Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes (14 page)

It could not end that like this. He’d sensed her retreating; he should have asked what she was thinking and then tried to assuage her worries.

But that would be more lies, would it not?

No, I’m not a fortune hunter.

What? You aren’t Miss Amy Dish!? I had no idea.

That was why he followed her, stepping swiftly off the pavement to cross the street and nearly being run over by a charging horse be
cause he was paying attention only to her delec
table bottom and not the rest of his surroundings. Clearly, he could not live without her.

He had to make things right, now, so that they could be right when he saw her again.

He would see her again.

Alistair threaded his way through pedestrians, always keeping his gaze fixed on Amelia. Finally, he caught up with her.

“Let us go to the theater.”

She eyed him for a long moment in which his heart thudded in his chest. What had he done? What had he said? How had it suddenly gone from right to wrong to over?

“We’ll go see the play and stand in the pit with the unwashed population of London. It’ll be terrible but we’ll be together.”

Alistair’s heart surged when he saw the smile tugging at her lips and the reluctant grin.

“Well if you insist, Mr. Finlay-Jones.”

“I do, Miss Dish.” He took her arm and escorted her in the direction opposite Durham House. “I also insist on supper first. Thanks to you I have worked up quite an appetite today.”

For supper, they ate steaming hot meat pies and drank mugs of ale in a private parlor at a pub. They dined on credit; he may have had to drop Wrotham’s name to ensure they would be taken care of and as a way to ensure the barmaid that money would be forthcoming. He had an IOU from cards the other night; he’d return and pay on the morrow.

Amelia noticed none of it. She had that wide-eyed delight again, the way only an heiress on the run could be delighted by the prospect of a meal in a dingy London pub. It was a novelty to her, a part of the daily drudgery for everyone else, or even a special treat for those in especially hard circumstance.

“I should be wining and dining you,” he said, immediately regretting the suggestion that she was wealthy, a Lady, and not Miss Amy Dish, finishing school runaway.

“I have plenty of that at . . . at my school.”

“When I was at school, we were served gruel that would have made this seem like the finest food in the world. I shan’t tell you more or it’ll put you off your supper.”

She implored him for details. He obliged. She made faces of grotesque horror and he laughed.

“It’s much more refined at a ladies’ finishing school,” she said. “As you may be able to imagine. I doubt you know better than I, although, I wouldn’t be surprised if you regaled me with stories of sneaking into a girls’ school to take liberties with the French teacher.”

“You know me so well,” he murmured. Even though she didn’t know him at all. For instance, she didn’t yet know him to be the terrible liar that he was turning out to be. “And you are going to be in tremendous amounts of trouble when you return,” he said, gazing at her with those eyes of his.

“Oh, I am aware. Which is why I am still here.”

“Delaying the inevitable, are you?”

“Well, who says I will return?” She coyly lifted one brow.

“You cannot simply vanish. You must wish to return for a new dress.”

“I’ll just purchase a new one,” she said with a shrug. As if it were that simple. And for a duke’s sister, it was.

This little throwaway comment got him thinking the sort of depressing thoughts that made a man question everything.

He had lived off the small inheritance from his father, as any gentleman would do. Before he’d reached his majority and control over the
funds, much of it been absorbed into Wrotham’s pockets, presumably for Alistair’s education and other expenses.

He suspected “other expenses” were gifts to Wrotham.

For the past six years, Alistair had supplemented his annuity by playing cards and winning wagers with other idle aristocrats abroad; his winnings were invested and produced a modest return, enabling him to live and travel in a certain style.

But he didn’t have nearly enough—or the prospect of earning enough—to support her in the style to which she had recently become accustomed. And while some men might have no compunction about spending their wife’s dowry, Alistair found it all a bit unsettling. He wanted
her
, not the money she came with. But he wanted her to be happy, and he wanted to be the one to provide such happiness.

What if he could not provide for her?

