She turned away from him and contemplated her cherry tartlet, appetite fading and confusion crowding in. She wondered why Lord Windon’s words had affected her until she had lost her temper and made a spectacle of herself.
So it was that she found herself among unknown guests, in the presence of a man that her father insisted she engage but whom she detested with all her heart. Even if she could not bring herself to stop stealing glances at him. The looks brought flutters to her stomach. Every time she looked she found him regarding her boldly, even when he was in the thick of conversation with others.
She glowed. Sitting regally at the opposite end of the table. She had looked
fetching in her riding habit and had been exquisitely gowned at the soiree of their introduction, but that paled to the picture she was now. And she did not acknowledge him with anything more than a brief inclination of her head but she smiled at the other men invited to dinner.
He suffered, as she bestowed them with smiles and turned a blank stare to him. It seemed the whole of London would find the favor of her smile, but he was not afforded the same luxury. She had the men on either side of her hanging on her every word, sharing that excellent wit with them no doubt. He had never struggled through a meal like he had at Lord Rochester’s table. She put the trio of trilling girls to shame with her poise. Her quite grace was nothing the matron in the room could ever hope to aspire. He stared boldly. He couldn’t pull his stare away even though it bordered on impolite. He tried to rein it in but he found himself behaving like a green lad. He was lost in the conversation but the callow girls only giggled at his awkward pauses and tried their best to bat their lashes at him.
The ladies retiring to the drawing room to drink tea, leaving the gentlemen to their harder liquors. The squire filled their drinking interlude with county laws to which he could contribute to tolerably well, affording him time to better hide his distraction.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies, one of the squire’s girls offered to play on the harpsichord with another singing. The guests enjoyed a clear tenor that lent a satisfactory air to the room and was complimented by all and sundry. Lord Rochester proposed they play whist and by a machination he partnered his daughter with Lord Windon. She almost demurred and tried to offer her place to the squire’s wife but her father was not in the mood for her false modesty. She curtsied quickly and sat at his side. Lord Windon accepted the proffered cards and started to shuffle them. She was suddenly engrossed with the play of light on his wrist, hidden by a froth of lace, and motion of his deft fingers with the single ring which bore his seal. The gold glinted against the lace and she wondered how they would feel against her own unadorned hands.
As soon as the thought came she blushed heavily, something her father did not miss. She ducked to find Lord Windon looking at her with a single card clasped between two fingers. A subtle tension pervaded the small group as Lord Windon dealt the cards. Amelia made a show of assessing her card.
Lord Windon addressed his host. “I do not know the rules of your house. Do you prefer to play for stakes or forfeits?” He indicated the cards in his hands.
“I cannot abide gambling. It is the devil’s own game.” The vicar interjected from his position to the side with an apologetic but firmly stern stare.
“I confess I am averse to lining another’s pocket with my coin.” Lord Rochester himself confessed as he assessed his own cards and placed a card on the velvet covered table between them.
“Indeed. Forfeits are much more sporting.” The squire agreed in a gruff voice as the play turned to him. He squinted good naturedly at his cards and looked up.
“My lady?” Lady Amelia blinked once as the other players looked at her. Usually her opinion was not asked but Lord Windon had asked and the others graciously followed his lead. She did not think it was because she was in her own parlor.
“I believe the pleasure of the game is in the skill,” she answered diplomatically and the men nodded in agreement.
“And the company no doubt.” Her father added as a gracious afterthought, or so it would appear.
“But of course.” The rest of the table muttered while Amelia ducked her head again and played her hand. Her father was being blatantly obvious.
The squire and Lord Rochester played whist with a magical merging of wit. Although Lady Amelia barely acknowledged Lord Windon, still her presence so close wreaked havoc on his senses. He could not remember the cards.
They lost decisively, a show of skills and a fine merging of cards by their opponents. The squire was affable in his win and her father was amusing. Lord Windon drew a forfeit and looked dangerous instead of ridiculous following the instructions, ‘Lie on your back and stand up without using your hands.’ She was uncomfortably aware of the muscles in his back and torso he used to make such a fluid motion. She had seen that forfeit once before, a callow youth who had flopped on the floor like a fish before rolling over and standing like a yearling calf.
She drew a more daring forfeit. ‘Kiss the one you love and the best man or lady. They may not be the same person.’ She brushed a kiss on the vicar’s cheek and then marched up to her father and bussed the top of his head proudly. He laughed and hugged her tight. She blushed at this show of paternal affection.
The hour grew late and their guests begged to take their leave. Amelia was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that she sailed through the evening without collecting another kiss. After the last carriage had sailed down the drive, Amelia went to bed.
Chapter Eight
Lord Rochester invited Lord Windon to the parlor for a nightcap. He brought a decanter from a high shelf and proceeded to pour them a generous amount of fine spirit, smuggled goods no doubt. After a moment of idle talk Lord Rochester asked the duke about the state of his suit with his daughter. Lord Windon relayed the events of the day to the dismal earl.
Lord Rochester begged him again, asking for his favor as he was dying and would ask nothing more of seeing his daughter settled. Lord Windon could not refuse a dying man his wish, but he couldn’t disclose to Lord Rochester that he had decided to tarry a while of his own volition.
Sleep claimed him as he played the events of the day through his mind. Lady Amelia deliciously mussed after riding with abandon. And the poised and polished woman at the dinner table. The bright but silent beauty that had trounced her own partner at whist. The contrast was bold and stirring.
The morning repast was a merry affair. Amelia was silent, but Lord Windon and her father were completely engrossed in discussions about the hunting parties they had attended in the past. Lord Windon told of one particular hunt where a hound used in the hunt had led the men away from the fox, it being a foxhound itself. A nonsense joke. The retelling was so comical and unbelievable that her father laughed out loud. Amelia smiled to see her father so animated.
A storm in the early hours of the morning left the weather in a contradictory state for most of the morning. The bright sunshine beckoned but the wet grass and damp air screamed caution. Lord Windon, wanting very much to be left to his own company, did not heed the warning. He was in far too a reflective mood and, having exhausted his current reserves for polite responses to polite conversation, he went wandering off instead to the gardens. They were spectacular, the work of a gifted gardener no doubt. He found himself walking at a leisurely pace through the neatly pruned gardens with the scent of many flowers washing over him in softly fragrant waves of cool air. The only one he could identify were the roses.
He gave a particular decorative arch his interest. It had cherubs carved on it. The rest of the structure was covered in climbing pink and white roses. They blended beautifully, contrasting yet complimenting. He leaned closer and strained a finger across the lips of a tight bud wondering if her lips would be just as soft and warm.
He stumbled at the force of the startling idea that he was lusting after her. The woman who had, in the little time of their acquaintance, insulted him, misconstrued his intentions, told him he was no gentleman, and then ignored him, even if it was hidden beneath a thin veneer of civility.
He couldn’t be lusting after her. He only had only wanted to offer for her hand. He had no intentions on her person at all, but his body was betraying him with traitorous imaginations. That wouldn’t do at all.
He staggered back and stumbled into a conveniently placed stone seat. He took a seat on the damp stone, too lost in thought to register the cold. By Jove, he had damned himself beyond redemption. It wouldn’t do to rescue her and then make carnal demands on her person, even if they were by law his conjugal rights. He was under no illusion that theirs would be more than a marriage of convenience,