The Ardent Lady Amelia (9 page)

“Your manners could stand improvement.” she snapped. “Perhaps years in the army have dulled your sense of what is fitting in a gentleman.”

“Ah, that would be it,” he agreed. “I’ve been away so long I didn’t even know it was customary for young women to invite gentlemen out onto the balcony alone with them.”

“It was only for a breath of air. The ballroom was exceedingly warm and the dancing energetic.”

“I’m surprised that one set should have so heated you, Lady Amelia,” he remarked, trailing behind her into the room.

She refused to reply. Trudy was across the room from her, deep in conversation with one of her cronies. Amelia skirted the dance floor, where another set was in progress. Behind her she could hear Verwood limping along, an exaggerated shuffling that was surely calculated to draw attention to himself, and her. Well, she wasn’t going to have any part of his antics. Let him make a spectacle of himself. No one could possibly know she’d been with him, though someone might wonder why she would be crossing the floor by herself.

“You’re going too fast for me,” he said, much too loudly, and in a wretchedly plaintive voice. “My injury makes me limp, you know.”

“Your injury is a hoax,” she hissed, turning to glare at him. “I don’t want you following me about.”

“I have to return you to your aunt. She’s been worded about you,” he said, his eyes flashing with unholy merriment. “If you would just have pity on my infirmity…”

“It’s your
mind
that’s infirm, Lord Verwood.” Amelia quickened her pace, and he quickened his, with discreet groans of soldierly fortitude that reached her quite distinctly.

Trudy glanced up briefly when Amelia arrived breathless at her side. “Ah, there you are,” she said, wagging her head.

“I wondered where you’d gotten to.” She lowered her voice to add, “You shouldn’t walk so fast with poor Lord Verwood, my dear. His injured leg, you know.”

It was a great temptation for Amelia to say something cutting about poor Lord Verwood’s leg. She restrained herself only because she felt certain it was exactly what he expected her to do. He was watching her with slightly hooded eyes now, his expression unreadable, waiting to be dismissed. Amelia thanked him for the set, politely, because Trudy might be listening, though it seemed unlikely, since she had nodded briefly to Verwood and resumed her discussion with her neighbor.

The dance in progress was only half-finished and there was no one around to solicit her hand for the next. Nor was there an unoccupied seat near her aunt so she could sit down. Amelia wanted Verwood to go away, but he refused to budge when it would mean leaving her standing there alone. He was, after all, her escort for the evening, she realized, and it wouldn’t do for him to abandon her in such an awkward position.

“Perhaps we might seek a bit of refreshment,” he suggested.

“Thank you, no. You go ahead, Lord Verwood. I’ll be quite all right.”

He continued to stand at her side, one leg slightly bent to take his weight off it. Amelia wondered if it really did hurt, if he were in some pain. She glanced around surreptitiously for two chairs in the immediate vicinity, but there were none available. The Stratfords were notorious for dispensing with such frivolities, expecting their guests to dance and mingle and only seat themselves out of sheer exhaustion or old age and infirmity.

“Why did the boy come to you tonight?” Verwood asked suddenly, startling her.

She hesitated. “His mother was very ill.”

Verwood lifted one skeptical brow. “Why would he bring that matter to your attention,” Lady Amelia?”

“I’m acquainted with the family through a clergyman in St. Giles Rookery.” She said it dismissively, hoping he would drop the subject. She should have known better.

“Does this clergyman frequently put you in touch with families there?”

“Occasionally.”

“For what purpose?”

Amelia was spared the necessity of answering him by the arrival of M. Chartier and his sister, who was still pink from the dance which had just ended. She smiled shyly at Amelia and kept her eyes lowered when Viscount Verwood spoke to her.

“She is besieged,” M. Chartier said cheerfully. “But I told her, ‘Veronique, you must save a dance for Lord Verwood, who has taken the time to advise your brother on your welfare.’ She has already committed herself for supper, but this dance she has saved.”

“I’m grateful,” Verwood assured her in a voice so gentle Amelia scarcely recognized it. “Perhaps we could find a glass of ratafia before the next set begins.”

