Читать книгу Regency Christmas Proposals: Christmas at Mulberry Hall / The Soldier's Christmas Miracle / Snowbound and Seduced - Кэрол Мортимер, Amanda McCabe - Страница 11

‘By all that is—! What on earth are you about now, Amelia?’

Amelia was startled into turning her head sharply towards where her guardian stood in the doorway of the breakfast parlour as she knelt in front of the hearth, careful to keep her coal-blackened hands well away from her pale lemon gown as she sat back upon her slippered heels.

Lord Grayson appeared very large and imposing as he completely filled the parlour doorway. And, although there had been no mention the evening before of his valet having accompanied him, the white linen he wore was impeccable beneath his superfine, with a silver and black waistcoat beneath, and his legs long and muscular in buff-coloured breeches.

As so often happened in the cold month of December, despite it being a crisp and icily cold day outside, the sun was shining on the snow that lay several inches thick upon the ground. The brightness of that sun now shone through the parlour windows, and allowed Amelia to see Gideon Grayson in the clear light of day.

And to see that he was even more incredibly handsome today than he had appeared the previous night!

The darkness of his hair fell in soft and fashionable waves onto his forehead and against the hardness of his cheeks, and those chilling grey eyes returned her gaze piercingly from beneath lowered dark brows. His sculptured mouth appeared both firm and sensual above a grimly arrogant jaw.

Lord Grayson was not just handsome, Amelia decided. He was wickedly, magnificently so!

‘Are you quite well this morning, My Lord?’ Amelia’s voice sounded as huskily breathless as she felt.

Gray supposed he was as well as any man could be when he had been shot in the arm the evening before, had proceeded to hold in his arms the one woman in the world he should not have so much as touched, and then spent a sleepless and uncomfortable night in a bedchamber that had not only been cold, because the fire he’d tried to light had refused to draw, but in which the bedlinen had also been as damp as Amelia had predicted it might be.

His arm also hurt like hell this morning. A dull and painful throb not unlike the discomfort he had suffered because of his inappropriate arousal the night before!

Damn it, Gray had promised himself he would not think again of the way he had held Amelia the previous evening—or of the time he had spent in her bedchamber, of how sensually alluring she had appeared to him as she’d tended to his arm. Of the light and enjoyable caress of her delicate fingers against his flesh. Of how his arousal had throbbed as he gazed upon her body through the thin material of her nightgown and robe.

He especially did not want to remember how his arousal had continued to throb and ache long after he had climbed between those damp and deuced uncomfortable sheets upon his bed …!

‘I asked you a question, Amelia,’ he reminded her brusquely.

‘I thought I would light the fire in here so that the room would be tolerably warm by the time you came down for your breakfast, My Lord.’ A questioning Amelia pushed up from her knees to stand before him, a slight and delicate figure in a woollen gown of the palest lemon.

She had confined that golden hair into a riot of gleaming curls this morning, but she looked no less beautiful because of it, as several of those wispy curls fell across her creamy brow, her lightly flushed cheeks, and her long and elegant nape.

It was a delicacy of appearance completely at odds with the feisty woman who had confronted Gray with a pistol yesterday evening before claiming to be his wife!

Gray’s mouth twisted mockingly. ‘How solicitous of you, my dear.’

‘I thought so, too, My Lord.’ Sparkling blue eyes returned his gaze impishly.

Gray’s gaze narrowed he strode into the parlour, his frown of irritation deepening as he took in the irrefutable evidence that Amelia had obviously become accustomed to lighting her own fires in Steadley Manor—these past few weeks, at least. ‘Why did you not write to me weeks—no, months—ago, Amelia, and tell me of the conditions under which you have been living at Steadley Manor?’

But Gray already knew the answer to that question. Knew exactly why this young woman—a woman so totally different from the young girl he had been expecting—had not written to him concerning happenings at his estate.

It had to be because she’d had no faith, no belief, that Gray would be in the least concerned. Either by her own plight or that of Steadley Manor. How could she have thought any other, when Gray had shown his uninterest so markedly?

Amelia took her time answering as she moved to the breakfast table to pick up a napkin and slowly wipe the coal dust from hands that had begun to tremble slightly after she had once again gazed upon Gideon Grayson’s arrogantly handsome countenance.

She had expected, after so many years of debauchery, that there would be signs of it upon his face and in his appearance that she had surely missed the evening before. A cynicism, perhaps, etched upon that wickedly handsome face? A sagging, a thickening of his body from imbibing too much alcohol and eating excessive amounts of rich food whilst taking no exercise but that which he found in the bedchamber.

