She could feel his lips still, Amanda thought, if she concentrated hard enough, but she wasn’t at all sure she ought to. The depth and intensity of the sensations that had jolted through her when he’d kissed her had both thrilled and shaken her. Nothing Andrew had told her about the ways of men and women had prepared her for it. She very much wanted to talk to her brother about it, but how could she when he didn’t believe her?
Truth or fabrication would be of no concern to the Baroness Blumfield, however. The shocking story of Lady Amanda Gilbertson being kissed by a man in a black mask under the beech tree in the Duchess of Braxton’s garden would be all over London by tomorrow’s luncheon. But mightn’t that, too, work to her advantage? If she were disgraced—and knowing the baroness’s love of embellishment, Amanda had every reason to believe she would be—her Grace would be forced to renege!
She might very well be banished to Hampton Hall for the rest of her life, but anything, Amanda told herself, even ruination and virtual imprisonment, would be preferable to marrying Lesley Earnshaw. Content that she’d managed to save herself from a fate worse than death (not quite the way she’d planned but saved nonetheless), she fell asleep with a smile on her face and her fingertips curled against her lower lip.
Her euphoria faded, however, when a footman ushered her and Andrew into their father’s study at ten o’clock the next morning. Looking harried and angry, and very, very determined, Lord Hampton rose behind his desk.
“Sit,” he commanded, indicating the two chairs set before him. Once they’d done so, he folded his hands behind him and began. “Your mother and Her Grace are, even as we speak, paying a call on the Baroness Blumfield. They hope to dissuade her from repeating your ridiculous story of the gentleman in the black mask.”
“It’s not a ridiculous story, Papa,” Amanda replied. “It’s the truth.”
Lord Hampton glanced at Andrew.
“I saw no such person, sir,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“Andy didn’t see him,” Amanda explained, “because he was unconscious when the man in the mask jumped his horse over the garden wall. I thought he was a thief, in league with Jack and Harry and Smythe, but when I knocked him out of his saddle he begged my pardon and—”
“When you what?” Lord Hampton’s eyebrows shot up his forehead and all but disappeared into his graying fair hair.
“When I jumped out of the beech tree,” Amanda continued. “I meant to land on Smythe, who was about to make off with the duchess’s belongings. I couldn’t allow that, of course, so I—”
“Enough!”
More startled than she’d ever been in her life (with the possible exception of the night before, when she’d jumped out of the tree and found herself sitting on a man’s chest), Amanda sat blinking at her father. His face was flushed, and a wisp of his hair had fallen over his forehead. He brushed it back, took several deep breaths and reclasped his hands.
“Telling this preposterous tale will do you no good, Amanda,” Lord Hampton warned. “If you thought to shock Her Grace, then have another think. She and I and your mother are still determined to have this marriage.”
“But, Papa, I loathe Lesley Earnshaw!”
“Too late, my girl. You should have considered the possibility that I might arrange a match for you before you returned the Marquis of Claxton’s poem with his spelling and grammar corrected, before you took young Deaver for twenty pounds at hazard, before you did everything you could think of to put off every young man who’s shown the slightest interest in you!”
“I will not marry Lesley Earnshaw!” Amanda declared fiercely.
“You no longer have a choice,” her father replied flatly. “Even if your mother and Her Grace are successful in dissuading the baroness, the fact remains you’ve come within a hair’s breadth of scandal. I can no longer allow or ignore such behavior.”
“You see!” Amanda shrilled, flinging herself sideways in her chair to face Andrew. “I told you!”
Amanda never cried, but gazing at her pale face, at the unshed tears glistening in her eyes, Lord Hampton felt his heart bump against his breastbone. He’d brought her to this with his silly pride in her accomplishments, unladylike though they were. He despised himself so thoroughly and loved his daughter so devotedly that he almost wished he could marry Lord Earnshaw himself to spare her.
