Amber wished she had left out something other than one of Shakespeare's histories, and yet it seemed beautiful in his low-toned timbre. She felt sure he would stop when he reached the end of Gaunt's monologue, but he did not. Instead, his voice changed in intonation enough to define a new voice-Edmund, she thought-and he continued with an impa.s.sioned speech. Amber soon found herself lost in the patterns and lyrics of his voice as the story of Richard II came to life within the cottage.

When he stopped reading some time later, she blinked her eyes open and straightened on the step. How long had she listened to him? And only two steps from the main floor! She heard the cover of the book close softly and came to her feet. He stood as well but then seemed to cross the room away from her direction, toward the window and the desk.

She should run up the stairs and secure her hiding place before he found her, and yet instead she tiptoed down the two remaining steps and peered around the stairwell, allowing herself only a few moments to take in the back of his charcoal coat pulled tight across broad shoulders. Her heart rate increased as she took note of the way his coat tapered at the waist and the dark brown sheen of his hair. In the candlelight from the mantel, it looked like chocolate not yet set.

She both saw and heard him open the desk drawer and remove a piece of parchment. He pulled back his coat and sat in the wooden chair before the desk-the very same position she would take when writing a letter. He reached for the quill from the stock, and she became fairly giddy with expectation of what he might be writing.

She realized, suddenly, that a quick look over his shoulder would reveal her. She picked up her skirts and made her way as quietly as possible to the second floor. Certainly he wouldn't hear the creaking steps, would he? She remained out of sight at the top of the stairs and therefore heard him stride from the room.

"Mrs. Miller?" he called.

Suzanne hurried to meet him in the foyer as he retrieved his outer coat, hat, and scarf.

"Did you find the book you wished to borrow, Mr. Richards?" Suzanne asked him.

How Amber wished she could watch him again without being seen. She wanted to memorize the shape of the mouth that had read so beautifully and see into the eyes that must reflect great feeling. She knew the basics of his carriage now and sensed his manner to be gentle. She ached to know more of him, ached to speak with him, and learn of him. Such foolish longings were ridiculous, of course. The fact remained that she could not gain closeness without him being equally close to her and that was not a possibility.

"I did and would like you to extend my thanks to your mistress for allowing me to borrow it."

"She would extend her welcome to you, of course," Suzanne said.

Amber heard the creak of the door open and footsteps as Mr. Richards took his leave. She moved toward her bedchamber so as to watch him ride away but then remembered the letter he had written and changed her direction.

As soon as the front door closed behind him, she ran down the stairs and fairly flew into the library. Her eyes located the cream paper on the desk without her feet ever having to stop. With the paper in her hands, she sat down on the chair still warm from his occupancy and unfolded the letter. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Suzanne come to stand in the doorway.

Mrs. Chandler, I express my most sincere thanks for the loan of your book and would very much like to repay your kindness by inviting you to tea this coming Friday. I know you do not care to venture out, and I would therefore bring all the requirements if your housekeeper could but have hot water available. I can promise absolute discretion in regards to our appointment. Such a visit would also allow me to return the book I have borrowed.

It is my greatest wish that you will allow me this opportunity, and unless I am informed otherwise, I shall believe my invitation is as agreeable to you as it is to myself. I shall plan to arrive at one o'clock.

Most kindly yours, Thomas Richards Amber lowered the letter and the shock she felt must have shown on her expression.

"Amber?" Suzanne asked, coming into the room. "What is it?"

Amber blinked. "He wants to return and bring tea on Friday."

Suzanne pulled her eyebrows together. "Bring tea?"

Amber looked back at the letter. "He says that due to my not wanting to venture out, he would bring tea here for both of us to enjoy at the cottage. All he needs from us is hot water, which is reasonable. I suppose it would be impossible to transport hot water such a distance."

"Oh," Suzanne said, her eyebrows rising this time as a smile played across her lips. "He is to call on you."

Amber leaned back in the chair and lowered the letter to her lap as reality descended like a stone. "He cannot call on me," she said, turning to look toward the copy of Richard II now returned to the end table where she had left it, the sc.r.a.p of fabric she had used as a bookmark draped from the new place within its pages. Her spirits, so lifted a moment ago, sank into the too familiar state of regret. "I shall have to send you with word that I am unable to accommodate his request."

