Nine
SEEING AMELIA ALONE with Cowasj shouldn’t have hurt, but it damn did.
That was why Christopher needed a rough and sweaty sparring session to vent his stupid frustration.
In the basement of the mansion he had turned into his personal gymnasium, he bent forward and took in a deep breath. Sweat trickled down his chin and neck, but the scene of Amelia standing too close to Cowasj didn’t want to go away from his mind.
Dorian, his sparring partner, plonked down into a wooden bench and wiped his sweat with a towel. Blood pumped into Christopher’s bad leg, but with the muscles warmed, the pain was a dull throb.
Sitting in a corner, Benedict raised his gaze from the book he was reading. “I don’t understand why you love sparring so much. Bare-knuckled fighting is illegal, in case it has skipped your notice. Cricket is a more appropriate exercise for a gentleman.”
Dorian laughed and brushed a matted bronzed lock of hair from his face. “I’m not going to play cricket.”
“Me neither.” Christopher dropped onto the floor and stretched out his legs.
Blood stained his knuckles, and every muscle in his body was sore. Which was good. The fatigue helped keep thoughts of Amelia at bay. He didn’t want to think about the doubts swirling in his mind, or the fact that she’d sought Cowasj’s company that morning. Unchaperoned.
It was none of his business. On top of that, all the housekeepers around the house, scrubbing and cleaning, were grating on his nerves.
“You’re both savages,” Benedict muttered.
The door of the gymnasium was flung open, and a grey-haired man in a dark uniform strode inside. “I’m sorry for the interruption, sir, but an incident has occurred.”
Christopher straightened, but didn’t stand up, raking a gaze on the stranger. “Who the hell are you?”
The man flustered and bowed from the waist. “My lord, I’m Harvey, your butler.”
“Since when do I have a butler?” He shot a glare at Benedict, who hid his face behind the book.
Harvey shuffled his feet. “I, I started yesterday, sir.”
Damn. A sliver of guilt sliced through Christopher. He was frightening the poor man. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he picked himself up. “What kind of incident, Harvey?”
“The decorator of the ballroom can’t come.” When Harvey fiddled with the pristine white collar of his shirt, the smell of starch wafted. “We’ve tried to find a replacement, but it seems that no one is available.”
Dorian’s laugh filled the room again, his shoulders shaking. “Hell, Chris. I don’t know how you are going to save yourself from this awful situation.”
“Would you please come with me to the ballroom, sir?” Harvey asked. “So you can have a look and suggest what we need to do.”
Hell. Christopher donned his shirt. “Ben? Stop hiring people for me.”
His friend peeked from the rim of the book. “Good luck.”
Luck didn’t exist. Or at least good luck, that is.
As he climbed the stairs to the ballroom, the scent of wood polish and beeswax filled his lungs. No more mould and dampness. While he’d been moping around, growling at anyone who said ‘good morning’ to him, the housekeepers had done an excellent job.
“Here.” Harvey pushed the double door of the ballroom open.
Christopher hadn’t entered that room in . . . years?
The wallpaper hung in stripes from the wall, and the marble floor had large green patches he suspected were mould. But what made him pause was Amelia. She was strolling around the room, her chin up towards the frescos decorating the ceiling.
“Miss Amelia.” He meant to say it out loud, but it came out as a whisper.
She turned, and a riot of colours blossomed on her face. “Lord Lyons.” She curtsied.
He bowed in reply.
