Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes Page 14

  She stopped short and groaned as it all dawned on her. Dear God, he must know.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she replied. Because she couldn’t even introduce that line of conversation; if there was the slightest chance that he was clueless, she wouldn’t dare risk giving up her disguise.

  In the end, it wouldn’t matter either way.

  The duchess would not consider him a suitable match. There was the fortune hunting. And lack of title. She didn’t care one whit. But she had learned that her wishes weren’t all that counted. If he wasn’t suitable, the duchess would think that Amelia could at least do better: a higher-ranking title, plumper pockets.

  But it was all beside the point because he hadn’t said anything about meeting again.

  So this was it, then. They were a few city blocks away from the end of the most wonderful day of her two and twenty years.

  It was the day she met the man with whom she could be herself.

  She slowed to a stop—it wouldn’t do to get closer to Durham House and risk him seeing.

  He pushed one wayward curl away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She felt a pang in the region of her heart—how could they share such an intimate gesture and yet never see each other again? What a cruel fate that would be.

  That stubborn curl, cut short, fell right back into her eyes.

  It seemed like ages ago that she’d gone into the wigmaker’s shop and chopped all her hair off. That reminded Amelia about the play the wigmaker had mentioned—The Return of the Rogue, the one the duchess said wasn’t proper for them to see.

  And then Amelia had an idea. Lust, love, and kisses must have addled her brain—the part where logic and reason resided, not the part where adventure and pleasure lived. She fancied more moments with him—especially since this was likely her only chance—and the sun hadn’t quite set yet, there were still things she wished to do and see, and they were already out . . . she had made it this far.

  Why not more?

  It was the line of thinking that so often got her in trouble.

  It was also the line of thinking that had led to the very best day in her entire life. It had led her to Alistair, a man who didn’t seem interested in trying to constrain her. Unlike everyone else she met, he held her hand and asked what was next and then said, “Let’s go.”

  For that alone, she loved him. Never mind the lovemaking . . .

  “I have an idea,” she said, grinning at him.

  “Why do those words strike fear in my heart?”

  “Oh, don’t become a stick-in-the-mud now, Alistair,” she teased.

  “Me? A stick-in-the-mud? Might I remind you how I spent the day?”

  “Every moment is burned in my memory,” she said earnestly. And then, smiling at her idea, she asked, “But what if we continue the day?”

  He paused. A long pause. Don’t become sensible and proper now!

  “All right, tell me this idea of yours,” he said reluctantly. But she saw the fire in his eyes.

  “The theater.”

  “I’m certain even in your finishing school, you are allowed to attend the theater,” he said, in a surely-you-can-do-better kind of way.

  “Yes,” she said impatiently. “But not in the pit. And not a performance by Eliza Barnett.”

  Everyone in London was raving about her. Correction: many people were raving about her, but others had deemed her performance unsuitable for a variety of reasons, classifying it as “inappropriate for ladies.” Amelia wanted to see a play in the pit, down with the people, and not in a box all high and mighty above everyone. And she wanted to see the performance that had scandalized and polarized the haute ton.

  Tonight was her only opportunity.

  “No,” Alistair said flatly.

  “Oh, please.” Oh, God, she was begging. But the words were out of her mouth before she could catch herself.

  “You have been gone far too long. Your fam—schoolmates and teachers are likely worried.”

  Yes, but . . . of course they were worried. They had been worried all day. It would be a worry mixed with fury, a noxious combination of emotion that she was in no rush to encounter. Not when she was, perhaps, falling in love and had just hours left in this one perfect day.

  And there was another unsettling truth.

  “What if we never see each other again? What if these are the last few precious hours we could spend together? Would you really have them be mere minutes?”

  “We will see each other again,” he said firmly as they stood on a street corner and London rushed around them. But how? And when? And how would they explain it?

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “London is a small town. In spite of its vast size and thousands upon thousands of inhabitants.”

  “I see.”

  He must have grown weary of her. More than once James or Claire had remarked how tiring she could be. Somehow, within a second, this fear that he’d grown weary of her spiraled into a panic that she was unlovable.

  Or worse: he had gotten what he wanted from her—her virtue—and was now no longer interested in her.

  How crushing, because she was starting to wonder if she might be able to love him—that is, if she wasn’t halfway in love with him already.

  How mortifying, because that meant the warnings were right.

  How devastating, because that meant she had been a silly fool.

  “I promise,” he said, which somehow only made things worse. Again, she wondered if he knew the truth about her.

  He was content to part ways now because he had enough information to ruin her or ensure a wedding or a nice settlement to keep quiet.

  Silly. Fool. Miss Amy Dish was a silly, cork-brained ninny.

  Amelia ought to be rid of her immediately.

  “Then let us say goodbye here,” she said, horrified by the tremble in her voice and a wobble in her chin. She would not be a silly girl who cried on a street corner over a boy who she’d known but one day.

