The Matchmaker's Match (23 page)

Her butler settled beside her, and they hugged. Spencer fiddled with his food. Perhaps he should get up and help his mother.

They parted, and Dukes touched his kerchief to the corner of his eyes. “I’ve wanted to tell you something for a long time, my lady. When your parents passed—”

She held up a hand. “No, Dukes, I don’t wish to hear it.”

The butler’s eyes briefly met Spencer’s. There was resoluteness in that rheumy gaze. “But I was to tell you something, and I never did. Your parents... They died peacefully,” he said gently.

“Not my mother.” A sob escaped Lady Amelia.

The sound rippled through Spencer, and his arms ached to hold her.

“They found her suffering. Bent and hardly able to breathe,” she said.

“She felt no pain but the discomfort of shortened breath.” The lines on Duke’s forehead deepened. “How do you know these details?”

“I overheard the servants.”

“She was able to speak, my lady. I was there, in the carriage behind them, when the accident occurred. I sat with your mother as we waited for the physician.”

Beside him, Lady Amelia stiffened. “Why did you never tell me this?”

Dukes flinched. “I tried, my lady, but you would not bear the mention of your parents. As your Season came near, I thought it better to wait, and then as time passed, it seemed insignificant to mention any details. Although...”

“Although?”

“When I was with your mother, she prayed with me. That was the night my life changed.” The gravelly quality of his voice deepened with conviction, and Lord Ashwhite’s skin prickled. He knew of what Dukes spoke.

“What do you mean? My mother was talking to you before she died?”

Dukes reached over and took her hand. “Her parting words to me were for you and his lordship. She wanted you to be at peace. She asked me to watch over you.”

Lady Amelia blinked, but a tear leaked through and rolled down her dirt-smudged cheek.

“If the accident hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have the faith I have now.” Dukes squeezed her hand. “Your mother told me to take care of you and your brother, but never to mourn her passing, because she went to a far better place than I could imagine...” A solitary tear slipped down his face. “I’ve never seen such peace, my lady.”

Crushing her fingers against her dress, Lady Amelia appeared to struggle to speak. “My parents... They would be disappointed in me.”

Spencer touched her shoulder. It was all the touch he would allow himself. She turned to him, eyelashes tipped with jeweled moisture. “They would be proud of your strength, your goodness and caring.”

“’Tis the truth, my lady.” Dukes smiled.

“Thank you, Ashwhite.” She held his look, and in her eyes he saw comfort. Then she said to Dukes, “You’ve done your job. I have learned that faith is powerful and love more so.”

“A beautiful lesson.” His mother set two steaming bowls of soup and some bread in front of them. She sat across the table. “I’ve been on many trips, but never have I been stuck in a tornado. Was it terrifying?”

As Lady Amelia regaled them with details, Spencer glanced around the kitchen. Cook was humming and servants bustled around, relief evident in their features.

Clearly they were all happy to have survived the storm, but what would happen when he didn’t marry in time to fulfill the clause in the will? The estate, the people, they would be in the hands of Lord Dudley.

Disquieted, he finished his soup and bread and prayed for wisdom.

* * *

The damage had been costly.

The next morning, Amelia stared out the library’s window at the expansive estate. The sun peeked out from behind a billowy cloud as if hesitant to see the wreckage the tornado had wrought. Tree limbs were scattered across the broken countryside, their misshapen bodies testament to nature’s fury. A tentative wind served only to dry the mud faster.

Yesterday had been spent recuperating and painting. She’d had much to think about. Two days of danger and she’d survived them both. Was there a reason? After a warm meal, she’d retired to her room where she’d enjoyed several chapters of the Bible.

Imagine that: she, a person of practicality, reading the Bible. Passages she never knew existed jumped out at her. Some flavored with poetic verses, others simple in their logic. And still others challenged her.

Give and you would receive more? If someone stole her cloak, she was to offer her coat, as well? A mind-boggling conundrum, and yet there was a truth to the words that struck at her heart. This morning she’d risen and felt different somehow. More alive and hopeful than ever before.

The servants had been given leave to check on family members or to repair their own homes. That left today as the day of cleaning. She felt useless here.

