He couldn’t ask that of her.
Benedict kicked his boots against the wall by the servants’ entrance, knocking off as much mud as possible. At least the kitchen was warm and bustling. Mrs. Duggan gave him a nod as he passed through, barely pausing in her direction of the staff around her.
He climbed up the back staircase. He needed to see her. He was hungry for the sight, the touch, of her. They’d barely exchanged more than a quick peck on the cheek since their guests had arrived.
When he found her, she was at the piano, friends crowded around as she sang.
She was beautiful. She was smiling. She was happy.
How could he think of taking her to America? She’d finally found her way back into the bosom of society.
Nathaniel joined her for the chorus, his voice smooth and polished. Every move of his slight form was graceful. His appearance perfect.
Benedict looked down at his mud-stained boots, the ends of his coat sodden where it had trailed through uncut grass. Amelia might be where she belonged in this company, but Benedict would never fit in here.
As the music trailed off, he ducked out of the doorway. A dead, numbing weight settled over him. The sound of her died away, and with it went what little spark of hope he’d had.
He knew what he needed to do.
“Hello, poppet,” he said as he opened the door to Cassandra’s room. She was sitting up against the bedhead, knees drawn, a book resting on them as usual.
She’d braided her hair before bed, the thick plait hanging over her shoulder. He preferred it like this, rather than the artificial tumble of curls Daisy had nearly perfected. The simple braid was a reminder that she was still the little girl he’d raised.
“Ben!” She put aside the book and patted the blanket beside her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
He crossed the room and settled in on the bed next to her, drawing her into a hug. “Sorry I haven’t been in to see you today, poppet. I’ve been caught up.”
She snuggled against him, the only person who’d ever just loved him with no conditions and no hesitation.
“Yes,” she said. “Amelia mentioned you’ve been working with the Americans.” There was a twang to her voice—a slight shudder atthe Americans—and Benedict wondered if the less-than-desirable aspects of his ever-so-desirable wife were rubbing off.
“I think we got there. Tessie was brilliant today.”
Benedict had no idea who had shortened the coupling chains, or why, but the Americans had believed his story that one of the newer workers had misheard an instruction.
The deal was ready to be signed, if he could bring himself to do it.
It wouldn’t be forever—a couple of years at the most—but it was long enough that Amelia could really establish herself in London, unencumbered by a husband who simply couldn’t be the perfect gentleman she needed.
Hopefully, two years would ease the agony he was already feeling. Because she was going to leave, sooner or later. These past few days had proved that.
The house would never go back to what it was before she arrived, and there were too many memories of her for him to stay once she’d gone.
So America it was.
“How do you feel about an adventure?” he asked Cassandra.
“Oooh, London? Amelia said Lord Roxburough was planning to sell his townhouse and that she wants to buy it.”
The words hurt to hear, but if she was already talking of leaving for London, then he was making the right decision. “I was thinking a little farther than that. Maybe Boston.”
Cassandra wrinkled up her nose, a crease forming between her brows. “Amelia would hate that. She says the Americas are full of people with too much money and not enough polish.”
His wife at her finest, clearly.
“I think it best that you don’t get too attached to Amelia, poppet. I don’t think she’ll be around much longer. We need to let her go back to where she belongs.”
Cassandra pulled away. “But she’s our family. She belongs here.”
