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Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon

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Chapter Nine
The ensuing scene was not one Stephen wished to remember. Lady Luttlow was genteelly sipping a dish of tea whilst Amaryllis, pale and stony-faced, helped her to some slices of seedcake.
Too stunned to make an entrance, the earl watched as Lady Luttlow skillfully set about poisoning his wife's mind. Her bracelet sparkled upon her wrist, and when Amaryllis's eyes fell upon it she trilled self-consciously that “Dear Stephen is always so generous.”
Amaryllis said nothing, but Lady Luttlow, observing that her hands trembled, pushed home her advantage sweetly.
“It was only last week that he gave me this, though I have told him a dozen times or more that there is really no need. Still, I don't think he can help himself. He is very épris, as I am sure you are aware, such a modern couple as you are! Oh, my dear,
dear
. . . countess. You have spilled your tea! And on such a becoming gown, too, though perhaps a little too . . . sweet for our Stephen's tastes! Still, you hardly know him after all, so perhaps I may advise you—”
“There will be no need to advise, Eugenia! My wife wears every gown to perfection and she seems to have a profound understanding of my tastes.”
Stephen entered the room in a cold fury he hardly thought possible. He hardly dared look at Amaryllis's face, so he walked over to Lady Luttlow, whose own tea had now spilled in her surprise.
“Stephen! What brings you here?”
“What brings me to my own home? My wife brings me, if you wish to know! Did you happen to mention to the countess that your little . . . trinket was a parting gift? No? Somehow, I thought not. Amaryllis, I am sorry you have been so imposed upon. It does not fall within your duties to entertain my ex-mistresses, however kind-hearted you might be.”
Stephen's voice was stern, but Amaryllis thought it had never sounded more wonderful. She wondered if she was in a dream, then saw she was not, for Stephen's top boots were muddy, and such a thing would have been unthinkable in a dream.
As a matter of fact, Stephen had been so incensed by the notion of Lady Luttlow cutting up Amaryllis's peace that he'd had no thought for such matters. He had not even waited for his chaise to halt in an appropriate place before leaping into the dirt of his orderly flower beds.
Now, looking immaculate but for this slight imperfection, Amaryllis was engulfed in so much love she thought it must surely show upon her countenance, though she tried hard to remain cool and collected. Stephen was merely being kind. She should have known he would be too courteous to expect her to entertain his mistresses! She was glad Lady Luttlow had been discarded, for she was mean beneath her studied elegance. Amaryllis thought she might prefer someone who was sweeter tempered, even if a little more vulgar.
She must accustom herself to such thoughts. She must not think that just because Stephen was giving Lady Luttlow her marching papers he would not replace her. He had made the matter plain to her from the outset.
She smiled, and Stephen smiled back. It was not the smile of someone who was thinking of his next paramour, but Amaryllis could not be expected to know that. She did, however, feel insensibly warmed and hardly noticed Lady Luttlow make her exit.
Eugenia Luttlow was defeated at last, not by Stephen's words but by the way he looked at his wife. Worldly-wise, she knew there was no competing with the repressed passion she read in his immobile features. Lord Fortesque, she reasoned with the ruthlessness of her kind, had the advantages of being rich, if not handsome or even young. She had her horses turned round and rapped out the address of Portman Close, Lord Fortesque's residence at Albany.
The Countess of Devonport felt breathless. She always did, when Stephen was near, but now his eyes bored into her own and she really thought if he did not say something she might disgrace herself by swooning or worse, throwing herself into his arms.
She did neither of these dramatic actions, however, but fluttered those lashes a little, for her eyes felt misty and she was determined not to give herself away by wiping her threatening tears.
She need not have worried, for Stephen closed the distance between them almost artlessly, and it was he who offered her a handkerchief—indeed, it was he who carefully dried her eyes. He would have kissed her, too, had she not blurted out the first thing that came to her mind.
“Stephen . . . could . . . would . . . can you tell your mistresses to remain at Honeydew Street? I know it is very wrong of me, but it is really such a . . . such a shock to see them in the country. I hope you understand.”
Stephen did not understand. He had just publicly flayed his mistress in front of his wife, and she seemed not to care! Amaryllis was speaking to him as if he had dozens of such creatures—as indeed once he
had
had, if one were to count them year by year rather than all at once as
she
seemed to be doing.
Ironically, he was shocked. His wife was not supposed to know of such matters, much less about his house in Honeydew Street. She spoke about it so composedly, as if she did not care that he was carrying on liaisons when he should be devoting his time to her. Perhaps he had misread her feelings. He had thought . . . oh, he had suspected . . . oh, what a coxcomb he was! He had taken it for granted that she loved him.
Now he was not certain. He knew that if
she
spoke of lovers he would not blink casually and ask her to conduct her affaires more discreetly. But she was doing no such thing. She was not raging like a banshee, she was not as jealous as a vixen, she was not slapping his face as she ought to be doing.
Good heavens, she was simply asking him to break his vows elsewhere. Perhaps she did not care after all. Perhaps his own twisted views of marriage had distorted hers. Perhaps he had been too careful a tutor in preparing her for a marriage based on reason.
He stared at her, trying to read her thoughts. Amaryllis's eyes faltered under that stare. It was too intense for her, too probing. She did not want Stephen to read the secrets of her heart and be embarrassed by them. She forced a gay, slightly false laugh.
