Chapter Nine
Amelia closed the door to Hugh’s study behind her, her palm flat on the wood as she considered her approach.
Then she turned to where Hugh was already taking his place behind his desk—where he ordinarily sat.
She could not count the number of times she had come here for a piece of his attention, only to find him engaged in some work or another.
No matter how she tried, she could not get him to take joy in the world. Or, heaven forbid, to have fun.
Originally, she had hoped that he would fall in love and get married and his wife would provide him with the means for fun. So far, he had already achieved one of those things; it was up to her to ensure the rest happened.
“Please tell me you are joking,” she said. “Tell me you did not go to London to marry a lady you didn’t know.”
He sighed, taking on the expression he had when he was unwilling to discuss something. Which meant the answer was yes.
What a shortsighted, foolish thing to do.
Amelia swept across the room, trying to think her way through this mess. His new bride seemed nice enough, though she dressed like a pauper. Amelia would have to rectify that, but for now—
“Amelia,” Hugh said, interrupting her thoughts. “You’re making me dizzy.”
She stopped her pacing and whirled to face him. “How could you?”
His expression hardened. “I expect you to be polite and respectful to Christiana.”
“And of course I will be,” Amelia said impatiently. “She seems splendid, although not the lady I would have assumed you to choose.”
“And which lady was that?”
Here, Amelia paused. Admittedly, she had never seen Hugh court anyone. After the fire, he had not seemed interested in such things. But she had assumed he would select a beautiful, elegant lady, refined and ready for the position of duchess.
Christiana seemed capable, but not in the way of a duchess—rather, in the way of a housekeeper taking on a new household. A worker.
“I’m not sure,” she said finally, conceding defeat. “But you hardly know her. And anyone can see she has no fondness for you.”
“I would not have assumed she did, given our short acquaintance.”
“She is your wife.”
He stood by the window, staring out at the ground beside the lake.
He often did so, and Amelia could only assume it was because he recalled how, on the day of the fire, the entire household had gathered on that particular patch of grass.
Amelia could only remember flashes from the day itself, but although Hugh said nothing about it—and had not in quite some time—she suspected he remembered a great deal more than she ever would.
“She is content with the arrangement,” he said. “She consented to marrying me even knowing my situation. If she poses no objection, I hardly know why you should.”
Words brimmed in Amelia’s mouth, but she held them back before Hugh could scold her for speaking out of turn. When he got like this, a little morose and stern, he had less patience for her.
“Is that all you truly want from a marriage?” she asked at last. “A wife who merely tolerates you?”
“It is enough.” He turned to face her, hands behind his back.
She could barely remember what he looked like without his scarring, and the sight had become oddly comforting to her now.
He would not be the brother she’d known and loved without his scars—but she knew they gave him pain, and for that reason, she wished them gone.
Marriage would not solve that particular ill.
“I know you can’t understand my reasoning,” he said now, “but I arranged to marry her because she had no fondness for me or the rank I bear.”
“Then what? What are her charms?”
He regarded her steadily. “As I said: she tolerates me. Few enough ladies can, Lia.”
“Oh, fiddle,” Amelia snapped. “You are nothing so dreadful to look at, Hugh.”
“As my sister, you must admit to bias.”
“I will admit to no such thing,” she said, although he had a point. Even her friends in Bath had heard about the Beast of Somerset.
Amelia had done what she could to refute those rumors, but there was only so much anyone could do. Without venturing into Society and proving the rumors wrong, they would continue to spread, regardless of their veracity.
“Is she a lady?” she asked.
“She’s the daughter of a viscount.”
A viscount. Better than Amelia had hoped, although if she had ever planned her brother’s marriage for herself, she would have selected a higher-born lady. Still, it could certainly have been worse. “And you are positive she wasn’t chasing you for your title?”
His lips twitched. “Quite certain. In fact, I had to convince her to marry me.”
Amelia scowled and folded her arms. “For what reason?”
“A general reluctance to marry, at least in the manner by which she found herself obligated.”
“And which manner is that? She said her father arranged the match.”
Hugh stared at her for a long moment before saying, “His debts obliged her to wed.”
A weight settled in the pit of Amelia’s stomach. Sometimes she raged at Hugh’s coddling—she was eighteen and more than capable of navigating the world without a nanny—but at least he cared.
“Did you pay him off?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He sighed, looking more tired than she could recall in recent months.
“Once I explained my need for a wife and my expectations for that role, she agreed with some terms of her own. We negotiated a marriage contract, and the wedding took place. It was not a romantic endeavor, but I assure you, I hardly stole her from her loving father’s arms.”
“I never suspected that of you,” Amelia said scornfully, but her mind was still working.
This Christiana came from tragic circumstances, which was sure to spur Hugh’s sympathy.
And her eyes had been a rather glorious shade of gray that appeared almost ethereal.
There was potential for beauty there, in her own fashion.
With the right approach, there was still a chance for Hugh to fall in love with her.
“But why marry her at all? You never seemed inclined to take a wife before now.”
Hugh sighed. “Because I required someone to escort you to London in my stead, and the option of a duchess was far preferable to another lady I hired for the purpose. She will act as your chaperone, and once you are married, she and I will live largely separate lives.”
Largely separate lives? Amelia gaped at her brother. Once she married, she had wanted him to find someone with whom to spend his days, not to send that person away again.
“There’s no need to look at me like that,” he said. “Not everyone is a romantic.”
“There is not being a romantic, and there is such a marriage.” Amelia rubbed at her eyes. The problem of what to do with Hugh had been plaguing her for some time, and now it seemed all the more urgent. If he was going to be happy in any respect, he must fall in love with his wife.
She sank into the green armchair before his study desk. “You needn’t have done this for my sake, Hugh,” she said. “We both know I will find an eminently eligible husband with or without your interference.”
“Do we,” he said dryly.
“Of course. I’m the sister of a duke and, if I do say so myself, rather pretty.”
“With an impudent tongue that would chase any well-meaning gentleman far, far away.”
“Nonsense.” Amelia smiled, knowing her dimples were showing in her cheeks. “He will be utterly charmed, and we both know it.”
“I pity the poor fellow.”
Amelia sighed and redirected the conversation back along its proper lines. “I do wish you had chosen your bride out of at least a little affection.”
“Affection is not a luxury we all get to enjoy,” he said, a glint in his eye telling her that this conversation was over.
Well, perhaps it was for now, but Amelia had no intention of letting the subject lie.
She smiled sweetly. “By the end of all this, I will love her like a sister. And you, Hugh, will come to love her, too.”
“Then I hope your romantic heart is amenable to disappointment,” he said, “because I sincerely doubt I will ever be capable of such a thing.”
He said so now. But Amelia would contrive to make it happen, even if it killed her.