My Fair Duchess (A Once Upon A Rogue Novel Book 1) (12 page)

Harthorne raised his head enough to glance at Colin. “I was hoping Lady Mary would change her mind about not wanting to marry me.”

Colin snorted. “This is exactly why you need to listen to me.”

“Says the man who has never for one second in his life contemplated marriage.”

Colin wasn’t quite ready to tell Harthorne about the predicament his father’s will had put him in, so he ignored the barb and said, “I’ve contemplated ladies’ duplicitous natures plenty, and I’ve plenty of personal examples of how coldhearted women truly are and a sterling example of the folly of ever allowing yourself to fall in love with a woman.”

“Your father.” Harthorne was sitting straight in his chair now, though his skin did hold a definite green tinge.

“I don’t want to see you end up like him.”

Harthorne took a long breath and winced as if it hurt him. “I hope I don’t offend you when I say this, but not all women are like your mother. They are not all calculating creatures who will throw love over for money or pleasure or―”

“Simply because they are cruel,” Colin said, thinking now of only his mother and what she had incomprehensibly done to his father.

“Yes. And simply to be cruel.”

The note of pity that tinged Harthorne’s voice made Colin stiffen in his chair. He never talked about his family life, and this was exactly why. It made him feel shame, and up until recently, he’d been supremely good at avoiding the emotion.

“Name one woman you know who isn’t calculating,” Colin said.

“My mother,” Harthorne replied with a triumphant grin.

Colin waved a dismissive hand. “Your mother does not count.”

“And why not?”

“Because you are blind when it comes to your mother.” As well Harthorne should be. Most mothers showed their children love and affection, so the children forever thought them perfect, even when the youths grew into adults that should know better.

“I won’t bother arguing the point about my mother,” Harthorne said, “because I know I would never convince you otherwise.”

“How very astute of you,” Colin said. “Are you willing to concede that you cannot name a woman?”

“Absolutely not. Give me a minute.”

Harthorne pressed his fingers to his temples, but by his ever-whitening pallor, Colin couldn’t decide if his friend was really trying to think or was trying to rub away the pounding in his head.

“My sister,” he finally said. “There is not a conniving bone in her body.”

“You cannot name your sister,” Colin said, trying to block out the memory of how luscious she looked with her hair tumbling around her shoulders. “You are biased to her, as well.”

“The devil I am. That little minx has driven me crazy my entire life with her mischievous ways and dreamy head. I’d be the last person in England to be biased about Amelia.”

“Because you look as if you are about to keel over, I won’t argue with you about your sister―for now―but I guarantee you if your sister had a dozen beaus who offered her marriage she would pick the lord with the greatest title and wealth.”

“Your words just prove you don’t know my sister in the slightest,” Harthorne said, standing. “I’ve got to take my leave, Aversley. I feel certain I’m about to lose the little bit of food left in my stomach.”

With that, Harthorne dashed out of the dining room, leaving Colin with nothing but his thoughts, which devil take it, were firmly stuck on Lady Amelia―the way she had hidden in the library to make sure her brother was all right, her complimenting the fact that Colin was smart enough not to give women false hope, the way she looked in her night rail, the lovely craziness of her luxurious hair, and the way she slouched in an obvious attempt to appear shorter.

Groaning at his inability to get the woman out of his thoughts, he stood and made his way outside, determined to practice with his rapier until he was too tired to think about Lady Amelia, his mother, and most especially himself.

While sitting beside Constance on a picnic blanket, Amelia watched Lady Georgiana and Charles stroll arm in arm around the perimeter of the lake. They curved around the far corner near the woods and headed back toward the group of forgotten picnickers, which Amelia was unfortunately among. Amelia sighed and turned away from the noisy conversations of the ladies on the blanket to her left and glanced at Constance. Her friend was staring at her husband, with the besotted look of a new bride, as he stood some five feet away with the other gentlemen.

Amelia nudged Constance’s side. “I vow I never thought I would say this, but I have to do something to get Charles’s attention. At this rate, he will ask Lady Georgiana to marry him before he even thinks to consider me.”

