Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes (17 page)

Pendleton, the butler, opened the door.

Was it Alistair?
Her heart lurched.

Had he found her? How—through Darcy? What would it mean if he had? How would she explain it?

It was remarkable how many thoughts and feelings one could have in the space of a heartbeat, in the passage of a just a few seconds.

“Lord Darcy is here,” Pendleton said. “Are you at home?”

The five ladies glanced around the drawing room—which was strewn with Miss Greene’s embroidery things, a stack of newssheets, and some pillows on the floor. Claire was slouching in the chair. Bridget nearly spilled ink on her open diary. Amelia was lounging—languishing—on
the settee with her ankles exposed. Bridget’s hair was a mess, having hastily been pinned up. A tea tray was on the table, but one that had been devastated by five parched and famished ladies.

They all glanced at each other, panic wild in their eyes.

“We shall need a moment, Pendleton,” the duchess said, utterly poised in spite of the mess. “Send a maid for this tray and please bring round a fresh one.”

The embroidery was shoved in a basket, which was shoved behind a turquoise upholstered chair. Amelia sat up like a lady with a stack of books on her head, Claire put her things away, and Bridget shoved her diary under a seat cushion and pinched her cheeks.

“They’re already pink, Bridget,” Claire said with a smirk.

“Is it because of Loooord Darcy?” Amelia asked, drawing out the oooo’s just to vex her.

“Do shut up, Amelia.”

“Language, Lady Bridget,” the duchess admonished.

Then all the ladies stood and turned their attentions to the door.

“Good day, Lord Darcy,” Claire asked. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I have come to see how Lady Amelia is faring,” he replied. “I am glad to see that you have returned safely.”

Ah. She understood: they were not to speak of the previous evening. She was not to let it be known that he had discovered her or escorted her back. Otherwise, he would have mentioned it. But why keep it a secret?

“I am quite well, thank you,” Amelia answered. Even though she wasn’t quite well; she might be in love with a man whom she might never see again. Perhaps she might get word to Alistair, through Darcy, if she could snare a moment alone with him.

“I am glad to hear it.”

“We are so grateful that you accompanied Bridget on the search yesterday,” Claire said.

“It was my pleasure,” he murmured. His eyes locked with Bridget’s for an intense gaze that Amelia noticed. Something had definitely happened yesterday.

“I do hope we can be assured of your discretion,” Josephine drawled.

Darcy glanced at her, then to Bridget.

“Of course. It would be a pity for a lady’s prospects to be tarnished because of unfounded rumors.”

Were there rumors about her already? No one had seen her, right?

“You’re a good man, Darcy. Now how is that scoundrel of a brother of yours?”

“As much as a scoundrel as ever, in spite of my efforts to keep him from the falling over the brink into disaster and ruin.”

“He is fortunate to have your support,” Josephine said. “But what he really needs is a wife.”

“He is thinking of taking a wife, finally,” Darcy said.

“Bridget has taken a liking to him,” Claire said, smirking.

There wasn’t even the slightest shift in tone when he said, “Indeed. I have noticed.”

“What of
your
prospects, Darcy? Have you proposed to Lady Francesca yet?”

“Pardon me if I will refrain from gossiping about my personal affairs,” he said diplomatically. Amelia wasn’t the slightest bit interested in his personal affairs; she wanted to know why he was really here. Did he have news from Alistair? What if there wasn’t any news from him?

What if she had fallen in love with a man she would never see again? It was a distinct possibility. Probably. It certainly
felt
like it.

“I ask only because I have three girls to get married off.”

“I will never marry,” Amelia stated. Translation: she probably couldn’t marry now. The only man she could wed had probably disappeared. He certainly wasn’t
here
, proposing.

“What happened yesterday?” Claire asked.

“Nothing,” Amelia declared. But that wasn’t quite right. So she added, “Everything.”

And something between nothing and everything was the truth.

In which our hero and heroine meet (again).

