Page 57 of His Spirited Lady
“I’m not jealous.” At least he hadn’t been until now.
And that was the largest part of Richard’s headache. He kept forgetting that he was helping her, just like Drake. Though Drake was getting paid while Richard was getting insomnia. All he could do last night was stare at the ceiling and remember how she’d felt in his arms, how she’d run to him for comfort. “I just think it would be good for her to get back to normal.”
Never mind that her normal would not include him for long.
“Until you two leave for Quebec.”
Oliver’s flat statement reminded Richard of his purpose. “Of course. Assuming that her parents agree.” After yesterday’s debacle, that was no longer certain.
“I believe that’s why Augustus is here.” Oliver pointed ahead and to their right, where a barouche sat waiting.
Richard’s heart clogged his throat, pounding so that it echoed. It heightened everything, the salty taste of his lips and the sweat drying on his clothes, stiffening the coarse linen. His boots were too heavy, and the sun was too hot on his bare head. The nagging itch crawling across his skin warned that he had sawdusteverywhere.
If they were going to discuss Amelia, they should do it in a library over a drink, when he could look like a gentleman. They shouldn’t be on the side of the road.
The wagon drew even with the barouche, and Augustus lifted his hat—the tam he’d worn when watching archery—and the wind lifted his thin hair. “The duchess told me I’d find you two out here.” He was in his shooting jacket, and his cravat had been done in a simple loop. “It’s a fine day for it.”
Being outside and around working men, it was easy to see how pale the older man was, how his jacket hung slack on his shoulders. In contrast to Richard and Oliver’s sweat-soaked state, Augustus had a lap quilt draped across his knees. He was fading in increments, and Amelia had to watch from the sidelines.
It would be a slow process—until it wasn’t. But the lead-up to death would have allowed Augustus time to settle his daughter’s marriage to Ethan Raymond. He might have even lived to see her married and made miserable by a spoiledtonlayabout who had no idea of the gift he’d been granted.
Better the man have no son-in-law than one like that.
Richard removed his splinter and dirt encrusted work glove and extended his hand. “Good afternoon, sir. Is everything well?” An arrow of worry struck a nerve. “Is Amelia—”
“She’s fine, lad,” Augustus said. “Out for a ride. Though it does my soul good to know she’s your first worry. Speaks well of a husband.”
His quirked brows called attention to the word as much as his sly smile. Richard was dumbstruck. A baron had given him, a half-debauched tradesman covered in sweat and grime, permission to marry his beloved daughter.
Oliver’s elbow in his ribs reminded him to speak up. “Thank you, Augustus. It’s an honor.”
“For us as well.” He looked to him and then Oliver. “We plan to celebrate with a dinner at the house. Tomorrow evening, I think. Just us and a few neighbors.”
They’d all be celebrating a lie. “Are you certain? With everything from yesterday?” Richard asked. “We will be no less engaged.”
“We won’t hear of anything less,” Augustus said. “It seems we still have a great deal of food laid in on account of the ball-that-wasn’t, and it can’t go to waste.” With that, he thumped his cane on the carriage floor. The barouche rolled forward. “Come early, both of you. We’ll review the marriage contracts.”
Richard sat, staring at his grubby boots. He couldn’t help but wonder if Amelia had inherited her negotiation skills from her father, or what Augustus would say if they wrote an addendum focused on the distillery. He could imagine her pacing outside the library, itching to impose her own terms, just like when she’d bowled him over the first time they’d discussed a partnership.
Then, he’d been too stunned to answer. Now? Now, he didn’t care. Whatever Augustus gave him would be hers. It could go to their…
Damn it all to bloody hell. He’d done it again.
“Congratulations,” Oliver said. “She’s the perfect match for you.”
“Mm-hmm.” Richard stared at his boots. She was perfect if for no other reason than she didn’t want to marry any more than he did. Or had. Or would have.
This was getting far too confusing.
The wagon lurched forward, rocking him forward and back, leaving him dizzy. The field grass muffled the creaky wheels. Richard didn’t need to look behind them to know they’d left a steady path from where he had been toward where he was going.
“Did you hear anything I said?” Oliver asked, laughing.
“No.” He’d been busy thinking about contracts he couldn’t sign without lying and about children he and Amelia wouldn’t have.
“Didn’t think so,” Oliver sighed. “Have you thought about how to handle everything here?” He stared over the backs of the team. “With Augustus’s health, he might go while you’re sailing.”
“Die, Oliver.” It was annoying, at times, that Oliver refused to acknowledge death. It was also embarrassing that Richard’s throat closed over the word. He liked his fake father-in-law-to-be. More than that, though, he knew it would gut Amelia, and that she would have to face it alone. She damn sure wouldn’t be sailing to Quebec with him.
