Chapter Five #4
He reached for another folded paper, the list Amelia had drawn up for him.
He’d already crossed out several names. Miss Harrow was still a strong candidate, but she seemed to lack confidence in herself.
And David knew a certain eleven-year-old girl who would take advantage of that.
More and more, he was beginning to wonder if it was a good idea to marry anyone at all.
You must, for our daughter’s sake, he could imagine Katherine saying.
He stared at all the names and realized that Margaret Andrews was the one person on the list who did know all the rules of society.
She was a walking book of etiquette. And although there was not a single spark of romantic interest, perhaps she was beyond those needs now.
He ought to speak frankly with her and ask what she wanted.
If she desired a marriage based upon friendship, and if she was willing to become a mother and a role model for Christine, then they could begin arranging a betrothal.
Marrying a woman like Margaret would be no betrayal at all to Katherine, for he felt nothing toward her.
But she’s in love with someone else, Katherine’s ghost warned. He’d witnessed that for himself, when she’d slipped away to meet with Cain Sinclair. Would Margaret betray him, if they were to wed?
He wasn’t certain. However, Miss Andrews had few options, since she’d had several seasons and only one marriage offer. If she’d intended to wed the Highlander, undoubtedly, she’d have done so earlier.
A grim satisfaction took root at the memory of how Cain Sinclair had bloodied the viscount’s nose. Lisford had deserved it, and David wished he could have been the one to land a punch after the man had tried to kiss Amelia in the garden.
The memory of her tears bothered him deeply. She’d let her innocence lead her astray and had paid the price.
You can’t have her, his conscience warned. Amelia was too young and was not at all what he needed in a wife. Better to pursue Margaret and see where that led. The decision made, David stared at the hearth. The vision of Katherine came back to him, but she wasn’t smiling.
This isn’t what I want for you, her ghost seemed to say. I want you to live again.
He silenced the imagined voices, for he knew now what he needed to do. He would make a respectable marriage if Margaret would have him, and give his daughter the mother she needed.
And he refused to think of Amelia again. Better to let her go, so she could love a man worthy of her.
“I’m drowning in flowers.” Amelia read the latest apology card from Viscount Lisford while her father, Henry Andrews, looked on with amusement.
“He does seem to be filled with remorse.”
“And well he should be,” Amelia said, as the butler, Mr. Culpepper, set the newest vase of yellow roses on a nearby table. “I’m not sorry I hit him.”
“I am glad that you’ve come to your senses,” Henry said. “He may be…theatrical with grand gestures, but the man is far too impulsive and irresponsible.”
“I think he sees me as a challenge.” Despite her earlier infatuation, she was beginning to realize that the viscount had a very strong sense of self-worth. “He wants me to meet with him again, to beg my forgiveness, so he says.”
“But you won’t.” Her father sent her a warning look.
“I don’t know.” Amelia stood before him, considering it. “If I continue to refuse him, he may keep sending flowers.”
“Tell him to send confections or cakes instead,” her father suggested. “At least we could eat those.”
She smiled, but inwardly worried that the viscount would not cease his efforts. Thus far, she’d received eight different posies of flowers. She was beginning to believe in his apology, despite his ostentatious efforts. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to a woman not wanting to be kissed.
“You cannot meet with him,” her father insisted.
“I don’t want to,” she agreed, “but what if he continues to pursue me? He seems like a gentleman who finds it a greater challenge when a woman says no.”
“Is there another gentleman who has caught your eye?” her father ventured. “Someone who could put an end to the viscount’s courtship?” Henry studied her, as if trying to read her thoughts.
Amelia kept her face neutral, but she couldn’t stop thinking of Lord Castledon. If she hadn’t already struck Viscount Lisford, she believed the earl would have defended her.
When she’d been in his arms, she’d felt safe. No…more than that. She’d wanted to embrace him, offering her own comfort. He was a man of inner strength, and never once had he surrendered the tight control he held over his grief.
“What are your thoughts regarding Lord Castledon?” her father asked.
Her cheeks went crimson, as if he’d read her mind. “H-he’s a kind man.”
“Good. I’ve met him a time or two. He’s asked to pay a call upon Margaret.”
He what? She blinked a moment, trying to make sense of it. Last night she’d been in his arms while she’d cried…but he hadn’t embraced her. He’d merely let her cry, letting her take comfort.
She closed her eyes, feeling frustrated with herself. Clearly, she’d misread him. If he intended to call upon Margaret, he’d made his choice—and it wasn’t her. Somehow, he must have changed his mind about courting her sister. Something had made him reconsider, though she couldn’t say what it was.
This was what you wanted, her conscience chided. To bring them together.
And yet, it was awful to think that she was once again falling in love with a man meant for her sister.
“I wish them well together,” she said, trying to feign a brightness she didn’t feel.
Her father nodded, satisfied with her answer. He straightened, as if something else was troubling him. “Amelia, I wondered if I might recruit your help in another endeavor.”
She waited, curious about what it could be.
“Your mother and I have…grown apart during the years I was at war. And even though I’ve been home these past few years, things are different between us. I don’t know—” His face reddened, and he stiffened his posture. “That is, I’ve been trying to—”
Awareness dawned upon her. “You want to court Mother again.”
“Not with flowers or confections,” he said hastily.
“No,” Amelia agreed. “But you could try being thoughtful. Do nice things for her that she doesn’t expect.”