I
n Amelia’s humble opinion, this party would have benefitted tremendously from tightrope walkers. Amelia stared up at the massive chandeliers in the ballroom, imagining a rope strung up between them and performers from Astley’s putting on a show for the hundreds of guests that had been invited to the ball at Durham House.

The duchess said planning a ball was one of those essential tasks for ladies of their station. Amelia had been delighted with the prospect of planning an event unlike all the other tedious ton affairs, hence her suggestion for tightrope walkers, fortune-tellers, and fireworks. But all her suggestions had been deemed absurd and ridiculous.

As a result she and her sisters (and the duchess, really) had thrown a party just like all the
others: a crush of all the same people, an orchestra stashed away behind screens and potted palms, champagne, and lemonade. And always, always the same conversation repeated endlessly.

Tonight, however, no one was speaking about the weather. All the conversations were about her sudden, dire, deathbed illness and her sudden miraculous return to those amongst the living. The duchess’s lips were pinched furiously in a straight line.

Amelia thought of engineering a relapse just to be excused. Perhaps she might faint again—because that had worked out so well before. She stifled a snort of laughter.

Last week she had been informed in no uncertain terms that ladies did not snort with laughter.

Instead, she endured.

And just when she thought she would truly perish of boredom, Amelia spied a reason for her heart to keep beating.

Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones.

Her heart lurched when she saw him. Here. In the flesh. Or rather, in a set of evening clothes that made him look so devastatingly handsome and dashing.

He was
here
!

This was a wonderful thing and terrible thing, all at once.

Any moment now, she would reveal herself to be a liar to the man she loved. Miss Amy Dish
indeed. He would know for certain that she was a lady, a duke’s sister, who was clearly not in finishing school.

And he would know that he had only to say the word and they would be wed—or her family would be ruined, forever. She was torn between wanting to launch herself into his arms and wanting to avoid him all evening.

There was only one thing to do: sip champagne and pretend he wasn’t there.

An hour later

A
melia had never thought of herself as the nervous sort; she tended to brazen out all and any situation in which she found herself. But Lud if she wasn’t on tenterhooks all night as she waited for the inevitable moment in which she and Alistair came face to face once again, brought together by Fate after all. Or perhaps it was Darcy. She couldn’t think of any other reason for him to be here, or connection that would have secured his invitation.

She was aware of him through endless conversations about the state of her health.

She was aware of him as she waltzed and danced with a half a dozen unremarkable gentlemen.

She was aware of him as the duchess dragged
her all over the ballroom, ensuring that she spoke with all their guests, particularly the male ones with titles, fortunes, and spotless reputations.

Amelia noted that Alistair was not in that group.

But then there he was, in attendance with a couple whom she didn’t recognize. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest, she was certain that everyone could hear it, even over the orchestra.

The duchess performed introductions. Amelia hardly heard a word she said.

“May I present Baron Wrotham and Baroness Wrotham,” the duchess said in reference to some squat, pale old man and his lovely young wife. “And his nephew Mr. Finlay-Jones.”

He hadn’t lied.

And his eyes glimmered with recognition.

Just one word from those sensuous lips of his and she would be ruined forever. She might have fallen in love with him, but she wasn’t at all keen to find herself an object of scandal and wed, within the week.

“My niece, Lady Amelia Cavendish.”

She caught the spark in his eyes. Just a quick flash of . . . something.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said, holding her hand out for Alistair. And then adding, under her breath so only he could hear, “For the very first time.”

“I assure you the pleasure is all mine,” Alistair murmured as he kissed her hand.

“We are so glad you have recovered from your recent illness,” the baroness said kindly. She wasn’t much older than Amelia.

“Of course we understand about females and their delicate constitutions,” the baron said in a patronizing way that rankled Amelia. “Though you seem to have made a remarkable recovery from whatever ailed you. We are so glad of it; I’m keen for you to make the acquaintance of my nephew. He came all the way back from the Continent to meet you.”