Suzanne crossed the room and sat on the settee. "Would you read the letter for me?"

Amber read the letter aloud, then looked to Suzanne, whose expression was far too pleased. "He is most sincere in his attentions and seems mindful of your desire for privacy," Suzanne said.

"He cannot call," Amber said again, hating the truth but unable to ignore it. She had been too welcoming from the start and given rise to his curiosity. To welcome him to the library but not meet him in person, to have been presented to the town as reclusive and yet attentive to his every comfort during his visits-it was no wonder he was interested in better understanding her person. What a fool she was to have let this go so far. "I cannot receive him."

"Are you most certain of that?" Suzanne asked, reminding Amber of the discussion they had had on this very topic just last night.

"I am repulsive, Suzanne," she said, quietly and filled with regret. "I cannot hide it from him, and I cannot bear his reaction. I know it is hard for you to understand, but my society is not like yours. He would reject me. I know it."

"You are not repulsive," Suzanne said. "And you found that paint in those trunks belonging to Constance Sterlington, did you not?"

"I have already told you my feelings about using face paints."

Suzanne crossed to the candelabra near the fireplace. She blew out the flames, taking the room into shadowy darkness thanks to the skies dulled with gray clouds. She crossed to the other candleholder near the door and blew out that flame as well, inviting even more darkness.

"He thinks you an eccentric widow. Let him come and enjoy tea in a darkened room. We could tell him that the light is painful to your eyes or some such thing. With the shadow and some carefully painted brows in place of your own, you shall appear un.o.bjectionable and his curiosity will be appeased, as will yours."

"I couldn't possibly," Amber said, breathless at the very idea. Yet it was the true reason for her breathlessness that concerned her more than the suggestion. As Suzanne laid out the potential plan, Amber felt such a stir of excitement and possibility that she could not deny her desire to do exactly what Suzanne suggested. To sit across from him and sip tea and eat biscuits as she once had done with any number of gentlemen? To see those eyes and hear that voice directed toward her?

"What would we talk about?" Amber said, realizing as she did so that she was agreeing to Suzanne's plan. Why was she even considering such a thing?

Suzanne moved to the table beside the chair and picked up the leather bound volume of Richard II. "You shall talk of literature, of course. And perhaps, if we are lucky, he shall read aloud to you again. He has quite a fine voice, do you not agree?"

Amber looked at the book and remembered the effect his words had had on her. She thought back to Suzanne's a.s.surance that the world was not made up only of people who would reject her, that there would be those-even amid her own society-who could see beyond her appearance. Maybe even Mr. Richards. The idea had seemed impossible last night, painful and frightening. And yet she felt a smile pull at her lips now. He would not be seeing the whole of her, and certainly this would be his final visit to the cottage once he had met her and returned the book. Could she not take this smallest risk, if only to appease her own curiosity regarding the man?

She could not give him the chance to reject or accept her; it was still far too much of a risk. But if she were to live an isolated life, bound by her illness to spinsterhood and loneliness, could she not take some joyful memories with her? Would not tea with Mr. Richards-perhaps the last gentleman she would ever entertain-be a delightful memory to have? As soon as she thought of it, she wanted it so very much that she felt a physical ache. With her future so uncertain and so heavy upon her shoulders, could she not make the choice to enjoy one afternoon in a gentleman's company?

"Perhaps he will read again," Amber said softly as her heart fluttered in antic.i.p.ation. "Perhaps so."

Chapter 40.

Thomas came in through the back door of Peakview Manor Friday afternoon and removed his coat and boots. It had rained most of the night, leaving the grounds choked in mud that clung to his boots. Out of habit he turned his polished top boots upside down before attempting to put them on; no patent leather shoes fell onto the stone floor, however, and while he would miss playing a game with his niece, he was running later than he would have liked.

