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Amalia grabbed his arm. “I’m not sleeping in here.”
David pinched the back of his neck. Terrible idea. He needed the separation.
Amalia’s chin quivered. She hugged herself, rubbing and squeezing her arms and everything inside him twisted.
“We’ll put you on the longest couch, with a blanket. I’ll take the floor.” He scooped her up in his arms because one couldn’t expect her to walk in her condition. Completely appropriate.
“I hate cats,” she sniffed. “Terrible, sneaky creatures.”
Better than men.
He didn’t voice his thoughts, and instead clutched her against him as she snuggled into his chest, magnolia blossoms wafting through the air. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise. Nothing will happen to you while I’m around.”
And tomorrow, they’d find the culprit, feline, human, or anything in between.
Chapter Four
Why was the sun so hot? And blinding? And more, why was her neck so—ow. Amalia pinched and kneaded the top of her spine through her ruffled collar. She slipped her fingers farther, working her way down along her shoulders, and moaned. So, so, so, so stiff. The velvet-tufted couch cushioned her like a cloud while sitting, but when she lay down, feet off the edge and the decorative buttons digging into her back—not cloud-like at all. More like a rock. With spikes.
Besides, she was a grown woman. Grown women slept in beds. With fresh linens. And tall posts and husbands down the hall who occasionally came to visit and, well, love them. The way her parents loved each other and her siblings’ spouses loved them. But that never happened. And never would.
Because she wasn’t lovable. At least not that way. Not that being lovable mattered. Helping people was what mattered. Her charity was what mattered. But she was about to fail at that too.
Especially if her parents found out about any of the goings-on. A dead rat in addition to the threats would not help her cause. Amalia pressed her hands over her eyes for a long moment, quelling the pounding in her brain.
The pretense that the rat was just an unfortunate conquest of a railway cat she’d started last night would work, right? After all, she was a good storyteller and could convince most people—people who weren’t related to her—to do anything, if she worked hard enough at it. That’s how she’d managed to get her charity off the ground in the first place. And talk her way into a column.
Maintaining both aspects of her life, now that was a challenge, but if she could just get through this trip, just make everything appear in order, just hold on a little longer, all her problems could be solved.
She arched and cracked her back beneath the scratchy wool blanket, willing all the doubts and criticisms and threats to cease swirling and replaying in her mind.
The floor creaked and David’s head popped up as he rocked to a sitting position. “How are you feeling?”
What was he talking about? Amalia frowned.
Right. The rat. Time to work that story more. If she could convince the always clever, always observant, always skeptical David, she was well on her way.
“A bit shaken, but fine.” Amalia twisted her now fallen curls. They’d need some heat and attention posthaste.
“Yes, sorry Meg wasn’t more attentive. She’s operated on people but apparently rodents are beyond the pale.” He rolled his eyes.
“I don’t blame her.” Not much of a loss either, as her scalp still smarted from the prior evening. Accidental pulling her foot. Amalia rubbed the throbbing patch behind her ear.
“Will would’ve been worse.” David rested his elbow on the edge of the couch. His dark locks sat a bit skewed and mussed and itching for someone to...adjust.
Not that she would.
“You were a bit green too.” She swallowed a snicker at the memory of the big, strong Pinkerton’s panic. Maybe he was out of sorts enough to believe her pretend theory. “You don’t suppose whatever cat brought it in retrieved it again?” Amalia rolled on her side.
A mistake. She probably looked a fright, all blotchy and bleary, with her hair making Medusa seem the height of couture, and most certainly did not add to her credibility.
Ugh, and worse, David... David was beautiful with the morning sun illuminating his even skin that probably never freckled. The bristled stubble on his jaw begged to be stroked. She stuffed her hands under the blanket. She’d not be distracted by him, she’d not.
He flinched and mumbled something unintelligible.
She needed to put on a gown and corset. Ones that made her body do what it should. And fix...everything with cosmetics. Well-placed soot gives excellent contrast to one’s brows, framing the face and drawing desired attention. A blown-out match is the best source for accurate application.
Very sound advice. Not everyone could be born beautiful, but with enough effort and enough money “extraordinary” was possible. Well, almost extraordinary. At least for a time. Sensible advice, not “vapid,” thank you very much.
