“I can manage.”
“Turn around, Amelia.”
She did, too tired to argue. His fingers found the hooks with practiced efficiency. He did not allow himself to linger. When the last hook was fastened, he stepped back immediately.
She turned to face him. Two people unable to meet each other’s eyes.
“Good night, Your Grace,” she said quietly.
The formal address landed like a blade between his ribs.
“Good night, Amelia.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“He really is so funny, and so clever, though I would die from shame if he were ever to hear me say so!” Philippa exclaimed the next day as she watched Mrs. Thatcher knead a leavened dough. “Did you feel the same way when you were first courted by Mr. Thatcher? Excited but embarrassed at the same time? Wanting to be with him always, but also maintain your independence?”
“Our situations could not compare.” Mrs. Thatcher laughed, wiping a curl of hair out of her face and smearing flour on her forehead. “There was no courting to be had. Our fathers agreed on a wedding between us without consulting either me or Mr. Thatcher first. My dowry was a plot of land. Far from the romance you experience these days.”
“What a sad little story.” Philippa leaned over to grab a tea towel and dabbed the flour from Mrs. Thatcher’s face. “Every woman deserves to be courted. That is my belief. How can she know whether she will fall in love with a man if she does not allow herself to be courted by him first?”
In the corner of the room, Amelia paused her reading. She leaned over a ledger of expenditures, quill in hand, copying recent grocery orders. She side-eyed Philippa, who continued kicking her feet back and forth happily, sitting on the kitchen island at the orphanage.
“We shall have to agree to disagree,” Mrs. Thatcher answered, shaping the dough into four loaves with practiced ease. “A woman need not be courted by a man whom she knows is true of heart. If he is honest, that is all that matters.”
“No, you are wrong there.” Philippa hopped down from the island and dusted off her linen skirts. “There are men who appear honest and good at first but reveal themselves to be boors over time. I doubt I shall have that trouble with Mr. Elston. Oh, look, that reminds me! Let me show you what he bought me.”
She skipped over to Mrs. Thatcher and pushed her blonde hair away from her ears, revealing two delicate pearl earrings embedded in rings of gold.
“He gifted these to me yesterday evening, saying that he wanted to mark the beginning of our courtship with something equal to my beauty.” She placed a hand over her heart. “Such a touching gesture. He almost made me feel bad for forcing him to wait so long to court me. It has been years, you know. But good things come to those who wait, that is what I told him. And I think he agrees.”
Amelia tried and failed to return her focus to the ledger. She stared daggers at Philippa, feeling uncharacteristically jealous.
Mrs. Thatcher lowered her loaves into greased tins and placed them in the oven to proof. Once she was done, she caught Amelia’s eye and frowned. Amelia quickly looked away, guessing her expression had betrayed her envious thoughts.
“Miss Ashwood,” Mrs. Thatcher suddenly said, dusting off her hands. “Will you help me upstairs with something?”
“What something?” Philippa asked, crossing her arms.
Mrs. Thatcher sent her eyes heavenward, thinking. “Does it matter, Miss Ashwood?” she cried, reaching for Philippa’s hand. “Come now, quickly. Best we leave Her Grace to her counting for the moment.”
Groaning, Philippa was dragged to the door. Amelia glanced back at the two departing women, troubled by the sad and pitiful smile Mrs. Thatcher offered her as she pushed Philippa out of the room.
Alone, Amelia slammed the ledger shut, resolving to copy the recent grocery purchases another day.
When I am not so cross with the world, the task will be much easier,she thought, letting her head hang in her hands.
It was not Philippa’s fault that Mr. Elston treated her so kindly. Amelia believed her friend deserved to be loved in the way only devoted Mr. Elston could love her—whollyandunconditionally.
Yet I cannot help but compare their fledgling romance to my pretend marriage to Nicholas. I feel like his dirty little secret—a duchess in name alone. I know it will not be long before Aunt Beatrice asks why we have not gone down to London to present ourselves to the Queen and the Prince Regent, why there has been no bridal tour. Not long, I am sure, until Nicholas casts me aside completely and this marriage is annulled.
Which is what they had agreed.
But the more time Amelia spent at Riverside Court, the harder she knew it would be to leave. Nicholas was a spectral figure at the house, coming and going whenever it pleased him, barely stopping long enough to dine with his wife. It made the rare moments in his company feel like blissful summer.
Warm and fleeting, bright and long.
And she had not forgotten the way it had felt to be touched by him.
