A Lady of Esteem (6 page)

“Trust me,” Anthony continued, “you are safe now. I am a changed man.” With a final squeeze, he released her hands and returned to his side of the carriage.

A burning sensation covered her eyes. She couldn’t cry. Not here. Especially when there was no reason for tears. This man had promised her nothing, hadn’t even implied anything. He’d been nothing but kind to her all evening. Yes, the idea that he would consider her as a potential wife had crossed her mind at dinner, but not with any thought of that becoming a reality.

Perhaps the notion that he might have found her a pleasant dalliance before his decision to pursue matrimony had spawned the threatening tears. One more indication that she didn’t really belong anywhere.

The coach came to a stop. The soft scuff of the footman jumping to the ground to open the door sounded like a shot through the silent confines of the carriage.

Anthony sat back with a small frown. “I never asked where you lived.”

Amelia lunged for the door as soon as it swung open. She stepped to the ground before turning back to face him. “I am also friends with your coachman. And your cook. She makes wonderful ginger biscuits.” She dredged up a smile. “Good night, my lord.” With a glance at the coachman, she waved and turned to the stairs. “Good night, James.”

“Good night, Miss Amelia.”

The steps to her front door had never felt so steep. She wanted to turn and get one last look at the marquis, to store up one more memory for her fantasies, but the tears slipping down her cheeks chased her into the house.

Spending the evening comparing the calculated flirting of London’s eligible ladies to Amelia’s honest innocence was unappealing to say the least, so Anthony welcomed Miranda’s suggestion of an outing to the opera.

He welcomed it even more when he learned she intended to invite Amelia.

Miranda shook her head and laughed as Trent and then Anthony followed her out of the carriage to collect Amelia. “You’ve left Aunt Elizabeth alone in the carriage.”

Trent pointed at Anthony. “He’s the one who left her alone.”

Anthony crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s your aunt.”

The discussion was interrupted by the opening of the door. Miranda halted one step into the front hall, blinking in surprise before continuing across the floor. “Miss Stalwood, don’t you know you are supposed to make a gentleman wait so that you can make a grand entrance as you enter the room?”

“You are not a gentleman.” Amelia’s brows drew together in confusion.

“How very true, but they are.” Lady Miranda stepped aside and indicated Anthony and Trent.

The blush he was coming to adore spread across her cheeks. She was beautiful. He recognized the dress as one Miranda had worn to several country assemblies last year, but the style suited Amelia as if she’d picked it out herself.

Her hair was adorably off center. Proof her maid was unused to such elaborate coiffures. Anthony considered suggesting Amelia find someone to teach her maid about hair. It was becoming apparent that many more outings such as this one were going to be in her future.

Anthony intended to see to it.

Miranda jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. He shook himself out of his contemplation and glared at her. She tilted her head toward her brother, who was fawning over Amelia. The pup had already told the girl how beautiful she looked. Repeating it would make Anthony look like a simpleton.

He cleared his throat before stepping forward. “Might I escort you to the carriage?”

“Of course.” Amelia accepted her cloak and reticule from the butler before waving in the direction of the drawing room. Three servants clustered in the drawing room doorway, waving back and grinning.

The carriage was a tight fit, with the three ladies on one side of the carriage and the men on the other, but all agreed it was better than taking a second carriage. It didn’t take long to reach the opera house, and most of that time was taken up with introducing Amelia to Trent and Miranda’s aunt, Lady Elizabeth Breckton.

Anthony marveled at the wonder on Amelia’s face. The opera had yet to begin—they were, in fact, still taking their seats—and already she appeared rapturous.

Miranda linked arms with Amelia as they entered the private box. “Miss Stalwood, you must sit up front. You shouldn’t miss a moment of your first opera.”

As Amelia settled into a seat at the railing, Trent wedged himself past Anthony, aiming himself for the seat next to her. He was brought up short by a heavy hand on his shoulder. Anthony was surprised to realize it was his own. He didn’t remember moving it.

Trent turned to face him with a huge grin.