Her father thought a moment. “The town house does need a few repairs to the windows. Her room has a draft.”
Amelia stared at him in disbelief. “Papa, do you honestly believe that fixing her window is romantic?”
He let out a sigh. “I have no idea what she would consider romantic.”
“Anything that involves repairing the house is not romantic,” she assured him. “Why don’t you take her out driving? Or perhaps boating. You could take a short trip together somewhere.”
“She might not go,” he confessed.
In that moment, he appeared utterly lost. Never before had Amelia seen him this way.
Her father had always been a soldier, stern and foreboding in his demeanor.
To be frank, she knew her mother, Beatrice, had wedded him because she’d had no other offers.
There had never been much in the way of love between them.
They took care of each other, but her mother had struggled during the war years.
“Start small,” Amelia suggested. “But for Heaven’s sake, do not fix something or give her doorknobs as a gift.
” Her father had once given them to her mother when he’d forgotten her birthday.
It was little wonder her mother had been frustrated.
He’d made matters worse when he’d forbidden Beatrice to help with Aphrodite’s Unmentionables.
Although her mother didn’t sew, she had loved organizing the crofters’ wives, managing the orders, and ensuring that the work was completed on time.
“You could take her back to Scotland,” she added. “I think she liked having a purpose, helping the women with their sewing.”
Henry frowned, as if he didn’t want that at all. “But she does have a purpose. She’s helping you and Margaret to find husbands.”
“But what about her life?” Amelia pointed out. “What is it that she wants?”
He looked utterly mystified by this, and she wondered if he’d ever taken the time to get acquainted with Beatrice. “I don’t even know how to begin.” Her father stared across the room in contemplation.
“Just try,” Amelia urged. “And if you give her a gift, give her jewels or something extravagant. Something she would never buy for herself.”
With a smile, she squeezed her father’s hand and left the parlor. Before she reached the staircase, she saw that a ninth bouquet of flowers had arrived. This time it was five purple irises, bound in matching purple ribbon.
The butler, Mr. Culpepper, cleared his throat. “Lord Lisford asked if you would consider speaking to him. He’s waiting outside in his landau.”
Amelia suppressed a groan. “I don’t think so, no.”
Mr. Culpepper appeared pained at her refusal. “He warned that he would continue sending flowers until you did.”
“And our home will become a hothouse in the meantime.” She sighed. “I suppose I could speak to him for a few moments.”
The butler shook his head. “He’s afraid of your father, Miss Andrews. He asked if you would join him for an outing, perhaps a stroll or a drive.”
Which would be utterly foolish after the way he’d behaved the other night. Amelia walked past the butler to the front door. He opened it for her, but asked, “Would you like me to send a footman to accompany you, Miss Andrews?”
“I’m going nowhere,” she said. “If Lord Lisford wishes to speak to me, he’ll have to march forward on his own two feet.”
The carriage was indeed waiting outside. Amelia stepped forward so the viscount would undoubtedly see her. She waited, glaring at the landau. A minute passed, and the viscount did not disembark.
“So be it,” she muttered, turning around to leave.
At last, the viscount emerged from the carriage and called out, “Miss Andrews, if you please—”
She paused a moment, and he hurried toward the steps. “Forgive me, but I just wanted a word.”
“Whatever you have to say can be said here or not at all. And stop sending flowers,” she said firmly.
He looked abashed at her words, and then climbed a few of the steps. “Miss Andrews, I owe you an apology for the other night. I had no right to—” He eyed the butler and cleared his throat, saying, “that is, I beg your forgiveness. What I did was reprehensible, and it will not happen again.”
In his hazel eyes, she saw remorse and embarrassment. She narrowed her gaze, trying to discern if there was a trace of slyness or untruth. But no, it appeared that he was genuinely contrite.
“What can I do to gain your forgiveness?” he pleaded. “I really do like you, and…I think we would get on well together.”
“I think you would get on well with any number of women.” She tried to keep her voice gentle but firm.
“In other words, I had my chance, and it’s gone now.” He grew somber, and for a moment, Amelia felt her resolve slipping. He did appear quite sorry for what he’d done.
“I accept your apology,” she said at last. She could only hope that he would give up his interest in her.
“Good,” he promised. “In the meanwhile, I wanted to ask you something.” He climbed the remaining stairs until he stood in front of her. The butler remained near the door, and Amelia motioned for him to step back slightly.
“What is that?” She held her ground, uncertain of what he wanted.
“Do you still dream of a romantic marriage?” There was hope in his voice, as if he wanted to believe there was a chance for them.
Amelia thought of her father and mother. Theirs had been an arrangement, a betrothal formed by friendship, not love. Although they had been good companions, she didn’t think they’d had a love match.
Then her thoughts returned to Lord Castledon.
By his own admission, he’d loved his wife and had mourned her death, though she’d had trouble imagining him as a romantic sort.
And yet, the more she grew acquainted with him, the more she saw that he was a man of steadfast loyalty.
When he loved a woman, it was forever. And that appealed to her far more than a man who loved when it suited him.
“Yes, I suppose I do,” she answered honestly.
A dangerous smile broke across his face, and she glimpsed the young man who had once made her heart flutter. “Good. I’ll make all the necessary arrangements.”
And Amelia feared that she’d agreed to something she’d never intended.