“I would not marry you to an ogre, Amanda.” He came around the desk, sat on one corner and took her hands in his. “You and Lesley had a few childish squabbles, but you’re grown now. He did quite well at Oxford, and distinguished himself in the Peninsula and at Waterloo. Be reasonable, pet. You haven’t seen the man in ten years.”
“Neither have you, Papa,” Amanda replied pointedly.
“Be that as it may.” Lord Hampton frowned, loosed her hands and rose to his feet. “Consider yourself betrothed to Lord Lesley Earnshaw.”
Chapter Five
Like noble blood and wealth, hazel eyes and raven hair that tended to gray prematurely in streaks of silver at the temples, ran in the Earnshaw family. Though she was an Earnshaw by marriage only, Eugenia, the Dowager Duchess of Braxton, had such a streak in her dark hair.
Some matrons of the ton whispered cattily behind their fans that it was an affectation, an artful dusting of powder applied by her dresser. But it was genuine, and the cause of it, her middle son Lesley, sat smiling at Her Grace with infuriating calm in her Bond Street drawing room just after nuncheon that afternoon.
“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?” she demanded of him furiously.
“Every syllable, Mother,” Earnshaw replied languidly from his chair opposite hers near the marble fireplace. “And I’m certain every passerby on the street has as well.”
“And what is your answer?”
Feigning a look of surprise, he pressed one hand to his casually knotted cravat. “Do you expect one, dear?”
“Of course I expect one.” Her Grace clenched her teeth and her fists in her lap to quell the urge she felt to box his ears. “I’ve given you a clear and simple choice.”
“Sounded more to me like an ultimatum.”
“Call it what you will, but choose—marriage to Amanda Gilbertson or poverty.”
“I must own, Mother,” Earnshaw admitted unperturbedly, as he laced his fingers over his buff waistcoat and laid his elbows on the arms of his chair, “I’ve always thought blackmail beneath you.”
“You leave me no alternative,” she informed him curtly. “It’s quite bad enough that you chose last night to involve yourself in a duel, worse that you embarrassed me before the whole of the ton by failing to appear at the ball I hosted in your honor, but utterly unforgiveable that you embroiled Teddy, who idolizes and emulates you at every turn, in such a scandalous undertaking.”
“I see.” Earnshaw bent one elbow, laid the first two fingers of his hand upon his jaw and winced. There was a bruise there, which he’d noticed that morning in his shaving glass, but beyond the small twinge of pain, there was only pleasure at the recollection of the thrashing he’d taken at the hands of the delightful little minx who’d dropped upon him from the beech tree. “Would you prefer, then, that he emulate Charles?”
“I would prefer,” Her Grace replied pointedly, “that Teddy be given an opportunity to choose the kind of man he wishes to become without any influence from either of his brothers.”
“And you think marrying me off to the Gilbertson chit will accomplish that?”
“I think it will mark a good beginning.”
There was just a hint of wistfulness in his mother’s voice, a clue to Earnshaw that her temper, as fearsome and formidable as her poise, had nearly played itself out. She’d been in full cry when he’d arrived in answer to her summons, and though her report of Teddy being apprehended by Bow Street and dragged home by his ear had brought a vividly funny and richly deserved scene of humiliation to his mind, he’d had better sense than to laugh. Out loud, at least.
He’d savored it
silently, chortling to himself until Her Grace had laid down her edict—marry Amanda Gilbertson or lose his income. She’d threatened him before, but never in the fullness of her anger and never with cutting his purse strings. Lesley had no doubt she meant it or that she’d do it. Still, he was not unduly worried, for he had the scathingly clever plan Teddy had put into his head the night before—which he’d since had time to refine—and nearly as much savoir faire as his mother.
It wouldn’t serve to give in too easily, however; that would be suspicious and mightily out of character. So instead, he reached for the walking stick which was, he thought, a deft touch to the scheme aimed at forcing the Gilbertson chit to cry off, worried his thumb on the carved ivory cap and eyed his mother soberly. It was difficult, however, for a smile still played about his lips at the memory of gleaming tousled hair and eyes made luminous by firelight.
