She sailed toward the window. It, apparently, afforded an excellent view of the archery range they’d set up that afternoon. Had he truly retreated here only to watch her, wait for her? A very un-Lord Andrew-like thing to do. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Her hand ached. Her eyes, too.
Part of her wanted to stay, yearned for his protective touch, for, even, his anger—which meant he feltsomethingfor her. She should stay, take advantage of his softness while it lasted, but she did not care to court him with slow patience. Just now, she wanted him to feel as she had an hour ago, as she often did when around him—looked over and forgotten, never truly seen, taken for granted.
She straightened, and she left. As she rounded the corner, her name echoed through the corridor. In his voice.
“Mrs. Dart?” he called after her. “Mrs. Dart.” Footsteps quickening behind her. “Amelia!”
But she didn’t stop, and she didn’t care how many times he called her name. This time, he would feel like the one discarded.
Thirteen
Scotland must make women mad. Amelia, at least, seemed peculiarly impacted by the frigid air. Or perhaps it was the isolation of such a rugged terrain. Or, also likely, Manchester’s strict lines organized her mind along a narrow path, and the wild waves and salty air of Scotland scattered all sense to the wind.
Hurting herself? Denying his ministrations? Snapping at him? Worse—she’d run from him.Run. When he’d only been trying to help, to tend her wound. He’d been trying to make it better. Impossible woman. Had he ever thought her sensible, practical, rational?
He knew better now, didn’t he. And with each step he took toward the nearby village, he wished for simpler days when she’d seemed so reasonable, so icy calm.
When the village rose before him, he easily found the modiste, or what passed for one here, and gave the woman in her small, dusty shop precise instructions for leather gloves. Three fingers only. What size? Small. Her hands were small and delicate. All he knew. She snorted, and he glared and left, promising to return in a week’s time.
He headed back to the castle then, his steps still propelled by anger. Frustration. He was slowly going mad, and not even all the money in the world was worth this loss of sanity. He’d not felt this madness since he’d realized his family had lost everything. He’d never really cared for himself. He liked work, scandal thatthatwas. He liked the control it gave him over his own life, particularly when he ran the business himself.
But he’d hated the loss for Raph, for his mother who didn’t seem to notice one way or the other. But still… he hated it for her. Hated watching her clothes grow tattered, the walls around her patchy, the roof over her head filled with holes. He hated not being able to help her.
Money could help, though, and Amelia had plenty. But was pursuing her worth the loss of his hard-won control? If he returned to Manchester and pursued another woman, she would not rile him the way Amelia did, would not make him half crazed with fear and worry and every other emotion he necessarily kept pushed down, shoved out, ground into nothing.
He could. He could leave here. Heshouldleave.
But part of him did not want to. Part of him embraced the storm of emotion, wanted it, felt parched and close to starving from the lack of it. That storm rumbled across the wasteland of his soul, and it rumbled a single word, a name—Amelia.
Yes, he should take this road in a different direction, away from her but closer to sanity, closer to control. He’d angered her anyway. Whatever good he’d done with the makeshift study this morning, gone. Had he done good, though? They’d worked well together, but she’d still seemed unsatisfied, had still sought out diversion with Miss Angleton. Had still wrecked her fingers.
Why?
He kicked a stone along the road. The more he got to know her, the more he came to realize she only seemed a creature of control like himself. She was really one of explosive colors andriotous feeling. He must be done with her. He must leave. A marriage to her would save his expansion plans. But ruin him, the multicolored rays of this newly discovered Amelia breaking through every crack in his icy armor. What would happen then? When his tightly chained passion ignited in the spark of her? He didn’t want to find out.
And yet… some part of him ached for exactly that. He inhaled, embraced the chill like a vice around his lungs, and marched forward. The castle rose into view, and instead of going inside, he rounded, found the cliffs instead. He sat with his legs dangling off the edge, just as she said she used to do as a child.
What did she want? Not what he’d given her this morning. She wanted diversion, and she wanted casual conversation, and seemed to like it when he touched her. She seemed to gentle, then, to allow it, to lean into it. But touching her did nothing gentle to him. It drove him mad, caused within him a raging storm he could not control.
Could. But barely.
Could he give her what she wanted yet keep himself safe? Surely. He was a capable man. Strong. Could withstand any difficulty and bring success out of any challenge. He could do this, too. Because he did not want to marry the daughter of a Manchester Midas after all, no matter how easy it might prove. Whatever heiress he found in Manchester would not have corkscrew curls and, currently, three mangled fingers.
Not that the curls mattered. He was not in this for the curls. Though he’d felt them briefly when he’d kissed her and had never felt anything so soft as they.
He took a steadying breath, stood, abandoned the cliffs, and found the stables. Mr. Scott proved quite helpful offering him a bevy of old gloves and scraps of worn leather. Mrs. Scott proved helpful as well with needle and thread.
Drew took his bounty to his bedchamber and did not look up until the glove was done. Some of the fingers discarded, the others strengthened with the addition of narrow strips of leather, a hell to sew into place. Particularly since he possessed few sewing skills himself. The damn thing would fall apart immediately, no doubt. Hopefully it would last until the ones he’d commissioned from the village seamstress were done.
Himself gloveless the entire time, barely noticing unless he caught a flash of skin or when the tip of the needle nicked his blood into being. When he’d finished the glove, he noticed two things other than the shoddy workmanship. First, the sun had gone and purple reigned supreme across the sky. Second, his stomach was empty.
But he must make another glove. She would want him to make another. Not for her this time, but to please her nonetheless.
He grumbled, but he fashioned more narrow leather strips, de-fingered another glove, and threaded another needle. When he looked up again, stars filled the sky, and a gentle piano playing filled the air. Stretching his back with a groan, he pocketed the gloves and followed the tune, and when he roamed close enough, he recognized a few of the words being sung. They were the same that Atlas had sung the day of Theo’s wedding. About a sunset not a lady, no matter what anyone thought. Drew chuckled.
Maybe he could dissemble as his brother’s songs did. Pretend to do one thing while he actually did another. Pretend he could give diversion and softness and casual conversation to Amelia while keeping himself distant, safe, controlled. If people could believe a song about a cow was about love, then Drew’s dissembling could be successful, too.
He pushed into the room. The music stopped and two curious faces turned his way. Miss Angleton’s hands hovered,frozen, over the pianoforte, and Amelia looked up from where she was positioning a large, wooden frame before the fire. A chair was situated between the frame and the flames. Drew had seen such a setup before, knew exactly its purpose.
