room brightened a bit.
He carried one of the lamps with him throughout the room, not believing there was anyone hidden and ready to jump out and attack her, but wanting to reassure her of that fact.
‘There is nothing to fear here,’ he told her. He placed the lamp on a table and placed the key into her hand. ‘Lock the door after I leave.’
She took the key and stared at it for a moment before looking back up at him. ‘Must you go to your regiment immediately?’
It would be a two-hour ride, at least. ‘I have time,’ he said.
Her shoulders relaxed in relief. ‘May I offer refreshment?’
‘Do not go to any trouble.’
‘It is no trouble.’ She pulled off her gloves, and he noticed her hands shook. ‘I think Sally hides a bottle of sherry in here. Shall I pour you some?’
He’d prefer brandy. ‘Sherry? Why not?’
She found the bottle and two glasses. ‘Please sit, Edmund.’ She poured his glass and one for herself, a large one, which she gulped down.
He waited for her to sit first. She lowered herself into a chair and poured herself another glass.
She was still distressed from the night’s events, he thought, and Edmund wondered how he’d be able to leave her until she was comfortable again. Why he should feel this responsibility foxed him. She was once merely a pretty face—a beautiful face—to him. Now, perhaps because he’d rescued her, she’d become someone whose welfare mattered to him.
He watched her gulp down the second glass of sherry. ‘You should talk about what happened to you tonight.’ He spoke in a low voice. ‘The sherry won’t be enough.’
She quickly put down the glass. ‘I suspect there is not enough time. You must leave for your regiment.’
His brows rose. ‘A moment ago you were anxious for me to stay; now you want me to leave? Which is it, Amelie?’
Her glance darted to the door before focusing on her lap. ‘I do not want to be alone right now.’
‘Then talk to me,’ he persisted.
She looked up at him and snapped, ‘Why are you so sure talking will help me?’
‘I have three sisters.’
The challenge left her eyes, so that must have been explanation enough.
‘The—the attacks from those horrid men.’ The distaste showed on her face. ‘It was frightening, but what more can I say except that?’
‘Then talk about what is most unsettling you,’ he said.
‘I am certain you do not have enough time for that!’ She huffed.
He raised his brows and spoke with humour. ‘Is it so long of a story?’
Her glance darted back to him. She smiled.
He pinched the stem of his glass.
By Jove, she was temptation itself when she smiled.
* * *
Was it possible that talking could calm her? Amelie doubted it very strongly, but, if he left, she would be alone—and likely alone for the rest of her life. Why not tell him?
Courage was necessary. Her trust in men had been shredded this night, and Edmund Summerfield was certainly a man.
‘You will not tell anyone? No matter what?’ she asked.
He looked directly into her eyes, his expression serious. ‘Upon my honour.’
His words resonated inside her. From her brother she knew men did not say such words lightly. At least, honourable men did not.
Edmund delayed his duty to his regiment to bring her safely off the streets of Brussels. There was honour in that.
She was stalling and he was waiting patiently, no longer pressuring her to speak, no longer using humour to cajole her.
But to speak it aloud meant facing it, did it not? Facing what she had done. Facing the truth she had learned in return. Opening her bleak future to herself.
He sipped his sherry.
She tossed him a defiant look and poured herself a third glass, but this time she did not gulp it down.
She took a breath and took the risk. ‘You know, of course, that Captain Fowler and I had just become betrothed—’
He nodded.
She could not sit still and speak of this. She stood and paced in front of him. ‘My brother procured invitations to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, you know, my first ball given by a duchess. I was in raptures about it. Captain Fowler was my escort. I thought nothing could be better, especially when Wellington himself arrived! Wellington! At the same ball.’
Even though Amelie’s father was a viscount, it did not mean they were invited everywhere. Because of her mother. Not only was her mother French, her mother was also a commoner and, after the Revolution, her family had become active in the Terror, beheading friends and relatives of the British aristocrats.
Consequently Amelie and her parents were barely tolerated by the ton. It was only because of Edmund’s sister, the one who’d married an elderly earl, that she’d been invited anywhere last Season. That was how she met Captain Fowler. She thought he had not minded about her scandalous family. At least he’d told her so.
Edmund broke into her reverie. ‘The ball ended early, I heard.’
She collected herself. ‘Yes. I was much affected when Wellington announced that Napoleon was marching towards Brussels. I—I knew it meant Captain Fowler would ride into battle. I knew it meant I might never see him again. I begged my parents to allow him to walk me back to the hotel instead of riding in their carriage. I wanted to be alone with him.’
She glanced at Edmund, who continued to watch her from his chair with eyes that merely waited for more but showed nothing of what he thought.
She turned away from his gaze. ‘You thought he propositioned me. You thought he might have taken advantage, saying, give me something to remember you by, or something like that.’
‘Men think about last chances when they know they will go into battle,’ he said in a quiet voice.
She swung back to him. ‘Not only men! I thought of last chances, too! I begged the captain to come to this room and make love to me.’
His brows rose.
‘Are you shocked?’ she asked.
‘Surprised. Not shocked.’ He lifted his glass to his lips.
Her voice turned shrill. ‘Does that make me wanton? Does that bring shame on me, on my family? Is it so very bad that I spoke those words to him? That—that I wanted...the lovemaking?’
He placed his glass on the side table and rose, coming to her and holding her by the shoulders. ‘This is what the quarrel was about?’
She nodded.
He guided her back to her chair and sat her down.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. ‘He said that no respectable woman would ever think such a thing. That I was wanton. Shameful. That I was no better than Haymarket ware. That I must have more of my mother’s common French blood in me than he had supposed.’
She burned with anger all over again. True, her mother was the daughter of French merchants who had worked to guillotine aristocrats, but her mother had no part in that. Her mother was the dearest creature in creation. Amelie tried to slap Fowler across the face for speaking of her so.
It had enraged him.
Her throat tightened with the memory. ‘Fowler said he was finished with me and that he was certain