“Fanny.” Amelia racked her brain. “Oh yes! Dark hair and rather tall, correct?” Mrs. Huckabee nodded. “Perfect. I should like to meet with her this afternoon if you would arrange it.”
“Of course, my lady.” The woman paused before exiting the room. “If you do not mind my saying, my lady, I am quite happy Lord Norwich has married you. He has needed a gentle soul beside him for quite some time, and I am grateful you are just that.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Huckabee.” Amelia could not say any more, surprised by the thoughtful sentiment but even more surprised by the insinuation that Lord Norwich needed anything. He seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
However, as Amelia started toward the music room she pondered on a certain curiosity. Lord Norwich clearly wore a mask, one he donned for reasons only he knew, and she was coming to know the man behind the mask. She was coming tolikethe man underneath. She shook herself, sitting at the pianoforte. It was vital that she keep her thoughts from turning to her husband with any sort of regard. She had quite firmly decided on the course of their relationship. And despite his occasional kindnesses, she could never expect him to show anything more than the base concern of a husband. Perhaps, over time, even that would disappear. Her family had not been capable of maintaining such feelings for her after all. Why should her husband be any different?
And he did not even know of the scars—another reason she could not come to regard her husband as anything more than a friend. Or housemate. He would be disgusted with her were he to find out. So he would not find out. Could not.
Absentmindedly, her right hand began playing a soft tune. Her left hand joined a few moments later.
But her mind remained fixed, against her will, on a tall man with styled, light hair and dark-brown eyes. She recalled the feel of his hand brushing against hers, the teasing glint in his eye, the draw she felt when she was near him. The song she was playing stumbled to an awkward stop, and she buried her face in her hands, closing her eyes tightly against the confusing feelings.What have I done?
***
Edward rather wished he had not returned home for dinner.
His hand missed his drink by at least four inches for the third time that evening. Edward scowled and tried again.
“Did you pass a pleasant afternoon?” The poor attempt at conversation was all he was capable of. At least he had not commented on the weather.
“Yes, thank you. And yourself?”
“It was well enough.”
The entire exchange occurred without either of them looking at the other. It was painfully uncomfortable.
Silence fell as the footmen placed soup in front of them. Edward chanced a glance at Amelia, but she was staring at her soup as if it would divulge the secrets of the world to her. He looked down at his bowl. Could it possibly tell him what to do with his wife? Or explain where these strange stirrings in his chest came from? He swirled the contents with his spoon.
Unsurprisingly, the watery offering gave no answers.
“I gave Mrs. Huckabee the day off tomorrow. I hope that is all right.” Amelia’s voice sounded from the other end of the table. Edward looked up again. Still, she was watching her bowl, now stirring the soup methodically. Her gaze peeked out from under her lashes for a moment before darting down again. He strove for an even tone.
“Yes, that is just fine. But might I ask why?”
“Of course.” She nodded at her bowl. “Her daughter has had a baby, and Mrs. Huckabee’s day off is not until Sunday. I thought she ought to see her new grandchild before then.” The soup must have been an excellent conversationalist with how she spoke to it.
“Well, as I said, that is fine. It is certainly your prerogative as lady of the house.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, it isquitekind of your soup, isn’t it?” Edward muttered dryly.
Her head of caramel hair finally looked up, confusion marring her features. Quickly, though, the emotion transformed into a slight eye roll and a quirk of her lips. But then, just as quickly, she looked back at her soup. And there her attention stayed.
Edward scowled again. He was jealous. Of soup.
The meal continued with only the occasional clink of cutlery on plates to break the silence. Edward did not know what to do to alleviate the tension he had created himself. He knew it was his own fault—he had avoided Amelia after she had shown a vulnerable side of herself. Certainly she was not about to open herself up again. But he had needed time. Time to come to terms with the fact that the man he had become was not the man he thought he was.
So now what was he to do? Was he to leave her alone entirely whilst he decided on his next step? Return to his wooing? Pretend they were simply strangers who just so happened to share a home and last name?
A soft curl fell from Amelia’s coiffure, and she deftly swept it back with slender fingers before taking a drink from her glass, pressing her lips together as she set the glass back on the table. Edward swallowed.
No, that last option would not be possible.
After an eternity of silence, and a great deal too many courses, Amelia excused herself to retire to the drawing room, and Edward lingered over his port. He could not help but smile ruefully at the irony of the situation. It seemed ages ago that he had told Amelia there was no point to the tradition of gentlemen prolonging their time at the dinner table. But now that he was not sure what to do with her or, rather, his new and not-wholly-enjoyable feelings of regard for her, he would happily avoid the drawing room for the rest of the night.
That was not entirely true. He would much prefer to be with Amelia. He rather believed he may prefer being with her forever.
