The bell rang, and footsteps padded in the foyer. Christopher pushed himself up, wondering again why he’d agreed to this madness. The only good thing was that once Benedict saw how the ladies reacted to the infamous, crippled Lyons, he’d stop playing the matchmaker and leave him alone.
Gripping the pommel of his walking stick, he rasped a hand over his face, feeling the jarred skin of the scar that sliced him from his right temple to the cheek. There would be stares and gasps, whispers and shocked faces. He could take that. What he couldn’t take was the horror in the ladies’ gazes, the trembling lips, and the paling cheeks.
Soft voices drifted. Gentle footfalls padded the corridor, then his footman opened the door of the sitting room and bowed from the waist. “My Lord, Miss Amelia Ollerton and Miss Julia Clearwater.”
For some odd reason, a cold shiver shuddered through Christopher, as if he were on the edge of a . . . danger? His instinct had saved his life more than once in Afghanistan. But the harsh plains of Afghanistan crammed with shooters wasn’t his sitting room in London. Or maybe it wasn’t a warning about danger, but something else?
The footman stepped aside and let two ladies in. The dark-haired one had to be Julia. Pretty with her large brown eyes and porcelain skin. And yes, Amelia was beautiful with the golden ringlets framing her rosy cheeks and her pillow-like pink lips. But the more beautiful they were, the faster they ran away from him.
He offered a polite bow. “Welcome.” The word came out husky and croaky, but he didn’t care.
“I’m Benedict Vanbrugh,” Benedict said, bowing.
“Thank you for the invitation, Lord Lyons.” Amelia sauntered closer.
The moment she’d gaze up at him, she’d recoil in horror. No matter how much she’d try to not flinch, she would. Ladies always flinched.
Julia’s gaze roamed him, and her face contracted in a disgusted scrunch before she took a dip and bowed her head.
Amelia smiled, a genuine, warm smile that puzzled him. “Your house is extremely well located.”
“Well located?” he said, leaning closer. “What does that mean?”
No one had commented on his house like that. Beautiful, elegant, excellently decorated, but not well located.
She didn’t recoil or widen her eyes. Either she was a good actress, or she didn’t care. But the slant of her chin meant a challenge. “It simply means that the house is in a handy location.”
“When people say that, they mean the house is noisy and dirty with coal dust.”
Amelia’s pretty mouth dropped open, but before she could say anything, Benedict burst out laughing.
“What a jester my friend is.” Benedict’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He pointed at the table prepared for the four of them. “Please, excuse him, ladies. Chris has a peculiar sense of humour.”
“I didn’t mean to offend though.” Amelia’s pert nose went up. “Mine was a simple remark to compliment your house, sir.”
“Considered it complimented.” Christopher didn’t know why he was being so callous.
Maybe because she was the first woman to not gasp at his face, and he wanted to understand how honest she was. Was she so eager to secure a good marriage that she could hide her true feelings?
Her lips pressed in a tight line. Whatever remark she meant to spit remained trapped behind those plump lips.
“Chris.” A warning tone rang in Benedict’s voice. “Please, let’s start.” He arched a brow and gave the slightest nod towards the chairs.
Christopher exhaled. Fine. He’d behave properly.
As Benedict offered a seat for Julia, Christopher pulled another one for Amelia. She shot him a defiant glare, and he glared back.
Challenge accepted, Miss Ollerton.
“The weather is awfully humid, isn’t it?” Benedict said, pouring the tea. “I’ve just returned from Paris where the summer is warm and dry, and the food is so excellent that my esteem for my fellow Englishmen has grown immensely.”
“How so?” Julia asked, adding sugar to her tea. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see the connection.”
Benedict flashed one of his smiles the ladies always fanned about. “Because they have to be incredibly brave to endure eating such boring, English food day after day.”
The ladies chuckled, and Christopher glanced at Amelia. Her shoulders relaxed, and one small hand went up in front of her mouth as she laughed.
She was a beauty indeed. Her mother had sent him a long letter. Lots of words and pretentious politeness to essentially say she’d be delighted if he married her daughter.
Her laugh stopped when she caught him staring. Those eyes the colour of a forget-me-not flashed menacingly. Fire burned in those depths. Not what he’d expected. Miss Amelia was no fragile doll. He liked that.
“I’d love to know more about Paris.” Julia batted her lashes, sipping her tea.
“And I’d love to tell you everything,” Benedict said, beaming again.
As he started with his visit at the Louvre and the anecdote of how he nearly ruined a piece of art, Christopher sat back and pretended to ignore the way Amelia’s full breasts rose when she laughed, or how her laugh sounded like drops of rain on crystal.
In fact, he’d ignore everything about her.