With a small bow to Amelia, he walked off with Mlle. Chartier on his arm, leaving Amelia with the young lady’s brother. In spite of the fact that Amelia believed there was every possibility M. Chartier was a French spy, she didn’t at all like being left alone with him. He fidgeted when he was around her. He hadn’t always done that, in fact had at one time seemed inordinately pleased to spend any time in her company, but all that had changed after she’d spent a half-hour out on a balcony with him.

Most of the homes in which she was entertained had some sort of balcony on which to accomplish an intimate questioning of someone who was suspect. M. Chartier was most certainly suspect, but when she had been alone with him he’d been too ardent to pay much attention to her queries. He had grabbed her hand and pressed kisses from her wrist to the tips of her fingers, declaring all the while how devoted he was to her. Because of his distraction, and Amelia’s right to know where he stood if he were putting himself forward as a suitor, Amelia had swallowed her annoyance and asked, “Have you returned to France since you immigrated to England?”

He turned her hand over and slurped on her palm. “Why should I go to France?” he murmured. “It is in England that I find everything wonderful—like you, lovely Lady Amelia.”

“Yes, but you must miss some of your friends there,” she insisted. “Aren’t you in contact with anyone in France?”

His small, elegant shoulders lifted in a shrug. “No one of importance.”

“Then perhaps you have old friends among the other French émigrés.”

“None.”

Amelia took her hand away. “That’s rather odd, isn’t it?”

“Odd? Odd? What is odd about it?” he demanded, making an attempt to reclaim her hand. “My family is very old and has never associated with these upstarts. Every one of them comes to England, where the aristocracy is revered, and says they are of good family. Who is to know? Me, I know. None of them are a patch on the Chartier family. I will not lower myself to play their kinds of tricks. It is not that my family lacks their distinction,” he said, glancing behind them to assure himself he wasn’t overheard. “Quite the contrary. But when we came to England we did not bring with us French trappings. That was my decision. Leave the worthless behind, I said to my sister. The English are a nation who recognize aristocratic blood. They will recognize us.”

Much to her surprise, he then placed his hands on her shoulders, staring intently into her eyes. “You recognized me, didn’t you?”

Amelia had no idea what he was talking about. “Um. Well. I could tell you were of good family.”

“Ah, you see! Certainly you could tell. I knew you would be able to tell.”

“Yes, but if you had to leave everything in France...”

His eyelid twitched. Or at least that’s what Amelia thought for a moment before she realized it was a grotesque wink. “No, no, you must not think I have lost everything in France. I can reclaim my inheritance just like that,” he said, making an unsuccessful attempt to snap his fingers.

“But it’s there—in France?” she persisted.

A guarded expression closed over his face. “I cannot say. I tell no one, no one, even those nearest and dearest to me.” He brushed back a wisp of her honey-colored hair and stroked the cheek that he exposed. “Even the dearest,” he repeated, whispering in her ear.

“You’re quite right to tell no one,” she assured him. “I was merely thinking it would be dangerous for you to travel to France these days. It would worry me to think of you being in danger.”

He was delighted and moved by this absurd untruth. So moved, indeed, that he said, “There is little danger to
me
,
”
and kissed her. Amelia did not welcome his kiss, but this had happened before and she knew it was the best time to press her advantage.

“Oh, I can’t think it is safe for you in France,” she said, demurely lowering her eyes. “Only Napoleon’s supporters are safe there.”

“You mustn’t worry yourself on my behalf,” he insisted. His eyes were amorously softened in the pale moonlight, very close to her. “I have contacts. I can come and go when I please, without fearing harm.”

“You must be very clever to manage,” she said admiringly.

Flattered, he waved this off with a careless gesture. “One must be, in these times, Lady Amelia. Once, I—”

Amelia could have cried that they were interrupted right then by an inebriated buck who lurched out onto the balcony for a breath of air. But she couldn’t be caught in such a position with M. Chartier and turned her back on the newcomer as she slid past and back into the ballroom. She had expected further revelations from the Frenchman on future occasions, and was at first surprised when he took to avoiding her. Then it seemed clear to her that he felt he had said too much and for his safety had determined not to have any contact with her whatsoever. It never occurred to her that he disapproved of her letting him kiss her. No one else ever had.

