Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes (7 page)

“In fact, I think if one put their mind to it, one could easily do all of those activities. In just one day,” he mused. Then he leaned in close to her and treated her to the kind of smile that made a girl throw caution to the wind and said, “The question is, shall we do it today?”

Of course they should not. Ladies and gentlemen did not do anything, not even breathe in the drawing room, without a chaperone or six. Jenkins hardly counted, though he was doing an excellent job of silently disapproving of the entire conversation.

The right thing to do was thank him for everything thus far—rescuing her from a dire fate, allowing her to sleep in his comfortable bed whilst he spent the night on that dreadful settee, and this lovely breakfast—and hire a hack and return to her family. Immediately.

She wasn’t sure of the time but it was certainly late enough in the morning that everyone would have noticed that she wasn’t home. She never missed a meal and breakfast at Durham house had surely come and gone. The sooner she returned, the better. Everyone would be livid, they would yell at her, and banish her to her room. Or force her to write thank-you notes, have her hair arranged, and change her dress at least three times.

But she had made it this far. She had managed to escape. Everyone was already mad at her. Amelia had this half-scrambled idea of graphing the intensity of her family’s anger against the duration of her time out and gave up—Claire would know exactly how to plot the points and draw the line to show that one could only be
so
angry, so what then did it matter if she was gone twelve hours or twenty?

Or something like that.

There was also the matter of Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones.

He has a handsome devil, there was no doubt about it. He wasn’t like all the other poncey, stuffy lords she’d met so far. He was younger, and leaner. His gaze was sharper, his grin more charming, his humor like hers. His dark hair fell rakishly toward his eyes—those warm brown eyes with just a hint of sadness to make her wonder about what secret pain and tortured secrets he might possess.

Sometimes she got bored and read Bridget’s novels about heroes with secret pains and heroines with the perfect, tender touch to heal all emotional wounds. They were vastly more entertaining than Claire’s mathematical papers or James’s agricultural treatises.

But never mind all that. There was a handsome man who made her laugh and was inviting her to spend the day exactly as
she
wished.

There would be hell to pay. And she would gladly pay it—later.

“Yes,” she said. His eyes brightened. “Yes!” She laughed now. “Let’s go have the perfect day.”

“That is a terrible idea,” Jenkins said flatly.

“I know!” she said excitedly. “But let’s do it anyway!”

In which a walk in the park is not merely a walk in the park.

Nearly one o’clock!

A
fter leaving Jenkins to settle the bill, they stepped out of the Kings Arms and onto the street. Amelia—rather, Miss Amy Dish—craned her neck, looking here and there and taking in
everything.
If there was any doubt that she was new to the city and eager to see it, she dispelled it.

Alistair realized that the ton—a collection of people known to throw the most fabulous and expensive parties at which they stood around in satins and jewels and declared how
bored to death
they were—must be horrified by Amelia and her unbridled interest in the world around her. All that
enthusiasm
must confound them terribly.

She intertwined her arm with his and looked up at him.

“Shall we hire a hack to take us to Astley’s?”

“We could. But it’s a beautiful day—shall we walk?”

“That would be lovely.” She smiled at him.

Arm in arm they strolled a few short blocks until they came to St. James’s Park, in the southeast corner of Mayfair. It was smaller than Hyde Park and often less crowded. It had been remodeled since he’d last been; there were large swaths of grass interspersed with gravel paths and large oak trees providing patches of shade.

“I must admit I’m also keen to see the city. It’s been so long,” he said. Six long years without a stroll through the park, a ride along Rotten Row, a London ball, a drink at White’s or an afternoon at Tattersall’s.

“Why did you leave?”

It was an accident. I don’t want to talk about it.

“Everyone goes on a Grand Tour,” he explained. “It’s the done thing amongst a certain set to take a year to see the sights of Europe and acquire a little continental polish.”

“Why did you stay away? Six years is much longer than just one.” She was quick, that one. He hadn’t even realized what he’d said to give himself away and she’d pounced on it, asking the question no one dared ask because the answer was too complicated and awful and emotional.

Not that he would explain any of that to the lovely, intrepid, and curious woman on his arm. Alistair could see that she was one of those
determined
females who were like terriers when it came to men’s secrets. If only he had noticed this earlier before initiating a line of conversation that would not end well for him. But what could he say? She distracted him.

“Nothing to come back to, really.”

