She said it so meekly that his knees weakened. He studied her. “My job is to protectyou. This isn’t it.”
“And my job is to protect my brother.”
“It is not. I’m certain he’d agree with me.”
“Only because he will believe he is acting in my best interests and all that patriarchal nonsense. But he isn’t here. I know him and my family better than you do. They cannot find out he is... unwell. We must do anything to hide it. This is the best solution. I can go out as him, and sometimes as me, and then no one will suspect a thing.”
Graham turned away and sat, his head swimming with anxiety.
Chapter Four
Amelia’s toes crampedin her brother’s finely made shoes. Her maid had rolled up stockings to fill the toes and folded some of Sam’s handkerchiefs under her heels to give her some extra height to complete the transformation, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable.
And she was still blushing from that earlier incident. She hadn’t realized... hadn’t thought... about what her own behind looked like in breeches.
But when Mr. Blakewood had looked at her... she’d felt naked. Fran had teased her about it without ceasing while she’d put on a jacket.
“Some men can’t resist a fine back end, my lady,” Fran had said.
“My back end is simply that—my back end. He seemed quite put out and embarrassed.”
“Only to your innocent eyes,” Fran said with a wink.
Amelia scoffed. “Mr. Blakewood doesn’t see me like that. I annoy him.”
“Certainly, but a fine back end can overrule any number of annoyances. I tell you—no, I ought not to.”
“What? You should tell me. Should I not be knowledgeable?”
“Pfft. You’ll get ideas. We can’t have you, of all young ladies, getting ideas. I’m protecting you. You’ll be the ruin of yourself if you’re not careful. Truly, you should just marry, but you hate when I say that, so I won’t.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. “You just did.”
“If you want to know things, find a husband. He’ll teach you.”
Amelia drew a breath as she suppressed a scoff at the memory of her talk with Fran and pushed it away. She took the chair across from Mr. Blakewood while he glared at her.
“Well?” she asked.
“Even if this were to work—which it won’t—it isn’t a permanent solution.”
“Of course not,” she agreed. “Sam will get better. We just need to give him time.”
Mr. Blakewood dropped his head into his hands, weariness draping over him like a cloak. She chewed her lip as a pang of guilt struck her. She was trying to find solutions, but she could see she was making things harder for him when they needed to work together. They were just so different, and her ideas seemed always to be in conflict with his. Would they ever find common ground?
Amelia leaned back into the plush chair. Her mind raced with thoughts and fears. In her heart, she knew that Mr. Blakewood was right—masquerading as her brother couldn’t work. Recalling his and the footman’s reactions finally convinced her of that much. Amelia sighed to herself. It felt like she never did the right thing. And now it was so important that things go smoothly. She’d pray nightly until Sam was well.
All this would be so much easier if she were a man herself and not just trying to pretend. She wondered what her life would be like—no threatening aunt, no viperous relatives, no being pushed to marry Nelson. Would she have been able topursue her dreams, to marry whomever she loved, and to carve out a life that was uniquely her own? Or would she have been constrained by society’s expectations in other ways, forced to lead a life that was stifling and unfulfilling? Did Sam like his life? He’d inherited young and had been saddled with mountains of responsibility, but he also got to do things Amelia could never do.
Mr. Blakewood’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “Are you?” A stray thought struck her. “Don’t you have your own responsibilities to tend to? Your own life? How are you able to be here for so long?”
“My parents are in Bath taking the waters, and my sister is staying with our cousins in Wilton. I’ve arranged for my correspondence to come here. When Alston asked me to stay, I could not, in good conscience, leave you to manage this on your own.”
“I’m not incapa—”
He held up a hand. “This isn’t a judgment on your capabilities. No one could do this on their own.” He leaned forward. “Let me help—truly.”
