It wasn’t that Amelia had been enamored with Lord Winterhope, but he had seemed kind enough, and although he dressed more flamboyantly than she’d have liked, and had an unusual fascination with horses, he hadn’t repulsed her. More importantly, he’d had an agreement with her father. He’d promised to propose to Amelia at his Autumn house party.
And then, he’d married Clementine instead.
Clementine, the person Amelia trusted more than anyone else, her one true friend—or so she’d believed.
Losing Clementine had hurt far more than losing Lord Winterhope.
Initially, Amelia had believed the betrayal was an innocent one, that Clementine had, in truth, fallen in love with the marquess. They were both mad about horses, after all, and Clementine was fun, and lively, and pretty.
Clementine had grown up working with her father in his stables, running around in breeches, doing whatever she’d pleased. Having Clementine come into Amelia’s life had opened another world for her—for both of them, apparently.
But according to Amelia’s mother, Clementine had been sneaking out at night to meet with the marquess. She’d said she’d warned Clementine to put an end to it more than once.
Amelia hadn’t believed it at first.
But then Amelia and her parents were leaving the house party early.
And when Amelia asked, Clementine refused to turn over Margie, Amelia’s cat—a somewhat feisty calico, left to Amelia upon her grandmother’s death. True, Margie had proven more than a little difficult, but so had her grandmother.
And Amelia had loved her grandmother.
But she had much larger troubles to contend with presently.
Troubles she’d face later.
Amelia closed her eyes and didn’t open them until the coach stopped for the night.
BLOODY GUILT
Leopold considered himself a ruthless bastard and was, therefore, unaccustomed to feeling remorse. It was a futile emotion, not only pathetic, but the kind that deceived a person into making poor choices.
So when that itchy, annoying sensation established itself in his person—yet again—he wasn’t at all happy about it. It made him grumpy and short, and worst of all, threatened his edge. An edge he relied upon.
Butbloodyhell. Upon keeping Lady Amelia for less than twenty-four godforsaken hours, he’d nearly cost her her life.
He stared blankly at the back of the coach, trotting along at a mind-numbing pace. He did not see the trunk strapped onto the back, or the wheels turning; he could only see her tired eyes, her wan cheeks, and heart-shaped lips that had nearly turned blue.
What had he been thinking when he’d taken on this mission? A better question, perhaps, was what had Malum and Winterhope been thinking to assign it to him?
Leopold had seen the darkest side of life, and that darkness had imprinted itself onto his soul. He had no business being charged with the care of someone like Lady Amelia.
Shifting in his saddle, he couldn’t shake the fear he had experienced in that moment…
“I can’t breathe…”
That bloody, pox-ridden,fuckingcorset! He’d felt the ridges when he tackled her in the pasture. He should have realized... An even heavier wave of remorse washed over him.
Blast and damn!
Leopold had considered the most minute of details—or so he’d believed.
He’d chosen his most trusted team—mapped out the safest route. Hell, thinking her a delicate sort of flower, he’d given up his own bed so she could have a comfortable bed for the night.
But, having grown up in another world, sleeping in doorways and thieving to keep his belly full, he’d been ignorant as to the needs of a high-born lady: clothing, and apparently, assistance getting in and out of it.
Even their men employed a servant to hold their pants for them to step into—something Leopold would never understand. Blasted nobs.
Did he harbor a healthy bitterness toward most of her sort? He wouldn’t deny it.
