Second Chance Cinderella

She smiled and angled her trim body to show her gown to best advantage. The shining silk and lace belonged on a duchess instead of the daughter of an impoverished viscount, but Amelia wasn’t one to burden herself with such pesky distinctions. The bright blue ribbons framing her oval face and the sapphire gems at her throat reminded him of Rose’s eyes. He gritted his teeth. Everywhere he looked today, Rose was there to taunt him.

“You seem distracted.” As was her wont in private, Amelia dismissed propriety and sank gracefully into one of the leather armchairs. “I saw you on Oxford Street earlier today. You looked rather harassed. I had my driver hail you, but you quite had your head in the clouds.”

“I’ve been preoccupied with a personal matter.” His gaze drifted to the door. How was it possible that Rose was even lovelier than he remembered? Over the years he’d forgotten the blueness of her eyes and the natural blush of color in her smooth, fair cheeks. Worse, no one made him feel more invigorated than she did. The moment she entered the room he lost track of all else. “It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

She glanced at him from under downcast lashes. “It’s not financial difficulties, I trust? After the grandeur you’ve become accustomed to, one doubts the Marshalsea would suit your tastes in the least.”

Compared to the squalor he and Rose had lived in once the orphanage closed its doors, the notorious debtor’s prison qualified as a palace. “I’d manage.”

“I’m certain you would. I find it excessively appealing that you’ve remained a scrapper beneath all the polish you’ve acquired, but I’m quite certain I’d die if I ever found myself in such a hideous place.” Her gloved hand soothed the silken folds of her gown. “If you are in dire straits, I hope you will remember you can come to me should you ever need a confidant—”

“I’m much obliged, but you needn’t fret.”

“As long as you know I’m always here for you.”

He tamped down the cynical suspicion that her loyalty depended on the sum of his bank accounts. “Your friendship is dear to me.”

She smiled. “As you’re aware, I want very much to be more than just your friend.”

Still rough from his confrontation with Rose, he leaned back against the desk. His fingers clutched the lip of the desktop, his right ankle crossed casually over the left.

This wasn’t the first time Amelia had made her wishes known. Just as she’d hinted on several occasions, he should probably marry her. In truth, he’d been considering a proposal for weeks. Her father’s hapless investments had made her family desperate enough for funds to overlook his guttersnipe background, and Amelia would make the perfect wife for a man who had everything except a permanent place in society.

“My father agrees we’d make a splendid couple,” she continued, undaunted by his lack of comment.

“I’m certain he does,” he said drily. In fact, he could think of a million reasons why.

The provocative gleam in her dark eyes faded. “Darling, what’s gotten into you today? You’re too sullen by half. I wish you’d reconsider and come shooting with us at the Digby estate in Devonshire next month. A nice long holiday would do you good.”

“It wouldn’t be much of a holiday, I’m afraid. I grew up in Devonshire. The area is filled with memories I’d rather forget.”

“Even more reason to come with us.” She stood and moved close enough to brush up against him. Her perfume, though subtle, carried a powdery scent that made his nose twitch. “It will give us a chance to replace those bad memories with fond, new ones.”

He gave her a cool half smile. “I’ll consider it.”

“That is all I ask. Her gloved hands reached for his cravat and began to refashion the knot. “You are quite a catch, you know. You may not be a peer, but you are divine to look at, charming when you choose to be and—”

“Rich.”

She pouted. “I’ve told you before, it’s vulgar to mention money, but since you have, yes, your wealth is, shall we say, one of your finest assets. It saddens me greatly because I am so fond of you, but without your fortune to make up for other things...”

“You wouldn’t be seen within a mile of me.”

“You needn’t be harsh. You’re aware of my circumstances.” She patted his chest. “Nor must you be unfair in your judgment of me. My family expects me to wed, if not well, then at least lucratively.”

Her snobbery both amused and revolted him. “And why should I want to marry you?”

“You must be joking. I’m the daughter of a peer.”

“You can also be a crick in the neck.”

“True, but you’re a philistine.” She laughed. “We’ve been dancing around an agreement for weeks, so since we’re being honest, let’s face facts. An alliance between us is a most sensible option. You have everything except a family to carry on your name and eventually squabble over the fortune you’ve amassed. I, thanks to my father’s missteps, am in need of...protection, shall we say. We understand each other and get on well most of the time. You can help my family, and I can open doors for you that your background prohibits you from entering on your own.”

“You assume I want to cross those lofty thresholds.”

She frowned as though she’d never heard such a ridiculous notion. “Of course you do, Sam. You don’t have to pretend with me. Everyone, even those who deny it, want to be part of the crème de la crème.”

“I don’t lack for invitations as it is.”

“Yes, however, these invitations will be from people who matter, not those boorish tradesmen or stuffy politicians with whom you usually conspire. All I ask is that you contemplate the possibilities. Imagine I’m a new stock and consider your potential rate of return.”

He already had. The Ratners’ decline in circumstances may be recent, but their title and mortgaged properties were centuries old. To a man whose own roots went no deeper than the day of his birth, buying a branch on the Ratners’ lauded family tree held a certain appeal.

Best of all, he wasn’t in any danger of falling in love with Amelia, nor did she expect him to. Their union would be little more than a mutually beneficial business arrangement. No deep emotions to make him feel helpless or dependent on anyone but himself for happiness.

“I’m always calculating variables.”

“Brilliant.” Voices passing in the corridor drew Amelia’s attention. “I’d best see to the dining room before our guests descend. Everything must be perfect tonight.”

“Speaking of variables—” he opened the door to help usher her out “—something popped up today and we’re short a footman this evening.”

Amelia paled. “How can that be?”

“I’ve made other arrangements with Hodges.”

“That old fossil you call a butler should have been put out to pasture a decade ago. I gave him strict instructions to send word to me if the slightest mishap occurred.”

He refrained from mentioning that Hodges had been in a dither himself when he’d informed the older man that he’d given Frank the night off and that Rose would fill his position.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she moaned. “I’ve planned every detail and now all is ruined!”

“Hardly. A kitchen maid has already been found to replace him.”

“One of the maids?” Amelia’s hand fluttered to her chest as though she might faint. “I’m aware you’re not fully educated in these matters, but a woman serving...are you mad? That will never do.”

Amused by her dramatics, he wondered vaguely if there were any smelling salts on hand just in case she keeled over. “It’s already been decided.”

“I’ll send for one of ours—”

“There’s no time.” The first muffled notes of a violin being tuned bolstered his point. He led her to the door. “We’ll have to make due. You are the one interested in all the latest fashions. Perhaps we’ll usher in a new one.”

Chapter Three

Once free of Sam’s study, Rose followed the footman into the servants’ stairway. Shaking uncontrollably, she reached toward the wall for support as she made her way down the steps.

In the kitchen, the chaos before a dinner party was a situation with which she was well acquainted. Already at a fever pitch from her confrontation with Sam, her senses seemed unusually sensitive to the clamor of voices, banging pots and the aroma of roasted meats and exotic spices.

“Miss Smith?” An aged man with a bald pate ringed by gray hair called from the doorway. “Miss Rose Smith?”