House of Trent 01.5 - His for Christmas (7 page)

A
melia pulled her cloak tighter around her. The gardens were dark and shadowy, though the servants had lit lanterns at intervals along the path.

Amelia’s mother ensured this part of the inner garden was in pristine condition year-round, keeping flowers in bloom every season. Now, deep in thought, Amelia strolled along the line of poinsettias backed by larger bushes that cast heavy shadows over the path.

Edmund had left her a large fortune, and for the last two years she’d used it attempting to make some impression of good upon the world. She worked in various charitable endeavors several days a week, because giving back to those less fortunate made her feel like her life was of some value.

She saw her family whenever she could—she loved them all, from her gruff father down to impetuous Veronica. When they came to London she stayed with them. And whenever she had the time, she came out to Cheltham House. Never did she feel more loved and accepted than when she was with her family.

Until now. Now, there was Evan.

The feelings she’d experienced in the last two days—it was as if she’d awakened from a years-long slumber that had begun on that night she’d heard him slandering her. Something inside her had died then—or she’d thought it had. But now, it seemed like it had only lain dormant, and being with him again had reawakened it.

It’s only been two days
, she reminded herself.

But it didn’t matter. She’d loved Evan ever since she could remember. She’d spent the last several years thinking she hadn’t known him after all, that he was some kind of monster. But she’d been wrong. She did know him.

And she still loved him. Desperately.

She loved the way he’d looked at her tonight across the drawing room, the need and longing stark in his eyes. She loved the way he’d touched her last night and this morning, his caresses so gentle. He’d cherished her, and the feeling of being cherished had gone straight into her heart, mending it and warming it. That feeling wasn’t something she wanted to let go of. Ever.

She hesitated at the corner where the path turned, and looked up at the half-moon peeking out from beyond the clouds, its light sending rays of varying shades of silver and gray over the billowing clouds. It wasn’t snowing now, but it was cold enough, and from the looks of those clouds, it might snow again.

She wanted Evan. She knew it with a certainty that sank deep into her bones.

Yet it’d only been two days. And though they’d conversed constantly since he’d taken her into his carriage yesterday, was that enough? Two days of deep conversations, one night of lovemaking. How could it be enough to plant the roots of a lifetime together?

The sound of muffled voices drew her out of her reverie, and she looked back to the path, her brows drawing together. What was this?

The voices sounded like they were coming from the direction of the circular pavilion on the path that wound down a gradual slope to her right and eventually ended at the creek.

She took a few hesitant steps in that direction, then stopped.

What was she thinking? Eavesdropping didn’t have a history of ending well for her.

But curiosity smothered common sense, and she hurried down the hill, then slowed her steps to a creeping pace as she approached the bend that led to the pavilion.

The first voice she could make out was the drunken one of George MacBride as he slurred, “Damn fine cigars you have here, Fletch.”

“Thank you.” There was Fletcher’s voice, not at all drunk. “It is my pleasure to share them with you.”

There was a moment of silence, presumably whilst the two men enjoyed smoking. Then George chuckled slyly. “I think you’ve gone and put a wrench into our friend’s plans, Cameron.”

Amelia stiffened. Why on earth was Evan out here with Fletcher Henry and George MacBride? She swallowed hard. The past felt like it was crashing down upon her, but she was frozen to the spot. She needed to see how this would play out.

“What do you mean?” Evan’s low, smooth voice asked George.

“Well, he is in possession of some grand plans for Lady Amelia.”

Evan didn’t respond. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Amelia tried to imagine the expression on his face. Curiosity? Anger? Agreement?

“Even if she’s still a little thick around the middle,” George continued on blithely, “she’s damned pretty, too.”

Fletcher made a scoffing noise. “Pretty? I wouldn’t go that far.”

Evan didn’t say a word.

Amelia slammed her eyes closed against the flood of pain that seemed to come out of nowhere. She stood frozen on the path, her head bowed, her fists clenched at her sides, struggling against the hurt.

“She has nice eyes,” the drunken George argued.

“Eh,” Fletcher said dismissively. “They’re too round.”

Evan didn’t defend her.

