To All the Rakes I've Loved Before (A Honeycote Novella) (5 page)

Rose nodded her red head sympathetically and patted Amelia’s knee.

Rose’s sister, Lady Olivia, gazed about the richly appointed drawing room. Mama had selected every furnishing with the intention of impressing London’s elite. However, when one bought up scores of expensive objets d’art and placed them haphazardly around a room dressed with crimson silk on the walls… well, the effect was less “fashionable Mayfair townhome” and more “tawdry house of ill repute.”

When Giles announced that Lady Rose and Lady Olivia had come to call, Amelia had actually considered turning them away, pleading a headache or some other ailment. But if her cousins were worried about her, they were certain to make a return visit, so Amelia thought it best to receive them and be done with it. Stephen wasn’t likely to saunter into the drawing room in his nightshirt. Just the same, she’d bid Cicely to warn him that they had visitors. It would never do for him wander out of his room. Or his bed for that matter.

Amelia’s cheeks grew hot.

Olivia set down her teacup and made a sweeping arc with one arm. “How do you like being mistress of a large house such as this? Are you going mad with boredom? Or,” she added somewhat hopefully, “have you had any daring adventures?”

Did hiding a man in a bedchamber qualify as an adventure? Amelia’s pulse began to pound in double time.

“You know I’m not fond of the social scene,” Amelia said. “I like staying at home.”

Olivia sat on the edge of the settee and leaned toward her. “Do you? What do you do to occupy yourself?”

“I read.” Gossip rags, mostly, but Amelia saw no need to divulge that detail. “I write the occasional letter. I take walks at unfashionable hours.” It did sound rather pathetic now that she said it aloud. Was that really all she’d done in the past year and a half?

“An idea came to me during the coach ride over,” Olivia announced.

Oh no. Olivia’s ideas were rarely of the tame variety.

Rose smiled warmly. “I thought it splendid.”

Amelia breathed a little easier. “What was that?”

“Since your mother is in Bath for a few more days, why not attend the Norrington ball with Rose and me? Owen and Anabelle will be there too. You’ve never had the chance to meet our new sister-in-law, and we just know you’d adore her.”

“And she would adore you as well,” Rose added.

“The ball’s tomorrow night, and we promise you’ll have a lovely time.”

“I couldn’t possibly.” Amelia couldn’t. And not just because she had a secret house guest. The mere thought of mingling with dukes and duchesses made her palms sweat and her belly clench. The last ball she attended had ended with her sprawled on the floor, humiliated and alone.

“Why ever not?” asked Olivia incredulously.

Amelia reached for the easiest possible excuse. “I have nothing to wear. I haven’t bought anything new since… well, for a couple of seasons. I’ve yet to have my old gowns taken in.” She threw up her hands. “So, you see? Even if I desperately wanted to go, which I’m not certain I do…”

“You may wear one of my gowns.”

“Or mine,” offered Rose.

“And if the dress requires minor alterations, Anabelle is wickedly skilled with a needle.”

The duchess? Amelia had read something about this in the papers but couldn’t quite believe it.

“That’s kind of you,” Amelia said, meaning it. She’d always wished she had a sister, but never more so than now. Even though she didn’t know Rose and Olivia very well, she trusted them. Not enough to tell them that she was hiding a gentleman upstairs. But surely enough to admit the reason behind her aversion to balls. “The truth is, I don’t like going out in society. The bad experience I had at Greystone Park put me off balls.” There was no need for Amelia to elaborate on “bad experience.” Though her cousins hadn’t been at Greystone to witness it, her figurative and literal fall was the stuff of legends.

Rose frowned. “I’d quite forgotten. That must have been awful.”

“But it was years ago,” Olivia exclaimed. “Get back on the horse, and all that.”

Amelia sighed. “What would be the point?”

Olivia was incredulous. “To dance, for one.”

“Dancing.” Amelia groaned. “It’s so awkward, is it not? Standing about, hoping a gentleman will take notice of you, and then hoping that the gentleman who
does
take notice of you won’t have horrid breath or let his hands wander where they shouldn’t? No. No, thank you.”

“But if you never go to balls or parties, how will you meet a gentleman?” Olivia asked.

Well, sometimes they showed up on one’s doorstep. But Amelia couldn’t say that, of course.

“I’ve no intention of marrying.” The words rushed out of her before she’d realized she was going to say them, but she was glad she had. It was liberating.

Olivia and Rose gasped.

“The idea of marriage holds no appeal for me.” Amelia rose and wandered to a cabinet that displayed a bronze tripod sculpture. The feet were lion’s paws, and above them, three nude men carrying swords charged into battle. The physiques were quite impressive and… detailed. She’d always wondered—

But curiosity about the male form was hardly a reason to marry.

“Maybe if you found the right gentleman,” Rose suggested.

“No. I prefer to be single,” Amelia said firmly. “There are many advantages to remaining so.”

Olivia looked skeptical. “Such as?”

Amelia tried to recall the many diary entries she’d written on the subject. “A single woman can pursue her own interests without seeking permission from a demanding or jealous husband.”

Olivia inclined her head, conceding the point.

“You’ve given this serious thought,” Rose said.

“Indeed. Also, an unmarried woman doesn’t have to endure the heartbreak that often occurs when a husband’s affections stray.”

With a snort, Olivia said, “
My
husband—assuming I eventually have one—had better not let his affections stray. But we’re not trying to find you a husband. We simply want you to come to the ball with us. Put on a pretty dress. Dance a waltz or two.” She stood, pulled Amelia to her feet, and twirled her once around. “Think of it as a chance to snub your nose at those who scorned you. You’ve emerged stronger and more beautiful than ever.”