Amelia froze.

Her heartbeat slowed.

Her brain resisted the implications of that statement, but there was no denying it.

He had known who she was before they ever met.

And that meant . . . oh Dear Lord, what did that mean? She didn’t want to think about it, she didn’t want to know, but there was no deny
ing that it wasn’t good. It meant that their day hadn’t been special or even a delightful twist of fate. It had been a nefarious scheme all along. She thought she’d been taking control of her life but she’d just been a puppet all along.

Her gaze flew to Alistair.

Alistair winced. Confirmation.

By some miracle—or perhaps a lifetime of brazening things out—Amelia turned to the baron,
and managing to keep her voice light, she said, “Oh? Is that so?”

“Indeed,” the baron boasted. “Why, just the other day, I encouraged him to make your acquaintance. I do believe that was the day you had fallen ill, but better late than never!”

Ah, so their time together might not have been a lovely twist of fate but the scheme of a fortune hunter.

Her heart beat hard.

She balled her hands into fists. As if
that
could stop her heart from breaking. Lots of little cracks as she thought of all the little moments they shared. Lots of little breaks as she realized her trust had been misplaced and her perfect day had merely been his perfect opportunity.

Amelia carried on in a voice that was honey-laced with venom.

“I wonder how he knew about me. Certainly nothing written about me in the gossip columns would impel a man to travel such a great distance merely to make my acquaintance.”

Alistair opened his mouth to speak—she imagined he would know just what to say to assuage her suspicions—but she had no interest in whatever excuses he would offer. So she turned to the baron and gave him her full attention. Even a smile to encourage him to reveal more. And she watched Alistair out of the corner of her eye.

“I wrote to him saying how splendid a match between our families would be,” the baron said proudly.

Beside Amelia, the duchess harrumphed. Amelia did too. For once, she and her aunt were in agreement.

But her heart was pounding, pounding, pounding in her chest.

She had fancied herself in love with him and . . .

She had given herself to him and . . .

She had risked scandal and the reputation of herself and her family and . . .

Alistair was just another fortune hunter, deceiving her all damned day and night at the behest of his toady old uncle. She thought she could be herself with him, but he was probably just encouraging her so that he could wed her for her dowry or some other awful reason.

He might not even
like
her at all, and she had given herself to him.

She felt sick—like she might actually and truly faint for once.

She had fallen for him and—Amelia lifted her gaze to his and what she saw broke her heart—he did have an ulterior motive all along. And he had lied when she asked him about it.

He wasn’t trying to hide the truth now: He had known her real identity from the beginning and he had an incentive—
orders
—to make a match
with her. And what better way to do that than compromise her.

She felt betrayed. She felt humiliated. She felt sad for what she had just lost.

Not only had he just broken her heart, but he now also possessed information that would destroy her and her family.

“And now here he is, so pleased to become acquainted with you,” the baron said, blindingly oblivious to the hole he was digging and her ever-increasing distress.

As panicked as she was, Amelia still took a moment to marvel at how the man had been so close to what he obviously desired—a match between her and his nephew—and how he destroyed any chance of it with every word he spoke.

Or perhaps not.

Just one word from Alistair . . .

She would find herself married to a liar. A deceiver. A blackmailer.

“How are you finding London, Lady Amelia?” Lady Wrotham said, mercifully changing the subject and reminding everyone else of her presence.

“To be honest, Lady Wrotham, the city has held few attractions for me.”

“You must not have had the opportunity to explore then,” Alistair said. And she did not care for the wicked gleam in his eye. “There are many
wonderful sights in London. Vauxhall Gardens, Astley’s Amphitheatre . . .”

How dare he allude to that! She wanted to murder him.

“Perhaps if I had suitable company,” she replied. “It wouldn’t do to see such wonderful sights with any old scoundrel.”

“What about a particular scoundrel?”

