan remarked. “I remember trying to pat his head once and getting scratched for my troubles.”
“Miss Nancy has a way with animals, it seems. Her sister has a knack for writing and coaxing out the truth. She’d discovered that I was Orion, can you believe it?”
Tristan gave a low whistle and cast a quick, impressed look at the teenage girl, still deep in conversation with Letitia.
“And the eldest?” he asked casually. “What does she have a knack for?”
Stephen shot him a glare. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It can mean whatever you want it to. You can say what you like, and I’ll draw my own inferences. Like now, for instance,” Tristan added with a bright grin. “Your defensiveness confirms what I’ve already guessed.”
Stephen said nothing. Instead, he took Tristan’s elbow and steered him a few steps away from where Letitia and Marjory were talking.
He kept an eye on Nancy, who was playing on the lawn.
There were ponds and such nearby, and he had heard horror stories of children wandering off and drowning in such ponds. Did Nancy even know how to swim?
“Miss Holt is my grandmother’s companion,” he said tightly.
“I never said that she wasn’t,” Tristan shot back.
He nodded ahead, to where the figures of Amelia and Madeline, arm in arm, were slowly advancing toward the orangery. It was a straight walk from here to there, along a broad, well-paved path that should pose no problems for Madeline and her current unsteady gait.
Stephen noticed that Amelia had thought to offer Madeline her arm. Perhaps they’d become friends.
No, he reminded himself, friends require permanence. Amelia will not be here permanently, nor does she want to be.
Oh, she’d made that clear. There was no doubt in his mind that she’d wanted it, wanted him last night, but it hadn’t lasted, had it?
No, when the exhilaration and glow wore off, the panic set in.
There’d been no talk of making her his mistress, but she was no fool.
She knew what that life had done to her mother.
A lifetime of uncertainty and fear, mingled with stolen moments of joy and happiness. And at the end, an ignominious death in poverty, once her protector had died.
The worst of it all was that Mrs. Holt—she might have taken her lover’s name, just like her daughters, though that felt too disrespectful for words—died believing the man she loved did not care for her. She died thinking he’d left them unprovided for. That he’d lied.
Stephen had meant what he said to Amelia. He believed the old Viscount had intended them to be provided for, but something had gone wrong along the way. It hardly mattered now, of course. Not for Mrs. Holt, at least.
“Let me guess. You suspect that I have brought her here as my mistress,” Stephen murmured, once they were sufficiently far away from the others.
Tristan shrugged. “It would be out of character for you to do such a thing, but you wouldn’t be the first man to give in to temptation. She’s a pretty thing, and seems clever and interesting. It was kind of you to bring her sisters along.”
“Let me assure you now, Tristan, that Miss Holt is not my mistress, and that won’t change anytime soon.”
It won’t change because she won’t have me. She doesn’t trust me, and frankly, I am not sure I blame her.
Tristan eyed him for a long moment, then slowly rolled his shoulders. A boxer preparing for a round. “I see.”
Stephen narrowed his eyes at him. “You don’t believe me.”
“Did I say that?”
“You might as well have.”
“Then let me be clear. You are my friend, Stephen, and I’ll believe whatever you care to tell me. However, I also believe my own eyes, and I saw the way you looked at her.”
“Oh? And what way was that?”
“Hungry,” Tristan responded, simply and curtly.
There was a brief silence after that.
Stephen pressed his lips together and glanced again in the direction of Madeline and Amelia.
The taller of the two, Amelia, had her head slightly bent toward Madeline, listening to something the other woman was saying.
Snippets of their conversation drifted on the wind, snatched words here and there.
As if she could sense his stare, Amelia paused, glancing briefly over her shoulder.
She was, of course, too far away for their eyes to meet, but even so, he could feel her stare.
Swallowing thickly, Stephen dragged his gaze away, turning back to his friend. “What were you saying?”
Tristan’s mouth twitched. “I was saying that it’s clear you have feelings for her.”
“It’s none of your concern if I do. I don’t recall you asking for my advice when you were courting Madeline.”
Tristan snorted. “Madeline and I had a distinctly unusual courtship. You must know that if you return to Society with Miss Holt and her sisters residing in your house, there will be comments. Conclusions will be drawn. The plain fact is that there is no reason for a pretty, unmarried young woman like her to be living in your house in any role other than that of a servant. And don’t give me that grandmother’s companion nonsense. The woman is a guest—they all are.”
“And I cannot choose my own guests?”
Tristan growled under his breath. “You are a wretch to argue with, Stephen.”
“I do my best.”
“I know that I am right. You’ll recover, but her reputation will be destroyed. Who is she, anyway?”
Stephen gave a tight, tired smile. “I have been waiting for you to ask that question.”
That earned him a sharp, curious stare.
“Interesting,” Tristan murmured. “Are you going to tell me, or shall I guess what you mean?”
Stephen threw another glance down the pathway. Amelia and Madeline’s figures were growing smaller. Soon, they’d take a turn that would lead them into the orangery, and they would disappear.
His chest tightened at the thought of Amelia being out of sight.
That, of course, was patently ridiculous, but the feeling would not be reasoned away. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her, sprawled on his bed, head thrown back, eyes closed, breathing heavily. He could taste her on his tongue, feel the warm, soft give of her flesh.
He wanted her again, and there was no getting around it.
“Nancy, my dear,” Letitia called, jolting him out of his reverie. “What exactly is happening between Dust and Tiny?”
Stephen reluctantly tore his gaze from the walking women and glanced over at the lawn.
Dust had found a moderately comfortable spot, lounging on a flat, sunbathed rock. Tiny lay nearby, his long paws outstretched. He had his entire mouth around the cat’s head.
