The evening had stretched far longer than they’d anticipated. Samuel had departed abruptly—muttering something about a forgotten engagement—and George had insisted they remain for refreshments. Philippa had been eager. Nicholas had agreed with that careful restraint of his, though Amelia noticed him checking his pocket watch more than once.
Now it was well past midnight, and the cold had seeped into her bones during the journey. She hugged herself, acutely aware of Nicholas seated across from her in the dim carriage.
He had been quiet since they’d left town. His eyes were closed, one hand braced against the seat, but she suspected he wasn’t sleeping. There was too much tension in his jaw.
What in heaven’s goes through that mind of yours, Nicholas Whitmore?
The carriage hit a particularly vicious rut, and Amelia gasped as she was thrown forward. Nicholas’s eyes snapped open, his hand shooting out to steady her.
“Careful,” he muttered.
His palm was warm through the silk of her sleeve. She straightened, and he withdrew slowly.
“How much farther?” she asked, rubbing her arms.
“Not long.” He studied her in the darkness. “You are cold.”
“The evening grew colder than I anticipated,” she admitted. “I should have brought a heavier cloak.”
His expression tightened. “We should have left when Samuel did.”
“I’m fine. Truly.”
He made a sound that suggested he did not believe her.
Riverside Court materialized from the darkness at last. Only a few lights burned in the lower floors. The staff would have retired by now, the fires banked for the evening.
Nicholas descended first and turned to help her down. His hand was steady beneath hers, his other coming to her waist when she stumbled slightly on the gravel. The entrance hall was dim when they entered. A single footman dozed in a chair near the dying fire, jerking awake at the sound of the door.
“Your Grace, Your Grace.” The young man scrambled to his feet. “Forgive me, we weren’t expecting—”
“It’s quite late,” Nicholas said. “We detained ourselves in town longer than intended. You may retire.”
The footman bowed and disappeared. The silence that followed felt enormous.
Amelia hugged herself, the trembling worse now. The contrast between the cold journey and the residual warmth of the house only made her shiver harder.
“Your maid,” Nicholas said, watching her closely. “She should draw you a bath.”
“Agnes is visiting her sister in Woodstock until Friday. I sent her off. She works too hard.”
“Mrs. Smythe, then.”
“Mrs. Smythe is nearly seventy and sleeps in the west wing. It would take a quarter hour just to wake her.” Amelia shook her head. “I don’t want to disturb the entire household.”
Nicholas frowned, studying her for a long moment. Something shifted in his expression.
“My chambers already have a fire laid,” he said carefully. “And the bath I had ordered drawn before we left. The water will have cooled somewhat, but it should still be tolerably warm.”
Amelia’s heart performed an elaborate maneuver in her chest. “I couldn’t—”
“You are shivering hard enough that I can hear your teeth.” His jaw worked. “It is practical, Amelia. Nothing more. I’ll help you with whatever fastenings you cannot reach, then leave you to it.”
“All right,” she heard herself say. “Thank you.”
He turned and started up the grand staircase, and Amelia scurried behind him.
His chambers occupied the eastern corner of the second floor. Amelia had never been inside, and she looked around with curiosity as he led her through a sitting room decorated in deep blues and grays. Everything was masculine and sparse—clean lines, quality materials, nothing unnecessary.
