“Yes, but—”
“And you said they were planning to visit soon—”
“Yes, however—”
“And is there a better way to show them how well you get along with the English than to have everyone together in a convivial house party?”
“That’s not enough.” He took a seat by the table and folded his hands in his lap. It was like a criminal trial, and he was positioning himself as the judge. Very well. She was more than capable of playing the part of barrister.
“You claim to have had your business reputation ruined, something that could negatively impact not just our family, but the future of all of those that work in your factory.”
Benedict grunted but said nothing.
Gathering steam, she swept her arms wide, as though addressing a room full of critics. “You cannot rescue your own reputation. It’s a task that can only be accomplished by people of influence, which includes those that I have invited. Together, we will show them that you are a gentleman and the allegations against you are false.”
“Hmmm.”
It was time for her most salient point. She moved closer to him, crouching until her gaze was level with his, her hands pressed against each other like a church steeple. “I’ve been reading up where I can on these Americans, and Mr. Grunt has brought his two daughters to England with him. If we make some exceptional introductions, potentially facilitate an engagement with a lord, the Americans will give you anything you want. And in turn, you can provide those that work for you with everything they need.”
It was the best argument she could make. This hunt would get him the contract he so desperately wanted. And she could tell that it landed because he rubbed the back of his neck.
“We can’t. The villagers wouldn’t like it. Anti-aristocratic sentiment runs deep.”
“They will like the extra work, and the money it brings.”
He sighed. “Can’t we just have a dinner? You can ask Wildeforde to come, the devil knows he owes us a favor, and won’t that be enough to show the Americans that we can all play nicely?” His face was so hopeful that she was tempted to acquiesce, but it wouldn’t be enough. Not for him and not for her, so she kept silent.
“Fine,” he said. “But the Karstarks are not welcome. Invite whoever else you please, but not them.”
It was a reasonable compromise. The benefits of pursuing a relationship with Lady Karstark probably weren’t worth actually having to spend time with her anyway. “It’s a deal.”
“But, Amelia. If this goes bad, it will be on you.”
Chapter20
The morning started like every morning in the fortnight before it. They woke in his bed. They made love. They dressed. They breakfasted. He went to work, where she planned to join him for a few hours in the afternoon.
It was all decidedly civilized. Homey. Close to a perfection she’d never known she wanted.
Amelia sank farther into the cushions on the chaise longue. This sitting room had been the first room of the closed wing to be opened, aired out, and refurbished. She could see why Benedict’s mother had loved it. The windows were wide and looked out onto the gardens. They were expertly planted and maintained—with winter jasmine forming graceful, pale yellow arches. The sun streamed in from late morning until mid-afternoon. It was the perfect place to curl up with a novel.
Across the room, Cassandra had her feet on the lounge, her own nose also deep in a book. They had spent the past three hours in complete silence—a silence filled with fictional voices and sounds and images. Amelia could read for days. She’d missed a whole lifetime of novel reading so far, and now she planned to dedicate serious hours to catching up.
Greenhill entered. He’d yet to master the expressionless façade of a true butler, and the concern on his face had her sitting up quickly.
“Greenhill, what’s wrong?”
“Lady Karstark is here to see you, my lady.”
Amelia’s heart thudded. It was the first time she’d been paid a call since she left London. Clearly, she was making progress. Not progress Benedict would be happy with or that she was particularly looking forward to, but progress nonetheless.
She shoved the book under the cushion and straightened, neatening her hair as she did so.
“Cassandra, book away. Come sit by me.”
The young girl’s face screwed up in protest, but she carefully placed her bookmark and crossed the room.
Amelia yanked the hem of Cassandra’s dress. How reading caused so many wrinkles she had no idea.
