CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After the music room performance, Amelia ventured out into the hallway, her heart lighter. She wanted to apologize for leaving Graham on the cliff-side without another word, for being petty and hoping her behavior taught him something about his own.
She did not wish to ignore him, only to have felt her despair at him shutting her out.
The night before had brought them closer together—she could not forget that, and Amelia could only hope that he would not easily forget it, either.
She swept down the hallway, her simple yet pretty blue gown soft beneath her anxious hands that clenched and unclenched, she rounded a corner, only to quickly duck back again.
Ahead, two maids looked as though they should have dusting but instead, their heads were bowed, their hushed voices a bare sound in the empty hallway.
“She was a baron’s daughter, wasn’t she?” one maid whispered, glancing around herself as if to check they were truly alone. Amelia’s chest constricted as she listened. “And now she is the duchess.”
“Our duchess, Mary,” the other maid hissed. “We can’t forget that! We have to respect her.”
Mary scoffed. “What has she done to earn our respect? I know my place in this world, and it is beneath social climbers like her.”
The accusation rang through Amelia, piercing her through. Her throat closed up, and she pressed a hand to her face in anguish.
“We do not know such things for sure. One of the maids at the Kensington garden party that day is a friend of mine, and she admitted there was nothing of salacious nature going on. She said, if anything, Lady Cassandra Kensington led her group of ladies to the hedge maze as though she expected something wrong.”
“Well, of course she did,” Mary insisted. “If she knew they were in there then she was only right to catch them in the act! There’s just something too convenient about the whole situation. His Grace did not even court her.”
That declaration, true as it was, hit Amelia square in the chest. He hadn’t but that had not been his fault.
In another version of our story would he have done?
Had we not been found in the maze, would he have asked to court me, become engaged to me?
Then she corrected her thoughts. Of course not.
He had barely been able to handle the thought of breakfast in a village inn with her, let alone a true, full courtship.
“And marriages can be like that in the ton. We see enough of hasty arrangements.”
“Indeed, that does cover up secrets, or are enacted by cunning ladies who wish to be higher than their station.”
Silence fell, deep and contemplative. “We shouldn’t be speaking like this. It doesn’t feel right, and I don’t want to risk His Grace finding out.”
Had Amelia been Lady Cassandra, or even Bernadette, she’d have stepped out into the hallway and declared that His Grace would indeed find out.
She would have them reprimanded for speaking about her.
But she wasn’t. For all her confidence the night before, she could only press herself in a shadowed alcove as the maids’ footsteps hurried away, the two of them giggling over one of the new stewards.
Guilt pricked her heart, as if she was accused rightly of something.
It was as though everybody had spoken about it so much that she was now convincing herself that…
what if it was true? After all, she had not left the maze, and she had turned over that thought time and time again.
But she’d intended only to briefly have a moment to herself.
Amelia had only wanted to escape the stares and the incessant advances from Lord Ambrose.
Had they ever even had a connection or had Amelia fabricated that, too?
Gritting her teeth, annoyed at her own spiraled, paranoid thoughts, she continued on her way to the duke’s study. Knocking, she entered the room.
“I have always told you to wait,” came his growl immediately, freezing her in the doorway.
Then he looked up, his scowl already deep.
“Oh, Amelia. I thought you were the butler.” Graham stiffened at the sight of her, pressing back into his chair.
His eyes were heavy and tired, and ink smudged his hands.
His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, and he looked more disheveled than he had done on the cliffs that morning.
“I came to apologise,” she said quietly, stepping into the study, letting the door close heavily behind her. “I pushed too hard this morning, and then rode away pettily, ignoring your calls for me to come back. I did not understand, and I was not patient.”
“No,” he sighed. “No, you were not patient. When will you understand, Amelia?”
She quivered, stepping back, her hands balled into fists. “You do not need to be angry with me!”
“And why not?” he shouted. “Can you not see I am busy? You misunderstood me this morning, you assumed I meant the worst of things! But, of course, you have been like everybody else, only seeing the worst of my intentions. The reason I went reclusive, Amelia, is because everybody did that. I would have wanted my own wife to understand, to extend graciousness.”
