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“That was poorly done of you, Mr. Edwards. I mean Lord Redford.” If angry eyes could spit, he’d be drenched. “Even more rude than your lateness, if possible.”
He shut the door with a thump and leaned against it. “Your last little friend thought it grand. Determined and gallant, I am.”
The room they occupied must have been decorated for its current purpose. Insipid pastels everywhere. Pink wallpaper; apricot rug. Watercolor botanical prints (more pastels) hanging in a cluster as thick as brambles.
“Pah. What does Amelia Fairfax know?” Nothing pastel about the steaming pot of ire before him, despite the pale dress and peach-colored strip of fabric or wide ribbon woven through her pulled-up hair. Her unyielding posture and hard expression showed that making things right between them would prove as difficult as he’d feared. “Today is one of the few times I have not seen her snuffling about with her nose buried in a handkerchief.”
“That’s a rather rude observation to make.”
“Rude?” She came forward, then swung away as though repelled by his very presence. “You are the rude one betwixt us! What noddy-headed imbecile arrives hours late to a celebration held in his honor?”
Pushing off the door, he crossed the room and went after her. “Had I recalled this gathering was being held at your home and not Redford Manor, I would have presented myself this afternoon and well before everyone was seated for dinner.”
“Stay back, Mr.—” Her arms shot out, fingers splayed, as if to fend him off. “Lord Redford! Drat you.” Her harsh expression didn’t ease, but her eyes glistened. With anger, still? Or mayhap something else? “Confusing tonight’s destination does not explain away the last days and weeks you have refused to venture near.”
Ah. He had his answer.
“You cannot be here,” she continued. “’Tis despicable.” But now he saw through the bluster.
“Yet here I remain.”
“Why? ’Tis unseemly in the extreme.”
She pointed to the far corner, shielded by a curtained screen. “Chamber pots reside there!” she cried. “Three of them”—as though that was the gravest of sins—“and one is full.” The worst offense imaginable.
Ed laughed at her outrage. “Aromatic offal or not, I had no other choice.” He stalked toward her. “You continue to avoid me.”
“Not with success, it seems.”
“This is supposed to be our betrothal ball.” When she looked ready to dash off, he took one long stride and captured her hand.
“Betrothal?” She tugged. He held firm. “Yet you would rather have me as mistress. Or have you forgotten so very soon?”
“Nay. I may have wanted to offer you that position—”
“Should I be flattered?” Tugging stopped, fingers fluttered near his.
“But I did not—”
“You most certainly did!” By now, their palms had met, fingers intertwined.
“No. I specifically said Would that I could make you my mistress. A statement. A fact expressed. Not a question asked.”
“Are you certain?” His very confidence seemed to startle her. “How can you be so positive?”
He brought the back of her hand to his lips, but her deuced glove got in the way. “For the words echoed through my garret with such frequency, such regret after you ran off that—”
“With regret?” Finally did she begin to soften. “Over what?”
“I thought never to see you again. But I hoped. Wished for the impossible.”
That startled her silent, stilled her enough that he slid his hold higher and traced lazy circles over the glove.
“Lord Grayson?”
“Tucked securely in the bosom of Mother Earth.” Though she didn’t need to hear how the hole dug itself. “Even said a prayer to send him on his way as per your request.”
“Thank you. Sincerely.” When had both her hands cradled his? His truncated arm crossed in front of his chest as though reaching to join in?
