Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes

by Maya Rodale

  In which they are discovered.

  The hour is late

  There was a commotion during intermission. At first Amelia thought it was the natural movements and shuffling of people taking advantage of the break to step outside or procure a beverage. But she heard a certain hum of people murmuring. There was even a stir in the aristocratic occupants of the boxes high above it all.

  Curious as anyone else, Amelia turned. She saw a familiar figure cutting through the crowd. One who was beyond out of place here. One she could not fathom had any business in this place. Yet there he was—impeccably tailored, expression inscrutable—heading directly her way.

  Lord Darcy.

  He was otherwise known as Dreadful Darcy, according to her sister Bridget’s diary, which Amelia read faithfully each day. Bridget was in love with Darcy’s brother, Rupert, who hadn’t kissed her yet, and she had an ongoing list of Things She Disliked About Lord Darcy.

  There was much to dislike about him; he was the perfectly turned out, exceedingly proper, high and mighty aristocrat who embodied the haute ton’s opinion of the American Cavendishes. Which is to say, he didn’t think very highly of their family at all.

  All of which begged the question of what he was doing here and why he seemed to making a beeline for her.

  Amelia turned away, ducked her head.

  “We have to leave. Immediately.”

  “Why? Are you not enjoying the performance?”

  “We’re about to be discovered.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “My unladylike thoughts exactly.”

  Alistair protectively wrapped his arm around her as they threaded their way through the crowd toward the nearest exit. But the force of all the people moving and churning through the space was too much and in a split second, they were separated.

  She looked around frantically, not seeing him anywhere. Amelia wanted to call out for him, but thought better of drawing attention to herself as a lone female, lost in a crowd. She moved toward the exit, hoping they might connect there.

  But then she encountered an obstacle: one in a silk waistcoat and starched cravat with a perfectly tailored jacket.

  Reluctantly she lifted her eyes and confirmed her worst suspicion. Darcy. Here. Staring down at her. One look at his expression and she didn’t even consider pretending not to recognize him.

  “Lord Darcy! What brings you here?”

  “Would you believe me if I said the theater?” he asked dryly. Of course she would not believe him. Her heart started pounding. But he couldn’t be here for her, could he? That was absurd. It would suggest an intimacy between their families that she hadn’t been aware of. It would mean that she was in unfathomable amounts of trouble. Oh, God, and who else knew?

  “You are not known for enjoying amusements,” she replied, trying to be lighthearted, as if this really wasn’t such a big deal at all.

  “You agree, then, that I have another reason to be here,” Darcy said. He had this way of speaking that just dared her to challenge him and yet she found herself tongue-tied and unable to defy him. “Specifically here, in the pit, and not up in the box I usually reserve.”

  Neither one of them dared to lift their faces in the direction of the private boxes above.

  “It is quite altogether a different theatrical experience when one . . .” Her voice trailed off when she saw that he wasn’t paying attention. In fact, he was looking at something, someone, just over her shoulder. He was looking with something like surprise, and perhaps anger.

  “Finlay-Jones,” he said flatly.

  “I’ll be damned. Darcy.”

  Alistair came to stand beside her.

  It wasn’t awkward at all.

  Very well, it was tremendously awkward.

  Amelia watched as the two men had some sort of moment in which some information was surely communicated via inscrutable male faces, but was absolutely not articulated. She did not understand. Did they even know each other?

  “Are you two acquainted?”

  “Yes.”

  Both men spoke at the same time.

  “So Alistair Finlay-Jones is your real name,” she said with no small measure of relief.

  “It is,” both men said at the same time. There had been a nagging suspicion that something was not quite right. But if she knew his name, his real name, then maybe everything was fine. She would have a chance of finding him again.

  “Who would lie about their name?” Darcy asked, confused.

  “Certainly not I, Miss Amy Dish.”

  She gave Darcy a pointed look. He gave no indication that he caught her meaning. No wonder Bridget found him exasperating.

  “How are you acquainted?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “School friends,” Alistair explained.

  “What a small world,” she remarked. She should have figured that all the English lords went to the same school. After all, they belonged to the same club, attended the same parties, etc., etc. . . .

  Gah. They knew each other. Her mind reeled with the implications of this—what it meant with regards to Alistair’s status and what it meant for her.

  For them.

  The likelihood of meeting again.

  It was hard not to think of the words marriage or special license or outrageous scandal.

  But it was hard to get a thought to stick when Darcy was looking at them, radiating disapproval.

  “I am shocked to find you both here,” he said, glancing from one to the other. “Together.”

  There was nothing to say to that.

  “I suppose you have come to take Miss Dish back to school,” Alistair said smoothly. Had Darcy been less Darcy his lips would have twitched at the ridiculousness of her fake name, her fake life. But he gave no indication of being even the slightest bit amused by the situation.

  “Right.” Of course, Darcy wouldn’t correct Alistair’s assumptions, so as to protect her reputation.

  “What if Miss Dish is not yet ready to return?” Amelia asked. “We are only at intermission and I wish to see how the play ends.”

