A Lady of Esteem (5 page)

Wasn’t that what she said? Maybe not in so much detail, but . . .

Amelia closed her eyes in mortification as she realized that her phrasing implied she had spied upon him in much more intimate quarters. She needed to leave.

Head down, she made for the door, keeping her eyes locked on the veining of the marble floor. Polished shoes stepped into her view, forcing her to stop or collide into Lord Raebourne’s chest.

Again.

She stopped.

“Please,” he said softly. “Do not leave.”

A single finger caught under her chin, forcing her gaze up to his.

“Stay and dine with us this evening. It will give us a chance to start afresh.”

Amelia searched his beautiful blue eyes and found nothing but kindness and sincerity. “Very well.” The unspoken forgiveness lightened her, allowing the corners of her lips to edge upward. “I shall stay.”

He offered her his arm. With some hesitance, she gave him her hand, hoping there wasn’t a right and wrong way to do so. Heat emanated through his coat, sending a thrill spiraling up her arm and into her lungs.

As they passed through the main hall to the dining room, Amelia spied Finch, Gibson, two housemaids, and Miranda’s lady’s maid huddled behind a large plant in the corner of the front hall, enormous smiles on their faces. One of the housemaids saluted her.

The support of her friends calmed her. Surely she could get through this dinner with what remained of her dignity intact.

Anthony watched Amelia throughout dinner, noting the tremble in her fingers, and her wide, bright eyes. Even though he knew her full name now, he couldn’t think of her as anything other than Amelia. It was all his imagination had to go on for days.

The knuckles on her hand were white as she gripped her serviette. Likely she was measuring every word and action to ensure there were no more embarrassing moments like the one in the drawing room.

He wanted to help her relax, free the engaging woman he’d caught glimpses of. How had Miranda found this woman?

As the fish course was cleared, he heard a low murmur from Amelia’s direction. Had she thanked the servant for clearing her dish? His father had been a stickler for gentlemanly manners, but even the most polite in his acquaintance didn’t make a habit of thanking the servants.

Which was rather inconsiderate when he thought about it.

His ears strained as the next course was set in front of him. Would she thank him again? Surprise made Anthony fumble the fork he reached for. Not only had she thanked the footman, but she’d used his name. His mysterious trespasser was on friendly terms with more than just
his
household staff.

The man answered with a quiet “You are most welcome, Miss Amelia.”

A desire to learn everything about this woman rose within him. Did she like the food? What was her favorite color? Did flowers make her sneeze?

“Tony!”

Anthony jerked from his reverie to find Trent and Miranda looking at him with expressions of amusement. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Trent?”

“I asked if you’d been to Tattersalls since your return. They had some prime horses there last week.”

Horses. Tattersalls. Had he been? “No, not yet.”

Miranda smiled. “Too busy settling back into the glittering ridiculousness that is London, are you?”

The only response Anthony could generate was a grunt. His weeks back among the social whirl of the elite had convinced him more than ever that he had to marry this year. The temptation to drift back to his old life was so much stronger in Town.

Was that what drew him to Amelia? She embodied the simplicity he missed from the country, where he had learned who he was beyond cards and drink and women. She might not be the one he should spend the rest of his life with, but he couldn’t think of any woman he’d rather get to know.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as Amelia twirled a spoon through her turtle soup. It was obvious she didn’t care for it, but she kept trying to choke down bite after bite. The footmen cleared the bowls before she’d managed to eat half of it.

“Anthony?”

Miranda didn’t bother to hide her amusement as she tried to catch his attention.

He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his serviette and raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“Miss Stalwood mentioned attending St. George’s at Hanover Square. I asked if you intended to take up a pew there.”

She had spoken? And he’d missed it?

Anthony cleared his throat. “Griffith has invited me to join your family pew at Grosvenor Chapel for now. I see no reason to rent a pew myself without family to share it with.”

Miranda’s eyes cut to Amelia and then swiftly on to Trent, her throat convulsing in her obvious attempt to choke down a laugh. His own gaze flew back to Amelia—its favorite place this evening. Was Miranda implying that Amelia should share his pew or . . . Oh. Anthony bit back a chuckle himself.

The poor woman was trying to slip bites of spicy bread pudding into her serviette. The footman behind already had a clean one at the ready, waiting until the appropriate time to exchange the cloths. Anthony pinched himself to prevent the encroaching laughter.

He forced himself to pay more attention to the conversation around him. Staring at Amelia all evening wasn’t going to help her relax or allow him to know more about her.

“Trent, what are your plans now that you’ve finished school?” Perhaps discussing the young man’s future would lead to discussing
Amelia’s. Anthony couldn’t bring himself to direct personal questions to Amelia when she looked so uncomfortable.

Trent gave a vague, noncommittal answer, then proved he did not share Anthony’s aversion to interviewing Miranda’s new friend. “Did you grow up in London?”

“No. I lived in Suffolk until I was eleven.” Amelia fell quiet for a moment, her fingers wrapped in the folds of the clean serviette.

Miranda’s eyes narrowed. “Why haven’t we met? Didn’t you say your guardian is a viscount? Surely he didn’t give you a season before my first one. You’d have been a child.”

A brilliant pink washed over Amelia’s cheeks, deepening to red as she looked around the table. “I-I’m not positive the viscount remembers he sent me to London. It was almost ten years ago.”

Anthony choked on the very idea. How could a grown man of title and responsibility essentially turn out a young child?

His fingernails bit into his palms, and he glanced down, surprised to find his hands curled into fists underneath the table. It had been two years since he felt the desire to hit anyone. The unpleasant sensation was not welcome now. He barely knew this woman and he wanted to physically avenge her childhood wrongs?

