“Don’t ‘Amelia’ me. I’ve been waiting for you for years.” She tried to stand, to go and shake some sense into him, but her legs crumpled.
He examined the pressed cuff of his coat, running a thumb over the embroidered edge. “You’ve always known the conditions. No scandals. It is in the contract we all signed.” His voice carried a tinge of disbelief, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying.
She squeezed her fingers into tight fists. Her nails dug into her palms. “There isn’t a bloody scandal if everyone in this room keeps their mouth shut.”
Edward’s eyes widened in shock, but if ever she should be permitted to use profanities, surely this was the time. They were quite surprisingly satisfying. No wonder men used them.
She looked over at the half-naked stranger. He was rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, strikingly similar to the way Edward did.
“Well?” she demanded.
“By noon, it’ll be all over the county.” The stranger looked pointedly at the ancient peacocking Lord Karstark, and she felt a sudden, all-consuming urge to rake her fingernails down those powdery, tissue-like wrinkles. Her entire life ruined by a gossipy centenarian.
Edward finally looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry.” It was the first time she’d ever heard him apologize for anything. His tone was bleak, as though he knew full well the pain he was causing and regretted it.
Bile crawled up her throat, and she fought the urge to retch. She couldn’t breathe, and the ringing in her ears grew louder.
“I’ll be ruined,” she choked out. “Please.” Her voice caught. She’d never in her life thought she’d plead for anything, but she’d plead now.
His face twisted. He knew it to be true, yet the truth didn’t change his mind. “We’ll say you ended it. You threw me over. You got tired of waiting. I spent too much time in parliament and not enough time courting you.”
But that’s not what they would say. Not when this story got out.
Edward could confront a difficult and contentious parliament without hesitation, but if there was one thing that could bring him to his knees, it was the slightest hint of gossip. And tonight would be more than a hint. He would step away, stay out of the scandal, and she would have to defend herself.
She searched his countenance for something to give her hope, but there was nothing. “Are you actually doing this?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and he turned away, pulling his hands through his hair as he left.
And with his exit, a fissure appeared. She was Lady Amelia Crofton, daughter of an earl, diamond of theton, third cousin to the King, and the future Duchess of Wildeforde. Or at least she had been.
Lord Karstark smirked and turned to her father. “If Wildeforde sends one of his men to Canterbury now, you could have a special license before Sunday’s Christmas service.”
A bubble of horrified laughter caught in her throat. The situation had spiraled from awful to borderline hysterical.
“Excuse me?” The stranger’s voice rose five octaves. “Now see here.”
“No. Nowyousee here,” her father said. “Someone is marrying my daughter, and if it isn’t the Duke of Wildeforde, it will be you, damn it. God knows no one else will have her now.”
She looked at the stranger—Benedict—waiting for him to say something. Do something. He just stared at the palms of his hands.
Useless men.“Father, I can’t marry him…I’ve never even seen him before tonight.” Her eyes pricked with tears.
The stranger rolled his eyes with a look of unadulterated scorn, which she was wholly unused to having sent in her direction. “We’ve been introduced, Lady Amelia.”
Had they? She searched his face, the unfashionably tanned skin, the harsh stubble on his jaw, the strong, broad nose with an unseemly bend where he’d clearly come out worst in a tavern brawl. Nothing about him was familiar. “We have?” Surely she’d remember a man of his lumbering size.
He shook his head, clearly disgusted.
Her father nodded. “We can do it after the Christmas service.”
By the time Amelia woke, the orange glow of the coals was battling with descending dark. By the time she was dressed, the day had fled.
The maid she’d been assigned by Edward’s housekeeper arrived with a tray. The toast was burnt, the eggs were cold, and the mushrooms she’d asked for were nonexistent.
“I realize I’m asking for breakfast during the early evening, but I was hoping for something that wasn’t actually cooked at breakfast time.”
The past twenty-four hours had been beyond humiliating. Never in her life had she felt less in control of a situation. And the cold, congealed mess before her was her mood manifested.