Unfortunately, he was now placed in a position where he had to confront her whether he liked it or not, because of Lord Verwood’s hasty retreat with Mlle. Chartier. As he seemed incapable of introducing any topic for conversation, Amelia said, “Your sister is quite lovely. M. Chartier. How old is she?”

He paused before answering her. “Eighteen years,” he said finally, presumably deciding this was not hazardous information to convey.

“I suppose she misses France.”

“Not at all!”

His vehemence amused Amelia, but she merely nodded. “Perhaps she came here young enough to make England seem her home.”

“But of course! She loves England! She hardly remembers France at all.” Couples were beginning to form in rows for the next set and he eagerly grasped the opportunity to end their tête-à-tête. “Would you care to dance, Lady Amelia?”

“Thank you.”

His method of dancing was particularly energetic, leaving little room for conversation, and that of the most mundane matters. Amelia shrugged off her disappointment and progressed from M. Chartier to Mr. Winchfield, from Mr. Winchfield to Mr. Rollings, from Mr. Rollings to Sir William Conrady (another of her supposed suitors), and on through the evening.

Her three suitors held varying degrees of disinterest for her. Winchfield stood in line to a barony, but he was foolish and inane. Sir William was ten years her senior, but might have been thirty for all his stuffy rectitude. And of course Rollings was a delightful scamp—but a fortune hunter of limited intelligence.

Amelia paid scant attention to any of them. She did note that Lord Verwood danced only the once with Mademoiselle Chartier, but that Peter danced with her twice. Verwood did not approach Amelia again until the end of the evening, ready to escort them home, and then he didn’t speak directly to her, but to Trudy and Peter.

When they reached the house in Grosvenor Square, Amelia felt exhausted, and disturbed by Verwood’s subtly ignoring her. It was not that she wanted him to pay her any attention, of course. On the other hand, she disliked being ostracized. Somehow he managed not even to say good night directly to her, though she looked straight at him. He was busy pressing Trudy’s hand and patting Peter on the shoulder.

Amelia would have liked to go to her room, but first sought out the footman Robert, only to learn that he had not as yet returned from his errand. In her bedchamber she intended to wait up until she could find out about her protégé and his mother, but she fell asleep in a chair by the window, not waking until the light of early morning streamed through the curtains.

Chapter 7

The house was still, Amelia thought drowsily. No sounds of stirring yet from the floor below. She pushed the curtains aside and the full impact of a gorgeous spring day burst upon her. The sun was golden through the fresh new leaves of the trees behind the house, birds chirped and sang in the branches. She opened the window to catch the faint breeze with its smell of dewy earth and awakening vegetation. Leaning out, she breathed deeply, filling herself with the promise of the glorious day. There was something at the back of her mind that teased at her, fluttered in her sleep-numbed brain, but she ignored it for the delight of the moment.

It was the perfect day for an early ride in Hyde Park, while no one was around. The grass would be wet still, and a brilliant green. Early-spring flowers would be poking through, some of them bravely unfurling their rich colors. Just the sort of day, she found herself thinking, when it would he heavenly to ride along Rotten Row and suddenly come abreast of a gentleman who made one’s heartbeat quicken, whose challenging black eyes excited a thrill of anticipation, whose unruly black hair might still be damp from a bath, curling healthily about his head. Oh, she would smile and exclaim at the sheer beauty of the morning, knowing he’d think her a little naive, but knowing, too, that he would be feeling the electricity in the air.

They would ride along together, casting furtive glances at each other from time to time, talking perhaps of days they remembered from their childhoods, days in the country when nature around them was lush and ripening into the fullness of harvest, summer days, autumn days. He would not be impervious to her enthusiasm, her sheer exuberance. She would see he had a softer side, one where they could share an affinity for things beneath the surface trimmings. He would smile at her—had he ever smiled at her? —and restrain himself from clasping her hand where it rested in the lap of her riding habit as her mare walked sedately along the path.

Spring was for this sort of daydream, this excitement racing through the blood, this wistful desire for something special and rare. Perhaps they would ride beneath the trees, turning slightly off the Row and stopping their horses under the bower of emerging leaves. If there was no one around, he might hold out his hand, and she would place hers in it. There would be a warmth in his touch. She could feel it as the sun caressed her cheeks; it would be as welcome as the breeze through her hair. Would he kiss her?