Chapter Five #3
His blue eyes caught her meaning. For a fraction of a moment, she held her breath, wondering if he would. He cupped her cheek, and the touch of his hand made her close her eyes. She was so glad he’d been there to stop the viscount from harming her.
But then his hand drew away, and he said, “I’ll escort you back before they come looking for us.”
Her anticipation deflated as his hand moved down to her spine, guiding her into the open. Any man but him, he’d meant.
Amelia couldn’t help but feel a surge of disappointment. She couldn’t believe that at one time, she’d thought the Earl of Castledon had the personality of a handkerchief. No, he wasn’t a man to dance and engage in lively conversation. But that was because he’d suffered a great loss.
He’d shrouded his life, and behind the shield was a man who wasn’t afraid to defend a woman. His solitude was a different kind of strength, and she somehow wished that she could unlock his loneliness and find the man who had loved a woman with all his heart.
She stopped walking when they reached the terrace. “Thank you,” she told him softly, “for saving me.”
“I imagine Lisford will have a sore jaw tomorrow. Remind me not to make you angry.” He kept his tone light and walked alongside her on the pathway.
“Wait a moment,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to go back just yet.”
He was about to argue with her, but she touched his arm. “I’d rather not see anyone for another moment or two.”
He acceded but stepped back a pace, as if he didn’t want to stand too close to her.
The night air was warm, and the light fragrance of rose and lavender mingled from the gardens.
She studied the darkening sky. Although it was late, there was a faint hue of orange in the skies as the sun continued its descent.
He looked as if he didn’t know what to say to her, but Amelia ordered, “Don’t speak at all.
Just be for a moment.” She closed her eyes, savoring the sensations of sunset against her skin, the blended fragrance of the garden…
and the man at her side. In her imagination, she pictured him cupping her face between his hands and kissing her gently.
It wouldn’t happen, of course. He believed she was too young for him, and moreover, he wanted a straitlaced young woman to be a mother to his daughter.
But sometimes it was nice to dream.
Charles Newport, Viscount Lisford, gathered his composure, inwardly cursing himself for what he’d done. He’d thought he could transform Miss Andrews’s opinion of him by kissing her. Instead, she’d struck him, as if he had tried to accost her.
That hadn’t been his intention at all. He’d never kissed a woman who hadn’t wanted to be kissed. Women usually came to him. They hung upon his words, smiling and hoping he would grant them his attentions.
He was utterly bewildered by what had just happened. Now she would undoubtedly believe that he was a debaucher of women. It wasn’t that at all. But he’d sensed her impatience with him after he’d lost the fight at Vauxhall Gardens.
He’d needed that money. And how was he to know that his opponent would be a bloody Scot the size of an ox?
Worst of all was seeing Miss Amelia there.
She’d been aghast at the sight of him being beaten bloody, and he’d known then that any attraction she’d felt toward him was disappearing.
A sense of desperation strung tighter inside him, for he liked Amelia Andrews.
She was beautiful, charming, and he enjoyed her honesty.
She was so different from her sister, and a thorn of regret pricked at his conscience for what he’d done to Margaret.
This wasn’t the sort of man he wanted to be. He’d mistakenly believed that Amelia would forgive him if he kissed her. How was he to know that she would spurn him so quickly?
He owed her an apology, but likely she wouldn’t speak to him again. With a heavy sigh, he watched her from the shadows of the terrace. She stood among her sisters, but she didn’t appear to be having a good time.
His stupidity had cost him greatly this night, and he had to find a means of atoning for his errors. If he won Amelia’s heart, there would be a good dowry. All he had to do was convince her that he loved her. With the right words, she would believe him.
Her sister’s husband was the Duke of Worthingstone, and her father was a baron. Between the two of them, he had no doubt that Amelia Andrews was an heiress who would solve every last one of his financial woes.
An inner voice warned that her family would not be amicable to his courtship, after he’d abandoned Margaret Andrews. But then, that couldn’t be helped. Miss Andrews would not forgive him after he’d humiliated her, nor would her parents.
There was another way, however. If he could convince Amelia that he was the man of her dreams, she was adventurous enough to consider eloping.
