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Amelia pecked her father as he turned back into the house and she turned towards the gardens. Amelia stroked a fuzzy Lamb’s Ear plant and walked on. The house guests were all gone and the gardener was done with work for today. She anticipated solitude, the better to think with. But still she couldn’t bring herself to quiet contemplation. She forced herself to move and dwell on other subjects. If she allowed herself to think about it, she would cry. A slow sense of loss had grown in her heart at the moment of parting from him, growing with every distance covered by Robert’s carriage back to London and onward to his estates. She had steeled herself to speak with him before he left, but as she watched him go her victory had collapsed into ashes. Everything she had fought to gain was dross. Truly, she had given herself to him in love, or something closely akin. She had resigned herself to a life with no one in it and had foolishly desired a night of passion. She had desired him and he had been willing.
For the first time since it occurred, Amelia allowed the scene to hurl upon her in the full glory of the memory. Her need to sample lust had quickly morphed to become an act of trust and, if she could admit it to herself, it had been an act of love. But the morning after the act had not gone as she envisioned, and she had sulked like a petulant child.
Now that she thought about it, it had been naturally an awkward scene. How was one to treat the daughter of the manor when he was a guest in her own home and had only just deflowered her? He had gone ahead to do the honorable thing and marry her. They had discussed the possibilities at the lake, so the matter was not too strongly a shock, but she had even driven herself into a bigger rage. She had thought he was trying to claim her vast holdings, but he had proved her wrong. Yet she could not find it in herself to be civil to him.
Was it through? Was she suffering from a malady of discontent that spinsters suffered from? Many failed Seasons she had considered herself on the shelf, by polite rules and by choice. Married she still rebelled, even if there was no battle to be won.
Truth be told, Robert intrigued her more than any man during her stay in London. Finally she could admit to herself that she found no one she would rather wed in all the ton. Why then, was she discontent? Love, her thoughts answered fleetingly, and she almost wept. She loved him, truly, irrevocably, and he knew nothing but honor and duty. The realization brought a dagger bite to her heart. But it did not strike deeper than the thought of the lonely and cold marriage looming before her if she let the arguments stand.
Like a woman possessed, Amelia headed for the stables. Her dress was unsuitable and she was even wearing house slippers instead of proper riding boots, but she called for her horse. The groom led out the black stallion Lord Windon had ridden. She had made it a gift to him when he was visiting, something she had never done with any of her other horses. Maybe even then she had loved him. And though he didn’t love her,
she couldn’t allow him carry the memory of her screaming like a harridan with him until he deigned to visit her. Now, she was going after him now. They needed another conversation and, she decided as her heart lurched in her chest at the realization, another goodbye.
Chapter Sixteen
The horses stepped high, the slap of leather and click of metal competing with the sound of horseshoes on the packed dirt road. It would get better, it had to. Even if it was now a raw ache that threatened to drive him to tears. He could not cry, surely not in the presence of his valet and the groom riding the box. Maybe later. He was wont to measure the situation, check the nuance a million times, but that would not make for a consolation. It wouldn't rid him of the cutting pain that their parting had been. He had known her barely a seenight and she ruled his thoughts completely. Robert turned his black gaze from glaring at the confines of his box to gazing outside to the passing scenery.
Even that proved to remind him of her large estate, the spring season was turning the country a pale green. The streets were simple but clean, a sure sign that Lord Rochester and the landed gentry took care of their neighbors.
The occasional cart, a curricle and the frequent riders on horseback passed them on the road. They duly moved aside for the crested carriage. People in the streets paused their chores to watch the grand coach and the outriders pass by. The sun shone around a cloud and the dour morning was suddenly illuminated. With it a smell of lemons suddenly flitted past his nose and he paused. Another deep breath confirmed the scent was gone. The longing it evoked woke in him with a vengeance he had managed to ignore. She would haunt him for life. If he was to live the rest of his days away from her, he would have her know the truth.
Mayhap she might reconcile herself to their union in time. Women were known to need a period of adjustment. But for the sake of their union, their friendship—though dim now—and all the love he bore her in his heart, he couldn’t continue on without a word of truth. He made a split-second decision. "Turn around." The growl filled the small confines of the carriage.
"Your Grace?" His harsh command started his valet. The poor man jumped out of his skin and looked at his lordship with fear.
Robert was not in the mood to be kindly. The ache in his chest demanded relief. "Have this coach turned around this instant," he ordered again. His voice was less gravelly.
"Ah..." His valet continued to blink, his mouth opening and closing without a sound and looked at him as if he was a man possessed.
"Do not continue your stuttering, my good man, and have the groom turn the horses around," he ground out with a pointed look.
Giles recovered quickly. "But if course, Your Grace. But where are we going?"
He informed the man with a certain kind of gravity in his voice. "We are returning to Mossford." And truthfully the matter was beyond grave.
The valet nodded, a bit of his lip color returning as he knocked at the box seat. The carriage stalled and he opened the door and had a word with the groom. That done he returned to his seat. The groom drove his horse neatly around and made back for where they had started.
"Your Grace..." he started after moments of careful deliberation.
"What is it, Giles?" His voice was easier now. He knew he had done the right thing.
"If I may be so bold to ask, what is the nature of the business driving you back to the estate? You set out for London in quite a haste." It was a bold question, but Robert was not feeling particularly formal at the moment.
He answered with a cool manner. "I have forgotten a rather important thing."
"And this thing is..."
"My wife."
Chapter Seventeen
The groom had gone about his job in a grudging manner that had incensed her beyond reason.
Simmons no doubt was displeased. When she had mounted, his disapproval was rife, but she denied him a reaction and adjusted her skirts until she was decent. As decent as one could hope to be riding astride a stallion. Satisfied, she grabbed the reins on the horse and urged him into a canter. The stallion neighed and took off with hard speed, thundering down the line where Robert’s carriage had passed in the morning. She had navigated the garden rows to cut short the time. It was dangerous to ride at that speed in the branching small paths, but she wanted this, needed this.
Riding fast with the wind whipping through her hair, she headed for the end of the driveway. She swung the horse around in a practiced move and he responded quickly with the lightest of touch with the reins and her foot nudging at his side. She turned into the dusty lane and spurred the horse with a renewed speed. She gave him his head, letting the reins lax in her hands. He beat a flat-out wild pace for London, in the direction Robert had gone.
The scenery was a blur, or almost so, at her speed. The morning crowd stood up to witness the beast eating the ground at a magnificent pace. One could not catch the face of the rider, but the billowing skirts said it was a lady. Light traffic occurred on the road, but Amelia did not slacken her pace. It was not wise perhaps, but speed was better. And she needed the passing miles, rushing beneath the hooves of her stallion, to comfort her. The power of the horse between her thighs, the wind against her skin, and her target growing closer and closer, with each inch covered she was soothed.
