Page 72 of His Spirited Lady
She rested her head against the wall and watched the road unspool behind them. She’d been grateful for Mr. Latimer’s help this morning, but seeing him had made her wish for Richard. Wishing for him reminded her he wouldn’t be here much longer.
Her eyelids grew heavy as the coach rocked steadily toward London, and she crossed her arms over her middle to stay warm. Her fake fiancé never failed to surprise her.
When one led a life of secrets, surprises were rarely good.
*
As unbelievable asit had been for Richard to grasp that Oliver had a title and a country home, it was even more difficult to fathom that he had a London townhome and his servants traveled ahead to open the house. The street was apparently fashionable given the amount of carriage traffic that was traveling past despite the late hour. The gas lamps spat shadows over his ceilings, and a hackney with a squeaky wheel rumbled past for the fifth time since they’d retired.
Granted, it had been early when they’d all gone to bed. Eight hours in a coach was exhausting whether you napped or not. Oliver could sleep anywhere, a trait his wife seemed to share. Though perhaps they were simply exhausted from their responsibilities. Because Amelia fell asleep pressed against the opposite wall like she’d been caught in a spell while trying to escape. Her neck must be killing her.
Richard had tried to help, but she’d pushed him away without waking. It had left him nothing to do but sit facing her, watching to make sure she didn’t hurt herself. His back ached from the middle of his shoulder blades to his tail bone.
That wasn’t what kept him awake as he flipped on the mattress and punched his pillow to redistribute the feathers he’d punished less than hour ago. Amelia’s diatribe kept repeating in his head. The words were a blur, but the disappointment in her eyes was clear. He’d hurt her feelings. Worse, he’d damaged her pride.
He’d never imagined she’d take Latimer’s hiring as an insult and, frankly, her reaction had insulted him. He’d apologize for his reaction, but he didn’t regret the impulse. Ben was a good man and a good fit, and it would be easier to leave knowing she was protected.
Because he was leaving. Today’s discussion sealed it. Amelia’s commitment to her tenants and her craft were admirable, but she had to be in Thetford to tend to her responsibilities. He had to resume his in Quebec.
But one day, she’d be able to look at Latimer and realize someone had loved her enough to keep her safe even though he’d let her go.
He’d tell her that if his brother-in-law had any pity. Instead, Oliver and Thea slept next door with Amelia on the other side of them. There was no way to approach her alone, and he couldn’t sleep until he told her.
Surrendering to the torment, Richard sat on the edge of the bed and lit a candle so he could find his slippers and dressing gown. He’d bought these especially for the trip, given that he hadn’t worn his others since Julia’s death. He and Oliver had given up on them as they’d raced to comfort a wailing baby, each braving their panic because they swore the little monster fed on it.
He’d worn a lot of brave faces over the years. He could do it again.
Out in the hallway, Richard kept the candle high and focused on the stairs instead of the bedroom doors to his right. Though after watching her sleep all afternoon, it wasn’t difficult to imagine Amelia in bed, her face buried in the pillow. Of course, in his imagination, she was naked and her breath teased his skin.
It was a miracle Richard reached the bottom of the stairs without breaking his neck. It was also no small feat that he found the library on the first try. All the doors here looked the same.
He entered the room, relieved to see a fire. Gas lights poured through the cracks in the drapes, making bright stripes against the carpets and halfway up the shelves. Oliver had told him he had purchased a copy ofThe Count of Monte Cristo. Richard found it in the corner opposite the door, alphabetized with its binding in a perfect row with its shelf companions. It was the same way their library was organized in Quebec.
A flash of white in the corner of his eye stopped him cold. If it was an intruder, he was literally cornered with no weapon but a floppy shoe.
“Hello,” Amelia whispered.
She was curled in a chair, her loose blonde hair bright in the candlelight. Her dressing gown was a thin cotton wrap that matched her night dress, which hung loose enough to expose her collar bones.
“I thought you’d be asleep.” He kept a tight grip on the book. She’d lost weight since she’d purchased that gown, either from worry or hard work. Perhaps a combination of the two.
“Thea offered her copy of the Currer Bell novel everyone is reading.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I was hoping it would help me sleep, but I can’t put it down.”
“Mm-hmm.” There were things he wanted to say, he remembered them clearly, but he couldn’t stop staring at her hair. Her braids had left it wavy, reminding him of a frayed rope.
Amelia unfolded from the chair. “I can go up and leave you to it—”
“Stay.” He hadn’t meant to bark like that. “Please don’t go on my account. Unless you want to be alone.”
She shook her head and stayed seated. Her feet were bare. “I suppose if we’re going to read, we could combine our candles. It would be easier to see.”
A gentleman would leave the room and go blind. “I think that’s a sound idea.”
He sat on the sofa, close the fire and the windows, perpendicular to her chair. Their candles stood side by side on the table between them. Richard opened his book, content to read while the fire popped in the grate and the squeaky-wheeled taxi went past again.
Amelia’s breathing marked her passage in the story as much as the speed with which she flipped the pages.
“I believe your novel is better than mine.”Shewas certainly more interesting. He’d read the same page three times. “What’s it about?”
