The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,14
booted foot over the other. “Well then, Mrs. Barrett, you will have to enlighten me, for I cannot even begin to guess.”
The older woman fluttered her fan, raising a breeze that stirred the trim on her gown. “Why, Captain Sterling of course! Little Lucy’s father.”
Edward snapped to attention at the words, his features brightening. “You don’t say!” Amelia winced as he directed his words toward her. “Why did you not tell me right away? This is truly a fortuitous development—and not a moment too soon! Now he can take responsibility for that child of his.”
Amelia bristled. When would they see Lucy as someone other than a guest? “Actually, the captain is open to the possibility of Lucy remaining at Winterwood.”
Edward’s demeanor sobered. “We have discussed this, Amelia. The child is welcome to stay until we are wed. But not after.”
Amelia stiffened at the finality in his tone but willed herself to hold her tongue. Pushing him too hard at this moment would get her nowhere. But she couldn’t help wondering how Edward could love her, really love her, yet be so quick to reject the one person in the world who meant the most to her.
Oblivious to her agitation, Aunt Augusta began to chatter about tonight’s dinner and the menu for the wedding breakfast. But Edward moved in so close that she felt his legs brush the hem of her dress. “Come, Amelia,” he murmured in her ear. “There is no need to get upset. Everything will be fine, you will see.”
So like Edward—eager to smooth things over with nary a commitment one way or the other. She was about to respond when his arm snaked around her waist and held a small wooden box in front of her.
Amelia frowned. “What is this?”
He circled around to look at her, a crooked grin on his face. “You will have to open it to find out. I was going to wait until later to give it to you, but I sense you could use cheering up now.”
Amelia pressed her lips together. She was in no mood for gifts. But she took the box in her hand, the polished teak smooth and cool beneath her fingers. She unlatched the small clasp and flipped the lid open. Her breath caught. There, gleaming in a nest of fine white satin, was a sapphire pendant set in gold.
“Do you like it?” Edward reached into the box, his long fingers grazing her own. He lifted the necklace, the chain uncoiling with the action. “The color reminded me of your eyes.”
She looked up. His own dark coffee eyes gazed intimately into hers. But to her, they were the eyes of a stranger.
Later that same afternoon Edward and Uncle George took a ride over the grounds with Mr. Carrington, Winterwood’s steward. With several hours left before their engagement dinner, Amelia wanted—needed—to spend time with Lucy.
She had asked Mrs. Dunne to bring the baby to her in the morning room—a smaller, warmer chamber with pale coral walls, white frieze and cornices, and a wide white fireplace with a cast-iron grate.
Amelia sat on a small sofa in a pool of fleeting sunlight, intending to bide her time with her needlework until Mrs. Dunne arrived. Try as she might, she could not keep her mind on the intricate pattern. Finally she sighed and set the frame down beside her. Patting her foot with impatience, she turned her attention to two familiar portraits flanking the fireplace.
On the left hung a portrait of her father as a very young man. It had been there for as long as she could remember. The portrait did not show the smile she had loved, but it perfectly captured the kindness in his eyes. Even though he had been gone for well over a decade, she recalled his face with vivid detail. What would he think of her engagement to Edward?
On the opposite side of the fireplace hung the only portrait of her mother. More than one guest had mistakenly assumed it depicted Amelia, so great was the resemblance. The artist’s strokes had captured her mother with the bloom of youth, fair hair loosely gathered around a narrow face and large, watchful blue eyes. As a child, standing before the painted image, Amelia used to imagine that her mother could actually see her. How she wished she had a mother to guide her now.
Mrs. Dunne breezed through the door with Lucy propped on her hip. Amelia jumped from her seat, casting aside melancholy thoughts. “There is my girl!”