  “I think we can all agree that you have seen enough,” Darcy said flatly.

  Amelia turned to Alistair. Surely he wanted just a few more precious moments together. He held her gaze for a moment. A long moment of gazing into his dark brown eyes. She didn’t like what she saw. He was letting her go. He was setting her free.

  Whatever this was, it was over.

  She liked what he had to say even less. “He is right. You should go with him.”

  Just like that . . . you should go. I’ll just pass you off to another man as if I didn’t claim you for myself just this afternoon. As if we didn’t fall half in love. As if it were just one and only one perfect day, and that’s all.

  She waited a moment—a long, endlessly excruciating moment—for him to say something about seeing her again or simply, Fear not, this day meant something to me, too. But no, he said nothing.

  Amelia felt something rising up in her throat; she swallowed and fought to keep control of her voice. After all they had experienced together today, all he had to say was You should go with him?

  “So this is how it ends.”

  “No,” he said softly, daring to lightly caress her cheek under the pretense of pushing one wayward curl aside. “This is just the intermission.”

  In which our heroine has a heart-to-heart with the most unlikely gentleman.

  The hour is even later

  Amelia had to admit it was a relief to sink into the plush upholstery of Darcy’s carriage after a long day on her feet. Why, she and Alistair must have walked from one end of London and back again. Darcy sat beside her in the curricle and picked up the reigns. Then they were off, through the city streets, on her way home.

  She found her guidebook on the seat. She recognized the dog-eared pages and leather cover and the gold engraving of the title: Burton’s Guide to London.

  “What is this doing here?”

  “Lady Bridget
left it behind,” he replied, much to her surprise.

  “Bridget was here?”

  “Yes.”

  “With you?” Amelia fully turned in her seat to face him. Darcy sat still, facing straight ahead.

  “Yes.”

  “Just the two of you?” She did not attempt to hide her intrigue. Bridget hated Darcy. She wrote extensively about it in her diary.

  “Yes. Lady Amelia—”

  “Just the two of you? Alone? Without a chaperone?”

  Amelia gaped at him. Darcy. And Bridget. Who would have thought? Amelia was about to question him further, but figured she would get much more information from reading Bridget’s diary in the morning.

  “I daresay you are not in a position to judge others about the presence of a chaperone, or lack thereof,” he replied in that haughty way of his before changing the subject. “Everyone has been searching for you all day. Discreetly, of course.”

  Amelia flipped through the guidebook, noting all the pages she’d folded down and the sights she’d circled with ambitions to see them. It was clever of them to use this to track her down. Or perhaps it wasn’t clever; perhaps her family just knew her so well.

  That brought a lump to her throat.

  Now that she was away from Alistair, away from that spell he cast over her—to be fair, one she most certainly welcomed and encouraged—she remembered her family. It felt like years—decades, even—since she had seen them. And in all of her two and twenty years, she had never spent this much time apart from them.

  “Your family is very worried about you,” Darcy said, which she knew to be true, but it made her feel guilty to hear him say it. “Gravely worried.”

  “I know,” she muttered. Then she braced herself for a lecture, because Darcy seemed like the lecturing sort, and he delivered.

  “Yet you stayed away for the better part of a day, without sending word. You have taken incredible risks with your own safety, your reputation, and the reputation of your family. That is remarkably careless, foolish, and inconsiderate behavior on your part. I would expect better of you, Lady Amelia.”

  Well, Darcy did not disappoint on the lecturing front.

  And she knew all those things. She wasn’t an idiot. But she had for one day managed to push it all aside because . . .

  “I wanted to do something for myself,” she said softly. “Just once I wanted to do what I wished and not give a care for what anyone thought. Just once I wanted to have a day of fun and adventure instead of stupid morning calls in the afternoon and changing my dress three times and attending the same old parties with the same old people. I wanted a day for myself. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Darcy wasn’t an idiot and thus didn’t ask what she meant by that. He was Noble Duty To Others personified.

  “I do understand,” he said, in a voice full of feeling, which surprised her. “In fact, I understand completely. Perhaps more than you will ever know.”

  This shocked her and she turned once again to look at the man beside her, trying to reconcile this calm and understanding man with the heartless snob she read about in Bridget’s diary.

  “But aren’t you going to tell me that I am horribly selfish? That I should sacrifice my happiness for others? Aren’t I going to receive a longer lecture?”

  “For all that you have made foolish decisions, I do think you are aware of the fact,” he said. “Besides, I suspect the duchess will do a far better job of it than I.”

  “I suspect I shall confirm that shortly,” she muttered. When no other lecture seemed to be forthcoming from Darcy, Amelia turned her thoughts to Alistair. His eyes. His lips. The way he touched her. Their perfect day.

  And the uncertainty of what would happen next.

  “About Mr. Finlay-Jones,” she said. Beside her, Darcy nodded. “You know him.”

  “I do.” When Darcy was not forthcoming with any other information, Amelia prompted him. “Well? Is he a terrible scoundrel? A villain with nefarious intentions?”

  “Do villains ever have intentions that aren’t nefarious?”