“That’s so sweet of you to say.” Amelia shook her head. “But I don’t feel strong. Or beautiful.”

“Believe us. You are,” Rose said, standing. “We don’t want to pressure you if you’re not ready, but think about it. If you change your mind, send word tomorrow morning.”

Amelia pulled her and then Olivia into an embrace. When at last the cousins said their good-byes, she let out a long, slow breath. She wasn’t sure why she’d fretted so. It wasn’t as though Rose and Olivia were likely to sense Stephen’s presence in the house.

To Amelia, however, her house seemed very different indeed. Just the thought of the handsome man upstairs sent a delicious shiver through her.

“Am I late for tea?”

Amelia whirled around to face the door and saw him. Stephen. Standing in her garish drawing room, wearing her late father’s old dressing gown over his trousers, with a pair of slippers from Lord knew where.

By all rights, he should have looked ridiculous.

He did not.

Two days’ worth of stubble darkened his chin, covering the worst of the bruises. His eye was still a sickly shade of purple, but was no longer grotesquely swollen. Patches of thick, dark hair sprouted up like grass between the bandages crisscrossing his head. And his shoulders… well, they filled out the robe like it was a finely tailored dinner jacket. The whole effect was rather knee-weakening.

He shot her a rakish grin as he hobbled to the settee and took the last scone off the dish. “What did I miss?”

Chapter 6

Lord B. cut a dashing figure, pairing buckskin breeches with a borrowed robe. This Author expects the combination to become all the rage.

—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple

“What are you doing down here?” Amelia hissed.

Stephen had been eavesdropping, but thought it best not to mention that fact. “I couldn’t bear to stay in that room another minute. It’s a perfectly nice room,” he hastened to add, “but I thought I’d go exploring.”

“Exploring?” Her color rose in the most delightful way. “If my cousins had seen you, it would have been disastrous.”

He finished the last bite of scone, hoisted himself off the settee, and walked toward her. Placing his hands lightly on her shoulders, he said, “Don’t worry. I stayed out of sight until after they’d gone. I’d never do anything to jeopardize your reputation.” Not knowingly, anyway. But his very presence here put her at risk. He needed to leave—soon.

She turned her face up to his, her brown eyes flashing. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“I like that you fuss over me, but I’m hardly worth it.”

She blinked. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because I’m trouble. Haven’t you read all the rumors about me?”

Amelia averted her gaze, thereby answering his question. “I like to form my own opinions about people.”

“And are you a good judge of character?”

“Not particularly.” She stepped back, breaking their contact, and returned to the settee, where she sank into a pile of crimson pillows.

Sitting beside her, he said, “Well, I am. And I think you’re courageous, intelligent, and kind.” He looked deep into her eyes, took her hand in his, and pressed his lips to the back of it. Waited for her to melt.

But as she pulled her hand back into her lap, she looked less smitten than… amused.

“You flatter me. And if you are feeling well enough to flirt—”

Was that what he’d been doing?

“—you should be well enough to answer my questions.”

The skin between his shoulder blades prickled, but he leaned back and propped his arms on the back of the settee. “Fair enough. Ask me anything you like.”

“It didn’t seem proper to interrogate you while you were battered and bedridden, but now I must satisfy my curiosity.” She moistened her lips, inclined her head. “Who did this to you? What happened the night you came here?”

Stephen let out a long, slow breath. Silence stretched out as he considered how best to answer. She watched him expectantly and serenely, as though she had all the time in the world. As though she wouldn’t settle for anything but the truth.

His brother didn’t know the trouble he was in, nor did his closest friends. It was no secret he played deep, but everyone assumed he had the blunt in his coffers to cover his losses. He’d worked damned hard to cultivate his carefree, reckless reputation, and for what? It didn’t seem to impress Amelia.

He could concoct a story about a young lady’s jealous beau seeking revenge over a stolen kiss. It would be easiest. But somehow he knew Amelia would be disappointed—not with his supposed rakish behavior, but with his dishonesty.

Promise you won’t pretend with me.

He was tired of pretending. It would be a relief to tell someone, and yet it didn’t seem right to share this burden with her.

Raking a hand through his hair, he said, “The truth is rather ugly. You might not like me very much after I tell you.”

“I will think well of you for telling the truth,” she said simply. Just as he’d suspected.

A huge knot in his throat held back the words at first, but he swallowed and pressed on, his decision made. “I borrowed money that I couldn’t pay back.”

“I see.”

But he could tell by her puzzled frown that she didn’t. “My creditor”—it seemed such a civilized word for the coarse owner of the gaming hell on King Street—“grew impatient. He sent out a few of his employees to ‘remind’ me to pay my debt.”

“But that’s… awful. No one deserves to be beaten like that. And for something so trivial as a late payment? They could have killed you.” Her cheeks pinkened with indignation on his behalf, warming something long frozen inside him.

“My creditor isn’t exactly a shopkeeper on Bond Street, Amelia. I knew the risk I was taking.”

“Have you no means to pay it back? Surely your brother would—”

“No. I turned to him once before. If he has some small scrap of faith in me still, I cannot jeopardize it.”

“I understand, but what will you do if…
when
the men come back?”

With confidence he didn’t feel, he said, “I have two weeks. I’ll think of something.”

“How much do you owe?”

He knew Amelia was something of a recluse, but even
she
must know that no one discussed money. It was entirely off-limits in polite conversation. Next she’d be sipping tea, asking about his favorite sexual position, or how many times a week he pleasured himself. Good God.

“A lot of money—let’s leave it at that.”

“Why? We promised to be honest with each other. You’re sitting here wearing my father’s robe, for goodness’ sake. And while we’re on the subject, where did you get those slippers?”