  “I want to see you home safely,” he said softly, but she no longer believed that. Did he wish to confirm that she would enter Durham House? Did he have notions of escorting her right up to the front door and popping in for tea with the duke and duchess?

  She imagined the worst: By the way, I ruined Lady Amelia . . . how does Tuesday work for the wedding? It doesn’t? Wouldn’t the ton like to know that . . . ?

  Amelia allowed that, in her haste, she might have gravely miscalculated him. Them. Everything. She didn’t know, and she hated that. The seeds of doubt had been planted and she couldn’t quite bring herself to completely disregard them.

  “My school is nearby,” she said firmly. In fact, Durham House loomed in the corner of her vision. “We are in Mayfair. I’m certain no danger shall befall me between here and there. If it does, I shall scream and someone will come to my rescue.”

  “I want to see you again.” He reached out for her hand. She glanced up at him. His gaze was dark, serious. Her heart thudded. She believed him, but she had doubts about his reasons.

  “Someone once said that London is a small town,” she replied. His eyes flashed. She had cut him with the flippant retort, throwing his words back at him.

  “Amy . . .”

  And she had lied to him. He would discover it. It was best to end things now.

  However . . .

  There was something like love starting to bloom in her heart and she couldn’t bring herself to bring this day to a close now, and forever.

  “Let’s leave it up to fate,” she suggested. “If we happen upon each other, then we’ll know it’s meant to be. But if not . . .”

  If not, then this was goodbye. Forever. This would be a perfect, sweet memory uncomplicated by whatever might happen—or not happen—after.

  “Thank you, Alistair, for a perfect day.” Amelia stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips. To hell with whomever might see. When a girl was as spectacularly ruined as she was, why
not indulge in a bittersweet goodbye kiss? Why not, indeed. Amelia turned, and walked away.

  It could not end like this. In all of this madness and deception they had found something beautiful and true, the first tender steps toward something like the love of a lifetime. And she just thanked him with a polite kiss on the lips and walked away, off into the night.

  Just like she had arrived.

  It hadn’t even been four and twenty hours and yet it felt an eternity. He could scarcely remember life as it was yesterday, or even this morning. He’d been a nobody with nothing to do.

  Then, he’d been a man on a mission and then, sometime in the late afternoon, tangled in her arms, he felt like someone in love.

  Not even four and twenty hours later. Madness, that.

  But now her steps were straight and assured—she was not intoxicated—and he was transfixed by the sway of her hips. The desire to have her again surged through him.

  But that wasn’t the reason Alistair followed her. It could not end on a sudden note of bitterness. They had shared something real and lovely and he wanted it to stay that way until the end. It could not end yet. He would not leave their future happiness up to fate.

  It could not end that like this. He’d sensed her retreating; he should have asked what she was thinking and then tried to assuage her worries.

  But that would be more lies, would it not?

  No, I’m not a fortune hunter.

  What? You aren’t Miss Amy Dish!? I had no idea.

  That was why he followed her, stepping swiftly off the pavement to cross the street and nearly being run over by a charging horse because he was paying attention only to her delectable bottom and not the rest of his surroundings. Clearly, he could not live without her.

  He had to make things right, now, so that they could be right when he saw her again.

  He would see her again.

  Alistair threaded his way through pedestrians, always keeping his gaze fixed on Amelia. Finally, he caught up with her.

  “Let us go to the theater.”

  She eyed him for a long moment in which his heart thudded in his chest. What had he done? What had he said? How had it suddenly gone from right to wrong to over?

  “We’ll go see the play and stand in the pit with the unwashed population of London. It’ll be terrible but we’ll be together.”

  Alistair’s heart surged when he saw the smile tugging at her lips and the reluctant grin.

  “Well if you insist, Mr. Finlay-Jones.”

  “I do, Miss Dish.” He took her arm and escorted her in the direction opposite Durham House. “I also insist on supper first. Thanks to you I have worked up quite an appetite today.”

  For supper, they ate steaming hot meat pies and drank mugs of ale in a private parlor at a pub. They dined on credit; he may have had to drop Wrotham’s name to ensure they would be taken care of and as a way to ensure the barmaid that money would be forthcoming. He had an IOU from cards the other night; he’d return and pay on the morrow.

  Amelia noticed none of it. She had that wide-eyed delight again, the way only an heiress on the run could be delighted by the prospect of a meal in a dingy London pub. It was a novelty to her, a part of the daily drudgery for everyone else, or even a special treat for those in especially hard circumstance.

  “I should be wining and dining you,” he said, immediately regretting the suggestion that she was wealthy, a Lady, and not Miss Amy Dish, finishing school runaway.

  “I have plenty of that at . . . at my school.”

  “When I was at school, we were served gruel that would have made this seem like the finest food in the world. I shan’t tell you more or it’ll put you off your supper.”

  She implored him for details. He obliged. She made faces of grotesque horror and he laughed.