 Constance frowned. “Perhaps Lord Worthington is not your true love.”

Of course Charles was her true love. But he certainly was taking his time realizing it.
Shouldn’t he instinctually feel it?
, an inner voice whispered. She’d been hopelessly in love with Charles for years; now was not the time to give up.

“You are not being helpful. I have loved Charles since the day he rescued me from certain death. You remember. My brother’s stallion took off with me on it and Charles―”

“I remember,” Constance interrupted. “Lord Worthington helped you.”

“Helped me?” Amelia frowned. That was not at all how she would phrase it.
Because  Constance is right
Amelia’s annoying inner voice said. She gritted her teeth. She was only doubting Charles because she was doubting herself. “That is not the way I see it.” Amelia stared at Constance, waiting for her agreement. Her friend opened her mouth, gave a little shake of her head, and snapped her mouth shut once again.

“What is it?” Amelia asked. Having known Constance her entire life, she knew her friend was usually not one to voice her opinions.

“Truthfully?”

The question reminded Amelia of earlier when she had asked the duke to be truthful. A picture of the sinfully handsome man filled her head. Why ever was she thinking of him now? She shoved the thought away. “Truthfully,
of course
.”

“And you won’t be upset?”

“Egads! Since you’ve said that I’m now naturally worried.” Amelia pressed a hand to her stomach to quell the butterflies. “Tell me anyway though. Remember we swore to always be truthful with each other.”

“No matter the pain,” Constance said with a nod. She sighed. “Very well. I think…” she said, dropping her voice low even though the nearest blanket was a foot away and the talk loud and lively. “That is…What I want to say is perhaps your memories of that day Lord Worthington helped you on the stallion have been exaggerated by your mind and the way you feel about him.”

Amelia did not like where this conversation was going, especially because she had wondered this same thing before, but that had been more of her not believing in herself. Hadn’t it?

She swallowed. “Exaggerated in what way?” she said quietly.

Constance picked nervously at her dress, until Amelia reached over and stilled her friend’s hand. “Go on.”

“As I remember it, the stallion ran off and raced beside Lord Worthington, spooking his horse, which in turn ran after yours in more of a panic than pursuit.”

“Nonsense,” Amelia grumbled, even as she quickly searched her memory. She was quite sure she was correct. “Charles came after me to save me. If it weren’t for him I would have fallen and broken my neck.”

Constance compressed her lips for a moment before taking a deep breath. “You saved
him
. His horse galloped after you in a fright and when he passed you and nearly collided with a tree limb, you yelled for him to duck. Both of you did so, and he flailed his arms out, nearly knocking you off your horse! You are nimble, always have been. You landed on your feet, and he landed beside you.”

“That’s not the way it happened at all,” Amelia retorted, her heart pounding. Could she have twisted the memory so much? How pathetic and lonely, if so. “I do not love him based solely on one day. He has always had a ready smile for me, treated me with kindness, sought me out to talk to at various social occasions.”

“Because you are intelligent and interesting, Amelia.”

Amelia smiled. “You have just proved my point. If he cared to simply be with a lady because she was pretty, he would never bother to talk to me. And he is my champion.” She had gotten that notion right out of her favorite novel. “If it was not for him everyone would still be calling me Tree Trunk.”

Constance groaned. “Amelia, I swear you are either blind or you simply do not see what anyone else does when they look at you.”

“You are my best friend,” Amelia said. “You are naturally biased. I am gangly and far too tall for a woman, and if Charles had not demanded they quit calling me Tree Trunk, the name would still haunt me.”

“I refuse to argue,” Constance said, though her stern tone suggested differently. “Charles only demanded it because I called him a weak follower.”

Constance’s words were like a slap across the face. “You did?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I did not tell you sooner. Honestly, I thought you would grow out of this childhood obsession with him. He is not a hero from one of your books, Amelia.”