She knew, she
knew
, that this was it. Evan would eventually speak, and he would agree with Fletcher. The past would repeat itself, and the time that she’d spent with Evan would prove to be just an illusion.

That’s all it was, really. She’d only promised to be his in that inn, in that tiny room, until the storm cleared. She knew that it had only been a short fling with a time limit.

“And her hair is a pleasant shade of blond,” George continued.

“Too dark. That shade appears perpetually dirty to me,” Fletcher said.

She wasn’t the impressionable sixteen-year-old girl anymore. This time, she wouldn’t crumble under the weight of a few cruel words. She squared her shoulders and squeezed her fists tighter until she could feel her nails biting into her palms.

“Well, you cannot deny that she’s ripe enough for a good bedding.”

At that, Fletcher laughed. “No, I won’t deny that. In fact, I intend to—”

Thud.
The dull noise was followed by a groan of pain.

“You bastard.” Evan’s voice, ripe with fury. “You will not speak of Lady Amelia like that.” Another dull
thud
, the obvious sound of a fist connecting to flesh. “Nor will you. Ever. Do you understand me?”

Opening her eyes, Amelia raised her head.

“What the hell?” Fletcher sputtered. “What is wrong with you, man?”

She crept forward behind a thick bush that separated the final turn in the path from the pavilion.

Her view was broken by twigs and leaves, but she could see the small structure, glowing pale white in the sparse moonlight, the circle of its roof held up by thin Grecian columns. The three men inside all stood facing one another. She recognized Evan right away from the way he held himself in a bristling posture. He was nearest to her, with his back to her. Beyond him, Fletcher rubbed at his jaw, scowling at Evan. George stood next to Fletcher, his shoulders rounded as he pressed a hand to his sternum.

“What the hell were you talking about?” Evan bit in George’s direction. “What grand plans does he have for Lady Amelia?”

“What the devil is wrong with you, Cameron?”

Evan ignored the question, instead turning to Fletcher and pushing him so hard in the shoulder he stumbled a step backward. “Tell me what the hell he’s talking about.”

Fletcher held up his hands. “Nothing important. Just wanted to see if perhaps the lady would be interested in making a match with a man like me.”

Even from here, Amelia could see Evan’s shoulders tighten.

“Why?” he growled out.

“Well”—Fletcher gave a wolfish smile—“despite her shortcomings, no one can deny the lady holds a certain powerful appeal.”

“What appeal?” Evan’s voice was low and dangerous.

“He plans to seduce her. She’s a prime catch now, what with all that blunt she inherited from the old man,” George slurred, his gaze moving back and forth in drunken fascination from Evan to Fletcher.

“Blood and money, my man. Blood and money,” Fletcher confirmed.

“You came here with the intention of wheedling a match with a lady for whom you hold no esteem.” Evan’s voice was dark, and dangerous enough to send a shiver up Amelia’s spine.

“My esteem for her runs very deep indeed!” Fletcher argued.

Evan sneered. “You want Lady Amelia for her title and for her fortune, yet you inherently despise her.”

“You’re hardly in a position to judge, Cameron,” Fletcher said snidely. “You thought she was equally as repulsive as I did, and yet here you are, seducing her in country inns—”

Evan growled. He literally growled. Like an enraged animal.

The stupid man continued, “Clearly, you tupped her last night—oh yes, I know Berwicke’s blithering is true—I see how she stares at you with moons in her eyes. A woman only looks like that after a thorough seduction and a good, vigorous bedding. And now you’re attempting to insinuate yourself into her family’s good graces. I see what you’re doing. You’re after the same thing I am. Her fortune.”

“I don’t
need
her fortune, you bastard,” Evan ground out.

“Well, I do,” Fletcher said lightly. “Therefore, I think it’s clear. It’s only fair that I should have her. You’d gain nothing but an ugly cow with a title, after all. Whereas I would gain an ugly cow with a title
and
the blunt I require to continue to live in the fashion to which I am accustomed.”

Before Amelia could stutter in a breath, they disappeared. Evan had rammed his body into the other man’s and they had both crashed onto the pavilion’s floor.