He proceeded to his rooms where he dressed himself presentably for the cottage. He had never been a man of fashion but quite liked the pieces of clothing he'd purchased on Fenton's recommendation in London. The tailoring was superior to anything he'd had before, and since his return, he'd used them as a guide for his tailor. Now all of his coats fit so perfectly they seemed to snap into place like a peg in a hole. He knew he cut a better figure, though such things had never concerned him much in the past. Today, however, he was going to meet Amber Sterlington and he wanted to look his very best. He wondered if she would recognize him and how he might react if she did. For good measure he added some of the spiced cologne he wore for society events; he had been in the fields most of the day, after all.

"Good day, Mrs. Berdsten," he called loudly to the cook after he entered the kitchen, causing her to startle from where she stood at the stove. She turned and gave him a narrow look.

"You ought not to be sneaking up on me like that, Mr. Tom. It's time you grew out of such childishness."

Thomas smiled and continued toward the woman who had served his family all of his life. He still felt as welcome in her kitchen as he did in his mother's parlor. "I shall never grow out of such things," he said as he looked around the kitchen. His eyes fell upon a basket covered in a yellow cloth, and he looked from it to the merry eyes of Mrs. Berdsten. "Is that my request?"

"There is no one else who asked me to organize tarts, crumpets, and jam for a mysterious visit. I included some chicken sandwiches in order for you to have a proper picnic."

"'Tis not a picnic I'm of a mind to produce, but I thank you for the consideration. Now, all I am needing is a tea service." He worried that perhaps Miss Sterlington only had the one serviceable cup he'd been served with each time he'd visited.

Mrs. Berdsten pulled her heavy brows together and shook her head, covered in a cap that did not hide her steely curls. "I would caution you against making a visit to a woman who's not got a tea service of her own."

Thomas raised his eyebrows, only half in jest. "Who's to say I'm visiting a woman?"

Mrs. Berdsten let out a hearty laugh and turned back to the pot she was stirring on the stove. "Who's to say," she muttered. "As if anything else would draw such attentions."

Thomas could only hope the cook would not be too vocal in her suspicions as he moved further into the kitchen quarters in pursuit of the dish room he had only ever visited once or twice before. By law everything in the house belonged to Albert, but if Thomas were to divulge the motivation behind his actions, he felt sure Albert would allow him use of a tea service currently set in storage. However, he would prefer not to divulge anything until he better knew his own mind.

It took some time to find an appropriate set, small enough to be easy to transport but not so fine as to be at risk for the journey. When he settled on his decision-a white porcelain set decorated in yellow flowers-he wrapped each piece in a dishtowel, packed them into a crate, and then brought it into the kitchen where he set it beside the basket.

He kissed Mrs. Berdsten on the cheek then put the parcel under one arm and lifted the basket with his other hand. He made his way to the stable, mindful of avoiding the patches of mud he had stomped through when wearing his working boots.

He had already asked the stable hands to prepare the curricle, as Farthing would not be able to accommodate such a load. The rain was still falling, and Thomas could drive the vehicle himself rather than need the a.s.sistance of a driver-though it was more dashing than necessary for this particular visit.

He loaded the crate and the basket into the curricle and was stepping up when he heard his brother's voice.

"Where are you headed, Thomas?" Albert approached on horseback, likely coming in from surveying his own fields just as Thomas had done this morning. "I thought you would spend the day celebrating the victory."

Just yesterday Mr. Llewellyn had informed them of the approval to properly transfer the parcels to Thomas's ownership. Albert had come home with a full report. It was a great success after so many months of effort, and yet it had strangely paled in comparison to the eagerness Thomas felt toward having tea in a simple stone house this afternoon.

"I have been about the place since sunup," Thomas said. "You can be certain that my celebrations were great."

His brother's attention turned to the curricle. "What is this?" Albert dismounted his horse, which was quickly taken in hand by one of the groomsmen, and looked at his brother curiously.

"None of your concern," Thomas said, knowing that was not an adequate explanation but unwilling to offer more. "I had best be on my way though."

Albert leaned against the side of the curricle and regarded his brother with suspicion. "I am quite used to your mind being filled with tasks and figures, Thomas, but I cannot help but wonder what additional things are taking priority amid your thoughts these past weeks. I had thought it was the transfer, but now wonder that it's something else."

