Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes Page 16

  “Were you alone?” Bridget asked, pointedly.

  “Do you have any idea how bloody worried we were?” Claire demanded, ever the older sister.

  “I’m sorry to have worried you all. Truly.”

  Amelia spoke earnestly. “I didn’t mean to run away. I honestly don’t even remember how I did it. But then I was out and . . . and then I was waking up . . . I was safe, I promise.”

  But still, her siblings and the duchess exchanged loaded glances.

  “It must have been the laudanum,” Claire murmured.

  “What laudanum?” Amelia asked. She looked from face to face at all the sheepish expressions.

  “We might have slipped some laudanum into your water,” Bridget explained in a small voice.

  “We?”

  “We simply wished to calm you down after your . . . excitement last night,” the duchess said in the no-nonsense way of hers.

  But it all started to make sense now. Her own family had drugged her! Any untoward emotion, any expression of feeling, any display of behavior that went beyond simpering was something to be drugged away. No wonder she had run away.

  That ameliorated some of her guilt at running away since she was clearly out of her mind—involuntarily—when she’d done it.

  “I told him I wasn’t drunk,” Amelia muttered.

  “Told who?” James demanded.

  But Amelia wouldn’t answer. She slowly climbed the stairs and plodded down the hall to her bedroom. Once inside with the door shut behind her, she opened the window and leaned out, looking at the night sky.

  The city was quiet; there was no one singing tonight. There was no romantic baritone singing bawdy ballads to lure her out. Amelia gazed out over the dark outline of the city, dimly lit from starlight. She thought of all the people and places she had seen today, from the lowly girl selling violets to the triumphant actress upon the stage. There was a whole world out there, pulsing with activity, and today, at least, Amelia had been a part of it.

  And somewhere, out there, was Alistair.

  In which our hero broods and sips brandy, as heroes are wont to do.

  Was it midnight yet?

  There was a pounding on the door of Alistair’s flat. It couldn’t be Jenkins, who had retired for the evening. It could not be Amelia; even she wouldn’t dare to run away, alone, at this late hour, again. Besides, those were a man’s heavy fists pounding at the door, demanding entry.

  Alistair opened the door to find Darcy glowering on the other side.

  Of course it was Darcy, Lord Protector of Propriety, the Right Honorable Gentleman, the defender of virtue, etc., etc., etc.

  “Do come in,” he said as his friend pushed past him into the flat. “Make yourself at home. Brandy?”

  “No thank you.”

  “What brings you here?”

  He was answered with a sharp look. Don’t be an idiot.

  “Tell me everything that happened,” Darcy said, “beginning with how you came to be in the possession of Lady Amelia Cavendish.”

  “I think I will have a brandy,” Alistair remarked. He poured himself a drink and sat down on the uncomfortable little settee. Darcy paced. Alistair wondered why he cared so much about the fate of one wayward American girl.

  “Do you believe in fate, Darcy?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t either. Or rather, I didn’t.” He paused thoughtfully. Was it fate that had brought him and Amelia together? Or was it merely luck? “As I was walking home from the club last night, she literally stumbled into my arms. I thought she was drunk. You know I couldn’t very well leave her on the street. So I brought her home.”

  “She spent the night here.” Darcy’s horror was evident.

  “Do consider the alternatives. Leaving her on the street, depositing her on the doorstop of some unsuspecting family and fleeing the scene . . .”

  But Darcy had no time for that.

  “You will have to marry her.”

  “And this is where fate enters the picture,” Alistair said with a laugh. “Marrying her was the plan from the beginning. No, the middle. At any rate, I found her last night and Wrotham ordered me to marry her this morning.”

  “Which is interesting, truly, but does not explain why I found you both at the theater this evening.”

  “She wished to spend the day doing all the things she hasn’t been permitted to do.”

