Page 53 of A Delicate Deception
“No, you ninny, and neither do you or you wouldn’t be askingme.You’d ask the vicar or someone else who sets any stock in ordinary things. We don’t decide whether we’re inconveniences or beloved additions to the lives of our partners. I tore myself up about whether Alistair ought to make a proper marriage. Marrying medidtear up his peace quite thoroughly. But at the end he didn’t mind, and I realized that my minding only rained on his parade.”
“I suppose,” Amelia said.
“Oh, Amelia. Sweetheart. Is your Sydneyverystupid?”
Amelia laughed. “No, quite the contrary.”
“Then give him some credit. By all means, spell out your limitations to him, if you haven’t already done so. But chances are they mean more to you than they ever will to him.”
“That’s almost exactly what he said.”
They were interrupted by footsteps on the lane.
“Keating!” Robin called. “You randy old goat, where have you been?”
“Living an honest and decent hardworking life, unlike some yellow-haired imps I know. Amelia, how’s Miss Leontine?”
Amelia decided not to ask how Keating already knew that she had been at Leontine’s bedside, just like she decided not to ask why, at this early hour, Keating was coming down the lane from Pelham Hall rather than from the carriage house. “Much better. Was Mr. Goddard abrupt with you yesterday?”
“Goddard? He thanked me for carrying the child to Stanton Hall, tried to give me five shillings, and then muttered under his breath about horseback riding being worldly nonsense and something about perdition and Babylon.” He turned his attention to the horse Robin was currying. “What’s this hack you’re riding? Tell me you didn’t buy her.”
“God no. She’s a mare I hired in Cromford when I couldn’t stand the prospect of another mile in that bloody nuisance of a curricle.”
“Aw, your arse too fine now to be jostled on the road?”
And that was a pretty characteristic reunion between Keating and Robin, Amelia reflected. A couple of insults, maybe a gruff hullo. Whereas the last time Amelia’s mother and sisters had visited, they all stood in the drawing room and cried from happiness. Amelia suspected that if more than a week passed between Amelia’s letters, her mother would drape the house in black crepe. Amelia had given those near and dear to her plenty to worry about over the years. And yet, they did love her. She had never doubted it. There were different kinds of love and different ways to express it, and what she had with Sydney was as valid as anything else. Even if they never shared a home, even if they never actually married—that didn’t mean their love was worth less than anybody else’s. For the first time in years, maybe, Amelia realized that she didn’t fear loneliness and isolation; she had built a life for herself that let her have friendship and love.
Sydney was not shocked to discover that a bedridden Leontine was even more of a handful than usual. At the end of a week she had beaten Sydney at chess, cajoled one of Lady Stafford’s maids into bringing contraband sweetmeats, poured her medicine onto the floor, and told Lex to summon the magistrates because she was being held hostage by miscreants. Once word had gotten out that she was the Duke of Hereford’s ward, Lord and Lady Stafford insisted that her caretakers join the family at meals and treat the house as their home.
Sydney refused on principle. Lex and Georgiana accepted on principle. Amelia graciously declined and then all but barricaded herself in Leontine’s room. “There is a limit,” she announced to Sydney, her back against the door, her face slightly flushed. “And I think I have crossed it.” He went to her and told her she was brave and good and kind and reminded her that she never had to come back. And so she didn’t. Instead they exchanged letters over the course of that week, and everything felt wonderfully, impossibly simple.
After they finally brought Leontine back to Pelham Hall and got her settled in a bedroom on the ground floor, Sydney walked to Crossbrook Cottage. It was far too late for social calls, but he and Amelia had done everything backward and improperly from the start.
There was a light in her writing room, so he decided to take a chance. He picked up a small pebble and tossed it from hand to hand. He had never thrown a rock at someone’s window in the hope of getting their attention, and wasn’t certain how gently he could throw the stone to make sure it didn’t break the window. Perhaps he could aim for the wall beside the window?
Before he could puzzle that out, a dog started barking. It was Nan, and she was not pleased to see him. Mortified, he passed a hand over his beard. Likely Keating would come out and threaten him with firearms. But it wasn’t Keating who opened the door, but Amelia herself. And she wasn’t carrying a firearm, but a frying pan.
“Sydney?” she asked.
He was grateful that the moon was full enough for her to recognize him. At least he wasn’t going to be bludgeoned tonight.
“It’s me,” he said.
“Heel, Nan. Good girl. What are you doing here?” Her hair was in a plait and she wore a dressing gown.
“It took hours to get Leontine to sleep,” he said. “And at some point in the past week, half Lex’s household has moved to Pelham Hall. His secretary seems to be sleeping in my bedroom, and I can’t tell if this is due to confusion or if Lex is trying give me an excuse to spend the night here. As if I’d need the excuse. I missed you.”
She kissed him, and he could feel the promise in it. The feel of her hips under his fingers and the scent of her hair almost brought tears to his eyes. She was warm and solid in his arms and he didn’t want to step away, not now or ever. She pulled back enough to speak. “I love you. We’ll make this work.”
“We already are.”
She tugged on his sleeve, and he let himself be led inside. He let himself be led right up the stairs.
“You don’t mean to tell me you mean to do this in a bed,” he asked when she had shut the door behind them. “Although if you intend to keep holding that frying pan, I suppose it’ll add a bit of a frisson.”
She pantomimed hitting him in the shoulder with the pan, then put it aside on a table.
“Oh well. Guess we’ll do without the—”
