Page 16 of Wicked with Him

Roman laughed softly and shook his head. The Sweets worried about a lot of things Roman never had to think about coming from a small family. But fatherhood was a daunting prospect for many men. He’d been lucky so far not to have fathered a brat on any of his past lovers. But the thought of Amity big with his child made his heart shrink with fear…and for some strange reason, a yearning to see if she was increasing. It shouldn’t happen. He’d withdrawn and not spilled his seed with her.

But what if Amity, despite his care, might somehow conceive?

She was cut off from her family, spirited into hiding by Fairbridge, who might not treat her kindly should she be found with a bastard growing in her belly. For his own peace of mind, he really ought to make sure that Amity was not increasing. “Could she be at the duke’s country estate? Amity, I mean?”

Stratford took a deep drink of his ale. “I know for a fact Amity is not. Nash has just returned and made no mention of it. But that does not mean she’s not at an estate belonging to Fairbridge. Do not tell anyone about my suspicions on that, either.”

“Never. Has he many properties?”

“One I suspect not even Father knows about yet.” Stratford glanced to the side to where Roman’s tankard sat neglected. “You’re not drinking with me.”

“Letting it breathe,” he assured his friend.

“It’s ale, not fine old wine, my friend,” Stratford complained.

“True enough.” Roman took a hasty gulp of his forgotten ale and then signaled to the barkeep to bring three more tankards, which he happily paid for. If Amity wasn’t here in London with her family, or at the duke’s country estate, she might have been taken away to live out her days at Fairbridge’s property. A property not well known to the rest of the Sweet family yet.

Was it possible to get Stratford drunk enough that he’d tell Roman everything he knew about Fairbridge’s investments?

Chapter 6

Amity lifted her face to the cloudless sky, drinking in the warmth of the beautiful summer morning. Loving her new life.

She was free.

Living in a quiet village in the country these past weeks suited her much better than the crowded ballrooms of the marriage mart she’d been trapped in for years.

For a moment, she considered what her overly fussy female relations might say to see her in her current condition. Hair imperfectly bound, no bonnet covering her head, muddy shoes, and a hem sadly very much blemished. A certain aunt and Amity’s sister-in-law might just faint at the poor impression she was making on the residents of her village, many miles from the heart of London’s glittering Mayfair ballrooms.

Amity much preferred the honest reek of the countryside, though not the pigsty she was currently passing on her way to the center of town. The pomanders and perfumes of the truly well-bred members of the aristocracy tended to be as much more on the nose. Like the pigs, too, society was full of wind.

She continued down the muddy roadway from the cottage Fairbridge had sent her to where the townsfolk perpetually gathered each morning. There was so much to be seen and so many people to meet.

Amity hitched her basket higher on her hip and wove through the crowd of locals, speaking to those she knew by name and nodding to others still wary of her, a stranger in their midst. She was known as a married woman here, rather than a ruined spinster. As a wife who’d abandoned her marriage when her husband had been unfaithful.

Some of the women didn’t like her simply because she was pretty. She’d turned heads upon her arrival, and on any given day she might see a fellow lurking outside her garden gates in the hope of escorting her somewhere, ignoring that she was already spoken for.

Amity encouraged none. Not that a few handsome souls weren’t worthy of consideration, but because she had a pretend husband somewhere, of course. And her heart had been unexpectedly claimed, too—despite her best intentions not to fall.

Roman Crawford would never know the impact of the brief time they’d spent together. He, despite his affection for another, had become the man of her dreams.

A middle-aged bachelor, perhaps the most prosperous of the local gentlemen, strolled up to her with a beaming smile of obvious delight at seeing her out and about. “A right pretty sight you are today, Mrs. Standish. I was just thinking to myself that you were missing out on so fine a morning, and I no more than turn my head and see such a vision coming toward me.”

She inclined her head to the man. “Good morning, Mr. Fletcher. And where is your dear mama today? Somewhere nearby, I expect.”

Fletcher drew closer, wincing. “Her hip aches badly again, and so she must remain indoors.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it,” Amity murmured. Mrs. Fletcher’s hip seemed to ache badly with increasing frequency since Amity had first made her acquaintance, and her invitations to take a private tea with the woman were increasing apace. She was sure now the older woman, who had once gone everywhere escorted by her dutiful son, was now making herself scarce. Amity wasn’t sure the older lady entirely believed her story of being a married woman, because her son always approached her with a proprietary air, offering to protect her from those he considered unworthy.

She looked over him again and noted the speculative gleam in his eye was there again. “I mustn’t keep you then, sir. I know Mrs. Fletcher depends on you above all others for company during the day.”

Fletcher stretched out a hand toward her, imploring her to stay. “Perhaps you might favor her with another visit?”

Amity kept her hands at her side rather than encouraging any physical contact. She was a properly respectable wife, in every regard except for abandoning her pretend marriage. “Not today, I’m afraid. I have quite the list from the Misses Beamish. They’ve still a sniffle and cough to be taken care of. I’ve become quite worried.”

“It’s good of you to do so much for them. A sign of your good heart, caring so much for near strangers,” he nodded approvingly, looking around, likely to see who was watching them speak as he so often seemed to do. “I’d best not keep you.”

She curtsied to him. “Thank you. Enjoy your day, Mr. Fletcher, and my best to your mother for a speedy recovery.”