Free An Imperfect Proposal by Hayley Ann Solomon Page B

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—”
    â€œThere 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.
    â€œStephen! What brings you here?”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œStephen . . . could . . . would . . . can you tell your mistresses to remain at Honeydew Street? I know it is very wrong of me, but it is