Page 35 of His Spirited Lady
“Then tell them the truth.” Richard stepped back. The breeze that had been pleasant only moments ago now chilled Amelia’s nose. He offered his arm, and she took it, tucking her fingers against his elbow as she moved close enough to smell the cinnamon and horse on his coat. “You had no problems negotiating with me. You can do it with them.”
Of course she could. She could go back to the house, march into her father’s library, and tell him she’d been haring about the countryside at all hours of the day and night without a chaperone and regularly meeting with a former smuggler. That she was running a business that employed tenants’ children whose families needed support. That she’d been making whiskey for years and had almost set herself on fire at least twice. That she didn’t want to marry. She could ask Jasper to sell her the house, or at least make her his steward.
She could shock everyone.
But if the whiskey came out of those barrels as bitter turpentine, she’d be a laughingstock. She’d lose her family’s support. She’d default on her loan and lose her inheritance. She’d have to marry anyway, and her options would be dismal.
“I’ll find a way,” she murmured as they approached the party. “This will work.” It had to.
And, if not, there was always the nunnery.
*
He’d kissed her.
Richard raked his hand through his hair as he walked the length of the stable. Again. He stopped in front of the pig pen. Pinky snuffled through his new bedding, rearranging it into a pattern only his piggy brain understood.
“It wasn’t a real kiss,” Richard muttered. It wasn’t a lie. His lips hadn’t touched hers; he didn’t know what her tongue tasted of, or how her breath felt across his cheek.
But he knew how she felt in his arms.
“She needed comforting,” he told the pig’s curly tail.
Her tears had gutted him. It was different than seeing his sister cry, because he had usually been the cause of it—though Oliver had played a hand here and there. Simon’s tears had been easy to solve with food, a nappy, or his favorite toy. Oliver’s had been horrible because there hadn’t been a damn thing he could do about them, not when he felt the grief as keenly.
Though Richard would debate the loss. He’d had Julia for years longer than her husband. Seven years on from her death, and he still found himself thinking of her—of jokes they could share, places she’d enjoy seeing, how she’d scold him for misbehaving.
Julia would have loved the glade where they’d picnicked today. The wind whispering through the leaves splashed with bright fall colors that glowed in the sunshine in random patterns, much the way the ripples in the water glinted gold and silver as they sluiced past. The contrast of white blankets and dark riding habits against the last of the green grass.
Richard rubbed his thumb across his fingertips, feeling deep blue velvet instead of calluses.
“You’re well-dressed to feed a hog.”
Richard flexed his fingers and turned from the luxury pigsty. Oliver strode down the stable path leading his team, Mars and Mercury, to their stalls. Despite tight reins, the horses held their heads high and tossed their manes in rebellion.
“What have you been up to?” Richard asked. For years, he and Oliver had shared almost every experience. Whenever they’d worked separately, they’d returned with detailed explanations of their accomplishments or Simon’s latest milestone. It had been one of the first things Richard had missed once Oliver had sailed.
“Trip to Brandon, on the other side of the forest.” Oliver slipped the bridles from one horse, then the other, giving no further explanation. “Where are you off to?”
“Heading back to Oakdale for dinner.” Richard walked toward the door, careful to give the horses and their master a wide berth.
“Rich?” Oliver put a hand on his shoulder, halting his retreat. “What’s going on?”
“Amelia’s expecting me.” He wasn’t looking forward to the evening, but he wasn’t going to leave her to face her guests alone.
“Fighting the bit already?”
It was an old joke, begun by Julia when he’d refused to be bound by the harness of marital bliss. She liked to say he preferred a sulky to a gig. “No. I’d just rather not attend a party.”
“Since when?” Oliver gave a wry chuckle.
It was a fair question. In the four years between Julia’s death and Oliver’s departure, Richard had familiarized himself with the insides of every pub, club, and brothel in Quebec. He’d always been careful, but he’d rarely been lonely. “People change, Oliver.”
His brother-in-law gave him a long look, his head tilted slightly. Richard had seen that look for years, every time Oliver had assessed a business deal or a stand of timber, looking for the flaw.
“Is it so difficult to believe I love her?” Richard met Oliver’s stare. After years together, they each knew the other’s tells. “Or is it more of a wonder that she loves me?”
His best friend blinked, then again. “It’s just very fast.”
