Page 26 of A Delicate Deception
She could leave, as Keating had said. She could leave, and Georgiana could either come with her or return to London. That would solve the immediate problem of never seeing Sydney or his horrible friend ever again. But it wouldn’t solve the problem of Amelia not wanting to be alone for the rest of her life. Letters and visits weren’t enough. She wanted to be around people she loved, and who she loved in return. She wanted that to happen more than once every few months. Being around Sydney had reminded her of how much she needed that, and she felt even more unwilling than ever to spend the rest of her life shipwrecked on an island by her own absurd mind.
As Sydney watched the carriage disappear down the drive, his confusion at Amelia’s behavior solidified into a hard ball of anger lodged in the vicinity of his heart.
“Write Miss Russell and Miss Allenby a letter thanking them for coming today and requesting the pleasure of their company for dinner next Thursday,” Lex said as soon as they were alone—well, alone apart from Leontine, who sat before the empty hearth, dismantling a music box she must have found in the attics.
“But—”
“Yes, I know it’s your house, that’s why I’m asking you to write the invitations, please and thank you. Find me a respectable clergyman to invite, preferably one with a wife. That makes six. You’ll need to do something about the dining room. Do you suppose the cook will be satisfied if we get her a few new pans? I wonder if she’ll make jugged hare.”
“But—”
“Dismissed! Send in Carter. I require a haircut.”
“Stop talking about haircuts and listen to me! I cannot invite those women. Amelia Allenby is the woman I’ve been—” He hesitated, and felt his face flush to the tips of his ears. “Walking with.”
“Ha! I knew there was someone. Nobody likes rustic rambles that much. I don’t see why you can’t invite her, however. In fact, even more reason why you ought to do so.”
“Because she pretended not to recognize me.”
“I didn’t hear you correcting her impression.”
“Well, no—”
“So you pretended not to recognize one another. It was a mutual deception.”
Sydney bristled. “I pretended nothing of the sort! After I noticed that she didn’t want to acknowledge our acquaintance—”
“So dreadfully euphemistic,” Lex murmured.
“—I decided not to embarrass her by announcing the truth.”
“In other words you pretended not to recognize one another,” Lex repeated patiently.
“You’re being deliberately obtuse.”
“Probably.” Lex smoothed his lapels. “So. Dinner next Thursday.”
Sydney squeezed his eyes shut. “Fine,” he conceded, knowing Lex would get his way whether he liked it or not. “Buy the cook a new range, and I’ll invite them,” he grit out.
“She will have the finest range in the North,” Lex agreed.
Sydney sat at the desk and wrote the invitations. The letter to the vicar was easy enough, but when writing Amelia’s he gripped the pen so tightly that the paper tore and he had to start again. When he had written her the last time—reckless, foolhardy letters, he now thought them—he couldn’t have imagined it would lead to this. Perhaps he should have, though. People born to wealth and status were accustomed to getting what they wanted, and everybody else got used to deferring. That sort of easy command made people careless, entitled, wont to play ducks and drakes with other people’s lives. Lex was just as bad. Even Lady Penelope, with the very best intentions, had taken Andrew’s entire life and blown it off course.
Amelia had written those silly letters to a stranger. She had treated him as if he were invisible despite surely knowing at least some part of how he felt. Perhaps those two things were only connected by the thinnest of threads, or perhaps they weren’t connected at all. He knew his mind wasn’t reasoning particularly well, and that only made him more annoyed.
Delusional fool that he was, he had been daydreaming of marrying her and taking her with him to Manchester. For a moment he let himself mourn that half-imagined future, let himself grieve the loss of a person who hadn’t existed in the first place. He ruthlessly squashed any lingering affection he might have felt.
He tucked the invitations into his pocket. He would hand deliver the letter for the vicar and leave the women’s to be called for at the inn, because under no circumstances was he visiting Crossbrook Cottage today or ever. He walked the entire distance down the hill towards the village in undiminished irritation, when a figure barreled out of a lane and directly into his chest. She was going fast enough that she nearly propelled both of them into the hedge.
“Steady now,” Sydney said, meaning that very literally, as he tried to arrange the woman into a more reliably vertical position. She had red hair, no bonnet, and—damn it—it was Amelia. Of course it was Amelia; every time he stepped foot outside he saw her and nobody else. They were cursed to be forever seeing one another.
“Amelia,” he said flatly.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were staying at Pelham Hall?” she asked. Her fists were clenched at her sides.
“Why didn’tItellyou?” he repeated, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me you had been corresponding with my friend? Imagine my surprise when I learned that the woman I had...” He swallowed. “A woman I had considered a friend was in fact embroiled in a scheme to mock and disparage my friend.”
“I beg your pardon. Yes, I wrote those letters, but I didn’t know I was writing to your friend, perhaps because he and I both used false names and you did not tell me you had any connection with Pelham Hall. I realize this has all the makings of a French farce, but those letters contain no disparagement, no mockery.” She took a full step back and glared at him. “Is that what you think? I thought you knew me better. What a fool I was to think that you were any different from the rest of them.” And then, drawing herself up, “What are you doing here? Did you follow me home to dress me down in person?”
