Page 29 of His Spirited Lady
As he watched, however, Augustus swayed as though he’d had one whiskey too many. However, Marian’s rush to his side, sliding under his arm to support a giant shoulder, told a different story. Oliver rushed to take the other shoulder.
“He’s had a bit too much activity today,” Marian whispered. “Let’s get him to the library.”
Amelia hurried across the hall, her skirts lifted. “Simms—”
Richard stepped to her, halting her sprint and offering his arm. “If you act calm, no one will notice.” He led her behind her father, vaguely aware of Thea closing the library door behind them. Marian and Oliver placed Augustus on a chaise lounge.
It was another comfortable, shadowy room packed with a hash of colorful collectibles. Leather-bound books crowded shelves and tables, and the warm scent of cigars hung in the air, no doubt rising from the upholstery. Richard could spend an entire day in here.
Amelia draped a blanket over her father’s legs and knelt beside him. Her hair was an intricate mass of golden curls and braids, her skirts a golden pool. “Papa.”
Augustus patted her hand. “I’m fine, girlie.” He was pale, and in the shadows, it was easy to believe his skin was too big for his body. “You need to get back to your party. Raymond will come hunting, or Jasper. I’d prefer—” His sentence ended on a gravelly cough and a strangling wheeze.
She hesitated for a long moment, and Richard knew her well enough to suspect she wanted to argue.
“Amelia,” her mother said as she took Augustus’s other hand. “He’ll be fine in a moment. You really must go.”
Her blonde curls bounced as she nodded. Richard dropped his hand into line of vision, and she took it, using him for balance as she stood. Her fingers trembled against his. “We’ll see you at dinner.”
Richard tucked her hand into his elbow and led her from the room. Once they were in the hall, Amelia pulled him to a stop. He expected her to dissolve into a puddle. Instead, she drew a deep breath and then another, standing taller with each one.
She had her father’s grit.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Amelia kept her voice low. “One can only hear about London parties third-hand for so long without screaming. Margaret Gerard is asking everyone for the names of their dressmakers, and I’m already weary of Miss Allen’s references to Italy.” She looked to the drawing room. “Papa doesn’t want anyone to know he’s ill.”
“I can respect that,” Richard said. He could also understand it. Augustus didn’t want his heir appraising his holdings, and he didn’t want his presumed son-in-law to have an upper hand in marriage settlement negotiations.
Richard spied the butler near the stairs, his face etched with worry. “He’s fine, Simms, but we need to distract the guests if dinner is delayed. Have you any wine?”
“Will champagne do?” Simms was already moving. “I’ll have it served. You two wait here until we’ve carried in the trays. It will let you slip in.”
It took just a few minutes for the footman to walk in the far door, holding trays aloft. Richard and Amelia went through the other door, entering the room without being noticed.
Except for the narrowed gaze of Jasper Warren. Ethan Raymond stood with a group of equally tailored young men, his arm propped on the mantle like he was already lord of the manor.
Amelia’s hand trembled on Richard’s coat. He placed his fingers over hers, looked down at her, and winked. Then he faced the group.
“I’m glad you each already have glasses for a toast.” He glanced around the room, ensuring every stare was focused on them. “Amelia and I are betrothed.”
Chapter Eight
“It would havebeen nice to know this before we invited your friends from London for the weekend,” Father said. He’d recovered most of his color, helped along by dinner and the whiskey he was sipping.
Her whiskey.
“I understand that, and I’m sorry,” Amelia said. “But it only happened this afternoon, and—”
“What exactly happened?” Oliver glared at Richard over the rim of his glass.
Filled with her whiskey.
“Nothing like what you’re thinking,” Richard countered. His knuckles were white around his empty tumbler. He’d downed her whiskey with one quick swallow after he’d joined her on the sofa. He’d squeezed her hand as he’d done so, either in appreciation of her craft or in solidarity of their predicament.
She didn’t like the stares directed at him. “I can assure you, Richard has behaved like a gentleman every time we’ve been together.”
“According to Miss Graves, that’s been twice, other than church,” Mother said. “You can surely understand—”
“We’ve seen each other more than that.” It was important her parents believed this arrangement was real. “He’s joined me on rides when I’ve gone out to see the tenants. We’ve—”
