An Imperfect Proposal by Hayley Ann Solomon Read Free Book Online Page B

allow her to have expectations, he must not expect her tender emotions to settle into anything deeper than affection for her husband.
    If she loved him, he’d be lost, marooned in guilt, incapable of offering her more than she needed . . . he would, in fact, be a veritable cad. He must set his distance from the start. He must be firm about it, else this marriage would have no hope.
    He set her from him sternly and apologized shortly. Amaryllis, sensing the mood change, was puzzled, and the raging pulses she was experiencing now slowed miserably. The fireworks seemed discordant and the night darker than a moment before.
    The earl had coldly helped Amaryllis into the chaise and hardly murmured a word to her on the return trip, partly because his heart was racing, partly because he felt a fool, and partly because he was angry his little wallflower was looking far too delectable for his peace of mind.
    Amaryllis, sure she had offended, could nevertheless not work out where her mistake lay. Miserably, she sat with her fingers clenched, watching the sparkle on her betrothal ring against the cozy flame of the interior gas lamp. Her own inner sparkle seemed to have vanished.
    After that, Lord Redding kept his distance and Amaryllis saw him only at those engagements to which they had mutually been invited. The days flew by, though, as Lady Hastings planned the wedding feast, and the bridal breakfast, the floral arrangements, the displays, the accommodation of guests from as far afield as Paris and even Rome. Then, of course, there was the wedding gown to consider, a shimmering confection in organdy with pearls stitched into every seam and diamonds (provided by the earl) interlaced subtly with every swirl of broidery Anglaise.
    Dressers arrived, and milliners, and seamstresses from every corner of London. Merchants with bolts of silk, morning callers of every description, florists, oh, the list was endless, and Amaryllis barely had time to take a breath, never mind to think. When she saw Stephen, he was everything that was civil—indeed, she could hardly fault him on that score—but the intimacy that seemed to have developed between them was dimmed. And though her pulses still raced uncontrollably when their eyes met, and she still shivered, a little at his touch, these touches were rarer, as if Stephen himself were conscious of the matter and rationing them accordingly.
    If Amaryllis only knew how much he burned for her! He steeled himself, now, to see her, for even her smile affected him in a manner he found salutary, and her gowns, increasingly modish, revealed delicate areas of flesh he had not previously been aware of, never mind been permitted to glimpse.
    Worse, other gentlemen seemed to have noticed these advantages, for she now seemed to have a court about her, and he sometimes had to wait to greet her or scribble his name on her card or reserve her for the supper dance. Once, he had taken the matter for granted and positively seethed when he found Staunton Reynolds had beaten him to it. He nearly demanded his rights as her betrothed, then considered how foolish he would look.
    He had retired, but in a black sulk, something wholly alien to him and therefore even more tiresome. Sometimes he wished he had never set eyes on Amaryllis, nor never chanced to see her hide sweets for his nieces in her reticule. Even now, his lips curved at the memory and a twinkle appeared in his deep, hazel-green eyes. He could not complain, however, for every time she saw him her eyes softened and her cheeks glowed with color.
    There was never a time she did not prefer to be in his company, a fact he both loved and abhorred, for though she did not precisely wear her heart on his sleeve, he knew she felt a tendre for him and this was against everything he had so carefully planned.
    His one consolation was that Martha Caddington looked alternately green with envy and red with rage, neither of which color suited her sultry looks. For a