He quirked his brow and gave her a hint of that charming, wicked smile. She wondered about the etiquette for throttling a gentleman—did a lady take her gloves off for such an endeavor or leave them on?

“Obviously Lady Amelia will not be consorting with any scoundrels at all, whatsoever,” the duchess said in her this-topic-of-conversation-is-closed voice.

“Have you not met any appealing prospects?” Lady Wrotham asked kindly, utterly oblivious to the frisson of tension between Amelia and Alistair. “I imagine a girl as lovely as you must have many.”

“I haven’t met anyone whom I would consider pledging my troth to,” Amelia said. She glanced at Alistair and saw him clench his jaw. “All the gentlemen I’ve met in England thus far are so . . .”

“Dashing?” Alistair supplied.

“I was going to say disappointing.”

“Well, the night is young,” the baron said jovially. “And you have only just met my nephew.
I daresay he would love to become more intimately acquainted with you.”

Amelia started coughing. She braced herself to hear a response like,
Actually, Lady Amelia and
I are already acquainted. Intimately.

“It seems fate has brought us together,” he said softly, having the nerve to gaze into her eyes. The. Nerve.

“Fate?” the duchess echoed with a decidedly unromantic tone.

“Fate is tremendously overrated,” Amelia said.

“It wasn’t fate,” the baron said. “It was my idea.”

Everyone ignored him.

Alistair fixed his gaze on her and said, “Lady Amy, may I have the honor of a dance?”

“It’s
Lady Amelia
,” the duchess corrected.

“I beg your pardon,” he said to the duchess, but not to Amelia.

She did not answer immediately and his invitation hung in the air, awkwardly, overheard by those nearby.

A long pause was the least he deserved.

A long pause in which she considered what would be more satisfying—giving him the cut direct, or giving him a piece of her mind when he would have to listen to every last word of her outrage.

She smiled at the prospect.

But it seemed Alistair knew better than to see
just the upturn of her lips; aye, she knew he detected the furious sparks in her eyes.

She knew, because he gave her an
apologetic
smile. Which only made her more furious because it indicated that he knew all along and that he knew it had been wrong. And he had taken advantage of her anyway.

“Amelia . . .” He murmured her name in the sort of lovesick, longing, I’ll-die-a-thousand-deaths-to-have-you-forgive-me sort of way.

He swept her into his arms and it took a herculean effort on her part to ignore his scent, the way his arms felt around her, and to banish anything remotely like a romantic feeling.

She succeeded. Barely.

A
listair didn’t even know where to begin. She was obviously—rightfully—angry. With him. With Wrotham. With the lot of them. Her impulsive day of joy was revealed to be an opportunity seized by a fortune hunter.

Of course she was angry. He had half expected this to happen, but he wasn’t fully prepared for it, perhaps with the vain hope that she might never discover Wrotham’s orders. Within the span of a waltz, he needed to win her back. After he had broken her trust, possibly irrevocably.

Bloody hell.

Let the scrambling and groveling begin.

“Amelia.” He murmured her name again,
marveling that now he could say it. The truth was out. He felt some relief, in spite of her anger, which he hoped would blow over.

“Don’t do that,” she snapped. “Don’t pretend to be tortured with longing and heartsick when everything we shared is obviously one big lie.”

“So says Miss Amy Dish,” he dared to murmur, to tease. Her anger flared.

“I might have lied about my name—a trifling thing—but you knew who I was all along. When did you discover it, anyway?”

“That morning. I had known when I returned to the flat and you were leaving.”

He remembered opening the door to find her there, awake and smiling and his salvation. If he didn’t screw this up . . . he could still wake up to her smiling, find salvation, happiness, everything . . .

“And the night before?”

“Truly a coincidence. Dare I say it was fate?”

“It was laudanum,” Amelia replied. Laudanum? That made more sense than brandy. “And fate can go hang itself.”

“I only took you to my lodgings because you would not tell me where you lived. As a gentleman, I couldn’t leave you on the street alone at night.”