Chapter Eleven
“What are those two whispering about now?” Benedict mumbled to one of the footmen.
“I couldn’t say, Your Grace.”
Not that Benedict had expected an answer. Having only one sister, he hadn’t been a witness to the incessant murmurings, and he never would have expected so much of it. It was almost as if they were scheming. But what could they be scheming about? He was already here. Willing to marry.
“Ah, this looks lovely.” Arabella announced to all those present.
All, being three: two footmen and himself.
Often she spoke as if she were on a stage and everyone else was merely looking on.
She wasn’t conceited about it, not that Benedict could see, but she embraced any and all attention.
Without knowing for sure, he assumed she took that role because of her age.
She was so young. Much younger in body and mind than Benedict had been prepared for.
When he glanced between the two sisters, he guessed that there might even be a decade between them. And though Arabella wasn’t a debutante, she was much closer in age to being one than Amelia.
Amelia who stood a couple of feet away, hands crossed over her body, glaring at him.
Glaring for what? He didn’t know. Shouldn’t she be grateful to him more than anything?
He had saved her not once, but twice. And he was in the process of saving her family from scandal, though he didn’t know the full details yet.
So should she be grateful rather than disdainful? Yes. Why yes, she should.
His eyes slipped over to Amelia who was awkwardly trading glances with her sister. Her lips were pulled tightly back and her eyebrows looked menacing. As menacing as eyebrows can look. Especially hers. Soft, light brown, framing her green eyes perfectly.
“Thank you for setting up our equipment for a lovely afternoon of watercolors.” Arabella projected her voice again.
Benedict wasn’t as thankful to be painting as she was, but was willing to go along with it. The previous day’s rescue still had him reeling. Saving Amelia was becoming something of a habit for him. The odd thing was that he couldn’t precisely say he minded it.
Except of course that he was supposed to be defying the ton and actually saving a woman from scandal. Not marrying an old spinster. Though…it felt wrong to refer to Amelia as an old spinster. She was more like a strong-willed, strong-spirited, fine specimen…of a spinster.
But it was the younger sister he was here for. A duke should marry a person of exceptional character and reputation, so for him to marry a woman ensconced in secrets would be his way to buck society’s conventions and show everyone that he was going to live his life however he wanted.
A quick glance between the two sisters, one on either side of him now, suggested that they were somehow whispering to each other again. Without words. Or sounds.
Best to get on with things.
“Shall we start painting—”
“I just need to discuss a small matter with Amelia—”
“We already discussed it. I’m fine.” His startled eyes swung to Amelia and the way she ground out her words.
“But we just need to make sure—”
“I’m fine. We can…go along with it.” Half of what she was saying made no sense. Well, really, most of what she was saying made no sense to him directly.
“Are you sure?” Arabella asked to clarify. But certainly nothing was being elucidated for Benedict. In fact, he was quite sure now that the sisters were able to converse without really vocalizing anything of substance. They must have a secret language.
“I’m sure. And I’m sure I’m right,” Amelia held her gaze steady on her sister.
“We shall see about that,” Arabella turned as if to take her seat in front of the easel to paint.
Benedict was in mid squat when he heard—
“Ahhh! My leg!” Arabella shouted, suddenly flopping to the ground.
“Oooh, my…erm…my foot,” Amelia called out on the other side of him.
Had he missed something? A swooping bird? A scurrying mouse? He couldn’t say that he saw anything of either kind.
But his heart leapt into his throat as he watched Amelia grab her foot and begin to hop. Without a conscious thought, his feet took off toward her to prevent her from falling over.
“Are you alright, Amelia? What happened?” As far as he could see, nothing had happened. It was the most curious thing.
“I’m…erm…I’m fine.” She stood, shaking her head. One of her hands rested lightly on his shoulder in the most natural way.
When he turned his head to check on Arabella, he could have sworn he caught her mouthing something to her sister that looked oddly like, I told you.
“Are you alright, Arabella?” he asked with concern laced in his voice.
“Oh yes. Quite alright. I don’t know what happened. Just one of those silly moments where you fall over, you know?”
No. He did not know.
“Yes. It happens all the time.”
No. No, it did not.
The younger sister stood—sans limp—and sighed with what sounded like elation. “Well, shall we get to our watercolors then?” Arabella had a smug look on her face, as if she had just won a competition. But what competition that was, he did not know.
Apparently he knew very little right now.
Except one thing…he knew he liked how his hands felt around Amelia’s waist and how her hands felt on his shoulders. Even in the short time that they had known each other, this was a common posture between them.
Unfurling her fingers from him, Amelia freed herself and found a stool to perch upon in order to begin painting.
Which was for the best. The woman was all poise and overly concerned about her image. She was exactly the same as…well, what he had experienced before and wanted nothing to with again. Yet…he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something different about her.
It looked like this afternoon would be full of unknowns.
Ah, yes. How could he forget to add to the list, watercolors? Another thing he knew nothing about. Oh well. He was here to show off his best self and make a match with Amelia—Arabella. He meant, Arabella.