“Andrew!” Amelia cried, jumping away from the fray.
Drew’s fists flew, pulling back and slamming forward into Tidsdale’s face. Amelia stepped forward to stop the brawl. Not much of a brawl with Tidsdale curled up like an infant in the womb. But she rocked back again. Just for a moment. The man had insulted her. Perhaps he would take this as a lesson.
Then there was blood on Drew’s fist, and that killed her hesitation. “Stop it!” she demanded. “Andrew, stop it.” He stopped with his fist near his head, his face an unreadable mask of red-hot fury. She laid her hand atop it, held it steady. “Let him go.”
Drew stood, allowing her to pull him away from Mr. Tidsdale’s huddled body. She held his fist, afraid of what he might do if she released it, and his wild gaze swung between that meeting of their hands and Mr. Tidsdale, tightening into a stone of bone when that man sat upright.
“Leave,” she commanded, “and calm down.” She released his hand and held one out to Tidsdale.
He took it, glaring at Drew as he stood with Amelia’s help, then wiped blood away from his nose, his lips. “This is why I’ll have all your clients in a month’s time, Lord Andrew. You’re a brute beneath your fine clothes. And when you’re in a shabby little house on a muddy street, everyone will see that.” Amelia slapped him. But it did not wipe the grin off his face. “The offer still stands, Mrs. Dart. Better me than him.”
“No.” She spat the word. “Better him than any other man of my acquaintance. But do you know… I will accept your offer.”
“No.” A guttural roar from behind her, Drew’s hand on her shoulder.
She shook it off, not daring to look at him, keeping her gaze trained on the odious devil with the shape of her hand hot on his cheek and the fury of Drew’s fist bluing his eye. “I accept because Lord Andrew deserves the houses in Aster Square, and you do not. You deserve the mud and squeaks and the broken glass, and if I must work for you to put the disparity to rights, I will.”
Tidsdale grasped her hand and yanked it to his lips.
She snatched it away. “Do not ever touch me. Leave. You may communicate with me through letter about where and when I am to begin my employ.”
He laughed, a sound halfway between a huff and a snort, and shot a glance at Drew. “The house is yours.” Then, sliding a handkerchief from a pocket and holding it to his nose, he left.
Silence rang round them. The air buzzed. Where to look? What to say?
“No.” He would break the spell then, and with his usual commanding confidence. “No, I will not allow it. To hell with the house. We don’t need to expand.”
We. Always with thewe. The word carved her out, made her pain too big for her body.
“I’ve made a decision, Lord Andrew, and I’ll abide by my word to Tidsdale.”
He shook his head, an almost thoughtless repetition that seemed as if it would go on forever. “No, you won’t. I refuse to let you.”
“Refuse?” She hid her face in her trembling hands and took an equally shaky breath. If only the darkness would swallow her whole. She found no solace there, only the truth that such hiding was really running away. She would not. When she dropped her arms to her sides, when she faced him once more, she knew how it all would end.
“I cannot stay with you. I cannot. I could marry you. I’ve considered it.” An eager rush of steps toward her bricked up her words, and she held a hand out, palm flat, to stop the eventual embrace, the eventual return to his arms. “I have considered it.” She held her arm out still. “But I cannot go through with it. And I cannot stay near you any longer. I had intended to leave your employ before Tidsdale made his offer.” Every minute an effort not to cry. “But I believe in you, in the work you are doing, in the agency. This way, I can make my last efforts here count the most.” She clutched her hands in her skirts and looked over her shoulder at nothing in particular. “Miss Angleton will look lovely in the new house. And Bernard… you’d best make him butler already. Let me tell him. It will give me great joy.”
His hands were on her, then, wrapped round her arms, firm, controlling. “Marry me.”
“No.”
“Why the hell not, Amelia?” he growled. “You said yourself, you’ve considered it.”
“Because you want me for my money!”
“Among many other reasons, Amelia. There’s also?—”
“Do not call me that! I have only ever been wanted for my money, and I’ll not give it to a soul. I’ll start my own agency andwork by myself the rest of my life before I let myself be reduced to a pile of pounds in a man’s coffers.”
“You are more to me than money.” His grip tightened, a brief squeeze that communicated… what? His lips did not say it, even if his body did. Would his lips ever speak the words she wanted to hear?
“Ha.” A heartless laugh as she tried to rip one arm out of his hold.
He pulled her close, refusing to let go. He smelled of winter wind and rain, the soft, cold scent of new snow. Cold things. She wanted to taste him. She struggled against him instead, an angry sparrow flapping its wings, trying to fly to warmer climes.
He released her, paced away from her, ran his bare hands through his hair.
“You cannot control me,” she said.
