Lady Amelia’s nostrils flared, but it was the only hint of anger she showed.
Last night, she’d been pale, drab, disheveled. But this evening, awake and furious, she was striking.
It wasn’t just her beauty that was arresting. No, it was the crisp intelligence in her emerald eyes that had him transfixed. Pinned down. It was the set of her jaw, delicate but determined. The straight back and squared shoulders that weren’t quite disguised by her soft, ladylike lines. That was why she was a force to be reckoned with. Why her reputation preceded her. She was too bullheaded to have it any other way.
“Amelia, you don’t need to be here.” Her father dismissed her with an unsteady wave of his hand.
“Because you’ve done such an excellent job in my absence?” She stood, arms akimbo, like a veritable Amazon.
Her father’s hand tightened around the glass he was holding, the only sign he’d heard her. He fixed his gaze—as best a drunken man could—on Benedict. “Wildeforde has arranged for the special license. The wedding can proceed as planned on Sunday.”
Benedict slouched farther down into the chair, trying to look detached and uninterested. “I’m unconvinced a wedding’s necessary.”
The words were directed to Lord Crofton, but it was Lady Amelia’s response he was watching for.
He wasn’t expecting the warm smile or satisfied nod she gave. “Mr. Asterly, on this we are agreed. Thank you for your time.”
With that thorough dismissal, she turned to her father, her voice switching from friendly to cast-iron hard. “Now can we be done with this business and focus on bringing Edward around?”
Benedict laughed. He couldn’t help it. She couldn’t honestly think she still had a chance with Wildeforde in the face of such a scandal? They’d been engaged for over a decade, and she still didn’t understand her fiancé’s fears. “Hewon’tmarry you.” He reached over to the small table between them and poured himself a drink. Now that he’d decided he wasn’t going to marry her highness, the situation was almost enjoyable.
“Pardon?” Her smile was no longer warm. How many men had shrunk under the force of her cool look? Too many if that had become her expectation.
He sat up straighter. “He wouldn’t risk a scandal in order to marry the woman he actually loved. There’s no chance he’ll risk it out of some obligation to you. His family’s happiness means too much to him.”
Lord Crofton lurched to his feet, stumbling. He bore down on Benedict with a fist raised. “Listen here, you mongrel. You are—”
Benedict stood, and the older man stopped. He had nearly a foot on Crofton and no cause to be reasonable. “Iam no longer half dead with cold. Nor am I inclined to put up with threats from a man so brandy-soaked he struggles to stand.”
Lord Crofton’s eyes narrowed. Benedict could see him debate the pros and cons of throwing a punch and hoped the pros would win. Smashing something would feel gratifying.
Lady Amelia stepped between them, placing her palm firmly against Benedict’s chest.
It was unexpected. Few men would put themselves in his path when he was angry. This willowy chit had a set of bollocks of her own. Even through the fabric of his waistcoat he could feel her hand—surprisingly hot for someone cold-blooded.
She looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and for the first time, he saw a crack in that ruthless exterior. A hint of uncertainty. A trace of vulnerability.
“Edward won’t marry me?” Her voice, quiet and direct, formed a winch around his heart and pulled.
Perhaps she wasn’t so frigid and dispassionate. Perhaps it was a mask to hide her fragility. He’d been there. He understood.
He shook his head. “I know him, better than most, and he would never have hurt you on purpose. But what he went through when his father died? That left a wound that won’t ever heal. He won’t put his family through that same anguish.”
She took a deep breath, nodded, and walked across to the window. Good. He hated to see any woman cry.
“Then you will have to,” her father said.
It was arrogant and presumptuous and everything that was wrong with the aristocracy. To be dictated to—as if Benedict’s life was not his own, as if he had no agency—lit within him a dangerous furnace. “I don’thaveto do anything. I am not your employee. I am not your subordinate. I do not answer to you.”
Lord Crofton waved a hand, as though brushing off an insect or some other low-level irritant. “An honorable man would live up to his responsibilities.”
Benedict could barely keep the rage from his voice. “I fail to see how I benefit from this arrangement.”
Lady Amelia whirled to face him. If she’d been crying, there was no sign of it. Her green eyes flashed sharp and spiteful.
Oh, there’s nothing fragile about you at all…
She looked at him as if he were a chimney sweep asking to dance with a queen. “I am the daughter of the Earl of Crofton. You are a…man in a patched coat.”
