Page 15 of Look at Her Duke
That night on the balcony, when the other woman had introduced herself so boldly, Amelia's heart had dropped into her stomach. Then Kipling had grinned—a sickly grin, not his usual one—and assured her the betrothal wasn’t official yet. Lady Emma had merely clucked her tongue, slipped her arm through Kipling’s, and laughed.
“A mere formality, darling!” she’d declared.
And Amelia might have sunk into the floor in a puddle of embarrassment, or slapped Kipling for making her think he had feelings for her.
But what stopped her was the look on his face; he looked awkward and uncomfortable yes, but more than that…he’d looked sad. Like it wasn’t what he’d intended.
So unlike the brilliant, beautiful expression on his face when he’d told her he’d cared for her, thatshewas the reason he’d fled.
So he used to care for you. Two years is a long time, especially when he has been abroad flirting with gorgeous mademoiselles in France, and returned home aduke. Just because he once cared for you does not mean he still does.
Yes, well. The argument was nothing new.
Amelia frowned at her reflection in the mirror.
Her subconscious had been reminding her of this approximately every twelve minutes for the last several days. She woke up thinking of Kipling, and went to bed thinking of Kipling.
In fact…
Amelia’s eyes cut to the side, resting on the small bookshelf. There, hidden between a treatise on the feeding habits of goats and volumes one through thirty-seven ofBirds of Britainby AvaIan, her battered copy ofA Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Artswas hidden.
How many times over the years had she pulled out the book, hidden beneath her covers, and touched herself breathless, thinking of Kipling Mancheste?
Well, last night, she’d done it again—only this time, it was with the knowledge that at one point, he’d cared for her. Wanted her.Lustedafter her.
Could he care for her again? Could hestillcare for her?
Not if he is bringing his betrothed toyourhome for dinner tonight.
Ah, yes, there was that.
Amelia sighed, stomach in knots. She had no idea what tonight would bring, but she was ready. As ready as she would ever be, she supposed. Tucking one last strand of hair behind her ears, she heard a distinctive cluck behind her.
“I know, I know. I am being silly.” She twisted in her chair to see Becky pecking at the fringe on the bottom of her curtains. “He either cares for me, or he does not, and worrying will not change that.”
When she crossed the room, her dear pet lifted her head, gave a happy little cheep just as she had when she’d been tiny, and toddled across the room toward Amelia. She scooped up Becky and cuddled her under her chin.
“You are a good little friend, are you not?” she murmured, stroking the hen’s feathers. “So beautiful. So sweet.”
Dumb as a bowl of corn, but still, sweet.
Becky tried to gobble at her pearls.
“Come along, dearest. Let us get you out to the garden with your brother before the guests arrive.”
But as she stepped onto the landing, the bird tucked up against her chest, she realized she was too late. Had she really lingered in her room so long? The butler was accepting wrapsfrom Lady Stallings and Lady Emma, while Olivia urged them to join her and Mother in the parlor.
Drat.
Amelia shrank back against the wall.
Perhaps they wouldn’t see her. Perhaps she could hide here, and once they all retired to the parlor for a visit before dinner, she could sneak Becky out to the garden, then join them.
As she watched, Kipling stepped up and offered Emma his arm. Amelia wanted it to be perfunctory, cold…but he was incapable of being impolite, she knew.
And Emma simpered happily as she slid her arm through his proprietarily. As if she owned him already.
Amelia felt her chest clench. Perhaps it was the truth. Perhaps Kipling had chosen that woman for good by now. Emma said something, and Kipling’s lips twitched. Yes, as Amelia watched, he turned down to the beautiful blonde woman at his side, and quipped something in return, which caused Emma to laugh—a tinkling laugh as beautiful as she was.