“As a gentleman and a dutiful son, I feel honor bound to point out the flaws in your reasoning,” he said. “Should I refuse and you make good your threat, I could rejoin my regiment, which would at least provide me a living. Or I could appeal to Charles, who is, despite his peculiarities and vagaries, still head of the family.”
“Pooh.” The duchess sniffed. “On naught but a captain’s salary you’d be up the River Tick within a sennight. And Charles,” she finished, with a serenely smug smile, “cannot bestir himself from his library at Braxton Hall long enough to bother with such trivial concerns. He’s quite content to leave such mundane matters as finances in my most capable hands.”
This was alarming. So alarming that Lesley straightened from his studied slouch to sit bolt upright in his chair. It was one thing to allow their mother to rule in domestic affairs, but quite another to give a female, even one so sensible as Eugenia Earnshaw, control of the family capital. It simply was not done.
“What in blazes,” Lesley cried, “has taken possession of Charles?”
“Roman ruins and antiquities, I believe.” Her Grace shrugged dismissively. “He blathered on and on about them in his last letter to me. He is apparently quite consumed.”
And so would he be, Lesley realized, in his mother’s snare, if his plan to turn Amanda Gilbertson’s affections failed. But it would not, for it was flawless in its simplicity, as perfectly thought out, he realized—with a burst of admiration for her cleverness—as the parson’s mousetrap his mother had baited for him.
Still, it wouldn’t do to give over without at least a semblance of opposition. Ergo, he surged to his feet, gasping in mid-spring, falling heavily upon his stick, and grasping the back of his left leg. Though one eyebrow notched upward a fraction, Her Grace was otherwise unmoved by the clutch of pain which he’d practiced, he’d thought to perfection, before his mirror that morning.
“Were I the eldest, I could understand your eagerness to see me wed,” he declared. “Which prompts me to ask why you are actively seeking to see me leg-shackled rather than His Dottiness?”
The duchess went rigid with renewed fury in her chair. “How dare you refer to your brother by that name in my presence!”
“Oh, damn and blast it, Mother!” Lesley shouted, the temper he’d inherited from his parent exploding along with hers. “According to Teddy, everyone calls Charles His Dottiness! This can hardly be the first you’ve heard it!”
“Do not swear in my house!” the duchess cried. “And no, it’s not the first I’ve heard it, but I am shocked to hear it from your lips! And I’ll thank you to keep Charles, who has nothing at all to do with anything, out of this!”
“Oh, but he does, Mother,” Lesley countered, “for Hawksley calling Charles His Dottiness is the reason I called him out!”
The duchess’s green eyes widened in surprise. “Teddy did not tell me that.”
Lesley was certain there was a great deal more Teddy hadn’t told her; such as finding him at Madame Sophia’s masquerade, for one, but he wouldn’t betray the little scamp to their mother, even to wiggle himself off her hook. Not, of course, that Teddy didn’t deserve it.
For in retrospect it had occurred to Lesley that last evening’s fiasco was—indirectly, at least—all Teddy’s fault. If he hadn’t been at Madame’s in the first place, if he hadn’t insisted Lesley don that damned silly mask to hide his identity from the Runners ... Oh, well, it was done, and the best he could hope now was that Teddy had kept mum about the particulars of his escape.
His mother had said nothing about the fire in the garden or discovering his bewitching little assailant under the beech tree with her so-called brother, and though Lesley longed to ask her name and direction—just out of curiosity, of course, to see if her hair really was that lustrous shade of burnished red in daylight—he didn’t dare.
Much as he regretted leaving her to face certain censure, he was still convinced that admitting his presence in the garden would only complicate her predicament. He trusted his mother’s silence meant she’d given a believable account of herself; still, whoever she was, she was a lady of Quality, and it was hardly an honorable thing he’d done abandoning her. He felt ashamed reliving his vault over the wall, but knew he’d already said too much in revealing the circumstances that had landed him in Regent’s Park with a rapier in his hand.
Falling back on his wounded war hero pose, he rubbed at his leg and hobbled a bit as he reseated himself. His mother, he noted, remained nonplused.
