The alarm inside Amelia grew in volume. “Juliet,” she began, gingerly, “did he do something to you?”
A laugh that sounded suspiciously bitter emerged from Juliet. “He did nothing. As always, Kilmuir is the picture of gentlemanliness.”
Amelia chose her next words carefully. “It’s that you look terribly upset.”
A bright smile spread across Juliet’s face that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I am perfectly, perfectly well. Never better, in fact.”
Her gaze swept over Amelia as if only now seeing her. Her eyebrows crinkled together. Amelia must look an absolute frumpled mess. She’d never been all that adept at dressing herself. “And you, cousin, are you well?”
Amelia returned the smile Juliet had given her. The one that wouldn’t quite reach her eyes. “Perfectly so.”
And on they walked in silence, each in their own thoughts.
Amelia felt she was, in fact, doing perfectly well for a woman who’d tupped a duke twice, then refused his proposal of marriage. A duke who made her body come alive in inconceivable ways.
The weight of Lady Sutton’s invitation sat heavy in her bag.
Amelia couldn’t lose sight of what was important. She’d attained her goal at last in securing that invitation. She’d ensured that she, Archie, Delilah, and Juliet would be received into the best society before Mama and Papa returned from Samarkand. She couldn’t miss this opportunity. To do so would be letting her family down, even if they didn’t seem to appreciate it.
Also, she would be letting herself down if she didn’t follow through. She’d worked most scrupulously for this. Lady Sutton’s ball would be her victory lap.
She must do what was right.
Even if her body screamed in protest all the way back to England.
Chapter Ten
London
Six weeks later
Tristan’s father andhis father’s father and his father’s father’s father had all surely set arse on the wide leather armchair presently hosting his own arse, newspaper spread before him, crystal tumbler in hand, two fingers of brandy inside, attentive staff on high alert to refill at the subtlest lift of his eyebrow. Such was the privilege of a duke in a gentleman’s club such as Brooks’s, whose sole purpose was to cater to his every need and whim.
He’d been back in London for less than a week and was already chafing at Town life. But he had no one else to blame. He’d chosen to return four months earlier than was strictly, absolutely necessary.
And why had he done it? He’d been asking himself that question from the very moment he’d made the decision to journey home. He always arrived at the same answer.
Because ofher.
It was a fact.
He’d followed Lady Amelia Windermere from Italy.
Another fact that kept taunting him?
The reasonwhy.
He was very likely smitten with the woman.
He’d vowed never to put himself in such a position, but here he was, feeling slightly wretched, unable to eat more than a few bites of any meal, and decidedly grouchy about it all. He couldn’t understand what it was about this state of being that invoked rhapsodies of verse from poets. Lovesickness was a decidedly pitiable state.
Which, of course, didn’t mean he had any intention of acting upon it. She’d very firmly refused his proposal of marriage. Yet…
He’d followed her.
It was a paradox.
“Ripon!” he heard for at least the thirtieth time in as many minutes. Yet another old school chum. London abounded with them. It was quickly returning to Tristan what it was to lead the life of a man-about-town.Blasted boring.