Perhaps marrying her wasn’t such a good idea after all.

What if he came to dread coming home because he couldn’t bear the fact that he sponged off his wife for their very existence? Or what if all of his time and energy became devoted to digging the Wrotham barony out of the financial hole it was currently in—so much so that he forgot about his wife?

He would be one of those husbands who spent an inordinate amount of time at the club and someone would inevitably stroll in and tell him, “I say, Jones, did I just see your wife standing atop a galloping horse as it leapt over the serpentine?”

He would mumble something about how that sounded like her and how, once upon a time, he would have been there, encouraging her antics.

But that was
later.
This was
now.

And he really should have thought of this
before
he made love to her.

Alistair managed to push such troubling thoughts aside and chatter amiably with her for the rest of the meal. All of his attentions were then focused upon getting her to the theater without being seen, causing a scandal, or getting in trouble. It occurred to him that they’d gotten away with so much today; some sort of scandal was certainly inevitable, the consequences of which would certainly be enormous. And hopefully enjoyable.

A
melia had been to Covent Garden once or twice before. The duchess had them all dress in some of their fine gowns made of silks and satins, all embroidered with jewels and glass beads that shimmered in the light. Then the lights in the theater went dark and no one saw what they were wearing. Amelia lived for the performance
onstage and endured the tedious socializing during the intermission.

She remembered looking down at the pit, where one could converse loudly and freely and didn’t need to quit fidgeting and sit still, for Lord’s sake. They were closer to the stage, to the action. The group had seemed to pulse with excitement.

Meanwhile, Amelia was trussed up and sitting still high above them all, like a princess locked in a tower.

Was
.

Tonight she followed Alistair into the pit, taking care to keep her head ducked lest anyone recognize her. But she still managed to take it all in: the hot crush of bodies, the energy in the thick air, looking up to the stage rather down upon it.

“Let’s go in and find a place to stand where you can see,” Alistair said, pulling her close to him in the crush. He clasped her hand so they wouldn’t become separated, a distinct possibility given the way the crowd surged and jostled around them.

“I am so excited for this.”

“I don’t see why. Everyone smells like they haven’t had a bath in weeks.”

“Or ever,” Amelia said, but cheerfully. Yes, everyone around them smelled and was shabbily dressed. But the crowd was chattering and boisterous, happy to have an evening’s en
tertainment. They bought oranges and drank ale. When the lights dimmed and the curtains parted, they finally hushed, attentions fixed upon the stage.

Eliza Barnett was a revelation. Her voice was sweet and her movements elegant; she embodied the character, breathed life into the role she portrayed. There were no cracks in her performance, something Amelia, who could never quite play a role consistently, admired.

In the role of Aristocratic Young Lady she broke character all the time.

In the role of Runaway Schoolgirl, she was certain she’d slipped up here and there with her story. Alistair must know.

Alistair. He stood behind her so close that she could feel his warmth. If she were to rock back on her heels, she would brush against his chest. She knew that his chest was broad, muscled but not overly so, a light smattering of hair across his smooth skin. She knew it—could envision it, had touched and tasted it. What an intimacy she had never imagined, and what an intimacy she would certainly imagine again and again once . . .

. . . once this ended. She supposed it had to end at some point. But Amelia didn’t want to think of that now, so she turned attentions toward the actress onstage, achingly aware of Alistair behind her and unsure of just how little time they had left.

In which they are discovered.

The hour is late

T
here was a commotion during intermission. At first Amelia thought it was the natural movements and shuffling of people taking advantage of the break to step outside or procure a beverage. But she heard a certain hum of people murmuring. There was even a stir in the aristocratic occupants of the boxes high above it all.

Curious as anyone else, Amelia turned. She saw a familiar figure cutting through the crowd. One who was beyond out of place here. One she could not fathom had any business in this place. Yet there he was—impeccably tailored, expression inscrutable—heading directly her way.

Lord Darcy.

