Leopold could picture her all too easily, sitting in one of his drawing rooms, her fingers weaving yarn into something whimsical, a fire burning at the hearth. But as quickly as it appeared, the image unfurled something so damn deep he could hardly breathe.
It was almost as though he’d ingested poison.
Leopold leapt to his feet, a clumsy, purely reactive move that had him knocking the table and his coffee over at the same time. He couldn’t bring himself to apologize or make excuses as he watched the liquid staining the white linen tablecloth.
Amelia was already reaching across, righting the glass and mopping at the stain with a napkin. When she shot him a confused—and hurt—look, he backed away towards the door.
There was no way in hell he’d make any attempt to explain himself. So he resorted to that which he knew best. His business. His schemes.
“I need to inspect last night’s shipment.” Leopold dipped his chin and, left the room as though the devil himself was chasing him.
He refused to look back.
She. Was. Forbidden.
A cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and he tugged at the front of his shirt, wanting more air. At least he didn’t wear a cravat like those stuffy tossers of theton, with their excessive layers and frilly tufts of fabric everywhere. No, his taste in fashion generally prioritized comfort and practicality.
Cravats weren’t for the likes of him. Cravats were for those toffs who’d been raised on country estates. Oxford graduates.
He only ever wore them when he was attending meetings at the Domus Emporium, to blend in with the nobs—to make himself as invisible as possible.
Although, that typically wasn’t an issue. Few lights burned at the Emporium—a place where men played out their darkest fantasies behind velvet drapes.
On scarlet sheets.
The Domus provided the forbidden on a golden platter, teasing at a sense of indulgence and danger.
But it was all a farce, and by morning, all of its patrons would have returned to their brightly lit mansions and “honorable”lives, where the consequences of their nightly activities could not touch them. They never knew true risk.
Not like Leopold. He’d known the darkness for as long as he could remember, had lived in it, thrived in it, survived in spite of it—and now it lived inside him.
Lady Amelia represented everything he would never have. Rather than lure him with darkness and vice, however, she lured him with innocence and light.
Not. For. Him.
He would only diminish her. Like the coffee he’d knocked over, ruining the tablecloth.
Or perhaps more like ink. For surely any stains he left would not so easily be washed away.
NO WONDER
Amelia left the dining room slowly, more than a little upset that she’d said something to send Mr. Beckworth storming away so abruptly.
But it wasn’t that alone that bothered her. Their brief conversation had managed to send her thoughts spiraling as well. She’d believed that giving toys to the orphans was a good thing.
Once she was back in her chamber, her gaze shot to the small basket of yarn and crochet hooks. She had no doubt he’d been disgusted that she found something he considered so trivial to be important to her—that she believed it could even be valuable.
He would know, wouldn’t he?
He didn’t approve of foundling hospitals. He’d made his opinion quite clear. Did providing goods for the children who ended up there make her complicit?
She’d visited a few of them before she’d come out last spring. There had been nurses, clean beds, classrooms… but no toys. Amelia had grown bored crocheting the regular items and, after several attempts, discovered she could make the shapes of various animals—and then stuff them with straw, old fabric, or anything that would give them shape.
Her little contributions, they couldn’t hurt, could they? Those children needed something in their lives to provide a spot of color, of fun. Right now, she couldn’t do much of anything to address the rest of the circumstances Mr. Beckworth had told her about, but this was something she could do.
Picking out a green-colored yarn and a hook, Amelia claimed the most comfortable chair in her chamber and went to work.
They might seem frivolous to a man like Mr. Beckworth. Her own father had actually laughed at more than one of her creations, but she’d wanted to do something to help relieve the hopeless looks in those children’s eyes.
