She was tempted to try to explain it—the superficial nature of what they were focused on, how utterly irrelevant it was—but knew deep down that it took more than words to convince someone. So she smiled, a genuine smile for the first time that night. “I’m off to fly in a different field.”
She curtseyed to the group—a thank-you for their respect back when that was what had mattered to her—and then walked away. The disappearing weight from her shoulders was utterly delightful.
It was time to leave London. Leave this.
She had enough funds to buy a small cottage, somewhere only a few hours’ ride from Abingdale. Cassandra would be able to visit when she was older, and Fiona could come and stay when she needed time away.
Maybe, over time, Benedict would see that she was no longer the selfish, myopic girl he had married. Maybe, over time, they could repair the damage they’d done and start again.
The tenor of the room changed. A chorus of whispers drowned out the orchestra. People were staring at her. News of her showdown with Luella had travelled fast. Nevertheless, she held her head high. She didn’t care. She was making the only decision that was right for her. The only choice that gave her some hope of a life with Benedict.
She turned toward the stairs and froze.
It was not her argument with Luella that made her the center of attention.
He had come.
Moreover, he had not come alone.
It was worse than Benedict had expected. All of London currently had its gaze pinned on him—the enormous violent brute dressed up like a bloody parrot. Standing there naked couldn’t have attracted as much attention.
“The Most Honorable, the Marquess of Harrington and Mr. Benedict Asterly.”
He swallowed and tried not to pull at the goldwork embroidery of his cravat as he waited for his grandfather to descend the short set of stairs into the ballroom. But the marquess was reveling in the attention and showed no sign of joining the crowd.
Face after face. The room was a kaleidoscope of irritation, amusement, and conjecture. The upper crust wondering what his appearance with the marquess meant. They’d mock him if they knew. It meant that he would do anything to be with his wife—even if that meant making peace with his grandfather.
Harrington put his hand on Benedict’s back, an intimate gesture that doubled as a bold announcement.Asterly is family.
Was it a warning for Benedict to toe the line? Or was the marquess protecting him? Benedict didn’t know. Their time spent together had been cold and stiff, full of broken conversation. Every word had been laden with decades of loathing and mistrust. Eventually, they’d reached an understanding—Benedict would listen to Harrington’s advice in matters related to the running of an earldom—but beyond that the waters were murky, their relationship still undefined.
It wasn’t easy to stand next to the man who’d destroyed his mother, but it had to be done. Partly because he had a responsibility to those he would one day serve but mostly because of Amelia. Because it would show her that he could listen, could change and that he valued her opinion. Amelia was why he’d finally opened those bloody letters in his desk drawer.
He scanned the room. When he finally saw her, he took the first full breath he’d managed in months. He drank in the sight of her, her head held high with her usual confidence, her grace and elegance that was at once gentle and steel-strong, her beauty derived less from her physical perfection and more from her intelligence and wit.
He took another full breath, the tension he’d been carrying dissipating into a calm serenity. He was whole. With her in the room, he was complete.
Amelia’s hand pressed against her lips and her eyes shone. To hell with his grandfather and the peacocking. He couldn’t wait another moment, another second, to have her in his arms. But as he stepped forward, she stepped backward.
Again, he moved toward her and she backed away. Her surprise quickly turned to an expression of horror. With an agonized look, she turned and fled through the crowd, pushing her way through the horde to the balcony doors, where she disappeared into the night.
“Amelia!” As he raced through the ballroom, the crowd parted before him, but by the time he reached the exit, he could see nothing but empty paths into the garden, strung with lanterns. There were two trails she could have taken, one that skirted the edge of the elaborately landscaped maze and another that plunged deep into the heart of it. He knew instinctively which she would have chosen.
“Amelia!” At every turn, he expected her to be just around the corner. At every turn the hollowness inside him spread. She had every right to be angry—he’d said cruel and hurtful things. But he had hoped that reconciling with his grandfather and stepping foot where he’d sworn he’d never tread would have earned him enough time to plead his case.
He ducked through an archway, moving toward a patch of light. Surely, she’d head for one of the lantern-lit groves. The bushes were tall enough that he couldn’t see a clear way to her. He was blind and desperate. “Amelia, please,” he called.
Finally, he rounded a corner, and she was there, sitting on a bench beneath a lamp, head in her hands. “Amelia.”
She looked up. Tear tracks shone under the light, and his heart broke all over again. He’d made a mistake, coming here. He should have left her in peace rather than hurt her again. But the damage was done. All he could do now was ask for forgiveness.
He knelt before her, cupping her hands in his. “I’m sorry. I was a damned fool. Even worse than that, I was deliberately shortsighted. I didn’t want to face my own failings or admit that I’d made mistakes, so I blamed you. It was spiteful and wrong and I’m so, so sorry. You were and always will be the best thing to ever happen to me.”
She looked down at him, her eyes dropping to the carrot-colored cravat that had taken a full hour to knot properly, the contrasting blue and green quilted waistcoat and the bejeweled slippers on his feet. Horrendous, all of it, but he wasn’t a man of words and so this was his love letter to her.
She shook her head, pulling her hands from his. “This is not what I want,” she whispered.
No moment in his entire life had hurt like this one, not even the day his mother had left. A sharp ache formed in the back of his throat. He clenched his fists, digging his fingers into the barely healed blisters on his palms, channeling his grief into that pain.