“Yes, Anthony?” His face was the picture of innocence. Anthony knew better.

Trent was teasing him, the obnoxious pup. Anthony tried to regain his dignity. “I believe, since it is my box, that I will take the prerogative of the other front seat.”

“If we wanted to be proper, Miranda should get the other front seat.” Lady Elizabeth tapped Anthony on the shoulder with her fan before settling into the backmost seat, an indulgent smile on her face. “I’ve seen the show already, so I’m perfectly happy to sit back here where I can make sure all of you behave yourselves.”

Anthony sighed, looking from the empty chair to Miranda’s grinning face. Being a gentleman could be irritating at times. He bowed and gestured toward the front of the box. “If you please, my lady, your chair awaits.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Miranda took the seat next to Amelia, grinning like a fool.

Once Miranda was seated, Amelia began talking about all the elegantly dressed people in the boxes around them and the extravagant sets on the stage.

Anthony moved to his seat in the row behind the young women. Hooking his foot around the back leg he angled the chair before sitting down, anticipating it being more pleasurable to watch Amelia watch the opera than to enjoy the show itself.

The show began, and all of the box’s occupants fell into silence as the story played out on stage.

Just enough candles had been left flickering for Anthony to watch the emotions cross Amelia’s face. It was the best show in town.

At intermission Miranda announced herself positively parched and dragged Trent and Lady Breckton off in search of refreshment. Anthony slid into Miranda’s vacated chair.

“It’s so beautiful,” Amelia whispered. “What language is it?”

Anthony’s eyebrows shot upward. “French.”

It was hard to remember sometimes that Amelia’s upbringing was unconventional. Every woman he knew had at least a passable knowledge of French.

“I don’t know French, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The story is very sad.”

He considered her profile, pondering the best course of action. Assuring her that the story took a turn for the better might ruin the experience for her. She turned and he found himself drowning in her glistening brown eyes. Was she about to cry? “She is not going to die is she?”

When was the last time a woman of his acquaintance had shown this much emotion over anything, much less simple entertainment?

“There is a happy ending.” He couldn’t resist the urge to smooth an escaped curl of hair back behind her ear.

Her eyes widened. He could feel his heart beat, his chest expand with each passing breath. What was she thinking? He searched her eyes, looking for any spark of interest. Something in her expression that told him maybe, just maybe, she wondered about him as he wondered about her.

“Miss Stalwood, I—”

“We have returned. I forgot to see if you were as parched as I, Amelia, so I procured you a glass of lemonade.” Miranda’s voice and manner were overly bright as she reentered the box.

Anthony sighed and looked out over the opera house. What had he been about to say? Words had been forming in his mouth but not in his head. He should probably thank Miranda for interrupting him, but he mourned the moment as he relinquished the front seat back to her.

Amelia had never seen anything like the crush of people outside the opera house after the show. Even more amazing was how everyone strolled about talking to each other as if it were a party, calling to each other and carrying on as if rows of carriages weren’t waiting to be filled.

Even as Amelia climbed into the carriage, she heard people calling for Anthony and another woman grabbed Lady Miranda by the arm.

Lord Trent clambered in behind her, settling back to wait as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Amelia tried to copy his nonchalance.

“There is a bit of a chill in the air this evening. Is your cloak warm enough?” Lord Trent asked.

“Oh yes.” Amelia was so light-headed from the evening she wouldn’t have noticed if her toes had turned blue. “I hope this doesn’t cause a setback on your head cold. Are you fully recovered?”

“Yes, quite, I—” Lord Trent frowned. “How did you know I’d been ill? That was weeks ago, when I first arrived in London.”

“Oh, well, I think Fi . . . someone might have mentioned it to my maid Lydia. I didn’t think a thing of it until now.” Amelia gripped the edges of her cloak and tried to smile. The effort felt wooden at best. How did one tell someone they’d been the subject of gossip without making it sound like a horrible breach of privacy?

Lord Trent looked thoughtful. “This
someone
was a servant, I assume?”

