Regency Christmas Gifts. Carla Kelly

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СКАЧАТЬ I saw you kiss her. And I just heard you declare you’d find a way,” she declared. “If the girl is fool enough to wed you, she should know what to expect! You have no thought for anyone but yourself and your pleasure! She is a cripple, Alexander. Will you thoughtlessly get her with child?”

      He saw the tears in her eyes and knew she spoke mostly out of grief for Olivia. She obviously had not overheard their conversation, only his last utterance and had misinterpreted that. But even so…“This is none of your affair, madame.”

      “No? You plan to marry this girl and take David from me to live with you. Of course it’s my affair! I live for that child since you destroyed the only one I had!”

      “I loved Olivia, too, you know.”

      “Yes, all too well, unfortunately!” she exclaimed. “And yet far too little.” She turned on her heel and marched off down the hallway, leaving him alone to stew in his remorse.

      He glanced back into the parlor. Amalie had turned, facing him with a look of compassion. “That was so unfair,” she said. “So undeserved.”

      Alex couldn’t answer. In his mind he knew he had done everything within his power to save his wife, but it had not been enough. The fact remained, he had been the cause of Olivia’s travail. Without the stress of childbirth, she would still be alive. He had always loved and wanted Olivia, had adored her first as a friend, then as a husband and lover. Theirs had been a comfortable and expected union, a match both had welcomed and treasured. But his feelings for Amalie were keener, more intense. Somehow deeper despite their brevity.

      And here was another young woman, one he desired even more than he had Olivia and deserved even less. Amalie was not ambulatory, her strength depleted by so many months of lassitude. She should not be put at risk of a pregnancy in her condition and he would see she was not.

      He needed to think. Obviously, Amalie wanted to wed and expected a real marriage to ensue. Maybe she thought his was the only offer she would ever receive, given her belief that she’d never walk again. If he simply refused to marry her and left things as they were, who would change that belief? She would remain a cripple all her life and that would be his fault.

      They must marry. And he must somehow convince her to keep their union platonic.

      Amalie puffed out a breath of frustration. What was she to do about Napier and his dratted guilt? Mrs. MacTavish seemed determined to keep it at the forefront of his mind. For some reason, the woman had not yet poisoned his little son’s opinion of the father, though. One would think she would have done so at every opportunity.

      Her mother chose that moment to enter the parlor. She carried several swatches of fabric with her and sat down beside Amalie, plopping the samples in her lap. “Which do you think for your gown, my dear? Should it be the pale blue—a color that will surely enhance your eyes—or the yellow to highlight your hair?”

      The dress didn’t signify, Amalie thought impatiently. What did it matter whether she made a beautiful bride or not? Napier would probably not notice in any event. “It doesn’t matter, Mama. Whatever you think.”

      “I like the blue.” She glanced up from the swatches. “Are you afraid of him?”

      The question jerked Amalie from her musing about Napier’s regard. “Afraid? Why ever should I be afraid of him? He’s a perfectly nice man!”

      Her mother shrugged as she nervously fiddled with the fabrics. “For a Scot, I suppose. They are notorious for quick tempers. And Mrs. MacTavish has said he was overly…passionate. Before, you know, with her daughter. Your father and I shouldn’t like you to be exposed to such.”

      Amalie coughed a short laugh of disbelief that her mother would even broach such a subject. “You and Father discussed this?”

      “Of course we did! And he is not so set on the marriage as you suppose. Michael is adamant we go forth, however. I think he fair worships Captain Napier.”

      Amalie figured it was time she asserted herself. For months now, she had decided on nothing for herself, letting the winds of life blow her whatever way they would. She had become the very kind of woman she had always pitied before. No more of that. If her life was to be her own, she must direct it.

      “I will marry him, Mother, and you are not to worry.” She plucked one of the samples. “I choose the blue, a simple empire style, no embellishment, save a white lace frill at the neckline.”

      Her mother frowned. “You are certain? About Napier, I mean.”

      “I am certain. He is the one.”

      That drew a small gasp. “I should have a talk with you before you’re wed. Your father says I should.”

      Amalie patted her mother’s hand. “Unnecessary, I assure you.” Tempted as she was to see just how her mother would address the matters of the marriage bed, Amalie would spare her sensibilities. “I am well-read and observant, too.” She leaned to kiss her mother’s cheek. “And I will muddle through as all women do, I expect.”

      She noted her mother’s frowning glance at her immobile legs and the slight shake of her head. Mama said nothing, but she was very obviously wondering how…

      “Either we will manage or we won’t. As it stands now, Napier wishes our marriage to be in name only.”

      And when that changes, Mama, Amalie thought to herself, you need never know it.

      “In name only. My, what a relieving notion.” Satisfied, her mother kissed her cheek and left, humming a little tune. Amalie belatedly recognized it as the off-color song she had played as a poor jest to discombobulate them soon after her betrothal.

      Perhaps Mama knew her better than she thought.

      Well, Amalie realized if she meant to take charge of her life, there was no time like the present to begin. She envied Napier his mobility. She envied his determination. And she dearly wanted to prove him right about her own ability to walk.

      Could she have given up too soon? The truth was, she had never felt she deserved a normal life after the tragedy that was her fault. If only she had not been so set on riding Morgana, the mare Father had warned her not to attempt.

      She had made friends with the roan, had her taking sugar lumps and apples out of hand without biting. Amalie had even sat astride Morgana’s back without incident. It was only when she took her out of the enclosure that the poor thing had gone wild.

      Then Jem, the stable lad she had known since their infancy, was trampled to death trying to keep the mare from attacking Amalie after she’d been thrown. And Father had ordered the beautiful Morgana put down.

      Two needless deaths, Amalie thought with a sigh. Her fault entirely. Did she have the right to recover?

      On the other hand, did she have the right not to make the most of her life in recompense for the loss of Jem’s?

      She made her decision.

      Carefully, Amalie did a half turn, braced her hands firmly on the arm of the settee and pushed herself up. She balanced, stiff, tense, afraid to breathe. But she had barely straightened fully when the muscles in her legs trembled and then, as if her bones turned to liquid, gave way. She fell back to the cushions with a solid thunk.

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