All available staff had been sent to various parts of the estate for cleanup. Though Amelia tried to help, Lady Ashwhite insisted she sit quietly at the house until her body aches subsided. Even Dukes stayed abed. The time in Newgate combined with the carriage accident must have taxed him sorely.

At half past eleven, perhaps it was time she herself rested. She’d been up since early morn, and her muscles quivered. The terror of surviving a tornado had stirred her desire to paint. Even now, she remembered the wind ripping through her hair, the whine of the tornado and the warmth of Lord Ashwhite as he made his body her shield.

Flushing at the memory, she dropped the curtain and turned to her canvas. A housemaid who enjoyed painting had thoughtfully lent her supplies. Her eye roved her painting. It was different from any she’d ever done. Rich with burned umber and cerulean blue, wild with no restraint.

Looking at it, an odd yearning filled her.

Ridiculous. She was not some youngish miss looking for the safety of a man’s arms. She was, mostly, independent. And once she finagled her way out of her brother’s household, she’d have her own little cottage in the country. She might miss the city life a bit, but no doubt she’d be just fine with Dukes and Sally. Perhaps a little kitten to round out the familial picture...

She picked up the turpentine with one hand and scooped up her brushes with the other. Arms full, she turned and almost ran into Lord Ashwhite. He stood directly behind her, an arrested expression on his face.

She pressed a brush-filled hand against her bodice, her heart fluttering beneath her fingertips. “My lord, I did not hear you enter.”

“You slept well, Lady Amelia?” Stubble darkened his cheeks and enhanced the gem-like quality of his eyes.

“Very well indeed. Yesterday was an exhausting experience.”

“That it was.” He moved past her to look out the windows. “But our home stands, and our people are safe.”

“’Tis providential we survived.”

“I’m sure you’re ready to return to your brother’s estate.”

“Not quite.”

At her wry tone, Lord Ashwhite’s eyes crinkled in a most becoming way. “That kind of attitude won’t help solve your list of problems.”

“I’ve already solved one, if I’m able to speak to your mother about my plans for you.”

“Sounds ominous.”

She ignored him. “Your mother invited me to her poetry reading this evening. It’s a last-minute affair, which is why there’s such a rush readying the house. I only hope to listen and learn, as I am not well versed in poetry.”

“Novels are more your style, I presume?” Teasing layered his tone.

Amelia sniffed, a bit miffed he’d bring up something she kept very private. “Poetry has its place, and if anything, I shall be in the company of free-spirited thinkers.”

Lord Ashwhite chuckled. He moved away from the window and stopped suddenly, staring at her painting. “You did this...” His voice faltered.

Feeling unsure, unsteady, she tightened her grip on the turpentine. Its odor bit into her senses. “’Tis nothing but a storm of emotions.”

“It’s a masterpiece.”

“Balderdash.” But it was a feeble protest. What artist didn’t long to hear such words and preen? “It’s hasty, I know,” she explained, disliking the sinking feeling in her stomach. Why should she care what he thought of her work? He was no artist, no connoisseur of fine art. When his hand reached out to the canvas, she stopped him. “Don’t touch. The paint is still wet.”

“Will you sell this?”

“And who would buy it?” Roving the canvas with a critical eye, she shook her head. The smell of the turpentine reminded her that it was time to clean up and get ready for tonight’s activities.

“It’s exquisite.”

She paused. “What did you say?”

“The colors, the passion in the strokes... Look at those lines. It’s as though you captured the storm in movement.”

Amelia’s fingers tightened around her paintbrushes, and she squeezed her arms tightly against her rib cage as if she could still the millions of emotions that had just been released by his words. “You tease me, my lord.”

“No, not at all.” He leaned forward to stare at her painting.

“It is an odd painting. Out of style with what is popular.”

“You’ve used darkness and movement to create a work that stands out. It has depth.” He rose suddenly, towering over her. “This should be in a gallery. Did you sign it?”

“I always do,” she said, feeling her chin lift. “Thank you for the compliment, but even I know this is much too eclectic for the haut monde.”

“Never say never, my lady.” He flashed her that devastating smile, the one that made her knees feel quite weak. Drawing herself to her full height, she gave him a haughty look and spun on her heel.