“If you must know,” she said, her composure recollected, “I’ve quite given up on Charles. I’ve worn myself thin throwing marriageable young ladies at his head to no avail. He is three and thirty, and quite hopelessly confirmed, I’m convinced, in crusty bachelorhood. How I raised such a reclusive and scholarly son I can’t think, other than to own I somehow failed miserably in his upbringing.”
“Fustian, Mother,” Lesley said mildly. “You’ve never given up on anything. You quite reformed our father, who was the Terror of the Ton until you set your cap for him and tamed him.”
“I was young then,” she replied, “young enough to believe anything was possible, but age has since taught me otherwise. I’ve neither the time nor the patience to reform Charles. I’m tired, Lesley. I long for my dower house with its rose garden and little village closeby.” Her Grace sighed heavily, then fixed a determined look on him. “I’m also sick to death of hearing my eldest son called His Dottiness, Teddy referred to as a Master Jackanapes, and you hailed far and wide as a rakehell.”
This, too, was fustian, and Lesley wasn’t fooled by it. His mother, who thrived on the frantic pace of London, would go mad within a fortnight surrounded by roses and country squires.
“Captain Rakehell,” he pronounced, his voice slow and bemusedly thoughtful. “Has rather a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
The duchess again stiffened in her chair. “Does that mean you’ve made your choice?”
“No, dear, it does not,” he sighed, deciding the time had come to capitulate. “I really have no choice, do I? I was merely daydreaming aloud.”
A brilliant smile of triumph lit his mother’s face. “A wise decision,” she pronounced approvingly, “one which assures me that you are, thank God, more sensible than your behavior last night might otherwise indicate.”
“Yes, well,” Lesley replied uncomfortably, again reminded of his ungentlemanly conduct. “I wouldn’t congratulate myself on total victory just yet, if I were you. Though you have me flanked and my supply line cut, the enemy has yet to accept your terms.”
“The enemy?” Her Grace queried, trying to look puzzled but not quite managing it. “I wish you wouldn’t use military terms, Lesley, for you know I’ve no head for war.”
“Fustian, Mother,” he said again. “You’re a consummate strategist. Had you been born a man, I’m certain you would have been at the Duke’s right hand at Waterloo.”
“If you’re referring to the Lady Amanda,” the duchess replied, raising an eyebrow but otherwise letting his comment pass, “then I can assure you your proposal will be accepted.”
; “Are you so certain? Have neither you nor Lord Hampton considered the possibility that his daughter and I may simply not suit?”
“Of course you will suit,” Her Grace retorted swiftly. “Why wouldn’t you? You’ve known each other all your lives, and Amanda holds you in great affection.”
Bloody hell, swore Lesley under his breath, closely watching his mother’s face for a sign of hesitancy or doubt. But there was none, not the tiniest qualm in her voice or expression. Teddy had apparently told the truth, he thought, and decided—without pausing to consider that his mother was as gifted a teller of half-truths as he—that he would have to lay it on very thick indeed with the Gilbertson chit.
“Well, yes, that’s true,” he granted with another sigh. “I reckon we can manage to deal together well enough. So long as you don’t expect me to act the devoted husband.”
“That’s not a question you should ask of me,” Her Grace replied with a twinkling and knowing half smile, “but rather of Amanda.”
“I suppose so,” Lesley agreed glumly, and got stiffly to his feet. “Very well, Mother. You may summon the hangman.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“So sorry. I meant to say send a notice to the Times.”
Her Grace laughed gaily, the shining smile on her still lovely face. Though her obvious relish of her victory pricked Lesley’s pride, he knew her triumph would be brief, and so chose to let her enjoy it while she could.
“You are merely being married,” she said, “not murdered.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Just like your father.” Her Grace tsked at him fondly, then grew thoughtful. “Lady Cottingham’s ball is two days hence. I shall, of course, expect you to escort Amanda. And you will, in the interim, have ample time to present yourself to her and to Lord Hampton.”
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