  “That is an excellent point. But do answer the question. Have I . . .” She paused, struggling to find precisely the right words . . . have I . . . fallen in love with . . . given myself to . . . She gulped. “Have I spent the day with a villain?”

  “No.”

  “So Alistair Finlay-Jones is his real name, he has spent six years on the Continent, and he is not a villain?”

  “True, true, and true.”

  “Well that is something at least.”

  But she was not consoled. Now that she thought about it, she knew so little of him: he had business with his uncle, but who was his uncle and what had transpired between them? What did one do on the Continent for six years and why would one stay away for so long?

  She knew how he tasted, what his fingers felt like entwined with hers, and that she could be herself with him. It had seemed so important hours ago, but now she wondered if she had risked her reputation and future on a man based on something as little as how he kissed.

  There was so much more to know about him. And yet, he had said nothing of another opportunity with which she might discover it.

  “I have known him to be a gentleman,” Darcy added. She noted the past tense. Then Darcy coughed awkwardly and asked, “Do I need to revise my opinion?”

  Then she blushed furiously. Never in a million years did Amelia ever imagine that she would be having this conversation with this man.

  “Lord Darcy, are you very politely inquiring if you need to duel on behalf of my honor?”

  In the dim light of a passing gas lamp, she saw him redden slightly.

  “Either way, you will have to marry him,” Darcy pointed out. “The duchess was surely hoping for a more prestigious match, but if today’s events are discovered, you will be ruined. Your whole family’s reputation will be tarnished. That is, unless you marry.”

  But Alistair thought her Miss Amy Dish, student at a finishing school that didn’t exist. He wouldn’t be able to find her.

  Or would he? She glanced at Darcy—her one connection to Alistair. Darcy could certainly find him and ensure that they were wed, whether they wanted to or not, just so they could avoid a scandal.

  Whether she was ready for that monumental step or not. Yes, she ought to have considered this earlier, etc., etc. . . . but it was only now that she dared to really consider it.

  What a terrifying prospect. Marriage. Forever. She wasn’t sure she wished to marry, ever.

  “Those aren’t good enough reasons to promise a lifetime to someone,” she said stubbornly. It was certainly more complicated than that, but she didn’t want to think about it now. She didn’t want to be pushed into the Right Thing or the Done Thing. She had meant it when she said she had no intention of marrying. But if she did . . .

  “Oh? Than what is?”

  “Love, Lord Darcy.”

  “Do you not love him?”

  “We have known each other but one day,” she pointed out, not ready to declare her new, half-blossomed love to Darcy, of all people.

  “Much can happen in one day,” he said thoughtfully, and upon that they could agree.

  Chapter 14

  In which our heroine returns to the bosom of her family.

  Nearly midnight

  Finally, Durham House came into view. The stately mansion rose up against the night sky, nearly every window lit from within. Amelia recalled her impression upon first seeing the house: nothing so grand and palatial could ever be a home. And yet, the people she loved most in the world where behind those walls, sitting vigil by the candlelight, waiting for her.

  At Amelia’s request, Darcy waited in the carriage while she alighted.

  She paused, there, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, facing that house, and everything it represented. Shoes that pinched, tightly laced corset, riding sidesaddle at a walk instead of riding astride and galloping on horseback. Reputations and polite conversation a
bout the weather. Footmen in matching livery and multiple forks at every meal. Mean-spirited cartoons about her when she got it all wrong. Marriages for the sake of reputation, not love.

  She vowed that she would not return for that.

  Amelia was returning for her family. Because she loved them and because she had put them through enough worry. Because she had spent the day with someone who didn’t seem to have much family of his own, for better or for worse.

  And because, though she belonged with them, she might belong with Alistair too, and how to reconcile all this belonging was something to sort out in the morning.

  With love for her family firmly in her heart, Amelia knocked on the door.

  Pendleton opened it, and gave no indication that her homecoming nearly four and twenty hours after her disappearance was anything remarkable. But that was an English butler for you.

  Once he saw that she had returned home safely, Darcy nodded in the darkness and drove off. And within seconds of stepping into the foyer, her siblings were rushing toward her.

  “Where the hell have you been?” James demanded. But his voice was muffled by her hair, as he pulled her into a fierce embrace.

  “What did you do to your hair?” That was Bridget.

  “Do you have any idea how worried we were?” That was Claire.

  Before Amelia could reply she was engulfed in the fierce and loving embrace from all of them, all at once.

  They finally stepped back and parted, revealing the duchess standing in the doorway between the drawing room and the foyer. Her spine was erect, and her eyes were bright. She smiled, revealing relief.

  “Really, where have you been?” James demanded, slightly shaking her. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  For once in her life, Amelia found herself at a loss for words. Her brother looked so worried, and dare she say it, older than he did yesterday, undoubtedly because of her.

  She did feel guilty. Now, especially.

  And yet her day with Alistair was hers. She had no wish to share it and have her memories picked over by others or to be chastised for all the perfect little moments of the day. She wanted to preserve the memory of the happy day.

  “I’ve been out. Exploring.”