Amelia swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

He laughed. “Does that happen often? Servants sharing about our health and the like?”

“Servants gossip worse than any member of the
ton
ever could.” Amelia winced at how awful that sounded, but it was the truth.

Lord Trent looked skeptical.

“It’s true!” Amelia defended. “
Ton
gossip is strictly speculation, from what I understand. What someone might have seen or overheard filled in with conjecture and suspicion. Do they ever know for a fact?”

“Rarely,” Lord Trent conceded.

“Servants
know
, my lord. They see and hear everything, and they like to talk about it.”

His gaze grew thoughtful again as the rest of their party finally climbed into the carriage and the conveyance made its way back across London.

“That was splendid, Lady Miranda. Thank you for inviting me,” Amelia said.

“I cannot remember the last time I had as much fun. It is most refreshing to see things through a new pair of eyes.” Lady Miranda reached over and clasped one of Amelia’s hands. “You must call me Miranda. I believe we’re going to be great friends.”

“Then I am Amelia.” Under the cover of her cloak Amelia pinched herself.

“I intend to drag you to the Hofferham ball with us next week, Amelia. Are you available Thursday?”

Amelia bit her lip. The true question was whether or not she would be able to procure the appropriate clothing between now and then. The dress Miranda had sent her was lovely, but it was not a ball gown.

“I have no other engagements.” Amelia wound her fingers together and held them tight to keep from shouting her happiness out the window. No doubt Miss Ryan would have her on the doorstep of the modiste at the crack of dawn.

“Does this mean that I have to go to the Hofferham ball Thursday?” Lord Trent grumbled.

“Of course.” Miranda huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Who else would escort me?”

“Anthony will be there. Can he be your escort?”

Miranda frowned. “Anthony is not a relation, you ninny. Besides, how do you know Anthony is attending?”

Lord Trent grinned. “If he wasn’t before, he is now.”

Anthony opened his mouth but closed it again a moment later with a bit of sheepish shrug.

“Nevertheless, Trent, you are accompanying me and Amelia.” Miranda gave a decisive nod. “Resign yourself now.”

Amelia looked at London passing by outside the window and smiled.

Memories of the opera outing filled Anthony’s head the next day, finally sending him from his house in a desperate attempt to find distraction. He let his head loll back against the coach cushions, allowing it to rock back and forth with the swaying conveyance. If God felt charitable today, there would be someone interesting at his club. Waiting five more days to see Amelia was driving him to Bedlam.

Perhaps he should have James change the direction of the coach and head over to Mount Street instead. There was no reason why he couldn’t pay her a call, other than a lack of proper chaperonage and a great deal of potential embarrassment on her part. Considering her clothing situation, he was afraid that her housing might be less than amenable as well, despite its fashionable location.

The last thing he wanted to do was cause her shame, but he’d be lying if he said her situation wasn’t part of her appeal. What he could give her would far outweigh the scandal of his past.

The rocking stopped, and moments later the footman opened the door. Anthony poked his head out and found a scene vastly different than the white-blocked edifice he expected. Instead of seeing Beau Brummel in White’s prestigious bay window, he saw women. Lots of women.

What were all of these women doing on St. James Street? They weren’t supposed to even walk down St. James Street, much less patronize the establishments lining the gentlemen’s road.

A closer look at the shops revealed the glittering windows and wares of stores catering to decidedly female customers. “James! Where the blazes are we?”

“Bond Street, sir.”

Anthony looked up to find the insolent coach driver staring straight ahead. A look to the footman proved that he, too, found the passing traffic of immense interest. “I know we’re on Bond Street,” Anthony growled. “The question is why?”

James looked down at Anthony, eyes wide. “You said you wanted a hat, sir.”

“I wanted a . . . ? I don’t want a hat.” He turned to scowl at the frippery in the nearby windows. “Even if I did want a hat, I wouldn’t come here. I’d go over to— Miss Stalwood!”