“What about your family? Or friends?”

“Truth be told, I don’t really have much of a family.”

“Much? So you must have some.” Terrier indeed.

“Just an uncle,” he said vaguely, trying to make it sound boring, so boring. He had no interest in discussing Baron Wrotham or even acknowledging him as family; in that they were in agreement. Alistair looked around the park, hoping for something interesting to point out—perhaps the horse guards were rehearsing or there was some other distraction to be found.

“Is he horrid?” Amelia asked very bluntly.

That was the thing about Wrotham. He was horrid but understandably so. He was a product of his time. And he was grieving. So if that made him brusque, distant, or cold, that was fine.

Perfectly acceptable.

Utterly understandable.

It just . . . well, Alistair wouldn’t say it
hurt.
But then again, here he was strolling arm in arm with the woman his uncle had commanded him to wed. So it certainly did something to him.

Not that it was a chore, being with Miss Amy Dish, with her charming smile and her sheer delight at something as simple as strolling in the park on a beautiful day.

Until this moment, that is, when she started asking questions.

“Mr. Finlay-Jones?”

“I’m sorry, I was distracted by that flock of pigeons. My uncle is not fond of me.”

“Why not?”

Because I am a mixed-race burden upon his household and
—well, Alistair swallowed—he still couldn’t think about the other reason. He certainly wasn’t going to explain the whole sordid affair to Miss Amy Dish. She would probably try to
soothe
him.

“It’s a long story.”

“I do have all day.”

“Oh, look! The horse guards are rehearsing. Shall we go watch?”

1:07 in the afternoon

I
f Mr. Finlay-Jones thought he could distract her with the horse guards, he was only half right. She did marvel at all the men in uniform on
horseback as they rehearsed their impressive routine.

But it did not escape her notice that there was some sort of drama between Mr. Finlay-Jones and his uncle. The more evasive he was—there was
no
flock of pigeons—the more curious she became. But as she said, she had all day.

So she turned and watched the horse guards for a while, though she found herself stealing glances at the man beside her. He was quite pleasing to look at—she had noticed that straightaway. But now she was becoming
aware
of him. It seemed she could feel the heat of him, which was absurd—it was probably the sun—but still . . . she glanced at his chest. It was broad, and flat, and she had the mad urge to rest her head there, listen to his heartbeat, feel the warmth of him.

When they continued on their walk through the park, arm in arm, she was
aware
of the muscles in his arm. Of all the asinine things. Of course he had muscles in his arms, everyone did. But she noticed them, felt them, and imagined them holding her.

Amelia knew she was not the first woman to have such feelings—Bridget detailed them extensively in her diary, which Amelia was fond of reading. But this was the first time she’d felt them.

The first time she noticed a man for something other than the terrible choice of waistcoat, or his
weak chin, or nose red from drink, or overall sense of arrogance.

She had not met the best men in England.

Until Mr. Finlay-Jones. Who might have kidnapped her. Who clearly had a tortured relationship with his sole relative. Between his good looks and his dark secret and tortured past, he was, plainly, irresistible.

“And what will you tell your family of your whereabouts today?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“I shall tell them that I was kidnapped and drugged and stumbled home as soon as I woke and could escape,” she replied breezily. “And I will mention that on the way home, I fought off a band of ruffians thanks to the knife in my boot and that in order to avoid detection by the prying eyes of the ton, I traveled by rooftop.”

“I imagine it would be difficult to jump across rooftops in a skirt.”

“I love that that is the part you find outlandish.”

“It is the part that I have the least experience with,” Alistair said, “as I am not in the habit of wearing dresses or traveling by rooftop.”

“Are you saying that you have a knife in your boot? That you have woken up after being drugged and kidnapped?”

Alistair sighed and smiled at a memory. “There was my eighteenth birthday, when I was
brought against my will to the local brothel and plied with excessive quantities alcohol. I hardly knew my own name when I awoke the following afternoon.”

“Against your will,” she said flatly.

He grinned. Lud, but that grin made her giddy. Not that she’d let him know it. Instead she rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh. “Boys. Men.”

“I find it hard to believe that as a young lady in finishing school, you have such experience with men that you can heave long-suffering sighs about their behavior,” he said with a laugh.

“I have an older brother. He has friends. That is sufficient.”

“I hope I might change your mind,” he said softly. Seriously.

Suddenly they weren’t joking anymore, which made her heart race.

