Chapter13
Something was wrong. Amelia and Benedict had spent the better part of an hour looking at ribbons, fabrics, hats, and fake flowers. Normally this would not be an issue—she had been known to spend entire days shopping—but that was in London, where she’d had a plethora of shops at her disposal. Abingdale had one dressmaker and a general store, manned by a crotchety storekeeper who looked very suspicious at the amount of time they had spent pressing different colored ribbons against her hair.
And they had yet to argue.
Benedict just would not crack.
She had been pleasantly surprised to discover their day included a shopping trip. The slight flutter she felt at the thought of her husband courting her had mixed with amusement at the mental image of him engaging in such girlish activity. She’d guessed it would take ten minutes before he threw up his hands in disgust. Instead he nodded, feigned interest in the debate about pale blue or robin’s egg blue, and even had an opinion about which colors best suited her complexion.
Insufferable man.
He stood there with a smile on his face, far too pleasant and too handsome for her liking. Gone was his usual day gear of dark, heavy woolen breeches, rough-spun shirt, and patched coat. Polished tan hessians replaced his usual scuffed and mud-covered boots. They were paired with stockings, breeches of a light cream, braces, a fine shirt, and a clean, well-made morning coat. His hair was brushed and neatly pulled back. In the shaft of afternoon sunlight that streamed through the dusty window, it looked like burnished gold.
“Shall we just take one of everything?” he said. “Except for that puce-colored ribbon. That’s horrid.”
She blew a small strand of hair from her face. “I suppose so.”
As Benedict piled the ribbons into the basket, Amelia strolled to the shelf of books, tucking three under her arm. She didn’t stop to look at the titles, just moved quickly. She’d read all of four novels. It would be deuced bad luck for one of these three to be the same.
She shifted to the side and pretended to browse.
“Find anything that caught your eye?” His breath was hot on her neck. He stood so close that she could feel the heat of him through her pelisse. She looked at the storekeeper. Thankfully his attention was elsewhere.
She turned, keen to keep the books out of sight.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Just this.” She grabbed the nearest thing off the shelf and dropped it into the basket he was carrying. Heavens, a musket. What would he think of that?
“Nothing to add to the reading material under your bed?”
Amelia flushed. “That’s an absurd accusation.”
Benedict winked and took the books from her. “Relax, princess. Your secret is safe with me.”
Shopping gave way to luncheon. Amelia stood at the steps of the Bull and Whistle with Benedict at her back. “Ladies don’t go to places like this.” Indeed, they didn’t get within ten feet of one on purpose.
“This lady will. Courage.”
The teasing needled. No one had dared call her lily-livered before. Squaring her shoulders, she nodded her head. “Fine, let’s go.”
The pub’s small windows let very little light through, so despite the early day, it was dark but for the fireplaces at both ends and the thick, stub-like candles burning behind the bar and on every other table, giving off a stream of black soot.
She stopped dead in the doorway. The men inside were grizzled with unkempt whiskers, their hair long and greasy, their clothes wrinkled and sporting a myriad of stains.
Benedict nudged her forward. She kept her head held high as they walked the length of the room to the chairs closest to the fireplace. With a critical stare at the cushion, she sniffed and perched on the very edge. Heaven knew what grime she was sitting on.
A buxom barmaid with an obscenely low-cut dress came over to them. She lavished Benedict with a sickly-sweet smile, leaning over to brush non-existent dirt from his shoulder, her bosoms practically falling into his lap as she did so.
With the girl’s fleshy bottom in her face, Amelia rolled her eyes.
Benedict caught the look and grinned.
“Marriage has made you a busy man,” the barmaid said. “We never see you anymore.” The girl pouted, her bottom lip sticking out like the nouveau riche at Almack’s.
“Well, you’re seeing me now. Lady Amelia, may I present Edwina Merryman. Edwina, my wife, Lady Amelia.”
The buxom girl turned and ran a slow gaze over Amelia, from her fur-trimmed slippers, up her heavily embroidered brocade pelisse, to the gold-shot ribbon at her throat.