“Well, of course he isn’t,” Amelia said, a trifle irritated. He was too good to be a hero. The heroes in her books always had wicked streaks that had to be tamed or demons that had to be destroyed, and only the perfect woman, the heroine, could help the hero do it. The Duke of Aversley could definitely be a hero. All he needed was the right heroine to come along. Appalled with her straying thoughts, she cringed.

“Are you terribly upset with me?” Constance whispered. “You’re flushed.”

She was upset with herself. Reaching out, she patted her friend’s hand. “No. Just thinking.” Her pulse dipped right along with her stomach. If she had misconstrued that Charles had tried to save her and then come to her rescue out of love, then her love for him was based on a lie. Maybe he would never love her.
Impossible.
Charles was the only man who had ever done anything chivalrous for her in her entire life. “He kissed me that day he saved me. Did I ever tell you that?”

“No. Where was the kiss?” Constance asked.

“My right cheek.”

“Amelia de Vere, I cannot believe you withheld such important information all these years.”

The kiss had been so special to her she had wanted to keep it her secret. “You didn’t tell me of your first kiss with your husband.”

“You’ve got a point,” Constance said. “And I hate to say this, because in my heart I honestly don’t feel Lord Worthington is for you, but he does seem to watch you in a special way. And the kiss changes everything! Still, there is something else you should know.”

The grave tone of Constance’s voice made Amelia’s stomach clench. “What is it?” she whispered.

“Lord Worthington is going to London for the Season. He told Steven so.”

Amelia felt as if her heart were suddenly beating entirely too fast. It had to be true if Charles had told Constance’s husband, as they were good friends. Amelia bit down on her lip and found the object of her desire strolling directly toward them with Lady Georgiana still on his arm. Charles looked especially handsome today in his navy-blue jacket and dark buckskins. His brown hair was a bit short for her taste, but it did serve to display his nice strong jaw to advantage. From where she sat, she could not see his coffee-colored eyes, but that cocoa color was forever committed to her memory.

She
should be in London for the Season, but they could not afford it, not that she had minded missing the Season one bit―until this very moment. He’d probably meet a nice, short lady there, a Marianne. “This is awful news. At least Georgiana is not going to London.”

“But she is,” Constance said.

Amelia whipped her gaze to her friend. “Whatever do you mean? She told us specifically she was not allowed to have her Season until her eldest sister was betrothed.”

“Elspeth was betrothed yesterday.”

“But there isn’t enough time for Georgiana to have gowns made for the Season.” Amelia knew her voice was too loud, her tone too high, but she was upset.

Constance shrugged. “You know as well as I that Georgiana’s family can spare every expense. Likely they will pay to rush the gowns. She leaves next week. Rumor has it that her father wishes her to find a husband by the end of the Season.”

Amelia trailed her gaze to Charles. He threw his head back and laughed at something Georgiana said. Her stomach turned and twisted, making her feel sick. “When did Charles decide he was going to London?”

Constance’s hand closed over Amelia’s and squeezed. “Yesterday. Steven said he made up his mind to go yesterday, after he learned Georgiana was going.” Constance pressed her lips near Amelia’s ear. “Steven says Charles must marry for money.”

“That’s his mother’s doing, I’m sure of it,” Amelia grumbled. “Look at Georgiana.”

Amelia continued to stare at the lady and didn’t bother to see if Constance had obliged her request to glance that way. Georgiana had on a gown of fine mint silk. On her head was a beautiful hat, perched perfectly to display her lovely hair, which was atop her head in a perfect chignon with the exact right amount of tendrils hanging around her peaches-and-cream heart-shaped face. Amelia raised her trembling hand to her own disheveled hair then self-consciously ran a smoothing hand over her ugly brown riding habit. She may not be able to compete with tiny Georgiana on appearances, but she doubted Georgiana had ever read an entire book in her life. The thought made Amelia feel good for a moment until she felt snide, blasted scruples. Georgiana was a beautiful flower with the perfect petals of adornment. Amelia’s throat tightened.
She
wasn’t even a flower. More like a long weed.