“Youcould leave.”
“And leave you alone entirely?”
“Far more proper than your being here with me. Isn’t it?”
The lights dimmed further, and the crowd quieted. Graham turned to stone in his chair. So far, no one had turned to look in this box, but at any moment, someone could take note. He moved to the row of chairs behind hers and sat in a shadowed corner.
She looked back at him once and folded her arms as she turned toward the stage, her chin high and her lips pressed in a thin line. Graham folded his arms, his stomach twisting in knots. This would have to suffice. For now. Every plan of hers seemed riddled with holes. Gaping, jagged holes for them both to tumble into. He understood her fears about people finding out about Alston, but this was madness.
They needed a new plan.
Chapter Seven
The following morning,Amelia sipped tea at her brother’s bedside. Mr. Blakewood had not yet come to join her, which she tried to feel jubilant about, but she was far too irritated with his behavior last night. Could he not unclench his arse for one evening and enjoy himself? They already had enough concerns about Sam, and sitting in a box in public wasn’t nearly as scandalous as he made it seem. The other guests, Mr. Granger and his wife and daughter, arrived just before intermission, and their only concern had been for Sam’s absence. Mrs. Granger was hoping to impress upon him her daughter’s fine qualities. Amelia and Mr. Blakewood hadn’t spoken for the rest of the evening.
Amelia was two and twenty. Hardly in her first blush, and most of society did not care what she did or with whom. Because of her Aunt Ruth’s scheming and the number of fortune hunters who had hounded her skirts during her first season, Amelia had declared she wouldnevermarry, and most of thetonknew it. So unless she committed some heinous transgression in the eyes of polite society, her reputation would remain unscathed by most things that would tarnish a young lady searching for a reputable match.
And still Amelia was invited everywhere due to her brother’s title and wealth. Sam would one day be the most eligible bachelor in London and no marriage-minded mama wanted to slight the sister of such a man. She existed in her own bubble that most wouldn’t bother to pop. Except for Graham.
Amelia frowned down at her tea, her feelings about last evening swirling in a mixture of confusion and anger. When he’d swept her into his arms and carried her to the box, her stomach had fluttered like a swarm of butterflies, her pulse racing like a shooting star, but then he’d returned to his stodgy, lecturing self and ruined the effect. She must have imagined that moment outside the carriage. When he’d looked down at her, she had been certain just for a moment that there was something in his eyes—something that made her quiver inside. She’d waited, holding her breath for something she couldn’t yet grasp. But then she’d pulled back from those feelings, terrified of what they were or what they meant.
This was Mr. Blakewood. Stoic, boring, and judging Mr. Blakewood. A person incapable of such a change so suddenly, if at all. She should be glad they’d argued in the box. It had brought her back to her senses, smothering that peculiar quiver she did not want to acknowledge and suffusing her with the comfortable heat of anger once more. They shared one purpose, but between them, there would never be more than a cold acceptance of the other. She would rein in any outright hostility, but only for Sam. Sam needed all their attention.
Petrov entered, intent on shaving Sam and shaking her out of her reverie. Sam slept soundly, but his face was still as pale as white cotton. She swallowed down a chill of desolation as she studied the waxy details of his face. Every day he lived was a miracle. A gift. Even as her fear turned her heart cold, she tried to remember that gift.
“Did you give him water?” Amelia asked.
“Not yet, my lady.”
Amelia swallowed nervously. Doctor Bradley had changed his position on giving Sam water and advised them that if the injury had not yet killed him by now, dehydration surely would. For the past few days, attempts to get him to drink had been few and largely futile. He couldn’t stay awake long enough to swallow much without risk of choking.
“I’ll help,” Mr. Blakewood said from the doorway.
Amelia hated the way his presence made her feel slightly braver.
“We can’t jostle him. If his blood is clotting—”
“I know. I spoke with Doctor Bradley yesterday.”
She moved to Petrov’s side, gently lifting her brother’s head, while Petrov tucked a pillow underneath. Sam’s brow furrowed as she settled his head back down on the pillow and Amelia gasped.
“Sam? Are you awake?”
His lips twitched. Amelia snatched the glass of water from the side table, spilling a little on the bed. Her hand shook as she dipped the spoon in the water. Sam didn’t open his eyes, but his mouth moved, and his dry lips parted.
“Lady Amelia,” Blakewood whispered.
“I can do it.” She drew a slow breath to steady her nerves. “Sam, here’s a bit of water to wet your mouth. You have to swallow it, Sam. We’ll go slow. Take your time.”
She tipped the spoon over his lips, dribbling the water over the cracked skin. Sam’s tongue peeked out, as if trying to catch it. As she tipped more water into his mouth, Amelia bit back a relieved whimper. Blakewood reached over and rubbed his throat.
“Swallow,” he said.
Sam’s throat moved under his hand. Amelia closed her eyes for a second, willing back the rush of tears, and then openedthem, and for several silent minutes, they fed Sam water half a spoonful at a time.
“That should suffice for now,” Blakewood finally said.
“Do you want more, Sam?” She didn’t need to take Blakewood’s word for it, after all.
