Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes (16 page)

In which our hero has a choice to make.

T
he following morning, Alistair awoke to a missive from the baron.

Come at once.

—W
ROTHAM

He dressed and departed quickly, allowing time to walk there, which also provided the opportunity to gather his thoughts. He knew Wrotham would want to speak of his quest to marry his heir into the Cavendish family, but how much was Alistair prepared to say?

In a very limited period of time he had, perhaps, exceeded the baron’s expectations. Any word about Amelia would certainly help to ensure a wedding. She
had
to marry him now.
He had, essentially, completed his task. All that was missing was the ring on her finger and the announcement in the newspaper. It would take nothing more than a quiet conversation with her brother, the duke. Or just a well placed “rumor.”

But Alistair
liked
her. She was amusing and challenging, pretty and charming. He could even love her. He might already be halfway there. Above all, he didn’t want her as his wife by trickery or scandal. He wanted a union of two hearts in love. Gad, that was a treacly, overly romantic thought unbefitting an Englishman.

But there it was.

Rutherford once again asked for his card and asked him to state the nature and purpose of his visit. Alistair sighed, procured a card, and said the baron was expecting him.

“I did not see you at the Carsingtons’ ball last night,” the baron began by way of greeting when Alistair stepped into the library.

Oh bloody hell. It was only then that he remembered he had promised to attend so that he might make the acquaintance of Lady Amelia. Instead he had squired her to the theater . . . after bedding her. This would please the baron to no end, if he were to ever learn of it. But Alistair would die a thousand painful deaths before providing such information. She was
his.

“Something came up.”

“I can’t imagine what is more important than
doing your duty to the Wrotham estate.” Then, with a withering glare, he added, “It’s the least you can do, given what I have done for you.”

This he wanted to protest, but this he could not protest.

The man had given him a home, an education, and something like a family. The man had raised him alongside his own son.

Alistair had visited his mother’s family in India; he had seen how radically different his life might have been. He would not have had his gentleman’s education, enjoyed the friendships that he did, or traveled so extensively. He would not have met Amelia and he never would have found himself in this position . . .

. . . standing on a well-worn carpet, receiving a setdown he didn’t even deserve from his uncle even though he was a grown man of thirty.

Something hot, like anger, flared up and he had the urge to defend himself to his uncle. Alistair wanted to see a spark of approval in the old man’s eyes for once.

Just once.

Anything but that perpetual frown of disappointment.

“I went through all the bother of securing an invitation for you and you don’t even have the decency to attend. I will not be embarrassed by you.”

Unspoken words hung in the air, understood:
I will not be embarrassed by you
any more than I already am.

And there it was again: the angry urge to tell the Baron everything.
Everything.
That he had not only made the acquaintance of the American girl but had made her
his.

The baron thought he had failed; well, Alistair had exceeded expectations. He could be at Durham House issuing a proposal now, were it not for this interview in which he had to bite his tongue and allow this man to think him nothing, useless, a bother.

Because he cared for Amelia. What had occurred between him and Amelia yesterday had been true and genuine; it was not to be callously used as fodder to seek Wrotham’s approval
for once.

And yet the urge remained.

Alistair did not wish to consider what that meant, or what it said about his character, because he suspected it wouldn’t be flattering.

But then maybe this internal struggle was entirely beside the point, given what Wrotham said next.

“At any rate, I suppose you heard the gossip,” Wrotham said cryptically. “Everyone is talking about it.”

Well if that wasn’t the sort of thing to make one start to panic and deeply regret not taking a moment to peruse the gossip columns this morning.

Heard
what
?

Talking about
what
?

Talking about
whom
?

He had his suspicions of course: rumors of a young heiress spotted strolling through St. James’s Park in the company of a gentleman, young scandalous lady seen kissing a gentleman in Vauxhall Gardens, a young lady causing a melee between Bow Street Runners and a crowd of bystanders.

Rocking back on his heels and biting his tongue, he waited for the baron to confirm or deny if those were the rumors being discussed. Alistair didn’t dare volunteer the information.

But if he did . . . if he’d started a rumor . . .

Wedding bells.

It would be so
easy
to have everything he ever wanted. A wife and family. The baron’s approval.

With just one word, one well-placed rumor . . .

“I daresay the ton has never seen a more scandal-plagued family,” the baron said and Alistair froze, waiting. The baron interrupted his needlessly long, dramatic pause to issue a sigh. Alistair balled his hand into a fist, so anxious was he, waiting to hear
what,
now that he knew
whom.
“But then again,” the baron said,
finally, “
we can hardly expect a pack of American horse breeders to behave as befits the most civilized people in the world.”

Such kind words for his (hopefully) future in-laws.

Visions of their day flashed through his brain, each one more scandalous than the last, and each one giving way to imagining the worst of what the ton would be saying.

Did you see her dining alone with TWO gentlemen?

Did you see her dashing through the rain?

Did you see her smashing a Bow Street Runner on the head with a parasol, taken from an innocent old lady bystander? Well. I. Never.

Gad, he could practically hear the old matrons of the ton huffing.

“But I suppose this bodes well for you and your suit,” the baron said, giving voice to the words Alistair hated himself for thinking. “Though how you are to meet them if they all cancel their appearances due to sudden illness which leaves one of them bedridden I know not.”

Alistair dared to breathe a sigh of relief. They had not been seen.

“What, exactly, happened?”

“They did not attend Carsingtons’ ball last evening. They were expected,” the baron said, and Alistair wanted to laugh that such an inconsequential thing could be deemed such a horrendous offense. It was as if the ton was, collectively, determined to resist the Americans no matter what they did or did not do.

It was a feeling he was not a stranger to; the difference between him and Amelia was that he hadn’t given up on trying to assure his place.

Which was why he was here. And not with her.