For one moment, panic surged in Stephen’s chest, before he realized that Dust was not fighting and did not look hurt.
“They’re just playing,” Nancy assured.
She patted Tiny on his flank, and he removed his mouth, yawning heavily. At once, Dust shoved his head back into the dog’s mouth, which Tiny bore with fortitude.
Well, that’s a first.
“See?” Nancy beamed. “They’re just friends. Friends, like Stephen and Amelia.”
“Friends,” Tristan murmured, highly amused. “I can assure you that friends do not look at each other the way you looked at her.”
Stephen threw his friend a sour glare and was rewarded with a wide, beaming smile. Tristan seemed to be having an excellent day.
“After all,” he added, when it was clear that no response was forthcoming, “you and I are friends, and I can assure you that we have never exchanged such an intense look. Much to our mutual relief, of course.”
Stephen judged it prudent not to respond at that moment.
Madeline didn’t rush to speak on the way to the orangery. She made occasional comments about the flowers and plants they passed. When Amelia offered her arm, Madeline took it with relief, offering a grateful smile.
“Pregnancy is not an easy business,” she said, sighing. “Some women seem to float through it without batting an eye. Not me.”
“I remember when my mother was pregnant with my sisters,” Amelia admitted. “She found it difficult.”
And my father did not visit when she was pregnant. I’m sure it wasn’t deliberate; he wasn’t that kind of man. I believe that he simply couldn’t get away more frequently. But she was so frightened, so vulnerable, and so alone. It was not fair.
But fairness was neither here nor there. Fairness was a pleasant concept, often ignored, much like justice and mercy. That was a hard lesson that Amelia had learned long ago.
She glanced down and found Madeline looking up at her curiously.
“It’s just down here,” Madeline said, and they took a narrower path toward the glass-paned building that was their destination.
The doors were open, and the warm breeze carried the scent of oranges along with it. Madeline breathed deeply, tilting back her head and closing her eyes.
“We don’t have an orangery on our property,” she said.
“I never cared excessively for oranges before, so I suppose we never saw the need to build one, but now that I’m with child, I crave them with a passion.
Tristan buys me oranges, of course, crates and crates of them.
And I eat them in horrendous quantities.
But it’s the smell I long for, and there’s nothing quite like the smell of an orangery. ”
They stepped into the building, where warm air and the scent of citrus crashed over them. Madeline sighed, releasing Amelia’s arm at last and stepping away, holding out her arms.
“Papa bought me oranges when I was a little girl,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “They were more expensive then. They are still expensive now, of course, but less so, I think.”
Amelia allowed herself a small smile. “We could never afford them. Our family was poorer than yours.”
Madeline opened her eyes, staring at her. “Holt. That is a familiar name.”
“And a common one,” Amelia responded calmly. “I do not believe we have been acquainted.”
“No, we haven’t. Amelia, I… I brought you here so that we could talk. I hope you don’t think that I am overstepping the bounds of politeness, nor do I wish you to feel uncomfortable. But you seem kind, and you clearly adore your sisters. I am afraid you are not… safe.”
Amelia let out a long breath, composing herself. She twisted her fingers together in front of her stomach, tugging hard in an effort to ground herself.
“I am not the Duke’s mistress, if that is what you are thinking,” she said. “But you were kind to me even when you thought I was.”
“I—”
“No, I know what you were thinking. I know what everyone will be thinking. But I am telling the truth. I am not his mistress. I’ll never be a man’s mistress, not so long as I live.” She paused, meeting Madeline’s eyes. “Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” Madeline answered simply. “Of course, Tristan thinks I am a little too naive, and I suppose I do have a tendency to believe most of the things that I am told, perhaps a little too easily. But I believe you, Amelia.”
Amelia’s shoulders relaxed. She couldn’t even remember when she had tensed them, but at some point, they had hunched up beneath her ears, pressing in around her neck. She smoothed them out carefully, forcing herself to relax, muscle by muscle. Tension would do nobody any good.
“I’m glad,” she confessed. “As I said, I am aware of how this looks.”
Madeline nodded thoughtfully, chewing on her lower lip. “Stephen’s choice to come back to London and host a party is… out of character. It’s sudden. Tristan is surprised and a little concerned. But I can’t help but wonder if it’s…” She paused, glancing at her again. “If it’s because of you.”
Amelia absorbed that, swallowing hard.
“It is,” she confessed. “But not for the reason you think.”
She had already decided not to tell Madeline about her brother and the old Viscount. Perhaps Madeline and Tristan could be trusted. Perhaps Stephen trusted them. But in that case, he could tell them himself.
If this secret gets out, I will be the one who is hurt, not him.
That was something she had to keep at the forefront of her mind. If all of this went wrong, then she would suffer. Stephen, a rich duke with a good family and friends around him, would be just fine. A penniless bastard seamstress, however? That was another matter entirely.
I would make a most convenient scapegoat.
Swallowing, she turned away from Madeline’s incisive gaze.
“Will you attend the party?” Madeline asked suddenly.
“I… I don’t know. I believe I will. They’re making a dress. Marjory and Nancy will be there, too. No doubt our presence will raise many questions.”
Our presence will draw much attention. My brother’s attention, specifically. And that is exactly what Stephen wants. I am the bait he needs to draw out his enemy.
She still had no idea what Stephen’s plan was, or even whether he had a fully formed one. He hadn’t seen fit to trust her, which should have shown her exactly what he thought of her and helped her fit her fancies accordingly. He did not care about her.
Even if his kisses make me burn.
She put that thought aside and met Madeline’s gaze squarely. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to return to the terrace. I want to check on my sisters.”
Perhaps it was her imagination, but she was sure she saw a flash of sympathy in Madeline’s eyes.
“Of course,” Madeline murmured.