she had once seen of one of Michelangelo’s sculptures, was one of the most handsome men she had ever set eyes upon.
Unfortunately, having now met him, Amelia realised he was also the most arrogantly forceful man she had ever encountered, too!
She gave a slight shake of her head. ‘I do not understand, My Lord …?’
He eyed her impatiently. ‘I am asking if you love your work here so much that you have been happy to do it all these months without payment?’
‘No, My Lord …’
Really—was Gray to add stupidity to the list of this woman’s character defects? It would be a pity if that were the case; even a woman as beautiful as she would do better in the world if she possessed at least some intelligence. ‘No, you do not love your work here? Or, no, you have not been happy to do it without receiving payment?’
She gave a tinklingly dismissive laugh, revealing tiny and perfectly straight white teeth between those plump red lips. ‘No, I do not work here at all, My Lord.’
‘You—?’ Gray gave an irritated frown. ‘Explain yourself, if you please!’
‘I am Amelia, My Lord—Amelia Ashford,’ she added lightly as Gray continued to stare down at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Your step-niece and ward.’
Gray was too startled—shocked!—by the revelation to even attempt to hide it, and he openly goggled down at her.
This beautiful and seductively lovely woman—a woman any man would relish taking to his bed—was the daughter of the genteel but impoverished widow his brother Perry had been married to for only months before her death, soon followed by Perry’s own death at Waterloo?
Chapter Three
It could not be!
There had to be an error of some sort. Amelia Ashford was a child—only seventeen years of age—whereas this young woman was—
Perry’s stepdaughter had been ‘only seventeen’ two and a half years ago …
Which would now make her in her twentieth year, not her eighteenth!
Circumstances beyond Gray’s control had meant that he had never met Perry’s wife Celia, nor her daughter Amelia. Perry had written to Gray at the time of his marriage, of course, assuring him of his joy in his wife, and of his delight in becoming stepfather to such a delightful child as Amelia.
There had not been time for Gray—nor opportunity—to visit the new family at their estate in Bedfordshire before Perry had written to Gray a second time, shortly before he’d had to depart for Waterloo, informing him of his complete devastation at the sudden death of his wife from influenza.
When the news had reached Gray, only weeks later, of his brother’s own demise during that last bloody battle he had felt absolutely no desire to visit the estate he had just inherited—to be at or see the place where he would be made aware of his brother’s absence the most.
Instead Gray had put the financial running of the estate into the hands of his lawyer, while concentrating his own energies on his duties in London. His only dealings with Steadley Manor during that time had been the twice-yearly meetings Worthington had insisted upon, so that the lawyer might present Gray with an account of estate business.
Never in all that time, Gray now realised uncomfortably, had he given even a thought to how Amelia Ashford had dealt with the sudden death of her mother, quickly followed by that of her stepfather. Let alone considered the loneliness of the life she must have led all this time, secluded away in rural Bedfordshire.
Gray studied her from between narrowed lids now, as he attempted to reconcile his previous image of a young girl on the brink of womanhood with the reality of the beautiful and seductive young woman who stood before him, wearing only her nightclothes. A young and tempting woman, who conjured up images of bedchambers and lithe and naked bodies intimately entwined amongst tangled sheets—
Damn it, Amelia Ashford was under Gray’s protection, and as such she was the last woman on earth that he should find himself having such intimate imaginings about! The last woman he should have held in his arms.
‘What is your companion Miss Little about,’ he rasped harshly, ‘that she allows you to run about the house at night dressed only in your nightclothes and brandishing a loaded pistol in order to challenge a man whom you believe to be a thief?’
Whatever Lord Grayson had been thinking during those last few minutes of silence, they had not been pleasant thoughts, Amelia decided ruefully as she heard the hardness of his tone. ‘I am afraid Dotty Little was amongst the first to leave your household.’
And although Dotty had been employed to be Amelia’s companion when she’d first come to live at Steadley Manor, she could not say she had been sorry when the fussy little woman had departed in a huff some months ago. It had become very tiresome to constantly be told, ‘No, that is not ladylike, Amelia,’ or, ‘No, a lady does not behave in that way, Amelia,’ or, even worse, ‘No, a lady does not look at a gentleman in that way, Amelia,’ if she should happen to glance admiringly at one of the handsome young men who attended the church services on a Sunday.
No, in spite of the occasional loneliness Amelia had suffered in the months since Dotty’s departure, it had been pleasant to be free of the constant restraint previously placed upon both her behaviour and thoughts.
Although she could tell by the thunderous scowl upon Lord Grayson’s brow that the knowledge of Dotty’s departure did not meet the same favour in his eyes.
‘When did Miss Little leave?’
‘Some weeks ago,’ Amelia dismissed uninterestedly. ‘You must be cold and hungry after your journey, My Lord, allow me to go down to the kitchen and prepare you a light repa—’
‘How many weeks ago?’
‘I am sure that there will be some of the thick stew and freshly baked bread left over from my own supper—’
‘How many weeks ago, Amelia?’
She looked up at him through the curtain of her long lashes. ‘There really is no need for you to raise your voice, My Lord,’ she reproved softly.
His young ward was, Gray realised, attempting to be everything that was sweetly innocent. Attempting—because after her earlier behaviour he was not fooled for a moment! Believing her to be other than who she was, Gray might have made a mistake in taking her in his arms, but there had been no doubting Amelia’s warm response!
‘Perhaps if you were to answer my question I would not feel the need to do so?’ he came back mildly—and just as insincerely! ‘Perhaps,’ he continued grimly, ‘if you had written to me at the time of Miss Little’s departure the situation here would not have become quite so dire as it is!’
Her eyes widened indignantly. ‘I trust you do not consider me to blame for the servants having departed?’
‘No,’ Gray allowed. ‘Only for choosing not to inform me of it.’ He was fully aware of who was to blame for the state of things at Steadley Manor. As he was also aware of the debt of gratitude he owed to Daniel Wycliffe for bringing those problems to his attention. Gray
