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She was lying. But why? “Amelia, I have known you all my life. I can see the displeasure on your face, no matter how hard you try to conceal it. Please be frank with me, for I cannot fathom what about my compliment was so bothersome. Can you not be honest with me?”
“I can assure you, Charles, I have never lied to you.”
“Never?” he asked, stepping closer.
She lifted one shoulder. “I cannot lie. It isn’t in my nature.”
“Then tell me the truth about this. What bothered you so much about my compliment? I was merely thanking you for helping Mrs. Halpert.”
She gazed at him a moment, a considering expression dancing over her brow. “Do you intend to let her live at the cottage in your vale after she has the baby?”
Surprised, he leaned back slightly and surveyed her face, but she showed nothing above polite interest. “That was my intention, yes. At least she can remain there until she marries.”
Shock flickered in Amelia’s eyes before she quickly shuttered them again. “Do you believe that will be soon?”
He’d had his suspicions about Mrs. Halpert and a certain gentleman for a few weeks now, but it would not be in anyone’s interest for him to speak plainly about something so delicate—not when the lady in question was still mourning. Perhaps she would not wish to marry again so soon. His own assumptions were not fact, after all. “I haven’t the faintest when the wedding will be. If there is to be one. But I feel like I can reasonably assume that Mrs. Halpert will not remain Mrs. Halpert for long, and neither will she have need of the cottage then.” He regarded her with interest. “I imagine you had the same suspicion.”
“How can she think of marrying again so soon?” Amelia’s voice was hardly above a whisper. From a woman who had married herself three times, it was an odd question, but Charles didn’t mention the comparison.
“I do think it is possible to have feelings for more than one person at the same time,” he said carefully. Indeed, he believed his developing feelings for Miss Pemberton last summer had been real, even while his affection for Amelia had failed to diminish. “Especially in a case such as this. She would not harbor the same sort of feelings for both men, exactly, but that does not make them less real. Mrs. Halpert will always love George. Theirs was a love match, and his death was fairly recent, though more than six months ago now. I imagine that the comfort and security she might obtain from marrying again will push her toward the idea faster than her heart might wish, but that doesn’t mean she would care for her new husband any less.”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes fixed on him but her voice somewhat distant. “I do understand that. I loved two of my husbands. I’m sure I always will carry affection for them in my heart.”
“Then you might be the friend Mrs. Halpert needs at this time. Though, I cannot predict the future. No one can.”
“Tell that to Hattie,” she muttered.
“Sorry?” he asked, unsure he had heard her correctly.
A glimmer of amusement danced in her eyes, so blue they reminded him of the cloudless summer sky they’d had overhead during the cricket match that morning. “I think Hattie would argue that point with you, sir. She thinks she saw the face of her one true love on Midsummer’s Eve—well, you’ll recall her antics, I’m sure.”
“Who did she see?”
“Not who, Charles. But what.”
Was Amelia intentionally confusing him? He stepped a little closer, the quiet in the house so thick around them that he was certain if he spoke above a whisper he would be heard by all the servants in every corner of the massive estate. “Do you take delight in vexing me?”
“Of course not,” she said quietly back, though the opposite seemed to be true. “But I think the truth of the situation is too ridiculous for your ears.”
“Humor me.”
She grinned. “Very well. Hattie saw a fox, so she is convinced that she will marry a man who is similar to the animal. Either someone with red hair, or a man who is cunning, or perhaps even someone with brown hair but just the slightest tinge of auburn.” She reached up, her hand hesitating before her fingers wove through his hair, lifting it softly and then raking her fingertips over the top to smooth it out. Her voice was hoarse, hardly above a whisper. “Someone with chestnut hair.”
His heart pounded, thudding against his ribs as if it wished to escape, and he had to work to keep his breathing from becoming rapid and loud. He took her meaning, but he was loath to say so. If Hattie fancied him, she was bound to be sorely disappointed. His heart belonged to one woman, and she was but a hand’s length away from him right now.
“And what do you think about this theory?” he asked, his throat dry. He could use something to quench his thirst right now, but his need for Amelia was stronger. He couldn’t help but provoke her into sharing her opinion and he waited for her answer as though he stood on the very edge of the cliffs at Camden Cove—one small word from her enough to either push him into the ocean or draw him back.
She curved her lips into a soft smile. “I think she is grasping at an idea and hoping to find a way to make it work for her. She wants to be married so badly—to have a family and a husband, a house to care for.”
“Doesn’t every woman want those things?” And every man, for that matter. At least, he wanted those things.
Amelia’s mouth closed, her eyes darting between his. She drew in a sharp breath, her chest rising and falling in quick succession. “Yes,” she whispered.
When Amelia’s gaze fell to Charles’s lips, he felt the ground shift beneath him and struggled to remain upright. Her movement could only mean one thing—the thought of kissing him had run through her mind. He wanted to cheer that it had not so repulsed her that she needed to bolt to the nearest window to cast up her accounts. That she was still looking at his lips made his knees weak.
Every inch of his body yearned to lean forward, to cradle her cheek in his hand and feel her in his arms, but he forced himself to remain still, unmoving. So still that his hands clenched at his sides, his trimmed nails finding purchase in his palms and digging in with fierce abandon. Not kissing Amelia after she’d gazed at his lips was the most trying and difficult thing he’d ever had to do in his life, and waiting for her to respond, to say something, was sheer torture.
But he would not press himself upon her—not even in the slightest of ways. He owed her, and himself, at least that much. Kissing Amelia was quite the opposite of loving her from a distance, of giving her the respect she so deserved.
He’d promised himself he would respect her, and Charles would not be the one to break that promise.