“Gracious, is that the time? I am due at the stables in half an hour. There is a stud foal I am particularly desirous of viewing. I had best change, for I am not exactly dressed for mud! Will you come? Sir Hugh will be there, he has been very instructive . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her husband was looking like a thundercloud.
 
 
The foal was as promising as Amaryllis had hoped. She purchased it from Sir Hugh, but her heart was not in the transaction, though good manners bade her chat peaceably with her neighbor before turning back for home. She had her groom with her, of course, but he was keeping a respectful distance, so Amaryllis could be alone with her thoughts and her secret longing to rush into the house and throw herself about Stephen's neck.
She dared not think of the evening, when she might have the choice of her own cozily furnished chamber or his. She must not be so shallow as to think of such carnal matters! But Stephen made it very hard, when he was so damnably handsome and persisted in wearing unmentionables that seemed to emphasize every muscle of his lean body.
But no! It was his smile, so heart-stopping, and the sudden blaze in those hypnotic eyes of his.... She would not think of it, she must not! All her resolve seemed to melt to custard, which was very foolish of her. But it was not just those intimate nights she was thinking of . . . indeed, it was not.
She wished even more for the pleasures of the day, for laughter shared and humor understood in sudden flashes of quizzical glances across the heads of other more sober individuals. She wanted to ride with Stephen, and read with him, she wanted to be part of his life, involved in his decisions. She wanted to be able to tease him, to not feel shy or anxious . . . to have his baby with joy and pride.... Oh, she was asking for the moon! She pulled her horse up short.
“'Rilla!” It was the children. Their high voices could be heard a mile away, and she smiled at their unconscious nickname for her. She slid off her mount and handed the reigns to her groom.
“Where are you?” She put her hands to her mouth to call. It was unladylike, but she felt unladylike with her disheveled hair and the wind at her back
“Up in the gardens by the gazebo. Come help us! There is a cat stuck up a tree!”
Amaryllis smiled as she covered the distance quickly. Doubtless the poor creature had run up there to escape Clem's fond attentions. In this she was more right than she knew, for Clem had taken the notion into her head that the cat was cold and was doing her level best to dress it in a jacket from the charades box.
“It won't come down.”
“Nor would I, if I were forced to wear that hideous garment!”
The girls laughed.
“Can you get her?”
“She will come down if we leave her.”
“What if she can't? What if she is frightened? She is only a snip of a thing, you know. “
“Oh, very well, give me a leg up, will you, and don't—I repeat—don't—tell your governess I have been teaching you such tricks!” The girls laughed.
Amaryllis was faster up the tree than her gentle upbringing ought to have allowed. Very soon, she was cradling the kitten, who gave her a very satisfactory purr before snuggling into the side of her face. The only snag was that looking down, Amaryllis suddenly felt dizzy.
This sensation was compounded by the fact that she now had one hand, not two, at her disposal. The kitten could not be expected to cling on unaided. She could place it in her pocket, but she was not sure it would stay there while she was looking for suitable footholds.
Amaryllis remained calm, for there were worse things, after all, than being stuck up a pear tree with a kitten nibbling at one's ear. If she remained perfectly still, there was no danger of falling. She refused to be beaten by a wave of silly dizziness.
“Girls, I'm afraid you are going to be shocked,” she called without looking down.
“What is it? Is it safe? Is it shivering? Is it . . . is it sick?”
“None of those things. The problem, I am afraid, lies entirely with me. Would you think me very shimble-shambled if I tell you I am stuck?”
“
You
are stuck?”
The girls, some way below, did not look worried at all. If Amaryllis did not know better, she would have thought they looked gleeful. On second thought, they
were
gleeful. Cheeky little devils! But they had a point. It was not often one could boast of a live grown-up ignominiously stuck up a pear tree. Worse, one that was swathed in skirts and billowing petticoats that seemed to tangle into every wretched twig.
“I am afraid so!” Amaryllis was almost cheerful, for the kitten was sweeter than she expected, and softer. It felt good—immensely good—to have something to feel tender about, no matter how absurd one's current condition. For a letting moment she thought of motherhood then smiled mistily.
“Call Rivers. Ask him to bring a ladder.”
“Yes, but the kitten . . .”
“See, she is safe. If I had a ladder I could tuck her in my pocket and make a smooth descent. As it is, I cannot! What is she called?”
“She hasn't got a name! We were just deciding.”
“How about we call her . . .” Amaryllis blushed. Fortunately, the children could not see her face, for it was obscured by branches.
“Well, how about we call her Stephanie, after your uncle?”
The children agreed doubtfully, unaware that their uncle himself was now interestedly watching the spectacle. He had been thinking of Amaryllis all day, and had responded immediately when he heard his nieces call
As interested as the children, he'd watched as a tiny scrap of a thing was held aloft for inspection. It was, he thought, with a sudden lifting of his spirits, a singularly unworthy specimen for his namesake. It mewed.
“May we keep it?”
“I daresay you might, if I ever manage to climb down this tree. It is a shocking thing, is it not, that I have forgotten how to do so? My spirits are quite overset! Now do me a favor, Vicky, fetch Rivers before we both fall out.”
BOOK: An Imperfect Proposal
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