Chapter 22
ONE WEEK LATER
She was avoiding him. That was pretty clear.
For the first few days after their engagement had been announced, Stephen understood that Amelia might not want to see him. She was never at the breakfast table when he came down in the morning, and found a way to excuse herself from the dinner table, too, taking her meals in her bedroom.
As the days dragged on, however, Stephen grew a little irritated. He was making her a duchess, for heaven’s sake. She was achieving what her mother never had—marriage to a man who could change her life.
Of course, the difference here was that her mother had been madly in love with her man, and Amelia was… Well, Stephen was not sure how Amelia felt about him. She was drawn to him, or at least drawn to the way he touched her. But the idea of marriage had shocked her.
Stephen bit his lower lip, tapping the end of his pencil against the desk. He had work to do, but ledgers and correspondence were the last things he could think about at that moment. He hadn’t been able to think about them for days now.
He could only think about Amelia.
Marriage was the right choice. His grandmother was right about that. Their encounters would likely have repeated over their three months together, and he supposed that it was only a matter of time before they were caught in an even more shocking, compromising position.
There’s nothing like marriage to cool ardor, he thought grimly. Once she’s my Duchess, I daresay she’ll never want me to touch her again.
He’d seen it in her eyes when he suggested that they marry.
Had it been a suggestion, really? In hindsight, he supposed that he’d simply told her what he intended to do.
Well, it was too late to go back and change things now. The license was on its way. News was already flying around London that the Duke of Redcliffe was back, not dead at all, and more, that he was thinking of taking a wife.
Society was all a-quiver. Calling cards arrived at their home by the barrelful, and more ambitious members of the ton attempted to visit. They were never admitted, of course, but they still tried.
Occasionally, he would spot Amelia in the halls.
Once or twice, they had crossed paths, but she generally took pains to avoid him.
He had seen her, ahead of him in a corridor, duck hastily into the closest doorway, pretending she had not seen him, only to venture out once he’d gone by.
It was vaguely amusing, but his amusement was rapidly running out.
I feel like a predator on the hunt for a particularly tricky prey. A fox and a cunning chicken, perhaps.
Letting out a long sigh, he tossed aside his pencil and leaned back in his seat, tilting back his head. In the silence, he could hear strains of music.
With Madeline’s help, Letitia had decided to teach the Holt sisters a little etiquette.
Amelia won’t be able to avoid me there, Stephen realized with a wry smile. Not in the middle of her etiquette lesson.
With that thought, he pushed away from his desk, leaving his study behind, and set off at a brisk walk down the hallway.
The music led him all the way to the large, empty ballroom. He stepped inside and found them all clustered around the music platform at the end. A huge pianoforte dominated the platform, and a tired-looking music tutor hunched over the keys.
Madeline was there, sitting back in a chair with her hands on her belly.
Letitia sat beside her, while Nancy stood beside her, watching eagerly.
Amelia sat opposite, very straight-backed, with a heavy book balanced on her head.
As far as Stephen could tell, her goal was to pour three cups of tea from a steaming teapot without dislodging the books.
As he approached, she glanced up, and her mouth tightened. The book wobbled, and the stream of tea faltered, but she didn’t spill a drop. Then she set aside the pot, deliberately ignoring him, and looked straight at Letitia.
“There.”
“Well done, my dear,” Letitia said approvingly. “Your manners are excellent. Are you sure you didn’t attend finishing school?”
“No, our mother taught us all of this,” Amelia murmured, lifting the book off her head and setting it aside. Still not looking at Stephen, she gingerly massaged the top of her head as if it ached. “Father insisted.”
“Your father insisted?” Stephen spoke up.
She was forced to look at him then, a quick, annoyed glance.
She is not pleased at being ambushed.
He bit back a smile.
“Yes,” she answered eventually. “I… I believe he planned to find a way to introduce us to Society. I do not know how he would have managed it.”
“It sounds as though he loved you all very much,” Madeline murmured, her voice quiet but clear. “He wanted all three of you to have a good life.”
“It would not have worked,” Amelia responded, looking away. She made no move to take any of the tea she had just poured. Stephen watched the steam curl up from the amber liquid, disappearing into the air. “We would have been discovered and ruined sooner or later.”
