Page 27 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)
T he following Friday, at approximately five-thirty in the evening, Amelia made her way to the grand staircase, stomach aflutter.
She knew she looked her best. She had taken pains to do so, just as she had taken pains to assure the food, the staff, the table, in short, everything was ready for tonight.
Still, her palms sweated in her gloves and her mouth felt dry.
Her first dinner party as Chase’s wife.
Her first dinner party, period.
One of her mother’s journal entries detailed the first dinner party she had planned as the Countess of Fallsgate. The food, the guests, the decorations, the conversation starters. She had been nervous, too. Amelia took comfort from that, and from the knowledge that her mother had pulled it off without a hitch.
She was her mother’s daughter. She could do this.
Chase, dashingly handsome as always in his black superfine and bright-white shirtsleeves and cravat, awaited her at the base of the stairs. He followed her progress as she descended, a slow, appreciative smile curving his lips.
When she stood before him, breath choppy, he took her hand and bent over it. “Good evening, madam wife. May I say how lovely you are tonight?”
She felt her cheeks warm. “Thank you.”
“Shall we?”
He led her to the drawing room where Mr. Oliver would lead their dinner guests as they arrived, starting in fifteen minutes or so.
“Sherry? Something stronger?” Chase asked, already heading for the credenza.
Holding a hand to her stomach, she shook her head. “I shall wait for the champagne, after our guests arrive. I haven’t eaten much today, and I don’t wish to lose my head.”
He paused, midway to the cabinet housing the liquor and turned back toward her. “An excellent notion. I shall wait, as well. I merely wished to…” His words dwindled.
Amelia studied him more closely. Was she imagining things, or was her burnished-skinned husband flushing?
He linked his hands behind him and approached her, eyes on the carpet. “Amelia,” he began, then huffed out a laugh.
Her nerves over tonight’s success or failure abruptly faded into the background. “Chase? Is everything—”
She stopped speaking when he drew a small, leather, gold-embossed box from behind his back.
He cleared his throat. “I wanted to give you this before your guests arrive.”
She stared at the box, transfixed. “But I have nothing for you.”
He laughed softly. “Of course you would say that. Take it, please.”
She did. With trembling, clumsy fingers, she unclasped the box and lifted the lid. She gazed in wonder at the contents. A ring, crowned with a large, violet-hued sapphire, surrounded by diamonds, nestled between twin satin pillows.
Chase cleared his throat. “Do you like it? The jeweler asked me to choose between silver and gold for the band. I chose silver, as I thought it showed the sapphire to its advantage. But if you prefer gold—”
“I love it, exactly as it is.” She peeled her eyes from the ring to look at Chase. “But, why…”
He sent her a crooked smile and took the box from her. “Why? Because I had not given you the first gift, and wished to rectify matters.” As he spoke, he withdrew the ring, and set the box on a nearby side table.
To her horror, she felt herself on the verge of tears. Not at all the elegant, self-assured woman she wanted to project this evening. She turned to practical matters to force the overwhelming emotions down. “Are you sure we can afford it?”
He sent her a sardonic smile. “Yes. Would you like to try it on?”
“Yes,” she answered, her voice a breathless whisper.
He took her hand and slid the silver band over her ring finger. It fit perfectly.
She held it out to admire the way the stones sparkled in the reflected light of the candelabras burning throughout the chamber. “Thank you, Chase.”
“You’re welcome. I chose the particular stone because”—his voice dropped an octave and went suspiciously hoarse—“it nearly matches your eyes.”
She sent him a brilliant, if watery, smile. She threw her arms around his neck and rose on tiptoe to press a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth.
His arms encircled her, no hesitation.
Happiness and belonging and so much love filled her nearly to overflowing.
When she finally dropped down before him, she found him smiling at her, a tender expression on his handsome face.
Maybe…maybe he was starting to love her a little, too.
Across the room, a throat cleared.
Feeling like a child caught stealing tarts fresh from the oven, she turned quickly.
Mr. Oliver, in his formal butler attire, hovered in the open doorway. He wore his usual neutral expression, but Amelia thought she saw a glimmer of warmth in his faded eyes.
“Lord and Lady Culver, the Earl of Fallsgate.”