  “It’s much more refined at a ladies’ finishing school,” she said. “As you may be able to imagine. I doubt you know better than I, although, I wouldn’t be surprised if you regaled me with stories of sneaking into a girls’ school to take liberties with the French teacher.”

  “You know me so well,” he murmured. Even though she didn’t know him at all. For instance, she didn’t yet know him to be the terrible liar that he was turning out to be. “And you are going to be in tremendous amounts of trouble when you return,” he said, gazing at her with those eyes of his.

  “Oh, I am aware. Which is why I am still here.”

  “Delaying the inevitable, are you?”

  “Well, who says I will return?” She coyly lifted one brow.

  “You cannot simply vanish. You must wish to return for a new dress.”

  “I’ll just purchase a new one,” she said with a shrug. As if it were that simple. And for a duke’s sister, it was.

  This little throwaway comment got him thinking the sort of depressing thoughts that made a man question everything.

  He had lived off the small inheritance from his father, as any gentleman would do. Before he’d reached his majority and control over the funds, much of it been absorbed into Wrotham’s pockets, presumably for Alistair’s education and other expenses.

  He suspected “other expenses” were gifts to Wrotham.

  For the past six years, Alistair had supplemented his annuity by playing cards and winning wagers with other idle aristocrats abroad; his winnings were invested and produced a modest return, enabling him to live and travel in a certain style.

  But he didn’t have nearly enough—or the prospect of earning enough—to support her in the style to which she had recently become accustomed. And while some men might have no compunction about spending their wife’s dowry, Alistair found it all a bit unsettling. He wanted her, not the money she came with. But he wanted her to be happy, and he wanted to be the one to provide such happiness.

  What if he could not provide for her?

  Perhaps marrying her wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  What if he came to dread coming home because he couldn’t bear the fact that he sponged off his wife for their very existence? Or what if all of his time and energy became devoted to digging the Wrotham barony out of the financial hole it was currently in—so much so that he forgot about his wife?

  He would be one of those husbands who spent an inordinate amount of time at the club and someone would inevitably stroll in and tell him, “I say, Jones, did I just see your wife standing atop a galloping horse as it leapt over the serpentine?”

  He would mumble something about how that sounded like her and how, once upon a time, he would have been there, encouraging her antics.

  But that was later. This was now.

  And he really should have thought of this before he made love to her.

  Alistair managed to push such troubling thoughts aside and chatter amiably with her for the rest of the meal. All of his attentions were then focused upon getting her to the theater without being seen, causing a scandal, or getting in trouble. It occurred to him that they’d gotten away with so much today; some sort of scandal was certainly inevitable, the consequences of which would certainly be enormous. And hopefully enjoyable.

  Amelia had been to Covent Garden once or twice before. The duchess had them all dress in some of their fine gowns made of silks and satins, all embroidered with jewels and glass beads that shimmered in the light. Then the lights in the theater went dark and no one saw what they were wearing. Amelia lived for the performance onstage and endured the tedious socializing during the intermission.

  She remembered looking down at the pit, where one could converse loudly and freely and didn’t need to quit fidgeting and sit still, for Lord’s sake. They were closer to the stage, to the action. The group had seemed to pulse with excitement.

  Meanwhile, Amelia was trussed up and sitting still high above them all, like a princess locked in a tower.

  Was.

  Tonight she followed Alistair into the pit, taking care to keep her head ducked lest anyone recognize her. But she still managed to take it all in: the hot crush of
bodies, the energy in the thick air, looking up to the stage rather down upon it.

  “Let’s go in and find a place to stand where you can see,” Alistair said, pulling her close to him in the crush. He clasped her hand so they wouldn’t become separated, a distinct possibility given the way the crowd surged and jostled around them.

  “I am so excited for this.”

  “I don’t see why. Everyone smells like they haven’t had a bath in weeks.”

  “Or ever,” Amelia said, but cheerfully. Yes, everyone around them smelled and was shabbily dressed. But the crowd was chattering and boisterous, happy to have an evening’s entertainment. They bought oranges and drank ale. When the lights dimmed and the curtains parted, they finally hushed, attentions fixed upon the stage.

  Eliza Barnett was a revelation. Her voice was sweet and her movements elegant; she embodied the character, breathed life into the role she portrayed. There were no cracks in her performance, something Amelia, who could never quite play a role consistently, admired.

  In the role of Aristocratic Young Lady she broke character all the time.

  In the role of Runaway Schoolgirl, she was certain she’d slipped up here and there with her story. Alistair must know.

  Alistair. He stood behind her so close that she could feel his warmth. If she were to rock back on her heels, she would brush against his chest. She knew that his chest was broad, muscled but not overly so, a light smattering of hair across his smooth skin. She knew it—could envision it, had touched and tasted it. What an intimacy she had never imagined, and what an intimacy she would certainly imagine again and again once . . .

  . . . once this ended. She supposed it had to end at some point. But Amelia didn’t want to think of that now, so she turned attentions toward the actress onstage, achingly aware of Alistair behind her and unsure of just how little time they had left.