Page 59 of His Spirited Lady
Amelia stopped at the door long enough to kiss Mother’s cheek. “You have nothing to prove. Who I am is a reflection of both the women who raised me.”
Father patted her hand as they waited a moment for composure. “She’s going to be weepy all evening, I’m afraid.”
Mother finally joined them and took Father’s other arm. Then the three of them walked down the hall, past the portrait of the angel in the garden who’d watched over Amelia since she was ten years old, and to the top of the stairs.
Below them, the hall was full of friends and neighbors. Richard stood close to Oliver and Thea, nearest the stairs. He was in the same tailcoat he’d worn the night they’d announced their fake engagement and started down this road. Every man in London wore a tailcoat, but Richard’s wavy mop of hair gave him an irreverent air, and his white waistcoat and shirt called attention to his broad chest and his height. His cravat, simply looped and pinned, contrasted with his complexion. Though he was clean-shaven, it wasn’t difficult to recall the stubble on his jaw or how it felt against her fingers.
It didn’t take a trade to set him miles apart from any other man she knew.
He was looking up at her like she was the cake Cook had hidden for dessert. Torn between flying down the stairs into his arms and running back to her room and hiding in the closet until everyone went home, Amelia hesitated. She was safe here, on her father’s arm. If time could stop here, she’d be happy.
“We should have hired an orchestra,” Father whispered. “Or come down sooner. This is like a Quaker wedding.”
“We’re a bit too colorful for Quakers,” Mother giggled. “And the orchestra will be here for the wedding party.”
Amelia’s feet twitched on the stairs, pushing her to take one step forward, then another. Her father let her go.
Richard stepped up to reach her. “You are stunning,” he whispered. His lips brushed her knuckles, his warm breath soaking through her gloves, but his eyes stayed on hers. And then he winked.
Her laugh bubbled up like fermented mash. She clasped his hand and finished her descent so they could greet their guests. Mingling amongst them were the family’s staff in their best livery. The women’s aprons were so starched Amelia imagined they’d shatter at the briefest collision. Simms hovered on the edge of the room like a commanding general surveying the battlefield, flanked by footmen he could send into the fray.
Richard tucked her hand into his elbow. His arm was thick and solid. “Shall we?”
Smiling up at him was easy to do. “Let’s.”
*
“How do youdo this?” Richard asked Oliver.
“Propose?” His brother-in-law grinned. “Didn’t you watch me do it once?
“Not that.” Richard swept his half-full glass across the drawing room. “This.”
Going from the forest to a formal dinner had made for a long, disorienting day. By rights, he should be exhausted. Instead, Richard was the odd sort of alert that only came from being on his feet too long and being fed rich food and alcohol. He kept imagining there was sawdust on his shoes or leaves in his hair.
“It’s jarring, sometimes a little boring, but you get used to it.”
Time was, Oliver had dreaded events like this to the point of being surly. Julia had rationalized that he was restless, driven to prove himself to the people he’d left behind. She’d be insufferable if she could see how right she’d been.
“It’s just like home, Rich. We’ve done this before.” Oliver put a hand on his shoulder. “The clothes are just stiffer, and no one discusses business outright.” With that, he turned so he and Thea could speak to a neighbor whose name Richard couldn’t recall.
Which was the issue. Everyone’s faces and names had blended together. Charles Grayson was across the room with the Gerard family, nodding as he listened to Mr. Gerard who, by all accounts, was to be his father-in-law. But he glanced Richard’s way and rolled his eyes before lifting his glass in a silent salute.
Richard returned the toast, priding himself on his choice of family.
His eyes found Amelia, as they’d done all evening. Her dress matched her eyes in some alchemy that only dressmakers knew, and her jewelry caught the light every time she turned, echoing her smile. The pearls were just a shade lighter than her skin, except for her flushed cheeks. She looked every inch the happy bride-to-be.
The ring in his pocket, bumping against his thigh with every step, made him feel very much like an eager groom.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Drake asked from behind, his voice as quiet as his approach had been.
No matter how glad Richard was to see a friendly face, the other man’s stealth unnerved him. So did his appraisal. “The world is full of lovely faces, Fletcher. That’s not what makes Amelia special.”
It wasn’t lip service. In a room where everyone was celebrating and not discussing business, Amelia offered his wine to guests with a smile and a nod. Almost all the gentlemen carried a tumbler of her whiskey. Though she moved through the room on her father’s arm, speaking with people who had known her all her life, Richard recognized the stiff posture from a hard day. “She was at the distillery today?”
“The wheat was ready to mash,” Drake said. “And before you say anything, I’ve told her to have the boys do it for her, but she insists. It’s like trying to remove a cook from a kitchen.”
Richard had watched her sample his wine, seen her tongue trace flavors across her lips. Where he only found alcoholic fruit, she’d found something that had drawn out a secret smile. Instead of asking her, he’d gone in search of it when kissing her. Now he couldn’t drink it without tasting her instead. “What flavors did she select?”