She smiled up at him. “As I said, I have all day.”

In which two gentlemen see something. Maybe.

M
eanwhile, on a park bench nearby, there were two gentlemen—still dressed from the formal ball they’d attended the night before, and still drunk from the gaming hell they’d attended after that.

“I say, she’s a fine bit of muslin,” Fraser said, waving his hand in the general direction of a few women strolling in the park. Algernon took a look and didn’t see anyone who fit that description.

“I say, you are most likely still deep in your cups,” said someone who was probably still deep in his cups.

“Have a look. Have you ever seen short hair?
On a girl?
”

Algernon reluctantly had a look. Squinted.

Fraser watched her closely; she did seem familiar. Maybe. Perhaps. Where had he seen her? If he’d had more sleep or less to drink he might be able to place her. But it didn’t matter.

Besides, who thought it was fun to watch the horse guards?

He watched her a little more—she did seem very familiar—and gasped like a shocked old matron as it dawned on him.

Horse breeders from the colonies—that’s who cared to watch the horse guards!

Fraser looked again for the girl with short hair, out with a gentleman he didn’t recognize. But she was gone and he couldn’t confirm what he saw. It was probably nothing. And he had debts to worry about, not hicks from the colonies with unfashionable coiffures.

Beside him, Algernon started snoring.

In which our heroine runs off to the circus. As one does.

Just shy of two o’clock

I
t inevitably occurred to Alistair that if Amelia was truly the sister to a duke—and niece to the Duchess of Durham, a woman he remembered as a terrifying dragon who regularly struck fear in the hearts of grown men, and made babies cry, probably—people would be looking for her.

Bow Street Runner kinds of people.

Perhaps even the king’s own army.

Perhaps, even most terrifying of all, the duchess herself.

At the very least, there would be household servants—whom he wouldn’t have a prayer of
identifying and thus avoiding—roaming the streets searching for her.

It would not be a good thing to be caught together. Charges of kidnapping would swiftly follow, especially once other damning facts emerged: namely, that Amelia had no memory of how she came to wake up in his bedroom and that his uncle had essentially ordered him to marry her.

There was a chance that the duchess would insist on a wedding—which would certainly suit his purposes and there was no reason he should have qualms about it.
But . . .
it felt wrong to take advantage of a woman thusly, especially one as open, trusting, and kind as Lady Amelia.

Besides, entrapment was no way to begin a marriage.

His noble concerns could all be for naught; there was also a chance that Amelia’s relations would refuse a match with him. He was hardly a catch—he was a mixed-race orphan who stood to inherit an impoverished minor title. Why would someone as lovely as Amelia wish to pledge her troth to the likes of him? What family would even allow it?

This was a quandary.

She was a quandary.

Alistair reminded himself that they only needed to spend enough time together so that when they inevitably met again, he would stand
out amongst all the other desperate fortune hunters.

By that rationale, he could return her home now.

He glanced down at her. Even with her hair lopped off, she appeared feminine. With her short hair, petite frame, and delicate features, she reminded him of a fairy or a woodland sprite. Except he wasn’t in the habit of lusting after fairies or woodland sprites.

Perhaps after Astley’s, he would escort her directly back to “finishing school,” otherwise known as her home.

He glanced at her again.

Focus.
Focus not on her lips, or the dimple in her left cheek when she smiled. He ought to focus on avoiding anyone who looked like a Bow Street Runner or who eyed Amelia twice. She seemed oblivious to the fact that more than a few gentlemen took a long look or two at her—until they saw Alistair glaring murderously at them.

And above all, he had to continually focus her attention away from newsagents, people reading newspapers, people wrapping purchases in newspapers, newspapers that were trampled underfoot, and newspapers that were simply blowing in the wind begging for her to notice.

He didn’t want her to see the scandalous and humiliating cartoon of herself on the front page of
The London Weekly.
It seemed like something
that might be spirit crushing, and it just seemed wrong to crush the spirit of Miss Amy Dish, who was chattering away about something—he couldn’t quite follow, but he did enjoy the sound of her voice.

Astley’s loomed ahead—a tall domed structure surrounded by crowds of people milling about before the show—reminding Alistair to focus on his next problem.

Admission. Specifically, money for admission.

He had none. Not even a pence.

According to his calculations, Amelia surely had some left in her possession.