There was none of those things. Instead of cynicism there was a confident arrogance and a shrewdness, an intelligence in those piercing grey eyes when he looked at her.

And she already knew that he possessed a strong and muscled body that had filled her with lustful thoughts the evening before as she’d bathed the wound upon his arm …!

Amelia replaced the napkin carefully on the table before turning back to face him. ‘You wish me to answer truthfully, My Lord?’

He grimaced. ‘I expect no less!’

She shrugged slender shoulders. ‘Then, My Lord, to put it simply, the freedom of no longer having to constantly answer to Miss Little for my every action was affording me too much pleasure for me to wish to bring it to an end.’

Exactly the answer Gray had not wished to hear! ‘In what ways, exactly, have you been enjoying this unexpected freedom …?’

Amelia wrinkled her nose. ‘I have walked. And ridden. Painted when the weather permitted. And eaten when I wished. Gone to bed when I wished.’

‘And have you—did you do all of these things completely alone?’ Gray found himself scowling as he waited for her answer. As he considered all the weeks this beautiful young woman had remained here unchaperoned. And vulnerable. So vulnerable that she had been taken advantage of by the first man—at least, Gray hoped he had been the first man!—to arrive at Steadley Manor.

‘I have already said that I—My Lord?’ Her gaze sharpened indignantly. ‘I trust you do not think—That you are not implying that because you—’

‘I was not implying anything,’ Gray assured her hastily, not wishing to dwell on the liberties he had taken with this woman the evening before. ‘But surely you must see how utterly foolish it was of you to have remained here so completely without protection?’ Once again he glared his disapproval of her behaviour.

Her little chin rose in challenge. ‘I did not see that I had any choice in the matter when my guardian had shown absolutely no interest in my wellbeing!’

It was, Gray knew, an accusation he well deserved. One he was also heartily ashamed of.

Just as he had been sickened earlier this morning, as he’d made an inventory of the house and the stables and seen the deplorable condition of both Steadley Manor itself and the surrounding estate. Perry, Gray knew, would be horrified if he could see how uncared for and derelict his former home had become.

How his beloved stepdaughter had been equally neglected …

Gray clasped his hands tightly behind his back as he straightened determinedly. ‘I assure you that all of that is now going to change, Amelia.’

She eyed him uncertainly. ‘It is …?’

‘It is.’ Gray nodded tersely. ‘I have already been outside and spoken to Ned this morning, and he has assured me that several of the servants and estate workers still living in the village have been unable to find other employment, and should be only too pleased to return to their previous positions here. Including the previous estate manager, Mr Davies, who is not in the least enjoying his retirement,’ he added with grim satisfaction.

‘I—But—Do you now have the money with which to pay the servants’ wages, My Lord …?’

Gray’s mouth firmed. ‘I have always had the money, Amelia.’

‘But—’

‘How well did you know Mr Sanders, Amelia?’

‘Mr Sanders …?’ She frowned her puzzlement. ‘Not terribly well. Though I did not like him very much—found him to be a dour and taciturn man whenever I chanced to speak with him. I am sure that my stepfather would never have employed him to replace Mr Davies—Oh!’ She looked up at Gray guiltily. ‘I apologise, My Lord. I did not mean to sound as if I were criticising—’

‘Criticise all you wish, Amelia; in this case it is as deserved as your earlier remonstrations concerning your own wellbeing.’ Gray’s expression remained grim as he began to pace the room restlessly. ‘Perhaps more so.’

Gray had risen from his bed at six o’clock that morning—he had seen no point in lingering any longer when sleep had eluded him for most of the night—to go to the study in search of the estate ledgers. Estate ledgers that completely matched the ones submitted to Worthington. Falsified ledgers in view of the fact that half—almost all!—the servants supposedly employed in the house and on the estate, just as supposedly collecting their wages, had left some time ago.

A fact that had no doubt—once Sanders had received Gray’s letter informing him to expect his arrival at the estate—caused the other man’s immediate and hurried departure!

‘The man was a thief,’ Gray revealed flatly, having every intention of hunting the man down and making him pay for his crime. ‘A thief and a liar. In fact, Amelia—’ once again his mouth tightened grimly ‘—if the man were still here, then I might feel inclined to load your pistol myself and let you loose in a room with him!’

