Page 33 of The Mistress (Foxgloves #1)
AMELIA
“ T he Viscount of St. Alsbrook is here to call on Miss Becham, My Lord,” Hughes announced.
Thomas was working at the desk in the library, while Lydia and Amelia sat by the window debating different patterns Amelia could embroider onto Lydia’s wedding dress. They had picked it up the day before from the dressmaker, and much of the other planning for the wedding had also been falling into place. They had simultaneously continued attending social events, including the Dunhill’s tea, and people had finally stopped snubbing the Bechams. Apart from their new friends, Anna and Emily, the newfound friendliness of the ton didn’t sit well with Amelia, Lydia, or Thomas. Their judgment turned to kindness based on the hot air currently circulating. But the three of them suffered it. Playing their part, and fortunately making two new friends along the way.
Amelia let her dance card fill up at these events. Pretending the man she loved was not there, at the edges of each one, dancing with no one. Pretending she couldn’t feel his eyes on her. Pretending her heart was not a broken mess trailing at his feet.
This was the first caller she had received, though. Philip Mason, the Viscount of St. Alsbrook, had danced with her twice last night. During the second dance, she was sure her face was on fire from the relentless heat of the Duke of Birmingham’s gaze scorching her, but she didn’t look at him to confirm what she could feel. She didn’t need to. Because dance after dance, promenade after promenade, smile after smile, she could still feel him. Still feel the connection to him. If anything, the cord felt tighter, more constricting, the more she ignored it.
Lydia looked to Amelia. Amelia looked to Thomas. Thomas looked back at Hughes.
“Please show him to the drawing room, Hughes,” Thomas said. “And have tea brought up.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Hughes nodded his exit.
“Thomas,” Amelia’s voice was thick. He turned to her, but Amelia couldn’t find the words. She felt Lydia reach out and squeeze her hand where she was still holding the many sketches they’d been perusing and adjusting.
“It’s just tea,” her sister said quietly.
Thomas didn’t break eye contact with her, though. He was waiting for Amelia to decide. His hope was evident on his face, even though he was trying to hide it. She knew he wouldn’t force her to meet with the viscount if she did not want to.
Amelia looked away first, clearing her throat to dislodge her panic. “Not another peer of the realm,” she joked instead of saying what she had actually wanted to. “Where are all the barristers and tradesmen?”
“You may just have to suffer a title, sister,” he teased, but the tone did not match his grave expression.
She stood, putting aside the designs and trying to hide her shaking hands. “He is a nice enough gentleman to forgive it momentarily, I suppose. Let’s not keep him waiting. Lydia?”
“Do you want me to join you?” Thomas asked as Lydia stood, linking her arms with Amelia in support and moving towards the door.
“Not right now,” Amelia forced her shoulders back, donning the politely friendly mask she’d been relying on over the past week and a half. She just had to get through it. All of it, this tea, the weeks until the wedding, and then she would be back home. Back to real life. Alone, in her little cottage, trying to forget the Duke of Birmingham existed somewhere not with her.
“I can come in half an hour to see him out,” Thomas offered instead.
Amelia smiled gratefully, and then she and Lydia left the library.
“It will be fine,” Lydia whispered as they walked. “Just one cup of tea, a little conversation, and then he’ll be gone.”
Lydia understood without Amelia having to say it. She wasn’t planning on entering into any courtships or marrying, even if that was Thomas’s goal. Amelia was ready for this awful Season to be over and done with. Her first and last.
“I know,” Amelia said. “I can manage. He really is a kind man.”
The Viscount of St. Alsbrook was standing by the window when they entered the drawing room. Amelia tried not to recall the other man that had visited her in this room. And what they did at the end of that sofa.
“Miss Becham,” the viscount crossed the room, taking her hand and giving it a kiss before turning to Lydia. “Miss Lydia.”
“Lord St. Alsbrook, welcome,” Lydia said. “We’ve called for some tea. Would you please be seated while we wait?”
“Yes, thank you,” he extended his arm to Amelia and led her to that godforsaken couch. Lydia went to sit by the window the viscount had just vacated.
He was a handsome man. With dark blonde hair a touch lighter than Amelia’s own, blue eyes, and gently masculine features, he made many a woman look twice. And Amelia had been honest when she told Lydia he was a kind man. He was, and it felt genuine to Amelia. Not the forced, fake friendliness with which the other members of the ton now greeted her.
“You look lovely today, Miss Becham,” he said to her as they sat down.
“Thank you, My Lord,” she answered. “How did you find your ride here?”
“Pleasant. It is a good day for riding,” he told her as the tea was brought in. “I would have asked to take you for a carriage ride, but thought you might be more comfortable in your own home today.”
“That was very thoughtful,” she said honestly. “Perhaps we can take that ride another time.” Amelia wanted to kick herself as soon as the words left her mouth. She was being polite, finding it difficult to face such consideration and shun it, but she didn’t want to encourage him.
“That would be delightful,” he smiled warmly, a dimple peeking through on the left side. It was charming.
“And how has your day been, Miss Becham?” he asked, taking a sip of tea.
“Quite nice, actually,” she told him, her hands cradling her own cup. It was easy to talk to him. “We are preparing for my sister and the Earl of Coventry’s wedding. We were trying to decide on a design for her gown when you arrived.”
“Did the dressmakers not design it for her?” He sounded genuinely interested in what she was sharing, even though they were discussing dresses and designs.
“Yes, of course. But at the risk of sounding too self-important, I am quite skilled at embroidery, and Lydia has asked me to make her a special design for her wedding day.”
“It isn’t self-important to be aware of one’s strengths.” He really did have a warm voice. Like melted honey. “That’s kind of you to make for her.”
“It’s not kindness,” Amelia corrected him, lifting her cup. “I am honored to do it.”
“Of course,” he smiled. “Do you enjoy embroidery then?”
“Very much,” Amelia admitted. “We learned many things from the Dowager Countess of Coventry, but I fell in love with the creativity and beauty of needlepoint. I also find it quiets my mind as nothing else does. It’s a very peaceful exercise.”
“That sounds quite wonderful.”
“Do you have any such pastimes?” she asked him, curious.
“Hmm,” he paused to consider. “Riding, actually. There is a path near my country home, and riding there brings me the serenity you describe.”
Amelia gave a small smile in acknowledgement. It was nice to talk to the viscount. He felt like he would make a pleasant friend.
That was it, though. Amelia had known that before she entered this room, as they moved through their conversation, and as they said their goodbyes and Thomas walked the Viscount of St. Alsbrook out.
Because Gideon had always been right. She had never doubted it, nor did their separation change the truth of it.
She was his and could never be anyone else’s.