“You know very well that I’ll say what I please. If you don’t mind, I must go speak to your mother about the house party for you. Invitations must go out immediately. Especially if we cancel next week’s soiree at my brother’s.” Her last conversation with Harriet indicated that the soiree was canceled, but she would not send out notices until she was sure. “I’ve invited several eligible ladies as well as an assortment of colleagues.”

From behind her, Spencer groaned.

“Do not dare complain to me,” she ordered, marching toward an exit. She couldn’t stay any longer in this room with him. One, he was too suave. And two...well, they were both alive. Her prayers had been answered. It was too much good to be true. If she stayed, she might say something she’d later regret. No room for regrets. Or for vulnerability.

Which was what she felt whenever he was around. Open and vulnerable to his words, his opinion... She cared too much what he thought. Somehow, some way, she must find the strength to relegate him to client status.

“Where are you going?” he asked, closer than she expected. The barest hint of breath brushed the back of her neck. She lengthened her stride.

“To find your mother and obtain blessing and perhaps a spot of help for your event.” She hurried down the long hall, aware of Lord Ashwhite at her back. “I quite expect you to be engaged by the time my house party is over. If you find a young lady who you think will do, the next day is a perfect opportunity to take her out for a ride.”

Her walk stopped abruptly when he grabbed her arm. Surprised, she allowed the gentle grip to continue.

“What if I don’t want one of those women for a wife?” His eyes glittered dangerously.

Whatever had come over him? Carefully she extracted her arm from his clutch, unsure exactly why her stomach roiled at his tone.

“You haven’t much of a choice,” she pointed out, ignoring the strange stirrings of her heart. “All this—” she flung up her arm “—will be gone, squandered by your cousin, who no doubt will have the estate in ruins within six months. Is that what you want? I know ’tis not.”

The way his brows narrowed sent a quiver through her. Surely anger did not possess him. But why did he glare at her so?

“Be calm, my lord.” She placed a palm on his arm. “I shall have this straightened out in no time.” His body heat seared her fingers through the thin cotton of his shirt. She’d overstepped boundaries and found she didn’t care. The man needed comfort.

“Tonight is the poetry reading, however. Do you plan to attend?”

His grimace said all she needed to know.

“You might find that it would inspire you to greater depths of thought,” she said.

“Or to abandon sensibility.”

“Your mother is reading.”

“I have no intention of hearing what she has to say.” The hardness of his words cut the air between them. Their bite stung.

“What do you have against her?” Amelia asked carefully, knowing she trod stormy waters, yet unwilling to let the comment pass. She would do so much to have her own mother back.

For a minute she thought he might not respond. He turned his back to her, his broad shoulders a barrier to any connection. He’d have to unbend if he wanted a wife. No woman deserved a man who shut her out. Perhaps she asked too much of him, though. Obviously he carried wounds, and her questions only reopened them.

“I apologize. What is between your mother and you is none of my business.”

“No, no, don’t apologize.” He drew in a deep breath. “I will be there tonight to hear my mother’s poem.” Swiveling around, he gave her a curt nod and walked away.

Chapter Nineteen

A
nother verse of this fluff and Spencer might punch himself in the head. He sat in an uncomfortable, stiff chair, ankles crossed, barely holding in his yawns. When they overcame him, he covertly covered his mouth by looking to the side. This movement also gave him a nice glimpse of Lady Amelia, who reclined primly on a couch with a pasty-faced gentleman who looked as though his skin never saw sunlight and a rotund matron who blushed every time he peeked at Lady Amelia.

Perhaps mischief still lingered in his redeemed soul, for when the matron caught him yawning/staring again, he gave her a slow wink. She immediately looked away, shifting her body in a way that jostled the others on the couch. Lady Amelia sent him a meaningful glare, suggesting she was not immune to his antics and highly disapproved.

And yet there was a certain tightness to her lips implying restrained laughter.

After a while he gave up teasing her and tried to concentrate on the speakers. He caught his eyes closing during a particularly long rendition of Chaucer. Some speakers shared a poem that had touched their hearts. Others shared original works.