( COMPLETED STORY)
What happens when the rakish Lord in the whole of London is truly falling in love with a simple, plain, and most ordinary girl, something he has been avoiding- his innermost fear. True love?
Miss Amy Ott is London's newest riddl...
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Amy pulled the hood of her cloak further over her head and knocked on the door once more. She wanted to enter before anyone spotted her. The door opened, and a butler ushered her in. The house was dark, so she took the hood off and handed the coat to the butler as she started down the hallway. She already knew her destination.
Stopping in the study, she turned into the room, finding the space to be just as masculine as his office in the country.
"You're late."
She spun at the words. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't—"
"No!" Wardington shot up from his chair. "What did we say about response?"
Amy's shoulders dropped, and she blinked a few times, "I thought our lesson didn't start until—"
Walking toward her, he said, "Lessons begin the moment you walk into the door." Coming to a stop less than a foot away from her, he whispered, "You're late." But this time, there was no annoyance in his voice, only patience in his green eyes.
Amy looked away and could hear his voice playing in her head—the instructions he'd been giving her for the past few weeks. She played his words in her mind. You're late. Then, she cleared her throat and said, "Were you waiting on me, Your Grace?" Then she smiled and turned away, taking a seat by the fire.
He chuckled, "Excellent. Never say what a man is expecting. Keep them intrigued." He took the seat next to her. His eyes moved to her hands. "What's that you're doing?"
Amy looked down to find herself toying with her cross. Moving her hands apart, she shook her head, "Nothing."
He lifted a brow. "Oh, but now I actually am intrigued. You do that often," he said, pointing toward her glove. "Show me."
Amy sighed and then took off her glove before presenting her wrist.
Wardington didn't reach out for her. He didn't touch her with his hands, only with his eyes. He stared at the jewel. "Christian."
"Yes."
He smiled, "It must be very precious to you if you keep it hidden. Who gave it to you?"
"My father." She put her hand down. "Before he died." He'd actually been on his deathbed for a month before he'd finally allowed Amy to see him. In such a short time, his sickness had caused him to begin wasting away and he hadn't wanted Amy to see him... until the very end. She remembered looking into his brown eyes and running a hand over the damp brown hair that matched hers. He wasn't the most handsome person, and many had told Amy that she looked just like him.
