Instead, she peered up at him, her face flaming with heat. He gazed back down, his expression clouded, as if he did not quite know how she had managed to be so close. Yet, he did not immediately remove his arm or release her from his embrace.
“This bridge can be… treacherous in the winter,” he said softly, frowning.
She nodded. “I did not realize how icy it was.”
“Yes… terribly icy.” He cleared his throat and pulled back, leading her down from the bridge by her hand.
The moment they were back on more solid ground, he withdrew his touch and folded his arms behind his back, as though he did not trust them. “We will be attending a ball soon. I have arranged for an excellent modiste to come here.”
“A ball?” Amelia’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “But we are supposed to be enjoying our honeymoon, away from society.”
“It is a small affair,” he replied. “A neighboring Duke hosts it every year, as a winter extravaganza. Honeymoon or not, we are expected to attend.”
Amelia nodded. “Very well.”
“Now,pleasereturn inside before one of us catches our death in one way or another,” he said, offering his arm.
She took it, allowing him to guide her through the labyrinthine gardens to the manor. Although, her mind was back at the bridge, held close in his arms, gazing up into his bemused eyes, wondering what on earth was going on in that head of his.
Why do you keep showing you care, while insisting that you do not?She was not foolish enough to raise her hopes or to even daydream about love blossoming in the dead winter of their marriage, but she was beginning to think he was not nearly as cold as he made himself out to be.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lionel sat in the annex of his study, looking out at the gardens. The first fluffy flakes of snow had begun to fall from bruised clouds, though he did not know if they would stick.
What has she done to me?He shook his head, knowing he should return to the endless mountain of work that awaited him in his study. He had tried to concentrate on it, but his thoughts kept wandering to Amelia: how… pleasant it had felt to hold her in his arms. And her eyes had shown no fear or distaste, gleaming with a warmth that had radiated into him, so that he had not felt the cold.
“I must persuade her to return to London,” he said to the empty annex. “I must remove her from my presence. If I do not…”
It did not bear thinking about.
Turning away from the snow, a plan began to form in his mind. Rebecca would not be disappointed if he suggested the womenallreturned to London, where they would be more comfortable in the townhouse. He would have to involve Caroline in the plan, of course, for she was the only one who might understand.
But first, this ball…He grimaced, uncertain of how he was going to manage it while keeping his distance from his wife. Everyone would expect a display of affection, of unity, but he no longer knew if he trusted himself to be close to her.
The modiste arrived the following morning with an entourage of three assistants, all brushing snow from their hair and shivering in the entrance hall, where there were no fireplaces to fend off the chill.
“Heavens, you must be frozen stiff!” Rebecca cried, rushing to greet them with Amelia in tow. “I do not know what my brother was thinking, asking you to come here in such inclement weather.”
The modiste, known only as Betsy, put on a practiced smile. “When it comes to fashion and transforming ladies into glorious butterflies of sartorial excellence, there is no such thing as bad weather.” She glanced at Amelia. “I assume you are the Countess?”
“What gave me away?” Amelia asked hesitantly, suddenly very conscious of herself.
The modiste chuckled. “That glow of new love, My Lady. It is unmistakable.”
“Love?” Amelia choked, eyes wide.
“Do not be coy, My Lady. There is not a lady in all of England who could resist falling in love with the Earl of Westyork.” Betsy took hold of Amelia’s arm, addressing Rebecca, “Now, where might we begin? Is there a dressing room for us?”
Rebecca grinned, evidently delighted by the situation. “Certainly. Please, follow me.”
Two hours later, Amelia felt as if she had tried on every gown in Christendom, pulled and prodded and tugged every which way, her hair teased and wrangled into countless different fashions, her forearms tingling from the number of gloves she had pulled on and had peeled off.
“That is the one!” the modiste announced, peering over Amelia’s shoulder to view the reflection in the mirror. “Yes, this is it. This is the gown to make your memorable debut.”
Amelia raised an eyebrow. “I made my debut four years ago.”
“No, My Lady, yournewdebut,” Betsy said, patting Amelia’s shoulder as if she were an imbecile. “Your debut into society as the Countess of Westyork. Oh yes, this is certainly the gown: the color, the sheen, the embroidery, the way it drapes—perfection! Well, almost.”
