Page 39 of His Spirited Lady
“Margaret’s mother has pushed her to be part of thetonall her life, which is difficult for a country baron’s daughter.” Realizing how that sounded, Amelia rushed to continue. “Not that I’m any better, but I don’t want it, which only seems to make me more appealing.”
“I don’t think it’s just that,” Richard said. “She’s much different than you.”
“Margaret was engaged to Garrett before his death.”
“Oliver’s brother?” Richard asked. “It’s difficult to imagine her in Thea’s place.”
It was. Margaret had been chosen by Oliver’s mother, who saw a kindred spirit and a girl smart enough to count her blessings and stupid enough to attach to a spendthrift, womanizing, drunkard.
“Her loss of that title has both soured her disposition and made her more desperate to escape. Thetonis like any pack; they smell weakness and turn on the culprit. The harder she tries, the more they run. And the harder she tries.”
They’d arrived at the distillery. Amelia dismounted and led Molly to the manger. Richard followed suit. His horse chuffed against the hay and shook his head, rattling the buckles in his bridle. Amelia stroked his head from coarse forelock to velvety muzzle.
“What’s his name?” She met Richard’s gaze, ignoring the shadows cast by the lantern.
“Rabbit.” Richard said as he combed through the dark mane.
She’d expected something darker, more pagan and dangerous. “Not Bacchus or Faustus or…”
“He leaps like a rabbit, and he’s as quick as one.” Richard turned away. “Shall we go?”
They crossed the dirt plot that served as a delivery dock, now dominated by a hulking wagon loaded with barrels stacked two high. A team of six draft horses, their backs too wide for Amelia to straddle, waited patiently, their heads drooped. Perhaps they were simply exhausted from the load.
She swept through the barrel room and into the bottling room. Drake waited there, one hip resting against the table, one elbow resting high on the middle of a barrel. He was all in black, even his gloves, and he’d forgone his usual waistcoat in favor of a coal black one. A pistol dangled at his side. “If it isn’t the happy couple.”
Richard’s hand curved to her waist, pulling her so he could stand in front. Amelia nudged him aside. “Don’t be silly. He dresses like this when he’s out at night.” She smiled at her man of business. “Those horses look like they need a good rest and some care.”
“Which they’ll get after you leave,” he said, his lips quirking in a wry smile. “I’ve sent the driver to The Goat for a meal so he won’t be around to see you come and go.” He offered them each a glass. “Ready?”
“You’ve tapped it already?” Richard asked.
“It’s a skill I picked up along the way.”
“Wine or whiskey?” Amelia eyed the barrel, trying to determine for herself. After two years, her barrels had mellowed to a yellow-gray. This barrel was more silver. It also smelled sweeter. “Wine.”
“It could be whiskey.” Drake’s smile widened, transforming him to a younger, more dangerous version of himself. “It wouldn’t take but a moment.”
Amelia’s tongue curled, imagining the taste of wheat, honey, berries, cloves, and ginger. In a week, it would be two years. What difference would seven days make? She dug her nails into her palm. If she gave in and it was turpentine, she’d never know if it mattered. She shook her head and placed her glass beneath the tap. “Let’s try this wine.”
Burgundy liquid rushed into the glass, sloshing against the sides as though it had been waiting years for freedom. Amelia lifted the drink to her nose, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath, searching for flavor in scents. Past the bite of fermentation, there was a grape not unlike her favorite jam, but beneath that was warm earth after a good rain, carnations, a hint of salt.
She could imagine herself there, in the sunshine, surrounded by green vines and flowers, the surf crashing in the distance. “Lovely.”
“You haven’t tried it yet,” Richard murmured as he clinked his glass to hers. “Partner.”
The taste was much like the smell. “It’s good.”
Drake nodded his agreement, but Richard looked to her, both eyebrows raised.
“It doesn’t compare—”
“It doesn’t have to.” Amelia put her hand on his arm to reassure him. “This business has taught me there’s a place for each spirit. Just as whiskey doesn’t go on a dinner table, this wine has its own place.” An idea struck her. This wine needed a party, and she just happened to have one. “Drake, can you get a case of this to the manor tomorrow?”
“The young people will be here before school, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Richard still had his eyebrows arched, and she itched to smooth them back into place. “Are you certain?” he asked.
“We have several of the party set as a captive market.” Amelia schemed as she talked. If they liked it as she predicted they would, they could be persuaded to order more for London. Their recommendations would drive more orders. No one in London wanted to be without the goods their neighbors enjoyed. “They might as well be good for something.”