Amelia felt the colour warm her cheeks at this reference to her less than ladylike behaviour of the evening before. At this reminder that Gideon Grayson himself had been the one to suffer the last time she’d held a pistol in her hands. ‘I had assumed—believed that—’

‘That I am such a reprobate that I must have squandered away the family fortune—including the money to pay the servants’ wages and for the upkeep of my estate— on gambling and womanising?’ Lord Grayson raised dark brows.

Amelia’s cheeks felt as if they were actually on fire as she recalled the circumstances under which she had made that particular comment. Of being held in this man’s arms. Of how, in defending herself, she had also laid claim to being this man’s wife …!

She knew by the mocking speculation in those shrewd grey eyes that Lord Grayson was thinking of at least one of those events as he allowed his gaze to move slowly over each of her features—and then lower still to the column of her throat and the pulse that beat so erratically there, the now rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Breasts that seemed to swell beneath the bodice of her gown. To ache. Filling Amelia with an unaccountable restlessness.

Gray caught himself up short as he realised exactly what he was doing. As he sternly reminded himself that Amelia was his ward and, as such, must be completely beyond his sexual interest.

He scowled darkly. ‘I shall be going out shortly, and I do not expect to be back until later this afternoon.’

‘I—But—I thought we were going to talk this morning, My Lord?’

Gray still had every intention of talking to Amelia—on several subjects, but not until he had all the appropriate answers to give in response to the questions she would no doubt ask him! ‘We will talk when I come back, Amelia,’ he assured her sternly.

‘Come back from where, My Lord?’

The problem of servants well in hand, as well as a locksmith to deal with the front door, it was Gray’s intention to ride over to Wycliffe Hall this morning to offer his apologies to the Earl of Stanford for not having believed the sincerity of the concerns voiced in the other man’s letter to him. It was the least Gray could do when he considered the terse reply he had sent two weeks ago!

It was also Gray’s hope that by his visiting Wycliffe in person the Earl’s bride of less than a year might be of some help in the problem of what Gray was to do with Amelia …

Something Gray did not feel the need to share with his overly curious ward! ‘I am not in the habit of having my movements questioned in this way, Amelia.’ He eyed her haughtily.

‘I was merely curious, My Lord.’

‘Then might I advise a little less curiosity and a little more discretion?’ Gray eyed her coldly. ‘It is time, Amelia—past time!—that you resumed your proper place in this household.’

‘My proper place, My Lord …?’

Exactly what was Amelia’s ‘proper place’ in his household? Gray considered. At nineteen, she perhaps believed herself too old to be referred to merely as his ward. But she certainly could not be referred to as the mistress of the house!

She raised curious blue eyes at Gray’s frowning silence. ‘My Lord?’

Gray’s irritation with this conversation grew. Along with his inability to find a suitable answer to her previous question …

‘Or perhaps I might call you Uncle now that we have finally met?’

‘Certainly not!’ Gray gave a shiver of revulsion at the mere idea of being addressed as ‘Uncle’ by this young lady. Damn it, it made him sound as old as Methuselah! ‘If you feel you must call me something else, then my associates usually refer to me simply as Gray,’ he invited stiffly.

‘If you please, My Lord, I believe I would rather call you Gideon …’

Gray stiffened. ‘No!’

Amelia eyes snapped mutinously at his obvious coldness. ‘I do not understand why not, when you call me Amelia …?’

‘I refer to you as Amelia because that is your name.’

‘And is Gideon not your own name …?’

It may well be, but no one ever called him by it. Not any more. Not since his brother Perry had died …

Amelia eyed Lord Grayson from beneath lowered lashes, aware that she must have said or done something to bring about that grimly bleak expression upon his rakishly handsome face. Simply because she had asked if she might call him Gideon …?

It had seemed like such a small thing to ask—especially as he had already given her permission to address him as Gray. ‘I had not meant to offend you, My Lord …’

He eyed her impatiently. ‘I am not in the least offended, Amelia, merely impatient to be about my business without further hindrance from you or anyone else!’

‘But should you not stay and have breakfast first—?’

‘Mrs Burdock supplied me with an ample breakfast several hours ago,’ he assured her quickly.

This did not fit in at all with Amelia’s image of Gideon Grayson as an inveterate rake and a gambler, either. Was it not the habit of rakes to remain out at their clubs or with their mistresses all night, before spending the day in bed sleeping off their excesses?

Perhaps rakes behaved differently when in the country?

Or perhaps Lord Gideon Grayson was not the rake and gambler he was reputed to be, after all …? His earlier mockery on the subject certainly seemed to indicate he was not.

Then what was he? How had he spent these last years in London? And could those pursuits possibly have something to do with the scars Amelia had discovered the evening before …?