“I have done nothing but that while you have spiraled through your brooding!”
“It is not merely brooding when I carry scars of my past,” he snapped. “Do not diminish the things I feel or think.”
“I do not mean to diminish,” she hissed, suddenly as defensive as he was. She reared back. “I only came in here to ask how you were and what it was you had busied yourself with all morning—”
“You came in here to distract me.” His glare was deeply cutting, and his voice was flat, annoyed. “I have duties, Amelia. Duties you do not concern yourself with. I did not interfere with your ball—you do not interfere with my business.”
“I wished you would have interfered so I would not have felt so alone.”
Her cry of anguish came from a place of hurt, of his snapping, of his pushing her away, of his anger, and the maids’ gossip.
“You have doubted me over and over again when all I have ever done is simply be here,” Amelia whispered.
“And sometimes I wish you were not.”
Amelia flinched, recoiling as if he had slapped her. He had not but her face burned with shame. Of course, she thought. There is the real reason he distances. He wishes it was not me he was married to. Of course, of course. How could I be so foolish?
“Amelia,” he murmured, his whole face crumpling after his outburst. But she was already retreating, stepping through the door of his study. “Amelia!”
She was gone, turning on her heel and fleeing as tears stung her eyes.
A sob escaped her as she ran down the hallway, unsure of where she was going, as long as it was far from him.
She did not hear or see the maid that came down the hallway, and Amelia crashed into her, almost sending a vase of roses flying from the maid’s grasp.
Amelia gasped, hands steadying the vase. “I—I am sorry.”
“Your Grace, are you all—”
Amelia did not wait to hear the rest, not when the maids had spoken about her.
Even though this one had not been any of the gossipers from before, she still could not help but wonder how many others thought the same.
How many times the staff of the house passed her and thought terribly of her, of retreated to another room to whisper of her terrible schemes that were not true.
The scent of the roses did not fade easily as she fled further down the corridor, only reminding her of that day in the hedge maze, the scent of flowers blooming everywhere. Such prettiness to disguise the ugly facade of the Kensingtons and their gossip.
She half wanted to run into the garden, to lose herself in trees and flowers, foliage and flora.
But instead she retreated to the library where she could surround herself with her old, familiar comfort of reading.
However, every book she picked up, wanting to read, only reminded her of their almost-kiss.
Every book presented her with a heroine who was strong enough for their husbands, or the men who courted them.
Where did Amelia fit into that?
What if she could not be strong enough for Graham?
She had sworn she would be but there was only so much she could do if he continued to distance himself. She would not give up on him—she only had to make him refuse to give up on himself.
“Some time alone,” she murmured, “that is what I need. Some time to think, to let him know that should he request space then I will not overstep.”
Amelia did not see Graham as the rest of the ton did.
She had assumed the worst, up on the cliffs, but only because she feared she had pushed too hard, with the ball, the breakfast, the music room.
She would give him space, but every time footsteps went past the library, Amelia lifted her head from her book, hoping he had come to find her.
***
Graham’s fingers dug into his desk, his back bowed as he braced himself against it. His breaths came hard and fast as his thoughts tumbled through what he had said to Amelia. Heavens, she hadn’t deserved that.
Rocking back on his heels, he dropped back into his seat, groaning.
He needed to go to her. He needed to find her, to apologize, but how could he ever apologize when he knew it would only happen again?
He had succumbed to his inner beast once more, tormented by his past. He had told her the ton was right about him—that there was a reason he hid himself away, avoiding the prospect of marriage, avoiding courting.
It was not only his discomfort that kept him from seeking out companionship but the knowledge that he would have only hurt whoever became involved with him.
And yet Amelia stayed. Amelia had agreed.
“It was for her own reputation,” he muttered to himself. “Do not flatter yourself.”
He had doubted her, accused her, lashed out at her, and yet all she had ever done was stay at his side.