The maid bobbed a curtsey and quit the room.
Amelia was left staring at the food, puzzling over Kempton’s behavior. She didn’t understand it.
She didn’t really trust it.
A small, glimmering speck deep inside of her threatened to swoon from the gesture, despite her better judgment—the part that had refused to be smothered despite how broken her heart had been. It demanded that she remember how thoughtful and caring he’d once been. In spite of the pain she’d experienced, it ached to have him once again.
“Is something the matter?” Clara asked, noticing her pensiveness.
Amelia shook her head and went to pour tea. “Would you care for some?” she asked.
“Thank you, no. Iwillgladly accept some of that shortbread, though.” She gave a little wiggle of excitement as Amelia handed her a small plate of her cook’s best shortbread.
Amelia settled back into the chaise with her tea and her own plate. Faye settled her head on her thigh with a deep sigh of contentment. Taking a bite of the light, buttery baked good, Amelia became pensive as she pondered that day’s events.
Even if she was unsure about the motives behind Kempton’s behavior, she couldn’t argue against the logic of a hot cup of bracing tea. She wondered if she was being overly cautious—if, perhaps, their history was getting in the way of her accepting a simple act of thoughtfulness, but she shook that off. He had no reason to behave in such a way, and she sincerely doubted he was being altruistic. Then again, he’d always been thoughtful when it came to her, planning ahead and ensuring all her needs were met, whatever they might be. Younger Amelia had always assumed that was simply who he was, but the woman she was now was unsure about what she could and could not accept from him at face-value.
Deciding she needed a change to the path down which her mind had meandered, she looked over at Clara. “Depending on when the weather clears up, I would like to take you to see the loch. There are some ruins I think you would find quite beautiful as well.” As they sipped and nibbled, discussing various activities and outings they might plan during Clara’s visit, Amelia noticed the young woman was gradually growing quieter. She’d begun absently breaking a piece of bread into a pile of crumbs on her plate.
“Is something amiss?” It was Amelia’s turn to ask the question.
Indecision flickered in her eyes; she opened and closed her mouth several times, but she eventually seemed to think better of it. “Everything is fine,” Clara finally responded somewhat unconvincingly. “Do you think I might take my paints with us to the ruins? If the lighting is right, I would like to create something to remember this visit.”
“Of course,” Amelia replied, but she was not fooled by the abrupt change in subject. She decided she would not press Clara for an answer, but she would subtly let her know that she was there for her should she decide she needed to speak about whatever it was.
The very lastthing Clara wanted to do was admit to Amelia’s face that she’d been thinking of how much she wished the two people she loved most in the world would set aside their history and reconcile. Perhaps the hope was a bit childish, but she could not help it. Not once in the last decade had she lost her final shreds of hope that Dori and Amelia would wind up together. She loved both of them, stubborn, willful, and opinionated as they were, and she’d convinced herself along the way that the world would be a better place with the two of them finally able to be together as the Fates had designed.
All of this served to inspire Clara’s Grand Plan.
The Grand Plan consisted of making the best out of a sour situation. She’d initially designed the holiday around Miss Standish’s ability to accompany her. Her friend was a right champion at keeping her secrets, and her great-aunt would have been easily dismissed as addled if she’d slipped and admitted they’d traveled on to Scotland instead of Northumberland. Everything had been perfect until illness struck, and Clara had been too deflated to come up with a believable fib when Dori had confronted her. At first, Clara had been frustrated and morose over the revelation of her scheme and Dori’s subsequent decree that he would step in as her chaperone, but then she’d taken the opportunity to mull it over. What could have been a disaster, however, presented a very unique opportunity.
For the first time since she’d been little more than a child, Dori and Amelia would be forced to interact. She did not fully grasp Dori’s motivation for accompanying her, rather thanforbidding the journey entirely—not that he saw fit to divulge his reasoning to her anyway—but she determined that that did not matter. What mattered would be Clara’s ability to orchestrate time for Dori and Amelia to speak in private. She wanted to create as many opportunities as she could for them to reconcile.
Dori had lost her before, and Clara was determined it should not happen again. The holiday had begun on uncertain footing, but she hoped it was a fortuitous sign that Dori and Amelia had ridden out together and seemed to have survived that outing relatively unscathed.
Now, to continue her Grand Plan, Clara needed to watch for an opportunity to show the two of them that they were meant to be together. To do so, Amelia needed to lower her defenses—the ones Clara had witnessed her throw up each time her brother entered the room. And Dori needed to admit that he could move past the pain of the past. Dori had been so wounded by the dissolution of their betrothal; she’d seen firsthand how haunted he was by the loss. She strongly suspected that he was still in love with Amelia.
It was a pity the two of them were so strong-willed.
Then again, Clara doubted they’d have been such a good match if they weren’t.
Regardless, she would not shy away from drastic behavior as long as she deemed it necessary to bring an end to this farce once and for all. Clara had yet to know the love of a man, but she was convinced that love in its truest form could not expire over time. It might only need a little coaxing back into the light.
The rain abatedlater in the day as Amelia dressed for supper. The rest of the afternoon had been blessedly Kempton-free as she spent several hours playing games with Archie and then working on a piece of embroidery she’d been meaning to complete for some time. She knew she was being a bit of a coward, butshe tamped down her annoyance at the realization. She didn’t want to hide in her own home, but after everything that had transpired earlier that day, she had no desire to face him until it was absolutely necessary.
She strode down the hall to supper, wearing her favorite shimmering copper gown and emerald jewelry as armor. They bolstered her confidence, as well as her resolve to ignore the way she’d tingled when he’d pressed his lips to her neck.
Her steps faltered only slightly when she turned the corner to find Kempton standing at the top of the grand staircase, examining a portrait of one of James’s long-dead relatives dressed in a crimson robe and curly powdered wig.
Had he been waiting for her?
That was nonsense—why would he?
When he turned a dazzling smile on her, she wasn’t so sure, because when he looked at her like that, it was so easy for her mind to cloud over the past ten years and momentarily forget what lay between them.
Her stomach flipped, and she was finally forced to face what she believed to be the crux of her problem: He was sinfully handsome and, despite her better judgment, she was still attracted to him. She supposed that wasn’t so far-fetched; it wasn’t as if his looks had deteriorated in the last decade. If anything, the years had lent him an air of definition and masculinity.
The spell, however, was broken when he spoke.