  “I do not want to know,” Darcy said flatly. Alistair decided not to confirm Darcy’s worst suspicions. “You must marry her soon. If word of this gets out, she will be ruined and the entire family will be shunned. In fact, not even the duchess could smooth their entry into society. A scandal like this would ruin them all.”

  “I have not been out of society so long that I have forgotten how it works. If a man so much as sneezes in the vicinity of a gently bred female of virtue, he will find himself at the altar. As it happens, I have every intention of wedding her.”

  There was just the tricky bit of revealing that he knew she had deceived him from the beginning. And God Forbid that she ever discover he’d been ordered to secure her hand in marriage.

  But he’d gone over all that in his mind all day long. Darcy paced before him, evidently incredibly vexed by the whole situation when Alistair couldn’t fathom that he had reason to be. Or did he?

  “The question is why the family’s reputation matters to you.”

  Darcy gave him a dark look, but Alistair had known him too long to fall for his Lord High And Mighty routine, which terrified everyone else. Instead, he sipped his drink and wracked his brain for what Darcy gave a damn about.

  Then the answer was suddenly, blindingly clear.

  “You’re in love with her.”

  His quick no wasn’t quick enough. Alistair’s stomach dropped. He wouldn’t have a prayer of marrying Amelia if someone as esteemed and rich as Darcy was interested in her. God, and he would be considered Amelia’s rescuer while Alistair was just the scoundrel who had ruined her.

  “That is why you were searching for her.”

  “Lady Amelia?” Darcy burst out laughing. “No, I have no feelings for her, other than polite concern for her welfare.”

  “I don’t suppose the family includes sisters?”

  “Two, in fact. But this is not about me.” But it was; Alistair saw that now. The potential scandal would ruin all the sisters’ prospects. This was starting to make sense to him now. “This is about you,” Darcy continued. “And the fact that you absconded with a young lady of virtue and squired her all over town. Anyone could have seen you.”

  “No one saw us.”

  “How do you know?”

  Alistair shut up and sipped his drink. The truth was that he didn’t know. He’d been so long out of town, he wouldn’t recognize most people—or be recognized by them. And frankly, he wasn’t paying attention to anyone or anything other than the captivating Miss Amy Dish.

  “Someone will have seen you. They always do. Word will get out. It always does. If you have any sense, you will wed her properly and publicly before anyone learns the truth about you and Lady Amelia.”

  Chapter 15

  In which our hero has a choice to make.

  The following morning, Alistair awoke to a missive from the baron.

  Come at once.

  —WROTHAM

  He dressed and departed quickly, allowing time to walk there, which also provided the opportunity to gather his thoughts. He knew Wrotham would want to speak of his quest to marry his heir into the Cavendish family, but how much was Alistair prepared to say?

  In a very limited period of time he had, perhaps, exceeded the baron’s expectations. Any word about Amelia would certainly help to ensure a wedding. She had to marry him now. He had, essentially, completed his task. All that was missing was the ring on her finger and the announcement in the newspaper. It would take nothing more than a quiet conversation with her brother, the duke. Or just a well placed “rumor.”

  But Alistair liked he
r. She was amusing and challenging, pretty and charming. He could even love her. He might already be halfway there. Above all, he didn’t want her as his wife by trickery or scandal. He wanted a union of two hearts in love. Gad, that was a treacly, overly romantic thought unbefitting an Englishman.

  But there it was.

  Rutherford once again asked for his card and asked him to state the nature and purpose of his visit. Alistair sighed, procured a card, and said the baron was expecting him.

  “I did not see you at the Carsingtons’ ball last night,” the baron began by way of greeting when Alistair stepped into the library.

  Oh bloody hell. It was only then that he remembered he had promised to attend so that he might make the acquaintance of Lady Amelia. Instead he had squired her to the theater . . . after bedding her. This would please the baron to no end, if he were to ever learn of it. But Alistair would die a thousand painful deaths before providing such information. She was his.

  “Something came up.”

