UNDERGARMENTS AND BREATHING
Amelia didn’t want to rely on this man, and yet she didn’t have much choice in the matter. Her body felt so heavy, black spots still danced and flickered in her vision, and her head was spinning with the sudden rush of oxygen into her lungs.
He was holding her, one arm around her shoulders as his hand rubbed circles on her chest—as though he could coax more air into her lungs.
Her thoughts switched between bewilderment and awareness, listening to that gruff voice murmuring soothing words.
Mr. Beckworth. It could only be him…the King.
“Breathe. Just breathe. I’ve got you…” And other things, words people didn’t dare speak out loud in her presence but that were oddly soothing, nonetheless.
“My damn fault… I’m an ass… a bloody idiot…”
His rambling almost made her smile.
Instead, she did as he said, gulping in the air she’d been denied overnight.
Following her bout of tears, she’d made a few more attempts to undress. The few times she’d gotten hold of the laces, sheswore she’d unintentionally tightened them… which seemed impossible, but unable to move freely to check for herself, she couldn’t be sure.
As the night wore on, she’d grown more and more uncomfortable, alternating between lying down and sitting at the table. Unfortunately, Amelia had found that it was easiest to breathe while standing.
She’d gone from angry, to irritated, to frantic, and by the time a maid delivered tea very early in the morning, it was too late to be unlaced.
She would be fine, Amelia told herself. Besides, if she wasn’t wearing the stays, she wouldn’t fit in her gown. Best to simply endure.
She would be fine.
But then she’d climbed into the carriage where she could not stand or stretch out easily, and the corset squeezed her lungs even tighter.
It was an unexpected and pathetic kind of torture.
All because of this man. The one holding her.
But it was also her own fault.
If she’d only stopped to think before that woman had left her alone. If she hadn’t been thinking of weapons and escape and what her father may or may not have done, she might have considered her practical needs.
“It was my fault,” she said. How hadn’t she realized how helpless she was?
The hand, warm against her chest, halted.
“That’s bollocks.” The mesmerizing massage resumed.
She didn’t have the strength to argue, and for some amount of time—she didn’t keep track of how much—both sat silently, Amelia catching her breath, Mr. Beckworth supporting her, as the coach rambled on.
There was nothing but meadows and trees and stone hedges for miles. When a few farmhouses began to appear along the road, Amelia shifted, and Mr. Beckworth’s hands fell away.
She couldn’t meet his eyes. Likely, she never could again. This man had cut the laces of her gown. He hadn’t only seen her chemise, he’d seen her at her lowest, which was even lower than she’d been the day before.
Having regained some amount of her wits, she became aware of her own stench. Good heavens, what had become of her?
“Better?” He sounded stiff, more like the man who’d chased her in the meadow.
“Yes.”
When she felt his fingertip on her chin, she had no choice but to look up.
“Look at me,” he said and, out of habit, she obeyed.
