“He inquired after a spare room so he would not have to put himself up at an inn, and I told him I was certain Coylton Castle could accommodate one more guest.”
Amelia set down her glass harder than she had intended. “You know,” she began, “I brushed off your high-handedness the other day when you ordered my staff around, but I cannot tolerate this. I have the right to approve the guests in my own household.”
“It is only Brinley.”
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“You are not my husband!” The words hung heavy in the following silence.
“That is a fact which is abundantly clear to everyone in this room,” Kempton finally said, an icy bite to his tone.
Amelia sighed, slightly deflated after her outburst. “That is not…I only intended to inform you that I should not be treatedas if I were under your charge. I manage this household and run all the investments and holdings alongside the stewards. I expect to be treated with more respect than you have shown me thus far.”
There were several tense moments where Dorian’s reaction could go either way.
Clara barely breathed beside her.
“My apologies.” Amelia wasn’t sure she’d heard the words correctly. They were so calm, so even, so earnest that it momentarily stunned her. “It was not my intention to overstep—especially after the rainstorm. My intention was never to usurp your authority, and I should have conferred with you instead of acting out of habit.”
Clara’s jaw actually hung agape as she looked between her brother and Amelia as if she could not believe what she was witnessing.
“Thank you,” Amelia said softly—a bit taken aback by his capitulation as well—and the meal resumed.
“How about agame of chess?” Amelia asked Clara, gesturing to the as-yet-unused board prepared in the corner of the parlor. It was a beautiful set with intricately carved marble pieces, likely Italian in its craftsmanship. Despite Clara clapping her hands in excited agreement, Dorian knew it would end in disaster. His sister had never possessed the patience for such a game. In fact, Clara had never excelled in any hobby that required a great deal of stillness and restraint. She’d always been a girl made for motion.
“You don’t mind, do you, Dori?” Clara asked, realizing the game would leave him the odd man out.
He waved away her concern. “You play your game; I will excuse myself to step out for a spell.” Enjoying a cheroot on the veranda seemed far preferable to witnessing Clara’s complainingand grumbling as she was thoroughly trounced in chess. Before the women could protest, he slipped out, lighting his cheroot on a candle as he passed, and stepped into the night.
The rain had finally halted, leaving the earth damp and chilled. Though it was May, early spring seemed loath to lose her grip on this corner of Scotland. The distant blue flash of lightning heralded more rolling storms to come, but, for now, they held off. He puffed slowly and watched the storm until there was a flicker of movement beside him.
Amelia appeared, looking stunning and ethereal in the mysterious lighting. He could no more help his smile at her appearance than he could his breathing.
“Did Clara lose gracefully at last?” he finally asked when his mouth decided to work once again.
“She is a better sport now than I remember. There were hardly any tears.” Amelia smiled at her jest and produced from behind her back a polished ebony box, heavily lacquered and shining in the snippets of golden light from the window behind them.
“What is this?” he asked as she held it out to him.
“It is my turn to extend a truce, I suppose,” she offered with a tilt of her head.
He took the box and, nestled within its red velvet-lined interior, he discovered a specially made traveling case for cigars. Beautifully and skillfully crafted, the inside of the case was made from Spanish cedar, while the outside was rich cherry wood. The artisan had carved into the case a stunning relief of a stallion rearing within a frame of blooming roses. It was more a work of art than something utilitarian.
“This is remarkable,” he said as he ran his fingers along the carvings, taken aback by the thoughtfulness of the gesture.
“It was my husband’s,” she said softly, and then added quickly, “He never used it. I thought someone should enjoy and appreciate it, so it did not go entirely to waste.”
“I cannot accept this; you should hold onto it.” Dorian tried to hand it back to her, but she shook her head.
“I want you to have it. And…I feel bad about my comment earlier.”
“You were merely stating a fact.”
“Yes, but it was hurtful, nonetheless. My intention in saying such a thing was impure, and I told myself I would not do that to you again.”
Recognizing that he was not going to win the argument, Dorian inclined his head, and to show his appreciation, he immediately set about transferring his cheroots from his pocket to the case. It really was beautiful. It must have cost a pretty penny.