“At the very last minute, the duchess sent word. The hostess was furious. All anyone could talk about is how they were expected to be there and had reneged on their word.”

“What a horrible tragedy,” Alistair mumbled.

“It is said one of the sisters had taken ill,” the Baron added, and that finally caught Alistair’s attention and made his pulse quicken as he considered the implications. “Bloody females always being indisposed,” Wrotham muttered. “Silly female complaints.”

Alistair elected to disregard that.

If
it had been put about that Lady Amelia had been ill . . . his mind churned at a furious pace considering every implication and evaluating how he ought to proceed . . .

If he were to propose this morning and announce a betrothal shortly thereafter, someone was sure to notice that neither he nor Lady Amelia were known to have met. He had not officially returned to society. They had not attended the same ball, nor had he been sighted at calling hours. That someone who would inevitably notice would also inevitably comment upon it.

There would be questions about whether she had been ill. Or was the entire family lying in an attempt to defray a scandal? What were they trying to hide? And Alistair knew there was still a chance that they had been sighted. It may not
have been in the papers this morning, but what would tomorrow bring?

One little remark, combined with one possible sighting of Lady Amelia on her day out, plus a splash of speculation, a dash of insinuation, and suddenly there was a massive scandal.

That would bring him everything he ever wanted.

That was not how he wished to begin his married life.

Or was it? Time soothed all wounds, did it not?

“At any rate, I have secured another chance for you,” the baron said smugly. “They are hosting a ball in a few days’ time. I pulled a few strings to obtain an extra invitation. You will go, you will make her acquaintance and you will wed her. Do not ruin this, too.”

It was the
too
that slayed him.

Such a little throwaway word. Too. Also. One more thing.

But it referred to one big thing, one tremendous loss, and one reason for what he was about to do next.

In which our heroine languishes in the drawing room, as lovesick heroines are wont to do.

T
he next day dawned as if nothing had changed, as if nothing remarkable had happened the previ
ous day. As if Amelia hadn’t tasted freedom. She woke in her bed, alone. She dressed with the assistance of a proper lady’s maid and daydreamed of Alistair buttoning—no, unbuttoning—her gown.

She went downstairs for breakfast with the family and discovered that she simply didn’t have much of an appetite.

Afterward, she joined her sisters, the duchess, and Miss Green in the drawing room. Her thoughts strayed to yesterday . . .

The girl with the violets, the woman with the oranges, the people on the streets. The circus performers and the Bow Street Runners in Vauxhall Gardens. The sun on her face and the feeling of endless possibilities.

And Alistair.

And all those strange, tingly, wonderful things he made her feel and that put a blush on her cheeks. Lud, she couldn’t think of
that
while in the company of the duchess in the drawing room.

Fortunately, she was distracted by conversation demanding her attention.

Unfortunately, it was about her scandalous day. The duchess was obsessed with the potential consequences—disastrous ones, of course. She’d been reading the newspapers all morning, line by line, in search of any speculation or gossip that would need to be quashed immediately.

“And
The London Weekly
is hinting at an exposé tomorrow,” Josephine said. “I shudder to think
what their gossip columnist has dug up. She is ruthless.”

“No one saw me,” Amelia said. She was languishing on the settee. Love. She was almost certainly in love.

“That you know of,” Josephine said, leveling a stare over the pages of
The London Weekly.

“And I didn’t do anything scandalous,” Amelia added, which was possibly the farthest thing from the truth and the biggest lie she’d ever uttered.

“Were you out-of-doors without a chaperone?” Josephine asked, blinking frequently, and they all knew where this was leading.

A staring contest and battle of wills ensued between the duchess and Amelia. Of course she was out-of-doors without a chaperone. But she couldn’t admit it. She couldn’t say one single thing; any detail revealed would be like a string they could pull that would unravel the whole ball of yarn.

For a second, Amelia imagined telling the duchess that she had been
inside
without a chaperone. Inside, behind closed doors, with a man, and a complete lack of attire.

Good Lord, she should
not
be thinking such thoughts with so many people around!

As she stared into the cool, unblinking blue eyes of the duchess, she heard her sisters whispering about who would blink first.

In the end, it was Amelia who blinked first as
she tried to dismiss the intimate memories; those were to be saved and savored in private. She wanted to keep everything about the previous day to herself, her own special memories of the day she fell in love. They were not to be fodder for speculation or conversation.

Also, one didn’t just
say
aloud in the drawing room the things they had done. Her heartbeat quickened at the memory. Her cheeks were suffused with a telltale blush. Lud, but love and lust had wrecked her.

Love?

Aye, she might love him. Because he was wonderful and troubled and she wanted to make him happy. Because he seemed to like her just as she was. Because her heart beat faster at the thought of seeing him again And . . . just because.

Did love really need a reason?

Someone pointed out that her cheeks were pink.

“
Her
cheeks are also pink,” Amelia noted immediately, hoping to deflect attention from herself. Which is why she turned the tables on Bridget, who had spent the day with Lord Darcy. Now
that
was something to discuss. “What did you get up to yesterday, Bridget?”

“I spent the whole afternoon traipsing around London searching for
you
.”

“In the company of Lord Darcy,” Claire added, with a smug smile.

“Dreadful Loooord Darcy,” Amelia teased.

Dreadful Lord Darcy, who’d tracked her down and returned her to her family. Who had actually understood her after all. And who said she would have to marry Alistair. Who was not here to issue a proposal.

“You know his reputation,” Bridget said, speaking of Darcy. “You can imagine how tedious the day was. We went to Hyde Park before being caught in a thunderstorm. Then we returned. Nothing remotely interesting occurred.”

Amelia glanced over at Bridget and saw that her cheeks were still quite pink. And she had been writing in her diary and dreamily staring off into space. Surely that meant
something
had happened.