The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,33
“Well, she’s engaged to Littleton, and I’ve no intention of marrying. So that is that.”
William slapped his knee. “Wise man. I’ve no desire to be saddled, myself. Well, maybe for the fortune that would come with the likes of Miss Barrett, but you understand.” He stood and grabbed his riding crop from the corner of the desk. “I’m leaving after breakfast, should you change your mind about Wharton.”
“I’ve no intention of marrying.” Graham’s own words resounded in his head as his brother took his leave. Was that the truth?
He refused to leave Lucy in a questionable environment when he rejoined his crew. So far, every option he had tried had proved unsatisfactory, and he would need to report back to his ship within the month. The only person he trusted with his daughter at the moment was Miss Barrett. And she had named her price.
Graham studied the edge of a book on the desk without really seeing it. Amelia Barrett. Headstrong, determined, intriguing Amelia Barrett. Her passion was contagious, her dedication admirable. And the thought of Edward Littleton harming her sickened him.
He opened the desk for a piece of paper and grabbed the quill from its holder. He prided himself on being a man of swift, sure decisions. Once his decision was made, he would not waver.
He flexed his hand, dipped the quill in ink, and began to write.
“Dear Miss Barrett . . .”
Edward’s hot breath grazed Amelia’s cheek. “My temper got the better of me, dearest.” He cupped her shoulder, then ran his hand down her arm, smoothing the thin cambric sleeve. He paused at her wrist and then lifted it to his lips. “I’m sorry. You forgive me, do you not?”
Amelia didn’t move. His eyes, dark as coffee, bored into her, as if spying on her soul. A few months ago she would have believed his repeated attempts at contrition. Now his empty pleas echoed hollow.
“Come, let’s not quarrel.” He caressed her cheek. “We’ll be married soon, and none of these petty details will matter.”
What choice did she have? He was bigger, stronger, and would soon be Winterwood’s master. She squeezed the lie through her teeth. “I forgive you.”
A triumphant smile lit his handsome face. “Good.”
She eased away from him and pretended to study the view out the window. Sounds of the servants packing the carriage carried from the drive. “How long do you intend to stay in London?”
“Eager for me to return, are you?” His grin was almost a smirk. “I plan to be gone a fortnight, give or take a day or so. Then I shall be here for good.”
Thunder growled. “You’d best not delay here too long. I fear the heavens will open up on you.”
Uncle George’s voice entered the drawing room before he did. The older man slapped a heavy hand on Edward’s shoulder. “Are you off, my boy?”
Edward bowed slightly and then turned to acknowledge Aunt Augusta as she sauntered in behind her husband. “Yes, sir. Best be off before the rain starts and the roads get muddy, eh?”
Uncle George’s raspy laughter filled the room. “To be sure. Blasted rain.”
“We’ll miss you at the morning service, Mr. Littleton.” Aunt Augusta’s lips curved in a trite smile as she handed Edward his scarf. “Our family’s pew will not be the same without your company.”
James, the butler, stepped forward and extended a black beaver hat. Edward took it and tucked it under his arm, then led the way out to the carriage. The servants lined the drive to see their guest off. Edward barked instructions to the driver and then turned back to his soon-to-be family. He bowed. “Farewell, then.”
A sigh of relief slipped from Amelia’s lips as she watched the carriage start down the drive. She had never been quite so happy to see a carriage depart.
Graham tapped his fingertips against the oak pew. The very sight of the worn wood summoned long-forgotten memories.
White. His mother always wore white on Sundays. He shut his eyes, forcing the recollection to subside.
Cold air rushed through the window across the aisle, carrying with it the scent of impending rain, and a rare shiver shook him. He shouldn’t have come to this service. He was a relative stranger in the area. He didn’t belong to this parish. But something had drawn him to church on this November Sunday.
Something . . . or somebody.
As the vicar’s voice echoed off the stone walls and stained glass windows, his gaze drifted toward the Barrett pew. Littleton was absent. Next to Amelia