Amelia was exiting the milliner, a pink hatbox swinging from her fingertips. A tall woman with a tight black bun showing beneath her plain bonnet stood behind his captivating brunette angel. What amazing luck.

He looked over his shoulder at James, only to find the man once more enthralled with the traffic. Luck had nothing to do with this little encounter. His coachman appeared due for a small bonus.

“My lord, I didn’t expect to see you here.” Amelia stepped forward, shock lining her face, her fingers twisted in the twine holding the lid on her hatbox.

“I must admit I didn’t expect to be here.” He bowed and sent a look in the other woman’s direction.

Amelia’s arm jerked as if she had intended to gesture to the woman beside her, but couldn’t. Probably because her hands were so twisted in string. The woman’s fingers were going to fall off if she kept doing that. “Lord Raebourne, this is Miss Ryan, my companion.”

The woman smiled at Anthony and then emitted the worst fake gasp he had ever had the misfortune to witness. “Oh dear,” she muttered. “I believe I left . . . something in the shop.”

He liked the companion, fake gasps and all. His attention reverted to Amelia and her tangled parcel twine. A single step brought him close enough to reach down and untangle her fingers. The worn gloves bore creases from the string’s loops. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Stalwood. A new bonnet?”

“Oh . . . well, yes. I recently purchased a few new dresses and none of my bonnets match my new pelisse . . . But you don’t really want to hear about that, do you?”

No, not particularly.
“Of course. I find it beyond interesting. Do you have any more shopping to do?”

“Not really. Although one can always look around even when they aren’t shopping for anything in particular.” She looked into his eyes. Her shoulders began to pull in a bit and he feared uncertainty was setting in. This woman was just now getting comfortable enough to look him in the eye without blushing. He couldn’t let her retreat back into herself.

“Have you been to Gunter’s?” The popular tea shop was just the thing. The afternoon was warm and no one would think it odd for them to partake of one of the establishment’s famous ices without a chaperone.

“I adore Gunter’s! I’m particularly fond of the chocolate ice. Not very original of me, I know, but it seems to be what I always end up with.” Her smile broadened a bit more.

“I insist you let me get you one, then. I’ll have my men fold down the top of my—” Amelia’s restrained giggle stopped him midsentence. A glance over his shoulder revealed that his servants had already taken care of converting the carriage into an open-air conveyance. Yes, a bonus was definitely in order.

“Shall we remove to Gunter’s, then?”

“Oh yes.” She looked down at her hatbox and then back at the shop behind her. Miss Ryan exited, nothing new in her hands, which surprised him not at all.

“I’ll take that home for you,” she said, pulling the hatbox string from Amelia’s fingers with a deft twist. “Going to Gunter’s?”

Anthony tried to be stern as he caught his coachman’s eye, but he was afraid his frown looked more like a smirk. He was being manipulated, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Maybe he’d enlist this creative band of servants to aid him further. If this was what they could manage on their own, things could only improve with his cooperation.

“Yes.” Amelia looked stunned as she watched Miss Ryan give a small wave and trot over to a tall man with a skewed wig, hatbox securely in her arms. A puzzled look crossed her face. “Fenton?”

Anthony offered a hand to help her up into the carriage. “My lady?”

Amelia drew her gaze from the retreating maid and gave him a wry smile. “I’m not a lady.”

No. But she could be. He grinned. “I know.”

He clapped his coachman on the back as he climbed into the seat across from Amelia. “To Gunter’s, James. Unless you have another surprise for me.”

“I hear he has added a new flavor, my lord. It is a berry Miss Amelia is rather fond of.” The coachman guided the carriage into the flow of traffic.

Anthony couldn’t get the wide smile off his face. Definitely giving that man a raise.

Anthony stared at the Bible lying open on his desk. Since returning to the city, he’d had a difficult time maintaining his morning Bible reading. The different hours and increased distractions reminded him of the way his life used to be, making him feel unworthy of the sacred words.

Restless energy pulsed through him, making it impossible to remain in his seat. He stood in a rush, reaching for the darts he used when he needed to think.

