She gripped the edge of the table hard, as though her fingers were pressed around his neck. “You are the grandson of the Marquess of Harrington! And wealthier than half of London. And we live like this!” She waved her hand in front of his burnt toast and her fruit. “It is unconscionable.”
“Unconscionable? Like false allegations of kidnapping? Like destroying a man’s reputation in order to entertain a gaggle of useless, elitist aristocrats?”
“What reputation? You work! Apparently when you don’t need to. Some ridiculous gossip that will pass in a week can hardly lower your reputation any further.”
He swore. He swore with every measure of frustration in him. He swore to every incarnation of the devil he could think of. He swore in order to shock the look of blasted superiority off her beautiful face.
There was an entire village of people counting on him to deliver a contract for the construction of new steam locomotives. A contract that might fall through because of this gossip. But apparently that paled in comparison to his wife’s desire to be waited on hand and foot.
If ever he’d needed confirmation that he was right in not letting his sister grow up with money, this was it.
Amelia smoothed her skirts. “I must say, I’m surprised Lord Harrington hasn’t reached out. He usually has such impeccable manners.”
Blood pounded in his head at the sound of his grandfather’s name.
“This family has nothing to do with that man. And that’s nonnegotiable. I forbid you to engage with him.”
She smirked. “You clearly don’t know me if you think forbidding anything is going to work.”
“I mean it. That man is the lowest form of life there is. He’s a cruel, heartless bastard, and nothing about him is welcome in this house. Not his presence, not his money, not his name.”
“You are a fool. You claim to be a businessman, yet you turn your back on the advantages and connections that your family background offers. Don’t you know that more deals are made in cardrooms at balls than in musty old offices?”
“This is not up for debate.” He stormed out of the room, needing to put as much distance between him and his wife as possible. She was everything about the aristocracy that he hated. And marrying her was destroying everything.
Amelia waited until Benedict had left before retrieving the crumpled newspaper from the floor.
She was livid. He had been treating her like a fool from the very first moment. He’d been laughing at her the entire time. To think she’d spent yesterday afternoon in tears because her jewelry had not been sent with the rest of her things when she was married to a man who could purchase her entire jewelry collection ten times over.
To think that she’d lain in bed last night resigning herself to life as low-income landed gentry.
But no matter. At least now she had a clear path. She might not have jewels to fund an escape or a lady’s maid to help her, but she was no longer a drab Cinderella scrubbing floors. She would be her own fairy godmother. It was time to turn the marriage—and her husband—into what she’d always expected. Something worthy of Lady Amelia and the grandson of a marquess.
“Daisy! Cassandra! We’re going into town.”
Chapter9
It had been a bloody awful day, so it was only fitting that the snow had turned to icy rain by the time Benedict left the firm to go home for the night. The hood of his cloak kept it out of his face, but even through the sheepskin lining, he could feel the cold. Dark patches stained the leather where water had splashed.
He was going home to a steaming bath and a fortifying meal, and then he was going to sit her down and explain, as nicely as possible, why living a simple life was the best choice for his family.
They had enough privilege—a roof over their head, food on the table, people that loved each other—and they didn’t need the fawning and the excess and the waste of the upper class. She just needed to give it some time, and she would see. She could be happy without that opulence too.
He stamped his feet on the mat at the front door, trying to shake off the mud. As he did so, the door opened. Tom Greenhill stood at attention, everything stiff from his posture to his shirt front, which looked to have been starched and ironed.
“Tom, is everything well?”
“Good evening, Mr. Asterly.” He bent at the waist. Shockingly, no creaking sound accompanied it.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” Benedict asked as he stepped inside. In thirty years, Tom had never addressed him as Mr. Asterly. Tom stood behind him, reached over to grab the lapels of his cloak, and tried to pull it off him.
Benedict stepped away. “Good God, man. What are you doing?”
“Taking your cloak, sir.” The man’s face was as uncomfortable as his movements.
“Sir?”
This was his wife’s fault. What numskull idea had gotten into her head while he was gone?
