Curse it.
Feelingswere not what she should have for Mr Hugh Cadwalader.
“Ahem! Miss Jones!”
She snapped her gaze from him. “Apologies, my lady. Wool-gathering.”
“Quite.” That quizzing glass lifted in a purple-gloved hand. “It’s come back to me! The colour of your eyes reminds me of the Swanford brood of dukes. Any relation?”
Cold dread drenched Amelia. “T-that family are not personally known to me, my lady.”
“No loss. I was a debutante with the late fourth duke’s sister.”
Amelia swallowed the knot in her throat. “Oh, that’s…”
“By chance, Aunt,” interrupted Hugh at her side, “do you yourself have any tatting with you?”
“What? Well, of course.”
“May I see it?”
“You’ve never asked before?”
“But now that I know of its splendiferous splendour, I’ll not achieve one wink of peaceful sleep until my eyes have been graced by more. And with those delicate hands, dearest Aunt, yours must surely cause the angels to cry in envy and the cherubs to cavort in wonderment.”
“Pish! You beggarly rascal.” But Lady Kemble beamed and rooted in her bag.
Amelia mouthed her gratitude and he winked at her as Phoebe joined them to view the contents of Lady Kemble’s tatting bag. Amelia folded the linen cloth back over Phoebe’s butterfly and returned to the chaise.
The past should not affect her so, but the recollections of her father and mother last night had brought it fresh to her thoughts, and how Amelia wished she’d appreciated Mama more in her childhood and not grumped about pink and lace.
But wishes were for fools as Hugh would say, so instead she recalled the fun days of absurd hats with cloud-high feathers, music and laughter. She recalled the gentler times, chatting softly whilst soothing her mother’s megrims.
A skill which had proved useful last night.
Although setting her hands upon Hugh Cadwalader’s bath-dampened skin had provoked an altogether distinct sensation.
One which had demanded she return his kiss – sensuous, divine, necessary.
Within that intimacy of candlelight, Amelia had been unable to deny Hugh Cadwalader and his seductive kiss.
Yet he’d brought it to an end anyhow.
Perhaps it was for the best.
“Miss Jones!”
Amelia blinked up at Lady Kemble, who now stood over her.
“Apologies, my lady.” And she rose to her feet. “I was…”
Lady Kemble pursed her lips. “Come! I require you to walk the room with me for I am old and weak.”
“A pleasure, my lady.” Amelia gave her best demure smile and received the lady’s purple-clad arm – it was strong as a young goat’s and required not one whit of support.
They stepped forth in a clockwise direction, past the windows overlooking the square.
“That tatting was exquisite, Miss Jones.” Pausing in her stride, Lady Kemble turned, blue eyes shrewd. “And I would recognise it as Phoebe’s work from across Hyde Park.”
Amelia swallowed, abruptly tired of all the lies and subterfuge. “My lady, I…”
A pat on the arm. “If Phoebe trusts you, Miss Jones, then I do also as she is most perceptive.” She peered back at the young girl who was fussing over her guardian’s bruised cheek. “Phoebe is also happier than I have seen her in some while and I believe that is due to you.”
“Oh, I have done little,” she said honestly.
“You listen to her,” the lady retorted. “Listen to her needs and that is what she requires. Phoebe will not be your conventional debutante, I think, so will need many skills to be who she wishes.” She sighed. “And besides, she may be the nearest to a niece I’ll have if Hugh is not amenable to any of my prospective brides.” With a tut, she twisted away quite ably. “Hugh! I am for home. Where I shall also request Miss Pussett-Puddifer to attend tea next week. She is nigh a spinster at twenty-four years and dotes on a bothersome spaniel named Peril, so you might like her.”
