“I asked the housekeeper whether she knew of anywhere nice to sit outdoors for a time, and she suggested I come here.”
Nicholas stepped closer, inspecting the play over her shoulder. “To a place where a woman might work on her most serious literary pursuits in peace?”
She laughed. “My butchered retelling ofA Midsummer Night’s Dreamis hardly an act of serious literature. But yes, that was more or less what I asked her. And this is a lovely spot. You and I will have to fight for control over this domain. A battle to the death.”
“Your writing has gone to your head. First the knights, now swordfights.”
“I said nothing of swords. I want to fight you like gentlemen fight—with their fists.”
Her gaze drifted to their environs, and Amelia blushed. Nicholas smiled covertly, wondering whether the thought of a tussle between them seemed as tempting to her as it did to him. Her gloved hands curled around the script as if in reply.
Nicholas spied annotations in the margins, stacked on top of each other so tightly they were barely legible.
“Only one week now until the play,” she continued, glancing back down at her work. “The children have come very far since we began rehearsals, and their enthusiasm is unmatched. But Ifear I am lacking in my role as director. I find it hard not to indulge their every whim.”
She stroked the script fondly, and it made Nicholas’s heart twist with something akin to jealousy for her affectionate touch. Since marrying, she had visited the orphanage frequently. The deed of trust had been executed in his name. St. George’s would have his support forever. She had already begun renovating the kitchens. The garret rooms were next.
The fact that he could remember all of this astounded him. He hung on to her every word without even realizing it.
He cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”
“Their whims? I cannot recall them all now.” She rubbed her temple and had a faraway look. “They ask to include so many things, and I always agree. But the play could not possibly hope to host the ideas of every child. It is a disjointed—if joyous mess.”
“Exactly as it should be,” he suggested, walking around the rock to stand before her.
A stream hissed familiarly somewhere in the distance.
“I am surprised to hear you say that. You despise the children and love the theatre. My bastardization of Shakespeare should be an affront to you.”
He frowned. “You have misunderstood me. I do not despise children, Amelia. I do not prefer them in my company, but I would not wish ill on them ever.”
“Oh?” She looked up at him hopefully.
“And I have better things to do than defend Shakespeare’s work to you. Regardless… Your take on this play cannot be any worse than the offensive production mounted at Drury Lane last spring by Kemble. I will judge the matter for myself soon enough, as you said.”
“You are coming to the show?”
“Of course. I would not risk embroiling either of us in rumors of unhappy matrimony by avoiding the playhouse on the day of your show. Unless you would prefer that I kept my distance. Then I shall be happy to oblige. This evening should be yours alone. Yours and the children’s.”
“No, please do come. I would be very grateful to you. But… The presence of a duke risks attracting more attention than I intended.”
“And the presence of a duchess would not? I doubt there will be a free seat left. You underestimate your power over the high society of Oxford town.”
And your power over me, he thought devilishly.
Her cheeks flushed pink with more than the cold as she tucked an errant strand of hair back under the hood of her cloak.
Once they had returned home the night prior, they had not discussed what had happened between them in the carriage. Nicholas had not had the courage to speak to Amelia beyond bidding her goodnight, watching tenderly as she took the stairs to her rooms, the taste of her still lingering in his mouth, the ache for her embedded deep within him unresolved.
The fleeting recollection of that impulsive moment caused Nicholas’s body to tense in the best and worst of ways. He clenched his fist at his side, rubbing his thumb into the gloved finger which, merely hours ago, had explored her to his delight and hers.
“That is… very kind,” she murmured, folding the script over itself and looking up at him with those entrancing, clear grey-blue eyes of hers. “You have treated me better than I could have dreamed when we first decided on our arrangement.”
“Am I to take it that nothing which has occurred between us in the intervening weeks has caused you any displeasure or regret?” he asked, hoping he was making himself clear.
A pause, and then, “Not in the slightest… I have appreciated every moment with you.”
Nodding, Nicholas descended softly into a crouch before her, looking a little like the knight she had accused him of being.