Thomas turned to the horses-a beautiful pair of chestnuts Albert had secured on a trip to Tattersalls two years earlier-and busied himself with double-checking the harness of the one nearest to him. "Nothing of much consequence, I a.s.sure you."

"I do not believe that," Albert said with a laugh. "Diane seems to think it's in regard to a woman, though I made her promise to withhold such suspicions from Mama."

"I thank you for that," Thomas said with sincerity. Should his mother begin to entertain such thoughts he would not hear the end of it until he admitted the whole. Should that occur he did not doubt she would be on her way to Step Cottage in a trice to see for herself the subject of his interest.

Albert's commentary, however, made him mindful that he was not being as clandestine as he had hoped. If both his brother and Lady Fielding had noticed his change in focus, his mother would not be far behind. "And I thank you as well for not pressing me on this issue."

"Am I not pressing you?" Albert asked, raising his eyebrows. "For indeed I think that I am."

"Then I should thank you not to." Thomas knew his brother well enough to know that he would not be quick to cast aside such interest without a compromise. "I shall see that my man fills the ruts in the western road if you shall spare me some consideration in this, Albert."

Lord Fielding threw his head back and laughed. "You think grading a road is at all equal to my brother's interests in a woman? You have not hidden your visits until today, but as you rarely visit anyone I cannot help but be curious about this Mrs. Chandler. No one seems to know a thing about her, and yet this is your third visit, is it not?"

"It is not what you think," Thomas said, imagining how Albert would react if he knew Thomas had sat in a humble cottage reading Shakespeare to an empty room. How could he possibly explain any of this without giving Miss Sterlington away?

"What is she like?" Albert asked.

"I have not met her and am not inclined to add on-dit to the gossip mill should I have such an occasion to become acquainted with her today. She prefers her privacy, and I am of a mind to respect it." His voice had become sharp, and he cleared his throat as though that were the cause of it.

"Don't get so high on your horse," Albert said. "I am merely curious. He paused, regarding Thomas for a few moments longer. Thomas shifted beneath his brother's gaze "How old is this widow? I realize only now that I've had the impression of age, but perhaps I am mistaken."

Thomas was determined to learn more himself before he invited anyone into his confidence but knew he would have to negotiate Albert's support. "Please allow me my peace on this, Albert," he said with all sincerity. "It is a delicate situation I do not yet fully understand myself. I would like your a.s.surance that you will not speak of this to anyone, even Lady Fielding." Especially Lady Fielding if she were trying to learn more about the woman in the cottage. "In return, I can promise you that when I am prepared to share my thoughts, you shall be the first to hear them."

"You will give me no promise as to when you will confide? After the Thorton dinner tonight, perhaps? Or maybe Sunday afternoon we could go riding."

"I will make you no promise other than the a.s.surance that you will be the first to know."

Albert frowned and shook his head. "You are so difficult at times." He let out a dramatic breath and stepped aside so Thomas could enter the curricle. "Very well, I shall keep Diane's curiosity at bay and press you no further, but I shall hold you to your word."

"Thank you," Thomas said gratefully.

Albert slapped the side of the vehicle and gave his brother a wink. "Carry on, then. G.o.dspeed and good luck."

Chapter 41.

Amber paced back and forth in front of the fire in the library, mindful of Mr. Richards's arrival, which could happen at any moment. She kept looking to the slot of the desk where she kept letters from her family and the anxiety regarding the newest letter did nothing to settle her nerves.

The weather had stayed fair and so Suzanne had gone to town again on Wednesday to dine with her blacksmith and returned the next morning with a letter from Lady Marchent, which could not have been a greater surprise to Amber. After all these months away, Amber was being invited home, and she could scarce decide how she should feel about it. Grateful? Nervous? Excited? Her mother's letter had been written before Amber's request for information about Constance, so there was no mention of her.

Darra's wedding date was set for March 4, five weeks away. Amber was invited to return to Hampton Grove three weeks prior so as to be in attendance for a wedding ball held in Darra and Lord Sunther's honor. The actual wedding would take place at Lord Sunther's estate in Suffolk, and since Lady Marchent had not specified that Amber would attend that event, Amber a.s.sumed her behavior at the ball would determine whether or not she would receive greater inclusion.

