Page 5 of Dalliances & Devotion (The Truitts 2)

The nerve. Friends. Ha. More like general and private.

Where was the young man who, mid-meal, nudged her skirts aside beneath the table and snaked his foot up her leg, gliding and teasing until she gasped and they were almost caught? He might be more handsome now but his new, somehow even more pompous, personality was not an improvement.

A sourness spread through her stomach. Score another point for her father. She’d had no idea who the person she’d seduced was, no clue. She’d been thinking with her...well, not her head.

Amalia gritted her teeth. Fine. Time to be more direct. She craned her neck. “What are you looking at?”

He rolled his shoulder, blocking her view. “Nothing.”

Oh, so he wanted to play games? She could play games. She raised up on her tiptoes. Stupid pinching boots. “Not nothing.”

Before he could react, she pounced, launching herself over his head and snatching up the pages with enough force they almost ripped.

David spun around and grabbed for her as she bounded away. “None of your—”

“Um, that has my name on it, so it is my business.” She climbed atop a chair so she could read.

“Amalia...”

“Mercy, is that a copy of my first petition for divorce?” She swallowed. Not the most flattering document, even if she cast herself in the best light possible. She thumbed through the pages. “And wait, you have my father’s will and photographs from my second honeymoon?” Her eyes burned as she seized an old tintype. “I really shouldn’t have tried that hairstyle. Too severe. I don’t see though how this will help you investigate anything.”

“This dossier is meaningless. Just an aid your brother created to help me protect you. I can put it away if you want.”

Damn it all. That was pity in his tone. Pity. From him.

She hugged the pages to her chest. “What do you need to know to do your job?” She ground her jaw. “I’m serious, David. Don’t treat me and my life like it’s some text to analyze and write commentary about. Just ask me. I can tell you what’s important.”

The corner of his lip tipped. “Is your analysis regarding your choices the majority or minority opinion?”

And the lump in her throat near cut off all her air, squashing the laugh his joke would’ve received...before. Before all her mistakes and all the condemnation she earned. She dug her heels into the plush carpet as she climbed down. Into the present. “It’s the right one. You can infer quite a bit from the evidence but only I know the real story.”

“The truth is often in the eye of the beholder, it seems, and different people have different truths. Don’t be so trusting.” David pulled out his chair, turned it around so he faced her, and slumped back, his legs spread wide. He folded his arms across his chest and gave a slow nod, as if he was daring her to contradict him.

“I’m not.” She marched back over to him and dumped the papers in his lap. He could look at them if he wanted, she had nothing to hide. She wagged a finger in his face. “I’ll tell you that no matter what you think of my sense, I’m not an idiot. I may have made mistakes, but I’m not a...”

“Not a what?” He took her finger-scolding hand in his and brought it down to her side, not letting go.

Her heart was an engine out of control. She stared into his deep, dark, luminous eyes. Searching. Judging. Her stomach clenched. Just like everyone else. Vapid, vacuous, and verbose. That’s all she’d ever be.

She ripped her hand away and turned towards the car’s bedchamber. She needed to leave. Needed to be alone. To sleep. To clear her head. To something.

“It doesn’t matter. Nothing is my concern. No need to consult me or give me a say. Just pat me on the head and humor me.” She stormed across the room, her hands shaking.

“Amalia.” His voice softened, his tone almost plaintive, imploring. His right hand twitched. But he said nothing more and didn’t follow her.

She swallowed again, even as the brass handle blurred before her. “It’s late. Send in Maggie, or May, or whatever when she returns. As I said, I need assistance changing into my nightdress. Which is normal.”

Chapter Three

David drummed his fingers on the mahogany table he’d chosen as his makeshift desk. He flipped open his pocket watch. For the past hour, Amalia remained in the larger bedchamber. The one with the single gold and burgundy velvet draped bed and the curtains and vanity—not that he’d been staring at the opulence during his cursory check. Nor had he imagined her long, silky hair spread over the pillow.

What in the world could possibly take so long? Meg had worked in an asylum and several hospitals, so she could handle a corset and a few buttons.

“You’re going to go blind.”

David near jumped out of his skin. Meg was cagier than a cat—an advantage in the field, but less than pleasant when used against him. He heaved a sigh before rising to face her.

“The light isn’t that bad in here.” He pretended to stretch but slipped the photograph into his pocket. His favorite so far. Amalia alone, in her second wedding gown. 1869. Summertime. Excellent neckline. He rubbed the top of his spine. “Are you finished? Is it all clear in there?” Damn it, his voice cracked, as if he was nervous or imagining their

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