There was obviously one course of action and it was
not
asking her to borrow a few quid. He would have to pick her pocket; fortunately he’d seen her slip a few remaining coins into her skirt.

The crowds were a help. It gave him a reason to draw her in close to him and wrap his arm around her, sliding lower, to her waist.

This was wrong. On so many levels, this was wrong.

But she fit against him so perfectly, her head nestled right below his shoulder. He could easily imagine them lying like that, lying other ways. Alistair made the mistake of breathing her in, and he was left with that heady, sated feeling of having just made love. So this was why ladies and gentlemen were kept at a distance.

This was no time to be distracted. Not by her
scent, or the feeling of her waist beneath his palm, or the desire to feel her all over.

The ticket takers were ahead, and—bloody hell—a pair of Bow Street Runners. Miss Amy Dish saw them at the same moment as he did. They were easily identifiable by their red waistcoats and blue greatcoats. Two of them sat on horseback, surveying the crowd in search of one lost heiress.

He felt her step falter. She lowered her head.

She was worried about being found.

And he was worried about losing her.

But her family knew where to look for her.

They knew her. Knew that she had likely run off to—if not join the circus—see it. For one hot second, he was jealous. He felt the burn of envy, the raw sense of heartache and longing.

When he ran off, no one had looked for him.

The baron was happy to see him go. And Elliot was dead and buried. He had friends, of course. But they had estates and families to manage, which left little time for chasing him across the continent. They had lives to live and Alistair? Well, he wandered and wondered about what his purpose might be.

And somehow all that running—all that searching and wanting for a feeling of home—had led to this moment, in which he was about to rob a runaway heiress under the watchful gaze of the magistrate’s own representatives.

Alistair’s heart pounded hard in his chest.

It was over in seconds.

He guided them into a thick crowd, pretended to stumble, falling against her. She grasped him to hold herself steady. His arms slipped around her waist . . . hand slid into the pocket . . . fingers closed around coins.

But he was more aware of her breasts against his chest, where his heart pounded. Those velvety brown eyes gazed up at his face. He was lying to her, stealing from her, and she looked up at him adoringly.

It slayed him, that.

Deception did not suit him.

After slipping the coins into his own pocket, they stepped apart, and laughed awkwardly. Alistair steered them toward the ticket taker on the far right, who wasn’t in direct view of the Runners. He was a fat, jowly old fellow—he put Alistair in mind of a plump albino toad—and he had absolutely no interest in anyone or anything.

“Two tickets for my, uh, sister and I, please,” said Alistair, handing over some of the money pilfered from Amelia.

A few steps later she laughed and asked, “Your sister?”

“You’re right. I should have requested two tickets for myself and the unmarried young woman with whom I have absconded. And with whom I am traveling without a chaperone.”

“This is such fun,” Miss Amy Dish gushed.

Alistair wasn’t sure if
fun
was the word he would use. Heart pounding and nerve-wracking? Yes.

Exhilarating and enchanting? Yes.

And terribly, terribly confusing.

Showtime

A
stley’s Amphitheatre was nothing short of spectacular. Three tiers of seats surrounded a circular arena and they were packed with all manner of people: from governesses with children of the rich and titled to families visiting London or those who had no other pressing engagements. High above them all hung a massive chandelier, lighting the merriment below.

The dull roar of the crowd hushed as the show began with a dramatic demonstration of equine feats. Fancily groomed and decorated horses wearing feathered headpieces pranced and galloped about.

The crowd gasped as the riders—
lady riders
—did the unthinkable: they stood on galloping horses’ backs and performed acrobatic feats while the horses flew around the arena at a breakneck pace.

Alistair stole a glance away from the ring at the woman beside him. Amelia was leaning for
ward in rapt attention. Lips parted, eyes gleaming. He had the distinctly unsettling impression that she wasn’t merely finding amusement in the performances.

No, he feared she was taking notes.

Of things to try.

Herself.

“I can do that,” Miss Amy Dish said matter-of-factly as an equestrienne
stood
atop a horse as it cantered around the ring.

“Is that so?” He first felt a pang of horror as he imagined it and then a pang of empathy for her family.

“It is so. But I have been forbidden from displaying my prowess.” Her dismay was evident. But he couldn’t blame anyone for forbidding her to do it, if only for the stress to one’s heart it would cause.

“Well, it is incredibly dangerous.”