He was otherwise known as Dreadful Darcy, according to her sister Bridget’s diary, which Amelia read faithfully each day. Bridget was in love with Darcy’s brother, Rupert, who hadn’t kissed her yet, and she had an ongoing list of Things She Disliked About Lord Darcy.

There was much to dislike about him; he was the perfectly turned out, exceedingly proper, high and mighty aristocrat who embodied the haute ton’s opinion of the American Cavendishes. Which is to say, he didn’t think very highly of their family at all.

All of which begged the question of what he was doing here and why he seemed to making a beeline for her.

Amelia turned away, ducked her head.

“We have to leave. Immediately.”

“Why? Are you not enjoying the performance?”

“We’re about to be discovered.”

“Bloody hell.”

“My unladylike thoughts exactly.”

Alistair protectively wrapped his arm around her as they threaded their way through the crowd toward the nearest exit. But the force of all the people moving and churning through the space was too much and in a split second, they were separated.

She looked around frantically, not seeing him anywhere. Amelia wanted to call out for him, but thought better of drawing attention to herself as a lone female, lost in a crowd. She moved toward the exit, hoping they might connect there.

But then she encountered an obstacle: one in a silk waistcoat and starched cravat with a perfectly tailored jacket.

Reluctantly she lifted her eyes and confirmed her worst suspicion. Darcy. Here. Staring down at her. One look at his expression and she didn’t even consider pretending not to recognize him.

“Lord Darcy! What brings you here?”

“Would you believe me if I said the theater?”
he asked dryly. Of course she would not believe him. Her heart started pounding. But he couldn’t be here for her, could he? That was absurd. It would suggest an intimacy between their families that she hadn’t been aware of. It would mean that she was in unfathomable amounts of trouble. Oh, God, and who else knew?

“You are not known for enjoying amusements,” she replied, trying to be lighthearted, as if this really wasn’t such a big deal at all.

“You agree, then, that I have another reason to be here,” Darcy said. He had this way of speaking that just dared her to challenge him and yet she found herself tongue-tied and unable to defy him. “Specifically here, in the pit, and not up in the box I usually reserve.”

Neither one of them dared to lift their faces in the direction of the private boxes above.

“It is quite altogether a different theatrical experience when one . . .” Her voice trailed off when she saw that he wasn’t paying attention. In fact, he was looking at something, someone, just over her shoulder. He was looking with something like surprise, and perhaps anger.

“Finlay-Jones,” he said flatly.

“I’ll be damned. Darcy.”

Alistair came to stand beside her.

It wasn’t awkward
at all.

Very well, it was tremendously awkward.

Amelia watched as the two men had some sort
of
moment
in which some information was surely communicated via inscrutable male faces, but was absolutely not articulated. She did not understand. Did they even know each other?

“Are you two acquainted?”

“Yes.”

Both men spoke at the same time.

“So Alistair Finlay-Jones is your real name,” she said with no small measure of relief.

“It is,” both men said at the same time. There had been a nagging suspicion that something was not quite right. But if she knew his name, his real name, then maybe everything was fine. She would have a chance of finding him again.

“Who would lie about their name?” Darcy asked, confused.

“Certainly not
I,
Miss Amy Dish.”

She gave Darcy a pointed look. He gave no indication that he caught her meaning. No wonder Bridget found him exasperating.

“How are you acquainted?” she asked, changing the subject.

“School friends,” Alistair explained.

“What a small world,” she remarked. She should have figured that all the English lords went to the same school. After all, they belonged to the same club, attended the same parties, etc., etc. . . .

Gah. They knew each other. Her mind reeled with the implications of this—what it meant with
regards to Alistair’s status and what it meant for her.

For them.

The likelihood of meeting again.

It was hard not to think of the words
marriage
or
special license
or
outrageous scandal.

But it was hard to get a thought to stick when Darcy was looking at them, radiating disapproval.