Nicholas still didn’t move.
“Who else can you trust?” Rafe asked. “I have no reason to lie. Go on.”
“Fine.” Nicholas loosed the fall of his trousers and pushed them down, letting gravity take them to his ankles. His shirt hung down to his upper thighs, but it didn’t hide the devastation that had been wrought when Charlemagne fell on him. He knew without looking what Rafe would see. His right leg bore some scarring along the calf and the shin, but it hadn’t received the worst of it. His left leg was pale, thin and misshapen. The flesh bore several bright red scars from surgeons’ attempts to repair the devastation. His knee was particularly damaged. It hardly bent any longer and one side protruded unnaturally.
Rafe made no comment, just lifted the lamp and studied his legs. Then he moved behind him and looked from that angle. Nicholas had thought he’d feel odd or awkward, but Rafe made it seem like nothing out of the ordinary. Finally, he returned to his chair and said, “Pull your trousers back up, and I’ll give you the verdict.”
Nicholas appreciated not having to hear the bad news bare-arsed. When he’d fastened his trousers again, he looked at Rafe. “Go on then.”
“It’s not pretty,” Rafe said. “Some women might be repulsed by it, I won’t disagree.”
“I told you—”
“I’ve not finished.” Rafe held up a hand and Nicholas waited. “I don’t think your lady is one of those women.”
“And how would you know? Have you shown her other deformities and gauged her reaction?”
“No, but she doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman to put much stock in physical perfection. You know the sort I’m talking about.”
“Do I?”
“All the pampered ladies in London who half-faint if the smell of horse manure touches their nose. Lady Nicholas is a country girl with a pet pig. She’s been caring for her ill mother, and other ill family members, if what I hear is correct. I’m sure she’s seen worse.”
Nicholas let out a bitter breath. “That doesn’t mean she wants to go to bed with a cripple.”
“You won’t know unless you try. Do you really think she’ll reject you?”
Nicholas thought of the way she’d pressed against him, the way she’d moaned when he caressed her breast. “No.”
“Then nothing is stopping you. Well, except me. Tonight is as good as any to consummate the wedding.” Rafe shooed him out of the chamber and closed the door behind him.
For a long moment, Nicholas stood in the corridor and considered going back and taking up where he and Amelia had left off. But Rafe hadn’t seemed to realize that pride was stopping him. Pride and fear. Because rejection might not be the worst outcome. What would he do if she accepted?
Eleven
The next morning was overcast and drizzly, and Amelia frowned at it through her mother’s window. “I was hoping we could go for a walk today.” She tried to keep her voice cheerful.
“I don’t feel up to a walk,” her mother said.
Amelia had known she would say that. She didn’t seem to want to do anything except lie in bed and sleep. She had no appetite and no interest in anything. Amelia had tried to tempt her with all of her favorite foods, but her mother nibbled or took only one or two bites unless Amelia cajoled her. As for entertainment, Amelia had brought books, magazines, even chess into her mother’s room. All sat untouched on the bedside table. Amelia had hoped for sun today. A bit of time outdoors in the warm sunlight always made her feel better, but the weather had not cooperated.
“The first sunny day, we are taking a stroll,” Amelia said. “No arguments.”
Her mother didn’t argue. She didn’t agree either. She seemed indifferent, which was somehow worse. “Let’s look at this magazine,” she said, pulling a copy of La Belle Assemblée from 1814 off the table. The fashions were outdated, but as they’d never paid much attention to fashion, many of the styles would be new. She set the magazine on her mother’s lap and turned pages at regular intervals. Amelia made comments about the hats or dresses. Her mother made sounds, but Amelia could sense she wasn’t really listening.
Amelia’s heart wasn’t in it today either. Since the kiss with Nicholas last night, her attention had been only half engaged on any given task. It seemed she would remember the feel of his hand on her breast or the slide of his tongue into her mouth at the most inappropriate moments.
She wanted him to touch her again. Now that her monthly courses had ended, she wanted him to do more than touch her. She wanted him to strip her naked and lie her down and press his body against hers. She’d felt shame when she’d wanted that from Wickersham. But Nicholas was her husband. There was nothing sinful about their lying together.
The problem, of course, was Nicholas didn’t want her. He’d left her out of breath and wanting more and hadn’t come back to his room until she’d finally given up and gone back to her own chamber. Even then she’d listened for him but had fallen asleep before she heard him return. Perhaps he hadn’t returned. Any sensible woman would infer from his behavior that he didn’t want her. But she couldn’t quite forget about that kiss. The way he’d touched her and kissed her had definitely shown desire. So why wouldn’t he act on it?
She’d told him there was no baby, and he’d said nothing had changed. So the impediment had nothing to do with her. What was keeping him from doing what he seemed to want? What she definitely wanted? And if she kept turning these thoughts in her head, she would probably go mad enough to be sent to Bedlam.
A tap on the door roused her from her thoughts. “Come in.”
Florentia peered in and smiled when she saw Mrs. Blackstock awake. “Good morning,” she said.
“The weather is a bit dreary to call it a good morning,” Amelia said, feeling irritable now.
“True, but my gardener tells me it will clear up with afternoon.”
“I hope so.”
“Might we speak in private for a moment?” Florentia asked.
Amelia looked at her mother. “Mama, do you mind if I step out for a few moments?”
Her mother did not respond, so Amelia stood and straightened the magazine on her lap, then followed Florentia into the corridor outside. When she closed the door, Florentia pulled an envelope from her skirts.
“A letter? For me?” Amelia couldn’t think who would write to her except perhaps her father’s heir. Perhaps he’d finally been located in India.
Florentia glanced at it. “No. It’s for Nicholas, actually. But he gave me leave some time ago to open his correspondence. He doesn’t like to bother with it unless there’s something that needs his attention. I believe this needs his attention.” Florentia held out a hand, and Amelia took the envelope and withdrew a card.
“It’s a response to an invitation,” she said. She glanced back at the card. “The Duke and Duchess of Mayne accepted the invitation to the house party. What house party?”
Florentia raised her brows. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
Amelia glanced at the letter again. “I don’t know anything about it. I certainly am not acquainted with a duke.” But there was a niggling memory of having seen that title before.