Before Letitia could respond, the door banged, and skittering footsteps echoed. Stephen turned to see Marjory hurrying toward them, her hair coming undone, breathless. She had clearly come running.
“This scandal sheet just arrived today,” she cried, halfway across the room. “It mentions you, Amelia.”
Stephen glanced back at Amelia, just in time to watch the color drain from her face.
We always knew this day was coming, he wanted to say, but now did not seem like the right time.
“What?” she gasped, snatching the paper from her sister.
She flipped through the pages frantically, not having to search long before she found the article she was looking for. She paused, paling even further.
“The mysterious figure of the famous club, Orion, is at last revealed as none other than the Duke of Redcliffe, a missing piece of our fine society, long presumed dead,” she read aloud, her voice catching and echoing in the silent room.
“Imagine the surprise of this author to learn that the Duke has been under our noses this whole time, staying hidden for reasons best known only to him and soon to be revealed to us. On the heels of his revelation, this author has learned that His Grace intends to wed immediately. However, rumor has it that this bride-to-be is no lady at all…” she trailed off, swallowing.
“Well?” Madeline prompted anxiously. “What else does it say?”
“More of the same,” Amelia muttered, frowning. “Now that they know my name, they’ll soon uncover our parentage. It’s all over.”
“Over? I think not,” Stephen responded smoothly, neatly plucking the paper out of her hands. “This was always going to happen. We can weather a little scandal. And in a few days, you’ll be the Duchess of Redcliffe, and you can do and say as you like.”
“I hardly think—”
“Being a duchess is not the same as being a seamstress,” he interrupted, catching her gaze and holding it. “A flood that washes away your life when you live on the forest floor won’t touch you if you live on the top of a mountain.”
She did not hold his gaze. Instead, she glanced away, biting her lip.
“I haven’t climbed the mountain yet,” she muttered. “And no title can change the fact that I was once a seamstress, and am still an illegitimate daughter.”
“And nor can those things change the fact that you will be a duchess. Come, let’s think no more of this filth.”
To drive his point home, he tore the paper in two, then in four, then eight, then again and again until the air was full of tiny shreds of paper, the scandal sheet reduced to a collection of scraps.
Marjory mournfully watched the papery snowfall drift to the floor. “I was going to read that,” she mumbled.
Stephen ignored her and turned to the man at the pianoforte. “A waltz, I think,” he ordered. “Amelia, I hear that you are well taught in etiquette. Did you learn to dance?”
She wavered. “Well, yes, but I have not practiced for years.”
“It will come back to you quickly,” he assured her, then extended a hand. “Come, my bride-to-be. Dance with me.”
She swallowed, staring at his hand. Then her gaze flitted away, darting over Letitia, Madeline, and, of course, her sisters.
Stephen cleared his throat. “No spectators. We can hardly do without our music, but so long as the fellow keeps his eyes on the keys and not us, we’ll have no trouble.”
“Stephen…” Letitia began, but he fixed her with a cool, pointed look.
“No spectators,” he repeated softly.
Marjory looked as though she wanted to argue. His grandmother, however, recognized his tone. He would hear no argument. She got to her feet with a sigh and gestured for Marjory to support her.
“Very well,” she said crisply. “Girls, Madeline, come along. We’ll take tea in the parlor, and I’m sure that Stephen and Amelia will meet us very soon.”
Stephen did not bother to confirm or deny it.
The others shuffled away, their low voices echoing through the huge room. He would not have been surprised if Amelia’s nerve broke and she raced after them. However, she stayed where she was, quiet and still.
Once the door had closed behind the others, and they were alone with the half-asleep music tutor, Stephen extended his hand once more. And waited, like any good hunter.
Amelia took a moment, swallowing hard, her tongue darting out to wet her red lips. Then, as if she’d made a decision in a rush, she placed her hand in his. Her cold palm in his warm one. He closed his fingers over her hand and drew her close to him.
“You have practiced the waltz, I take it?” he murmured.
She cleared her throat. “Not… not the waltz. Mama never thought it was proper.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And I do see the irony.”
“Well, the less said, the better, I imagine. Don’t fret; the waltz is easy enough. Simply follow my lead.”
She was still close to him, not quite close enough for their bodies to touch, but close enough that she would be thinking about it.