“Indeed, but I think my aunt’s reasoning is that it necessitates the wearing of breeches,” she explained. “In her book, scandal trumps mortal danger when it comes to things to fear.”

“Is wearing breeches one of those wild American practices that have so horrified our refined English society?”

They both realized his mistake at the same time. He froze; she pursed her lips. God, he was an idiot. He might as well address her as Lady Amelia of America and inquire after her dowry
and ask why she was parodied on the front page of the newspaper. He wracked his brain for something else to say and came up wanting.

She saved the day.

“I suppose it would be, if I were out,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But I am only at finishing school, you see.”

“Right, of course. But can you do that?”

Someone dressed in an outlandishly exotic costume was juggling flaming swords.

“I would certainly
try,”
she said with a wicked smile.

He absolutely believed her. It excited him, that. It shouldn’t have. But there was no denying the frisson of something because she was a woman who did things. She acted. She took risks, courted danger, and flirted with scandal.

And he . . . didn’t. Not anymore, anyway.

Once upon a time he’d been a hellion, like any young buck—there was no dare, wager, race, or expedition he would say no to. He lived for the thrill of danger, rejection, failure, and he lived for the thrill of triumphing over the fear.

And then Elliot was killed because of Alistair’s need for excitement.

That put an end to that.

Ever since, he’d wandered, biding his time until he inherited. He tried to find peace with the tragic events that had made him Wrotham’s heir. He was like so many other gentlemen, who
simply passed the time until they inherited or married or something happened to them. It never bothered him until he sat beside a woman who was unlike other ladies.

But today, he had a purpose.

Her.

He liked having a purpose.

The dramatics of the flaming swords and juggling gave way to some lighthearted entertainment in the form of dancing dogs, who pranced and spun about upon command.

He was no better than one of those dogs. Alistair shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Aye, he had a purpose for the day, but it was not one of his choosing. Here he was, jumping on command and following the orders of someone who didn’t even like him.

Amelia leaned in his direction, the better to see the performance below. He breathed her in. And he thought again about that moment when he arrived at his empty flat and it didn’t seem so empty when she was there. And he thought perhaps there might be another purpose to this day . . . one that wasn’t about what the baron wanted, but what Alistair needed.

The tightrope walkers were next. Everyone fell silent for this performance. A rope was stretched taut, high above the arena. And there was nothing to catch their fall. A violent spectacle of death seemed inevitable.

“I shall leave the tightrope walking to you,” Amelia whispered, leaning in close. He felt the soft whisper of her breath.

“Afraid of heights, my dear roof jumper?”

“My skirts would get in the way. Besides, we need something for you to do in the circus while I’m juggling flaming swords and standing atop two galloping horses.”

He felt, again, a flare of something—anger, jealously, rebellion? He did have a purpose—following Wrotham’s orders and seeking his forgiveness. Wedding the woman beside him.

And maybe, just maybe, finding a person who felt like home.

Everything all came back to the woman beside him.

As long as he didn’t screw up. He could perhaps make her fall in love with him . . . or hate him forever for this deception.

Like those tightrope walkers, one misstep could lead to certain disaster. But a dozen or two tiny, perfect steps could lead to triumph.

“Are you all right?” she asked him.

“Of course.”

“For a moment I thought I might have hurt your feelings, but then I remembered that Englishmen don’t seem to have any.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “That would be unseemly.”

“Of course they do have
some
feelings,” Amelia
continued, unaware of his turmoil. “Namely, hunger, thirst and horror at an excessive display of emotion.”

“You seem very knowledgeable on the subject of Englishmen. For an American.”

“I have made the acquaintance of many. They’re a lot of pompous, intoxicated bores who don’t seem to do very much except drink, wager, and pass judgment on young ladies.”

He decided
not
to point out that a young lady in finishing school wouldn’t have such knowledge.

But what could he claim to do beyond what she listed?

Woo innocent young ladies for selfish purposes.

Best not to say that aloud.

“I notice that you do not disagree with me,” Amelia said. “I’m so often right. I just wish my family would recognize it more often.”

Here she heaved one of those dramatic sighs that only young ladies can manage because only they can manage such depth of emotion.

Alistair was left with the impression that Amelia wasn’t just running away from her home and family. She was seeking
something
in the guise of Miss Amy Dish. For all that she was enchanted by the display of Astley’s Amphitheatre, he suspected dancing dogs and tightrope walkers weren’t really what she was looking for.