He fixated upon the possibility, realizing that this was an excellent idea.
Amelia had a romantic heart, and if he gave her everything she desired, he would succeed in marrying her and the dowry would follow.
It would work. He was certain of it. She would come to forgive him, in time.
“I know how you feel,” came a female voice from the shadows.
Charles turned and saw a plain-faced young woman he didn’t recognize.
She was wearing a dark rose gown, and when she stepped into the light, he saw that she had dark hair and brown eyes.
“I know what it is to want something badly and have it slip from your grasp.”
He didn’t know what the woman was speaking of, but she sent him a wry smile. “You should try again.”
“I intend to.” He knew he ought to leave, but something about this woman intrigued him. “Have we met before?”
She shook her head. “I’m not even supposed to be here. But I, too, wished to speak with Amelia Andrews.” Answering his unspoken question, she confessed, “I am Lady Sarah Carlisle.”
He didn’t know the young woman, but he nodded in greeting.
“If you want to marry her, then don’t give up,” she assured him. “Do whatever you must to win her over.” Her face turned pale, and she clutched at the edges of her wrap. “Even if you must resort to desperate means.”
He frowned and ventured, “You sound as if you’re speaking of yourself. What is it that you wanted so badly?”
“My freedom,” she whispered. Her eyes turned distant and she stared back at the ballroom. “I would wed any gentleman inside that room, if it meant escaping my circumstances.” She sent him a faint smile. “Even you.”
Before he could say a word, she reassured him, “Oh, don’t worry. That isn’t why I came to speak with you. I simply wanted to encourage you.”
He studied her, and though no one could call her pretty, there was a strength in this woman, as if she’d endured a great deal. “I wish you luck in finding your freedom, Lady Sarah.”
She nodded, but the bleakness in her expression suggested that she had little hope of achieving it.
“I shall,” she admitted. “And like you, I will set my reservations aside and do what must be done.”
David sat in his wife’s wingback chair, leaning back.
In his hands, he held Christine’s latest letter.
She had informed him that he was her favorite father (which made him wonder what she wanted, since he was her only father).
Then she had gone on to list the attributes of her governess, Miss Grant, whom she believed would make an excellent new mother.
While Miss Grant was a pleasant young woman, David knew that the governess had no knowledge of London society, nor could she teach Christine what she needed to know.
When his daughter came of age, he intended for her to have a Season where she would be introduced to titled young men of good families.
Christine needed someone who would instruct her in all the rules and good manners.
Someone like Lavinia Harrow or Margaret Andrews. Someone who was sensible and well-bred.
But God help him, all he could think of was Amelia.
“She’s not right for me, Katherine,” he told the ghost of his wife. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost imagine her standing by the hearth. “She’s far too young and impetuous.”
And yet when Amelia had wept in his arms, he’d wanted to tighten his hold and comfort her. He’d wanted to tilt up her innocent lips and teach her what it was to kiss a man. She’d made him feel again, and that wasn’t something he wanted.
“She should marry one of the gentlemen with a fortune who can give her children.”
You can give her children, too, he imagined Katherine saying.
“I won’t.” He wasn’t going to even consider it. Not because there was anything wrong with Amelia Andrews. But he didn’t want a woman who would expect him to be a true husband.
The idea of fathering a child upon a woman like Amelia crept into his mind, tormenting him with images of her young body yielding beneath his.
She was a sensual creature, and he suspected that, if properly instructed, she would enjoy sharing his bed.
And he would enjoy her, which was a betrayal of Katherine’s memory.
He set aside Christine’s letter, wishing for a moment that he’d been buried with his wife. The wasting sickness had drawn her life away, and when he’d lost her, the physician had informed David that she’d been with child. A son, as it turned out.
Even after all these years, he wondered why she hadn’t told him until the very end.
Perhaps it was because the unexpected pregnancy had shortened what little time Katherine had left.
But there had been peace upon her face when she’d died.
The doctor showed him the son she’d miscarried in the last moments, and the child had been barely larger than David’s palm.
The aching inside his heart hadn’t diminished, not at all. No words or any amount of time would heal the wounds still haunting him.