Silence fell over the room. Miranda shifted her spoon to the other side of her empty bowl. Trent cleared his throat and decided his fingernails were utterly fascinating.

Amelia’s eyes darted from one dinner companion to another. The poor girl must be panicking, thinking that once again she had said something to put her entirely beyond the pale. He couldn’t go back and save her from abandonment as a child, but he could rescue her from her current awkward discomfort.

“Trent, did you hear about the new tailor that set up shop behind White’s? Superb workman. Made Struthers look almost fit.”

The small smile of relief on Amelia’s face was all the reward he needed.

Amelia kept a mantra of proper behavior running through her mind.
Think before you speak. Sit straight and
tall like a lady. Don’t talk to the servants
. Don’t talk about the servants. Stop staring at the
marquis.
Nervous laughter threatened to bubble up from her chest.

As she collected her redingote and bonnet from Gibson, she realized she was smiling. She had enjoyed herself despite the agonizing attention paid to every word and movement. Even if this taste of refinement made it difficult to return to simplicity, she was glad she’d come.

Anthony collected his own belongings from Gibson. After such an intimate dinner she found it difficult to continue to think of him as Lord Raebourne. “May I see you home, Miss Stalwood?”

“Oh!” A ride with Anthony would be considerably nicer than braving the walk home. She looked to Gibson, delighted when he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Excellent.” Anthony led her to his waiting carriage, a small smile gracing his handsome features. The kind of smile people wear without even knowing it.

The highborn ladies he socialized with probably thought nothing of being handed into a carriage by a charming, handsome man. For the orphaned daughter of a landed gentleman, it was all a bit overwhelming.

Amelia’s nervousness grew as Anthony sat in the carriage seat across from her. She fiddled with the strap of her reticule as they rolled forward.

“Thank you.” The words burst from her mouth in a rush. She hadn’t intended to say them, but it was all she could think of, and the words of gratitude spilled from her lips before she could stop them.

Several moments passed before Anthony spoke. “You are most welcome, I’m sure, but I generally like to know what a lady is thanking me for.”

Amelia swallowed her groan. She sounded like a complete ninny. The reticule strings twisted around her fingers as she gripped them together. “I am sure I was the last person you expected to dine with tonight. You could have made it a humiliating experience, but you were most gracious. Thank you.”

Anthony’s gaze fell to her fingers. Could he see her nervous habit in the low lantern light? A downward glance revealed a sliver of moonlight cutting right across her hands, highlighting the red-and-white splotches on her skin caused by the tightly wrapped strings.

She’d forgotten to replace her gloves after dinner. Her last hope of obtaining a modicum of sophistication drifted away on her sigh.

With a quiet clearing of his throat, he crossed the open expanse between the seats and settled next to her, sliding the gloves from his hands. Amelia’s heartbeat sped up. What could he be thinking?

“Here now.” Anthony gently took her hands in his. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

His skin was warm and rough against her own. With utmost care, he untangled the strings, tsking quietly as he revealed the deep red marks on her fingers. He massaged the feeling back into her hands. “Bizarre meetings can make the best of friends. I have no wish to embarrass you. I confess to curiosity about your relationship with my staff, though.”

The grin he gave her brought to mind a little boy trying to convince the cook to slip him an extra biscuit. At the same time, though, his hands held hers in a shockingly intimate gesture that she had never experienced in her life. Her brain couldn’t decide where to settle.

His eyebrows drifted up in a questioning look. He still wanted to know about her connection to his staff.

“One of your maids is the niece of the cook next door. We played together as children. Through her I met others of your staff, and we have been friends since, though it is rare that many of us are able to meet together.” Mortification shot through her. “Not that I think you don’t give your staff adequate time off.”

Anthony coughed and rubbed his hand over the bottom of his face. Amelia slid her freed hand into the folds of her skirt. He must disapprove of her association with his staff. Did he fear she would disrupt his household? “I would never ask you to adjust your household’s schedule for my convenience.”

His cough modified into a sputter.

“It would be dreadfully rude.” She slumped back into the seat, her voice little more than a mumble.

The carriage rang with the sudden release of his laughter. “Miss Stalwood, you are without a doubt one of the oddest women in London.”

Was that a good thing?

His laugh subsided to a wide smile. What was he thinking? Amelia started to reach for the strings on her reticule again. Anthony captured her hands in his once more.

“We must do something about this nervous penchant you have for creating tourniquets for your fingers.” His thumb rubbed across
her knuckles while Amelia ducked her head. His hands were large and warm, wrapping around her fingers in a way that made her feel cared for. She would gladly sit in this carriage all night if he would keep holding her hands in his.

He bent low, bringing his face into her downturned vision. “I have never met my servants’ friends. Probably because they themselves are most often servants. I’ve never known anyone, gentry or peerage, who knows the names of someone else’s footmen.”

“I am merely a gentleman’s daughter,” Amelia whispered.

“You live in a home in London. You must be attached to someone of consequence.” They stared at each other for several moments.

Why was he acting like a man fascinated with what he saw? She glanced down at their joined hands.

There were tales that among the
ton
a closed carriage was often used to steal a kiss or two during a courtship. This wasn’t a courtship by any definition of the word, but this breathless anticipation and excitement must be what those other women felt. The sway of the carriage and the warmth of his hands lulled her into a fantasy where he would whisper to her and beg her for a kiss, like in
Much Ado
About Nothing
, the only Shakespeare play Miss Ryan had been able to get Amelia to read.

“There was a time, not too long ago, when I would have taken this moment and kissed you.”

Amelia crashed back into reality at his harsh whisper. She was always careful to keep her musings contained in her head, but had it slipped out this time?