“‘Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.’”
Damnation, and Hugh realised Seth – or Shakespeare – was correct. Amelia would likely prefer lethal hairpins to atendergift.
“Seth, you should charge ten guineas.”
Shawdale winced but the prizefighter gazed around his sumptuous room with its brown velvet curtains, pristine racksfor dumbbells and the latest weighing machine. “Could do with some extra coin. The sash windows need painting, my daughter needs another set of gowns and…” A smile split his features. “Matilda is with child.”
“What!” Hugh slapped him on the back; Seth barely flinched. “Congratulations. Is she well?”
“Eating for five.”
“That’ll cost,” grumped the duke.
Hugh ignored him. One day, a woman would bring that pinchpenny duke to his knees and Hugh for one would pay a damn fortune to see it.
After further manly slaps on the back, Seth and his client departed for the ring while Hugh made his way to the basement changing rooms, thoughts restless as he exchanged his loose boxing breeches for daytime wear.
When he’d awoken this morning, Amelia had afore departed his bedchamber, leaving rose-scented sheets. He couldn’t blame her for making herself scarce before dawn as maids made their rounds at first light, but he wished he could have awoken to her amber eyes and silken kiss.
And furthermore, they needed to talk of what she’d learned from Lady Twyford at the theatre and how to proceed with Lady Tremlach.
He tied a rough cravat for once, shrugged on his jacket and made for the door.
Their hunt continued.
A gimlet eye perused Amelia.“Where is my nephew, Miss…Jones?”
“Mr Cruikshank informed me that the master has left for his regular early appointment at his Boxing Club, my lady.”
Amelia herself had crept from his bedchamber when she’d heard the household stirring at five of the morn but then had fallen asleep in her own bed until Sally had brought tea at eight.
Hugh had departed the house at a half after seven.
“Harrumph.”
Amelia could only concur. “I believe, my lady, the master thought you were not returning Phoebe to us until the hour of twelve.”
The hall’s longcase clock broke the quietude of the drawing room as it struck a quarter before eleven.
“One arrived early,” Lady Kemble stated, sitting bolt upright in the Chippendale chair, “as one has…questions.”
Lady Kemble’s attitude towards her appeared to have changed somewhat, and Amelia sensed not for the good. She made to rise. “Perhaps I should attend to Phoebe and–”
“Sit.”
Amelia sat.
Clasped her hands and sought the demure governess.
Though after last night, she wasn’t sure thatdemurecould ever be included within her repertoire again. She shuffled and–
“Cease fidgeting. You are as bad as Hugh. Has this abode fleas?”
“I don’t believe so, my lady. Perhaps the chair cushions are lumpish and need re-upholstering.”
The lady’s brows elevated to her henna hairline before she retrieved her quizzing glass and scrutinised Amelia from her booted toes to her simple chignon.
“Hugh attended the theatre last night, I hear. Do you know which play he saw?”
