Marchioness Divine | A Regency Romance

Chapter Eight: The Bookshelf

Upon declaring she was the Dowager Marchioness, she was immediately shown into a small drawing room. It was probably the same size as the Warstone's blue room, except the Herriots had chosen to decorate the room in darker colours and had cluttered it up with more furniture. Two walls had been turned into bookcases – once a maid had poured Amelia some tea, she studied the book spines as she waited for the ladies to join her.

After a few minutes, she heard a deep mumble behind her. "I am sorry we were not expecting your call. My mother has gone to dine with my sister this evening."

Amelia turned around to see Edward just a few steps behind her. "My apologies for the intrusion. I came to bid farewell."

He took half a step towards her. She could already feel her face growing hot. Would he kiss her hand again, or pull her towards him?

"So when you said that there would be no next party..." he mumbled before letting his voice trail away.

Much as she wanted to hold his head in her hands, lift his downcast eyes from the carpet and tell him that all would be well, she resisted and straightened her back. "I am leaving," she explained simply. "I am returning to Denmead Hall. To my old life. I have enjoyed my time here in London, but I had never planned to remain here permanently."

Edward nodded. "I know that nothing will make you reconsider. I think you ought to go."

Amelia suddenly fell back against the bookcase behind her. "You do?"

Had she imagined everything? He really had been pursuing her for her title and fortune, just like all the others. But that was for the best. Undoubtedly for the best. She had been taken for a fool, and now she could go, too ashamed to ever return.

"And come back," Edward half-ordered. His voice was stern but his eyes were too soft to carry any threat. "I know London has been difficult for you. I know your mourning has been lonely. I could never expect you to stay. So go, and then, next year, come back. That is all I ask."

Amelia found she couldn't breathe. She forced herself upright and prepared to leave, feigning as much offence as she could. "You have no right to ask-"

"I know," he replied quickly, rushing to take another step forward with his hands up in surrender. "But I must."

"You must not," she said weakly.

"I do." Edward nodded his head, trying to expel the energy running through him. He could not believe he was doing this, but as soon as his footman Derby told him Amelia was here, he plucked up all the courage he could.

She was miserable in London. She had spent the past few weeks exhausted – he had seen it. And now Frederick was independent, she lacked a purpose. She had to return home for her own wellbeing, but damn him if he didn't beg for a second chance.

"I would not have you leave if that were in my power," he continued, putting all his energy in keeping his voice level. "I cannot stand the idea of being torn from you. I would rather my skin be torn from my body. I know I am not perfect. I have used you ill, and your family. But I think you know why I cannot stand the idea of never seeing you again."

Amelia raised her head and weakly uttered, "You never will see me again." Then, regaining strength in her voice, she continued, "Perhaps you will see me in a few years' time. You will surely be married by then, with a nice cabinet position and some nice children."

This time Edward leapt towards her, closing the space between them. She could have slid around him and left the room – he wasn't holding her in place – but she was mesmerised by his stern tone. They were almost the same height: as he spoke, Edward's hot breath caressed Amelia's upper lip.