Amelia held herself rigid. She could only see George, who stood looking down at the other two men, his jaw sagging in surprise. Evan and Fletcher were below her line of vision, but every bit of her cried out to go to Evan, to make sure he was all right, to punch Fletcher where it would pain him the most if he was hurting the man she loved.

And when George gave a gruff yell of, “Damn you, Cameron!” and leapt into the fray, Amelia knew it was now two against one, and the odds in favor of Evan had just diminished significantly.

She rushed out from behind the bush, lifted her skirts, and skidded around the path that led to the pavilion.

She ground to a halt as soon as she had a good view of them.

Evan had quickly gained the upper hand. He had them both pinned down—how, she could not fathom—and was shaking them with brutal ferocity. George and Fletcher could do nothing but stare up at him in surprise. None of them saw her.

“Never speak of her like that. Not to me, not to anyone. Do you understand?” When they just gaped at Evan like landed fish, he shook George until his teeth rattled. “Say it!”

“Say what?”

“Say you won’t disparage her. Say the thought won’t enter your mind. You’ll treat her like the lady she is, like the honorable, kind, and beautiful woman she is.”

“Good God.” George’s voice was even more slurred than it had been from his drunkenness. “I promise, man. Of course I won’t, not if it’s that important to you.”

“And you!” Evan roared, rounding on Fletcher. “You will leave this house and never set foot on the earl’s lands again. You will never look at Lady Amelia again, much less speak to her. Is that clear?”

“You have no right to dictate where I may go or to whom I may speak,” Fletcher said in a sanctimonious voice.

“Is that so?” Evan said coldly, and Amelia saw his free hand fisting at his side, then draw back, preparing to land a brutal blow to Fletcher’s face.

Fletcher must have seen it, too, for his body gave a violent twist, and he managed to slide out from beneath Evan’s pinning knee. Evan lunged for him, but George, freed by Evan’s movement, snatched at his collar and attempted to haul him back and away from Fletcher.

George’s efforts were in vain. Evan’s fist slammed into Fletcher’s jaw, connecting with a sickening crack.

Amelia cried out and lunged forward. “Stop! Please, stop!”

Three angry male faces swiveled toward her. Each man jolted, one by one, as they recognized her. Then everyone froze.

Amelia squared her shoulders and met Fletcher’s gaze. His left eye was narrowing, the flesh surrounding it swelling rapidly. “Mr. Henry,” she said softly, “it would probably be best if you left Cheltham House tonight. You are no longer welcome here.”

Holding her head high, she swiveled and walked back to the house.

“Thank you, Fanny. You may go.”

“All right, then, milady.” With one final comforting pat on Amelia’s shoulder, the maid wished her a Merry Christmas and sweet dreams, then took her leave.

Amelia slumped in her chair, staring at herself in the mirror. She looked tired…but beyond that…was she as unappealing as Fletcher Henry had made her sound? She’d never thought of herself as ugly. Except for her eyes, her features were small—her parents always chuckled at her “button nose”—her face a roundish but not unpleasant shape. Her eyes were large and blue and long-lashed. Her thick, blond hair was her best feature. It had been pinned up earlier, of course, but now it flowed over her shoulders in long waves. She’d never thought it was too dark…but as she grew older only streaks of the lighter blond remained, and the rest had darkened into light brownish tones.

It was her plumpness that had always bothered her the most, and which had caused her the most grief. Before her marriage, she’d always weighed a stone over what she considered the ideal weight for someone of her size—which was average for a woman. When Edmund had died, she’d lost half a stone, but the other half was stubborn and seemed to have every intention of staying a part of her body forever.

Edmund had never seemed to mind. He’d called her lovely, even beautiful, and he was always kind and attentive to her, but she’d never felt that he truly
looked
at her.

On the other hand…Evan
had
looked at her, and he’d liked what he’d seen. Evan had made her forget about that half stone. He had made her truly feel beautiful for the first time in her life.

She cared what Evan thought. She didn’t care a whit about Fletcher or George. Why, then, had their words cut into her heart? Why had they dredged up all those old feelings of insecurity, loneliness, and unworthiness?

She shouldn’t let them.

She picked up her brush and ran it through her curls. Tears burned at the backs of her eyes and she blinked hard to keep them at bay.