Harewood removed his hand. “Then I suggest you have the banns read this Sunday.”
“I can’t.” Now, the thought of telling Amelia that he needed her dowry made him hesitate. This was no longer just about their tenants, but also his brother’s mistress, and even the very food for their table. He wasn’t unaware of how similar the situation was to what her own family went through and what Lady Mariel had sacrificed for them. He didn’t want Amelia to feel like a sacrifice. He wanted her to feel wanted.
“Why can’t you have the banns read?”
He ran his hand through his hair and finally faced Harewood. “Because, I haven’t asked her father for her hand yet.”
“Then might I suggest that you do so, posthaste?” Harewood’s raised brows and arrogant tone made it clear there was only one correct answer to his question.
He nodded mutely. The suggestion was sound, the plan appropriate, but his instinct told him, the outcome was entirely unknown.
Chapter Eighteen
Amelia sat atthe parlor desk watching the snowflakes fall onto the drive up to Thornwood. The first snow of the season was always pretty, but after weeks of ice and rain, not necessarily welcome. It was such a light dusting that running out to enjoy it was not worth the effort. Actually, nothing seemed worth the effort since she’d finished her masterpiece and three other paintings of Andrew. Without him to share them with, her interest in painting more had waned.
“Amelia dear, are you writing to Lady Spencer or daydreaming of summer?”
She turned her head to give her mother a smirk. “Can I not be doing both?”
Joanna, who sat across from her mother reading a book, looked up. “No, you can’t, according to—”
“Please.” She held up her hand. “Allow me to remain ignorant if I simply accept your assertion.”
“As you wish, but Herodotus said the only good is knowledge, and the only evil is ignorance.”
She rolled her eyes at her sister. “I doubt very much that my letter to Lady Spencer and my thoughts of summer, if that’s what they were, have anything to do with good and evil.” She waved her sister off. “Go back to your reading, and I shall promise to only focus on my letter. Agreed?”
“Agreed. I’m finding this book on poison truly fascinating.”
Mariel, who worked her embroidery loop, chuckled. “Joanna, the subjects you find of interest will always baffle me.”
As Joanna responded, Amelia turned back to her letter. She hadn’t written very much, except to ask after her friend’s health and her Christmas. She simply refused to discuss the weather, but the only other subject of interest to her was Andrew, and she daren’t write about him. But she could write about her painting. Lady Spencer supported her efforts and had already asked for a personal painting.
There was nothing more personal than the one she’d painted of Andrew at the acropolis. She couldn’t wait for him to see it. She’d positioned the lion so he crossed over slightly in front, and hid Andrew’s private area. An area only she would be seeing from now on. Even at the thought of marrying him, seeing him every day, and touching him in the nights, had her skin tingling.
“Amelia, did you tell Lady Spencer about Lady Garmoyle?”
“Joanna, absolutely not!” Her mother’s voice startled her. “We are not spreading gossip.”
Joanna’s eyes twinkled. “It’s not gossip if it’s true and everyone at the ball was aware of it.”
Her mother looked over her shoulder at her. “Do not tell Lady Spencer about what transpired at Lucinda’s ball.”
“I wasn’t going to. I simply thought to tell her of my painting.”
“Have you finished the piece you were working on?” Mariel’s voice, though soft, made her tense. Only she knew the truth.
She would have to phrase her response carefully. “I have. And I’m quite happy with it.”
Mariel’s eyebrows rose before her face softened. “I’m so pleased.”
“So that’s why you haven’t disappeared into your studio the last few days.” Joanna set her book aside. “When can we see it?”
Before she could speak, Mariel answered. “Certainly not today.” She shivered. “It’s far too cold and the ground too slippery.”
She gave Mariel a grateful smile. Though she had painted other portraits of Andrew, with clothes on, and half-clothed, she wasn’t ready for anyone to see that her best paintings were of him. The only other painting she would rate on par with his was the miniature she’d done of Belinda. She had a feeling her late sister would be pleased by that even if she may have frowned on how it came to pass.
Her mother rose. “It appears we aren’t going to have any callers today, so I’m going upstairs to rest.”