  “I can’t imagine what is more important than doing your duty to the Wrotham estate.” Then, with a withering glare, he added, “It’s the least you can do, given what I have done for you.”

  This he wanted to protest, but this he could not protest.

  The man had given him a home, an education, and something like a family. The man had raised him alongside his own son.

  Alistair had visited his mother’s family in India; he had seen how radically different his life might have been. He would not have had his gentleman’s education, enjoyed the friendships that he did, or traveled so extensively. He would not have met Amelia and he never would have found himself in this position . . .

  . . . standing on a well-worn carpet, receiving a setdown he didn’t even deserve from his uncle even though he was a grown man of thirty.

  Something hot, like anger, flared up and he had the urge to defend himself to his uncle. Alistair wanted to see a spark of approval in the old man’s eyes for once.

  Just once.

  Anything but that perpetual frown of disappointment.

  “I went through all the bother of securing an invitation for you and you don’t even have the decency to attend. I will not be embarrassed by you.”

  Unspoken words hung in the air, understood: I will not be embarrassed by you any more than I already am.

  And there it was again: the angry urge to tell the Baron everything. Everything. That he had not only made the acquaintance of the American girl but had made her his.

  The baron thought he had failed; well, Alistair had exceeded expectations. He could be at Durham House issuing a proposal now, were it not for this interview in which he had to bite his tongue and allow this man to think him nothing, useless, a bother.

  Because he cared for Amelia. What had occurred between him and Amelia yesterday had been true and genuine; it was not to be callously used as fodder to seek Wrotham’s approval for once.

  And yet the urge remained.

  Alistair did not wish to consider what that meant, or what it said about his character, because he suspected it wouldn’t be flattering.

  But then maybe this internal struggle was entirely beside the point, given what Wrotham said next.

  “At any rate, I suppose you heard the gossip,” Wrotham said cryptically. “Everyone is talking about it.”

  Well if that wasn’t the sort of thing to make one start to panic and deeply regret not taking a moment to peruse the gossip columns this morning.

  Heard what?

  Talking about what?

  Talking about whom?

  He had his suspicions of course: rumors of a young heiress spotted strolling through St. James’s Park in the company of a gentleman, young scandalous lady seen kissing a gentleman in Vauxhall Gardens, a young lady causing a melee between Bow Street Runners and a crowd of bystanders.

  Rocking back on his heels and biting his tongue, he waited for the baron to confirm or deny if those were the rumors being discussed. Alistair didn’t dare volunteer the information.

  But if he did . . . if he’d started a rumor . . .

  Wedding bells.

  It would be so easy to have everything he ever wanted. A wife and family. The baron’s approval.

  With just one word, one well-placed rumor . . .

  “I daresay the ton has never seen a more scandal-plagued family,” the baron said and Alistair froze, waiting. The baron interrupted his needlessly long, dramatic pause to issue a sigh. Alistair balled his hand into a fist, so anxious was he, waiting to hear what, now that he knew whom. “But then again,” the baron said, finally, “we can hardly expect a pack of American horse breeders to behave as befits the most civilized people in the world.”

  Such kind words for his (hopefully) future in-laws.

  Visions of their day flashed through his brain, each one more scandalous than the last, and each one giving way to imagining the worst of what the ton would be saying.

  Did you see her dining alone with TWO gentlemen?

  Did you see her dashing through the rain?

  Did you see her smashing a Bow Street Runner on the head with a parasol, taken from an innocent old lady bystander? Well. I. Never.

  Gad, he could practically hear the old matrons of the ton huffing.

  “But I suppose this bodes well for you and your suit,” the baron said, giving voice to the words Alistair hated himself for thinking. “Though how you are to meet them if they all cancel their appearances due to sudden illness which leaves one of them bedridden I know not.”

  Alistair dared to breathe a sigh of relief. They had not been seen.

  “What, exactly, happened?”

