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“And when will that day come, Colin?”
He pulled back, frowning.
“All these years, and yet you still found reasons to put me aside until last night when I forced your hand.” Amelia sighed, and he heard a note of finality in the forlorn sound. “I think we saw in each other only what we wanted to see, but in the end the gulf between us is too wide to cross with mere illusions.”
Colin’s blood froze, a not inconsiderable feat with her body pressed so tightly to his. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying that I am tired of being left behind and forgotten until some preordained time arrives. I have lived the whole of my life under such a cloud and refuse to do so any longer.”
“Amelia—”
“I am saying that when we leave this room, Colin, it will be farewell between us.”
The slight scratching on the open door drew Simon’s attention from the maps spread out across his desk. He looked up at the butler with both brows raised. “Yes?”
“There is a young man at the door asking for Lady Winter, sir. I did tell him that neither she nor you were at home, but he refuses to leave. ”
Simon straightened. “Oh? Who is it?”
The servant cleared his throat. “He appears to be a Gypsy. ”
Surprise held his tongue for the length of a heartbeat. Then Simon said, “Show him in. ”
He took a moment to clear away the sensitive documents on his desk. Then he sat and waited for the dark-haired youth who entered his study a moment later.
“Where is Lady Winter?” the boy asked, the set of his shoulders and jaw betraying his mulish determination to get whatever it was he came for.
Simon leaned back in his chair. “She is traveling the Continent, last I heard. ”
The boy frowned. “Is Miss Benbridge with her? How can I find them? Do you have their direction?”
“Tell me your name.”
“Colin Mitchell.”
“Well, Mr. Mitchell, would you care for a drink?” Simon stood and moved to the row of decanters that lined the table in front of the window.
“No.”
Hiding a smile, Simon poured two fingers of brandy into a glass and then turned around, leaning his hip against the console with one heel crossed over the other. Mitchell stood in the same spot, his gaze searching the room, pausing occasionally on various objects with narrowed eyes. Hunting for clues to the answers he sought. He was a finely built young man, and attractive in an exotic way that Simon imagined the ladies found most appealing.
“What will you do if you find the fair Amelia?” Simon asked. “Work in the stables? Care for her horses?”
Mitchell’s eyes widened.
“Yes, I know who you are, though I was told you were dead.” Simon lifted his glass and tossed back the contents. His belly warmed, making him smile. “So do you intend to work as her underling, pining for her from afar? Or perhaps you hope to tumble her in the hay as often as possible until she either marries or grows fat with your child.”
Simon straightened and set down his glass, bracing himself for the expected—yet, surprisingly impressive—tackle that knocked him to the floor. He and the boy rolled, locked in combat, knocking over a small table and shattering the porcelain figurines that had graced its top.
It took only a few moments for Simon to claim the upper hand. The time would have been shorter had he not been so concerned about hurting the lad.
“Cease,” he ordered, “and listen to me.” He no longer drawled; his tone was now deadly earnest.
Mitchell stilled, but his features remained stamped with fury. “Don’t ever speak of Amelia in that way!”
Pushing to his feet, Simon extended his hand to assist the young man up. “I am only pointing out the obvious. You have nothing. Nothing to offer, nothing with which to support her, no title to give her prestige.”
The clenching of the young man’s jaw and fists betrayed his hatred for the truth. “I know all of that. ”
“Good. Now”—Simon righted his clothing and resumed his seat behind the desk—“what if I offered to help you acquire what you need to make you worthy—coin, a fitting home, perhaps even a title from some distant land that would suit the physical features provided by your heritage?”
Mitchell stilled, his gaze narrowing with avid interest. “How?”
“I am engaged in certain . . . activities that could be facilitated by a youth with your potential. I heard of your dashing near rescue of Miss Benbridge. With the right molding, you could be quite an asset to me. ” Simon smiled. “I would not make this offer to anyone else. So consider yourself fortunate.”
“Why me?” Mitchell asked suspiciously, and not without a little scorn. He was slightly cynical, which Simon thought was excellent. A purely green boy would be of no use at all. “You don’t know me, or what I’m capable of.”
Simon held his gaze steadily. “I understand well the lengths a man will go to for a woman he cares for.”
“I love her.”
“Yes. To the point where you would seek her out at great cost to yourself. I need dedication such as that. In return, I will ensure that you become a man of some means.”
“That would take years.” Mitchell ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know that I can bear it.”
“Give yourselves time to mature. Allow her to see what she has missed all of these years. Then, if she will have you anyway, you will know that she is making the decision with a woman’s heart, and not a child’s.”
For a long moment, the young man remained motionless, the weight of his indecision a tangible thing.
“Try it,” Simon urged. “What harm can come from the effort?”
Finally, Mitchell heaved out his breath and sank into the seat opposite the desk. “I’m listening. ”
“Excellent!” Simon leaned back in his chair. “Now here are my thoughts . . .”
“Why did you say nothing to me?” Maria asked when the tale was finished, staring at Simon as if he
were a stranger. She felt as if he were.
“If I had told you, mhuirnín,” Simon said softly, “would you have withheld the information from your sibling? Of course not, and the secret was not mine to share.”
“What of Amelia’s pain and suffering?”
“Unfortunate, but not something I could alleviate.”
“You could have told me he was alive!” she argued.
“Mitchell had every right to make himself worthy of Amelia’s esteem. Do not fault him for pursuing the woman he loves in the only manner available to him. Of all men, I understand his motivations very well.” He paused a moment, then spoke in a calmer voice. “Besides, what he did with his life was no concern of yours.”
“It is a concern of mine,” drawled a voice from behind them, “now that it affects Miss Benbridge.”
Maria turned in her chair and faced the man who approached. “Lord Ware,” she greeted, her heart sinking.
The earl was dressed as casually as she had ever seen him, but there was a tension to his tall frame and a tautness to his jaw that told her leisure was far from his mind. His dark hair was unadorned but for a ribbon at his nape, and he wore boots instead of heels.
“This is the fiancé?” Mademoiselle Rousseau asked.
“My lord,” Christopher greeted. “I am impressed by your dedication.”
“Until she tells me otherwise,” the earl said grimly, “I consider Miss Benbridge’s welfare one of my responsibilities.”
“I have not had this much fun in ages,” the Frenchwoman said, smiling wide.
Maria closed her eyes and rubbed the space between her brows. Christopher, who stood at her back, set his hand on her shoulder and gave a commiserating squeeze.
“Would someone care to fill me in?” Ware asked.
She looked at Simon. He raised both brows. “How delicately should I phrase this?”
“No delicacy required,” Ware said. “I am neither ignorant nor cursed with a weak constitution.”
“He does intend to marry into our family,” Christopher pointed out.
“True,” Simon said, though his gaze narrowed. He relayed the events leading up to the present moment, carefully leaving out names like Eddington’s, which could not be shared.