It was not difficult to ascertain that Amber was being called back only to preserve the appearance that all was well with the Sterlington family. Lady Marchent also said that Amber and her parents would find time to discuss her future. Amber did not know whether or not that meant her parents were willing to accept her back with full favor but she could not forget that Constance had died in Yorkshire. Again, perhaps that answer hinged on how she presented herself at the wedding ball-her first social event in nearly nine months.

Two weeks ago Amber would have eagerly packed her bags in antic.i.p.ation for the comfort of her childhood home. However, that was before she knew of Constance's rejection from these same people. It was before she had put on her blue-striped day dress for the first time since her arrival at the cottage and had exchanged out three different caps before deciding on the one with the tighter ruffled trim. It was before Suzanne had painted on the eyebrows that did not look quite right to Amber, although Suzanne a.s.sured her they would appear to greater advantage with the low light of the library.

"Are you quite sure my appearance is that of a decrepit old woman?" Amber asked, looking upon her reflection with a critical eye. Since she was known as a widow, she thought it best to appear as an elderly one. Amber was quite certain she was only creating a joyful moment, not a step toward any kind of future.

"Quite sure," Suzanne said. "The lighting will make the difference."

Amber wondered at the maid's confidence and almost dared suspect that Suzanne was hoping for Amber's discovery since to herself she looked like a debutante wearing an old woman's cap. But she was eager to meet Mr. Richards and trusted Suzanne, so she had stilled her arguments and been ready in the library a full half hour before he was to appear, giving her time to further obsess over her mother's letter.

Would I refuse the request to return? she asked herself, then shook her head. Of course she would return to Hampton Grove. She was taking tea with a man who would think her elderly, not accepting a call from a potential suitor. And yet her concern at returning home was tied to him in ways her mind had not yet deciphered, and it made her uncomfortable. Perhaps if her mother's letter had been worded with eagerness and a strong desire to know of Amber's well-being she would feel differently. Perhaps Mr. Richards was nothing more than an excuse Amber was holding on to because she feared further rejection if she accepted her mother's unspoken terms.

The knock at the front door caused Amber's heart to race and she stopped near the edge of the carpet. He is here!

Suzanne's footsteps crossed from the kitchen to the front door while Amber moved to the side of the settee furthest from the chair, settled a rug across her legs to conceal her youthful figure, and adjusted her cap. The morning gown had a high neck and long sleeves, keeping her well covered.

Suzanne welcomed Mr. Richards and then led him to the kitchen where he could set down the items he'd brought for tea and which Suzanne would prepare. Amber caught sight of a candle on the mantel that had not been extinguished at the same time she heard his boots returning toward the library. She jumped up to extinguish the flame, returning to her position moments before Mr. Richards arrived in the doorway, blinking in the low light as he scanned the room. When his eyes settled on her, she felt it and had the strangest sensation of calm and tension woven together like a blanket.

Amber did not know if he could see her smile in the darkness, but she smiled all the same and straightened her carriage while taking in the look of him fully for the first time. He was neither fat nor thin, and his shoulders were broad and his legs long, which she already knew from her peeks at him on his prior visits. His smile was genuine and his eyes were intelligent. The sense of familiarity she felt must be from his earlier visits and their unusual interactions. She certainly didn't know him past that, did she?

It was when she realized that those intent blue eyes were as focused upon her as hers were upon him that she looked away from his inspection. She smoothed the rug on her lap and took another breath she hoped would calm her heart, which was beating most erratically. What a goose she was to be reacting so intensely.

"The low light is easier upon her eyes," Suzanne explained from behind him. "I hope it is not too uncomfortable for you, Mr. Richards."

"It is quite fine." Mr. Richards remained in the doorway, however, and after a few seconds, Amber remembered her role as hostess. He was awaiting her invitation.

"Do sit down, Mr. Richards," she said, waving toward the leather chair he had occupied on his other visits. She caught sight of her hand-her youthful and elegant hand-and quickly drew it back, hiding it under the edge of the rug.