He thumbed the tip of a dart. What did London mean to him? He flipped the dart in his hand and flung it at the board.

“Drinking.”
Thunk
.

“Revelry.”
Thunk.

“Women.”
Dink. Clank. Clatter.
Anthony watched as the third dart spun a wide circle across the floor. That was the crux of the problem.

Drinking had been easier to avoid than he anticipated, though he was finding many of his former friends were much less entertaining than he previously thought them.

The revelry of London was still alive and well. A good card game or conversation at his club, the crush of social gatherings, all things he had enjoyed before and found pleasure in again.

The women were the problem. Or rather a single woman. His infatuation with someone as sweet and pure as Amelia was at odds with the memory of his previous peccadilloes. No amount of praying and Bible reading would change his past. Even if God didn’t hold him accountable for it anymore, Anthony couldn’t see how she wouldn’t.

Amelia was a ray of sunshine whenever he saw her. She scattered his thoughts even as she brightened his day.

While they’d enjoyed ices at Gunter’s she’d confessed that she hadn’t read much, but she enjoyed fictional tales of other lands and historical travels. They let her imagine she was somewhere else, far from England. Anthony smiled as he recalled her blushing and ducking her head until her nose nearly touched her shoulder.

The gold lettering on the spine of a copy of
Gulliver’s
Travels
caught his eye. He’d liked the book as a child, imagined little people living under his bed for a year after his governess read it to him. He
stooped and slid the book off the shelf. It was as good an excuse as anything else.

His free hand reached out and scooped up the wayward dart. Straightening, he weighed the book in his hand. With barely a glance, he launched the dart at the board. The ends quivered as it struck the target.

He rolled his shoulders, a satisfied smile creeping across his face. It wasn’t easy to force his new life in where his old life had flourished, and he looked forward to finding a wife and retreating back to the country where things were simpler. If loaning a book brought him a little closer to that goal, then he’d willingly pack up the whole library.

Amelia and Miss Ryan tripped over their feet. Again. Amelia stifled a giggle as Miss Ryan frowned. They’d cleared the drawing room of most of the furniture and were attempting to dance. Miss Ryan’s efforts to remember the dance steps her friend had taught her were admirable, but Amelia knew she would never feel confident enough to step onto the floor of a London ballroom.

Still, she loved Miss Ryan for trying.

“Now I believe that you and the gentleman place your hands on each other’s shoulders.” Amelia and Miss Ryan awkwardly tried to hold each other’s shoulder with a low degree of success.

“This cannot be right,” Miss Ryan muttered.

Amelia laughed. “I don’t think it will matter if I know how to waltz or not. I doubt I’ll even dance. The experience of a London ball will be enough.”

“Pish posh!” cried Miss Ryan. “You listen to me, young lady. I’ve seen you in that new gown, and I know that some young buck is going to ask you to dance. Why, those two young lords who have been escorting you around town will ask for certain. Let’s try again.”

Since it made Miss Ryan happy, Amelia returned to the middle of the floor.

“May I be of assistance?” a deep male voice inquired from the doorway.

Amelia whirled to find Anthony handing over his hat to a grinning Fenton, a book tucked under his arm. Her neck began to flush, and she prayed that it would not spread over her cheeks. She forever found herself blushing in front of this man.

“We are learning to waltz.” Amelia’s voice was so soft she wasn’t sure he heard her.

“It is quite difficult when neither of us is aware of the proper forms.” Miss Ryan relinquished her spot on the impromptu dance floor.

“How fortunate that I came along, then.” Anthony’s eyes never left Amelia’s. The anticipation of being held in his arms made her skin prickle. Even when she dared to dream that he’d ask her to dance, it hadn’t been for a waltz.

He held the book out. “Have you read
Gulliver
’s Travels
?”

She shook her head and reached out a hand to accept the volume. “I’m sure it will be delightful.”

Miss Ryan swept by, snatching the book as she crossed to the settee by the fireplace. Fenton stood in the doorway with a twinkle in his eye.