Chapter Thirteen #2
The thought of his apoplectic reaction sent a bubble of inappropriate pleasure through her, but she was not blinded by pain enough to be willing to sacrifice Clara’s safety and virtue.
“Until you decide how you wish to proceed around Brinley, you should be wary and alert,” she cautioned Clara.
“I suspect there is more to his actions and his emotions than even he is aware of. He is a man who plays his cards close to his chest, and an unpredictable man can be a dangerous one.” She didn’t think Brinley would harm Clara, but Amelia would rather opt for an abundance of caution rather than a dearth of it.
“I will,” Clara swore, then rolled to her side to take Amelia’s hand in her own. Finally, they slept.
Several weeks passed, but there was no mention of Clara leaving Scotland.
Amelia took pleasure in the distraction and, though she didn’t say it in such blunt terms, she suspected Clara felt just as betrayed by Dorian and disgusted by his callousness.
She avoided bringing her brother up in conversation—Amelia suspected because of the issue of split loyalties—which was fine with her.
Amelia was able to focus on Archie and her sole houseguest, doing her best to return to life as it had been before Dorian had barged back into it with his defiant temper and ill-intentioned kisses. Unfortunately for Amelia, this did not banish him completely from her mind.
There were moments when she thought she might expire from her shame or her loathing of his behavior; other times, she’d awaken in her cold bed with no man or beast to chase away the shadows or warm her, and the tears would choke her as she attempted to swallow them back.
She fought it valiantly, though, because she refused to cry for the loss of something that hadn’t even been real.
Though he’d only been there for a short time, the castle felt cavernous without Dorian. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to run Rory without Faye or Dorian chasing after her, so she occupied herself with indoor activities that had nothing to do with her broken heart.
One afternoon when she, Clara, and Archie were quietly occupied with individual pursuits in the family parlor, there was a knock. Grahame entered, advising there was a visitor.
“Who is he?” she asked, looking up from her sewing.
“One Sir Colin Brandon,” the butler patiently repeated. “He says he has a delivery for you and insists that this is not a delivery he will leave ’round back.”
Amelia was unsure who the man was, but she couldn’t turn him away when he was insistent that he had business with her. Hearing out requests and meeting with tenants were some of her duties as she managed the estate for her son.
“Show him in,” she said, setting aside her work.
“I wonder what business he has,” Clara remarked off-handedly, not bothering to look up from her book.
“We shall find out.”
Sir Colin was a rather rotund man with a jolly disposition, ruddy cheeks, and a sparse shock of copper hair. He introduced himself as a resident of the next county over.
“What may I do for you, Sir Colin?” Amelia inquired warmly.
“Why, I have your order!” He beamed.
“What order?” Amelia asked, perplexed.
The man frowned, but he did not lose good nature. Instead, he excused himself to summon his companion, who followed him into the parlor while carrying a squirming deerhound pup beneath each of his arms.
Amelia clapped her hand over her mouth; Archie jumped up and squealed in joy.
Sir Colin retrieved the larger of the animals and handed it to Archie. “This one’s a braw lad; he’ll grow to be quite enormous,” he said with pride.
“I’d told Kempton I wanted a puppy—I thought he’d forgotten!” exclaimed her son, who then dissolved in a fit of giggles as the dog proceeded to lick every part of Archie’s face he could reach.
Amelia could not speak at first.
“Kempton?” she finally managed to croak out.
“Aye,” Sir Colin nodded and produced a paper from his pocket, proving that Dorian had purchased the new pups several weeks earlier, before they’d been weaned.
“He heard I had a new litter of pups nearly ready for homes—knew they came from strong bloodlines.” Sir Colin’s barrel chest puffed out in pride. “Been breedin’ ’em for generations.”
Clara stood and put a hand on Amelia’s arm. “Should I have them take the dogs away with them?” she asked in a whisper. “Perhaps we could find them a new home?”
Amelia could not look away from the remaining pup, who stared at her expectantly from the other man’s arms. Slowly, Amelia shook her head, and Clara went to take the other puppy.
“No,” Amelia said, stopping her and reaching for the puppy herself. A female. Her long, slender tail wiggled tentatively in response to Amelia’s scrutiny as she held her aloft.
Amelia barely heard Clara thank the men as she ushered them from the room. She turned, and Amelia held the pup to her chest, feeling each of its oversized paws with careful awe. It licked the underside of her chin with its velvety pink tongue.
Clara scratched the pup behind the ears. “Such a sweet little thing she is.”
Amelia clutched the puppy close, feeling the full implications of the gift. Were she more hard-hearted—or smarter, she supposed—she’d see it as a ploy. The deepest part of her soul told her otherwise, and she crumpled to her knees as her tears finally came.