House of Trent 01.5 - His for Christmas by Jennifer Haymore Page B

steps in that direction, then stopped.
    What was she thinking? Eavesdropping didn’t have a history of ending well for her.
    But curiosity smothered common sense, and she hurried down the hill, then slowed her steps to a creeping pace as she approached the bend that led to the pavilion.
    The first voice she could make out was the drunken one of George MacBride as he slurred, “Damn fine cigars you have here, Fletch.”
    “Thank you.” There was Fletcher’s voice, not at all drunk. “It is my pleasure to share them with you.”
    There was a moment of silence, presumably whilst the two men enjoyed smoking. Then George chuckled slyly. “I think you’ve gone and put a wrench into our friend’s plans, Cameron.”
    Amelia stiffened. Why on earth was Evan out here with Fletcher Henry and George MacBride? She swallowed hard. The past felt like it was crashing down upon her, but she was frozen to the spot. She needed to see how this would play out.
    “What do you mean?” Evan’s low, smooth voice asked George.
    “Well, he is in possession of some grand plans for Lady Amelia.”
    Evan didn’t respond. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Amelia tried to imagine the expression on his face. Curiosity? Anger? Agreement?
    “Even if she’s still a little thick around the middle,” George continued on blithely, “she’s damned pretty, too.”
    Fletcher made a scoffing noise. “Pretty? I wouldn’t go that far.”
    Evan didn’t say a word.
    Amelia slammed her eyes closed against the flood of pain that seemed to come out of nowhere. She stood frozen on the path, her head bowed, her fists clenched at her sides, struggling against the hurt.
    “She has nice eyes,” the drunken George argued.
    “Eh,” Fletcher said dismissively. “They’re too round.”
    Evan didn’t defend her.
    She knew, she knew , that this was it. Evan would eventually speak, and he would agree with Fletcher. The past would repeat itself, and the time that she’d spent with Evan would prove to be just an illusion.
    That’s all it was, really. She’d only promised to be his in that inn, in that tiny room, until the storm cleared. She knew that it had only been a short fling with a time limit.
    “And her hair is a pleasant shade of blond,” George continued.
    “Too dark. That shade appears perpetually dirty to me,” Fletcher said.
    She wasn’t the impressionable sixteen-year-old girl anymore. This time, she wouldn’t crumble under the weight of a few cruel words. She squared her shoulders and squeezed her fists tighter until she could feel her nails biting into her palms.
    “Well, you cannot deny that she’s ripe enough for a good bedding.”
    At that, Fletcher laughed. “No, I won’t deny that. In fact, I intend to—”
    Thud. The dull noise was followed by a groan of pain.
    “You bastard.” Evan’s voice, ripe with fury. “You will not speak of Lady Amelia like that.” Another dull thud , the obvious sound of a fist connecting to flesh. “Nor will you. Ever. Do you understand me?”
    Opening her eyes, Amelia raised her head.
    “What the hell?” Fletcher sputtered. “What is wrong with you, man?”
    She crept forward behind a thick bush that separated the final turn in the path from the pavilion.
    Her view was broken by twigs and leaves, but she could see the small structure, glowing pale white in the sparse moonlight, the circle of its roof held up by thin Grecian columns. The three men inside all stood facing one another. She recognized Evan right away from the way he held himself in a bristling posture. He was nearest to her, with his back to her. Beyond him, Fletcher rubbed at his jaw, scowling at Evan. George stood next to Fletcher, his shoulders rounded as he pressed a hand to his sternum.
    “What the hell were you talking about?” Evan bit in George’s direction. “What grand plans does he have for Lady Amelia?”
    “What the devil is wrong with you, Cameron?”
    Evan ignored the question, instead turning to Fletcher and