This unfortunate revelation would be easier to bear if he were not so attracted to her. But here he was, cradling foolish hope that she might be amenable to his advances in time.
The most he could ever expect was for her tolerance—and tolerance was not a good enough reason to take a woman to bed. Not even his wife.
A lead weight in his stomach, fire burning in his lungs, his veins, he studied the crystal-cut glass in his hands. His temptation was to drink—in the past, it had been an adequate way of numbing the pain a little. But if he were to give in to that temptation, what else might he give in to?
If he closed his eyes, he could see his father seated in this very chair, holding the same glass, chastising him for kicking up larks in London.
He was, he reflected with a grim smile, becoming increasingly maudlin.
There came a rap at the door, and Amelia appeared, her hair piled in silky curls atop her head. He wondered when she had changed so utterly from a girl into a woman, and how he was supposed to navigate this change.
“Well?” he asked when she didn’t speak, her eyes narrowed on the glass in his hand.
“You’re drinking,” she accused.
“Merely contemplating the possibility.” He put the tumbler down on the desk. “What is it?”
“I would speak to you about something.” When he didn’t move, she beckoned to him. “It’s urgent.”
“What is it?”
She rolled her eyes expressively. “Are you so precious about your time? If you must know, it’s Chris.”
He was out of his chair before his mind had caught up with the action. “Is something wrong?”
“This way,” Amelia said, leading the way through the house. Not to Christiana’s bedchambers, as he had assumed, but to a wing of the house they rarely used. After the fire, and with only the two of them occupying the space, these rooms had been rarely visited. They were guestrooms, mostly, for visitors who no longer came. A ballroom, lying empty and dark, for balls that he had never hosted.
Amelia led the way unerringly until she came to a small room that had once been a parlor and now served as a storage room. As promised, Christiana was there, standing straight amongst the jumble of old furniture, abandoned paintings, and general chaos. Hugh could not remember the last time he had visited this room. Certainly not since his recovery from the burns.
He registered, oddly, that she was in a silvery gown—rather like a ballgown—that brought out the color in her eyes. When she glanced at him, her brows drew low in a frown.
He had the ridiculous urge to take her in his arms.
“There,” Amelia said from behind them both, and then she promptly closed the door. Before Hugh could move, the unmistakable scrape of the turning lock sounded. “Now I hope you will talk to each other. I’ll return and unlock you in an hour or so.” She giggled to herself, and Hugh strode to the door, banging on it once.
“Amelia—” he growled, but all he could hear was the sound of her footsteps skipping away. Furious, he pounded on the wood, but there was no use. And another glance around the room told him that if there ever had been a bellpull, it was long gone.
All that remained were piles of long-forgotten furniture. Lamps, unlit, the glass dusty.
“I take it you are not in a state of crisis and need to speak with me,” he said, turning back around to face her. She watched him, the lamplight reflecting off her glasses.
She gave a tremulous smile. “I gather this is her attempt at getting us to speak to one another.”
His jaw snapped together. They had not spoken since their argument over breakfast. There was nothing more to say on the subject. Miss Crawford could not marry her groom and be welcomed here as a guest; he would not allow it.
“What excuse did she give you?” he demanded. “And what the devil possessed you to come into this room and wait here for me?” And why, more to the point, had she done so in that dress? The material shimmered with every movement, packaging her every slim curve like a gift.
“I was under the impression an old London friend of yours was visiting,” she snapped, the lenses of her glasses flashing as her head moved. “Amelia urged me to change, then said before he arrived that you wished to speak to me privately about Miss Crawford.”
His anger merely rose. That little brat, thinking she could manipulate them in this way. “Then I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Yes, very sorry, indeed, I’m sure.” The words burst from her like acid, and she snapped her jaw shut as though she instantly regretted them. He had the wildest urge to remove her glasses from her face and kiss her into submission.
That was not the kind of behavior a lady like Christiana would respond well to, he was sure, but his blood heated in his veins regardless.
“Are you truly so surprised I don’t wish to host your ruined friend?”
Christiana clamped her lips shut, but he thought he saw the glisten of tears in her eyes. And just as abruptly as it had arrived, his anger fled.