  “They did not attend Carsingtons’ ball last evening. They were expected,” the baron said, and Alistair wanted to laugh that such an inconsequential thing could be deemed such a horrendous offense. It was as if the ton was, collectively, determined to resist the Americans no matter what they did or did not do.

  It was a feeling he was not a stranger to; the difference between him and Amelia was that he hadn’t given up on trying to assure his place.

  Which was why he was here. And not with her.

  “At the very last minute, the duchess sent word. The hostess was furious. All anyone could talk about is how they were expected to be there and had reneged on their word.”

  “What a horrible tragedy,” Alistair mumbled.

  “It is said one of the sisters had taken ill,” the Baron added, and that finally caught Alistair’s attention and made his pulse quicken as he considered the implications. “Bloody females always being indisposed,” Wrotham muttered. “Silly female complaints.”

  Alistair elected to disregard that.

  If it had been put about that Lady Amelia had been ill . . . his mind churned at a furious pace considering every implication and evaluating how he ought to proceed . . .

  If he were to propose this morning and announce a betrothal shortly thereafter, someone was sure to notice that neither he nor Lady Amelia were known to have met. He had not officially returned to society. They had not attended the same ball, nor had he been sighted at calling hours. That someone who would inevitably notice would also inevitably comment upon it.

  There would be questions about whether she had been ill. Or was the entire family lying in an attempt to defray a scandal? What were they trying to hide? And Alistair knew there was still a chance that they had been sighted. It may not have been in the papers this morning, but what would tomorrow bring?

  One little remark, combined with one possible sighting of Lady Amelia on her day out, plus a splash of speculation, a dash of insinuation, and suddenly there was a massive scandal.

  That would bring him everything he ever wanted.

  That was not how he wished to begin his married life.

  Or was it? Time soothed all wounds, did it not?

  “At any rate, I have secured another chance for you,” the baron said smugly. “They are hosting a ball in a few days’ time. I pulled a f
ew strings to obtain an extra invitation. You will go, you will make her acquaintance and you will wed her. Do not ruin this, too.”

  It was the too that slayed him.

  Such a little throwaway word. Too. Also. One more thing.

  But it referred to one big thing, one tremendous loss, and one reason for what he was about to do next.

  In which our heroine languishes in the drawing room, as lovesick heroines are wont to do.

  The next day dawned as if nothing had changed, as if nothing remarkable had happened the previous day. As if Amelia hadn’t tasted freedom. She woke in her bed, alone. She dressed with the assistance of a proper lady’s maid and daydreamed of Alistair buttoning—no, unbuttoning—her gown.

  She went downstairs for breakfast with the family and discovered that she simply didn’t have much of an appetite.

  Afterward, she joined her sisters, the duchess, and Miss Green in the drawing room. Her thoughts strayed to yesterday . . .

  The girl with the violets, the woman with the oranges, the people on the streets. The circus performers and the Bow Street Runners in Vauxhall Gardens. The sun on her face and the feeling of endless possibilities.

  And Alistair.

  And all those strange, tingly, wonderful things he made her feel and that put a blush on her cheeks. Lud, she couldn’t think of that while in the company of the duchess in the drawing room.

  Fortunately, she was distracted by conversation demanding her attention.

  Unfortunately, it was about her scandalous day. The duchess was obsessed with the potential consequences—disastrous ones, of course. She’d been reading the newspapers all morning, line by line, in search of any speculation or gossip that would need to be quashed immediately.

  “And The London Weekly is hinting at an exposé tomorrow,” Josephine said. “I shudder to think what their gossip columnist has dug up. She is ruthless.”

  “No one saw me,” Amelia said. She was languishing on the settee. Love. She was almost certainly in love.

  “That you know of,” Josephine said, leveling a stare over the pages of The London Weekly.

  “And I didn’t do anything scandalous,” Amelia added, which was possibly the farthest thing from the truth and the biggest lie she’d ever uttered.