He pressed his lips into a thin line and snapped his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to think about what Mrs. Dart was. It fogged things.
“Mrs. Dart, let us have conversation.”
“And by that,” she said, “you mean you want to talk at me, give me more reasons for remaining in your employ.”
“Yes.”
“We are on holiday, my lord. No talk of business.”
“Then—”
A maid entered with a tray she set before Mrs. Dart.
Once she left, Drew continued. “How are we to come to terms if we do not discuss professional matters?”
“We will. Just not now. It’s the first day it’s not been raining since the day after I arrived. I’d like to enjoy myself for a bit.”
He grunted and tore into a piece of toast.
“And I think you should call me Amelia while we’re here.”
The toast dropped to his plate. He chewed and swallowed, blinking at her. “Why?”
She ducked her head and reached for a spoon to spread jam on a point of toast of her own. “Because it’s what friends do. Call one another by their given names.”
Friends? She wanted to be friends? Hm. Christian names were unnecessary, but not a serious compromise considering his own desire. Husbands and wives, after all, used Christian names, too. Felt a bit like fate, her gifting him with friendship and Christian names when it suited his purposes, but it wasn’t. Because gifts meant nothing if you didn’t know what to do with them. Drew knew. Don’t let them languish. Chain them tight and control their outcomes.
“Very well.” He allowed himself a half smile. “And you’ll call me Drew.”
She looked up, one corner of her mouth quirked into a smile. “As your brothers do. Thank you.”
“Gratitude? For being less formal?”
“Yes. I do not like to feel as if we will be employee and employer over the next three weeks.”
Excellent. Just what he was after. He leaned over the table to get closer to her, his waistcoat coming perilously close to the crumbs on his plate. “What shall we be, then, if not that?”
She licked her lips. “Friends, then?”
“Friends.” A good place to start. Unnecessary for the sort of contract he considered, the sort he meant to offer the other women on his list. But he didn’t know them. He knew Mrs. Dart—Amelia—and… she required a different strategy. She was a woman who had a castle and land but worked, lived in a small townhouse in Manchester and acted as his secretary. She did not want for money or security. What did she want for, then? What did she need? The other women wanted a title. That he could give them.
What could he give Mrs. Dart—Amelia—that she did not have already?
“Amelia.” He tried the name out, testing how it curled his tongue.
She jumped, startled, then gave a little laugh, her cheeks blushing—yes—pink. “I am not used to hearing my given name.” The pink deepened. “Drew.”
His name sounded different on her lips, tentative and precious. It seemed to charge the air between them, ripple awareness across his skin.
He finished his toast and eggs and donned his gloves. Better. Ripples quite gone, allowing him to focus. “Amelia, why do you work for me when it is quite obvious you do not need to do so?”
“I want to.” But she’d averted her gaze to her teacup, which she held but did not drink from. One end of her red shawl slipped off her shoulder. Was she cold? Was she hiding something? Again. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“And how am I looking at you?”
“As if I’m a painting you wish to better understand.”
He laughed, a hard bark of a sound that fell like a boulder between them. “I never try to understand art. Forgetbetter. Not even a little bit.”
