by Maya Rodale
Even if word got out about their escapade, and they married, they were both too far on the fringes of society to be fully accepted.
Best. Behavior.
Thus, at the ball tonight, she smiled the appropriate amount—somewhere in the middle of gargoyle and simpering idiot miss. She kept herself fully attired, including satin shoes and the hair ribbon her maid had used to style her hair. And when one Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones bowed and asked her to dance, she said yes.
Actually, she said, “I suppose,” while holding out her hand. The prospect of dancing with him inspired a tumultuous mix of feelings: anger at his deception, but longing to be close to him again; wanting to deliver a devastating setdown, but fear that it would provoke him into blackmailing her; wanting to refuse to make a point, but determination to be on her best behavior.
“Your enthusiasm makes my heart skip a beat,” he remarked dryly. “You can always say no.”
“Actually I cannot,” she confided. She leaned into him so he might hear when she spoke softly. And also so that she might breathe him in. “Tonight I am trying to be on my best behavior.”
Alistair chuckled and then swept her into his arms for a waltz.
“Why the devil would you want to do that?” Alistair asked, gazing down at her. She pursed her lips.
“You wouldn’t believe it, but there is this threat of a terrific scandal hanging over my head.”
“What sort of scoundrel would do such a thing?”
“You tell me.” She gazed up into those dark eyes of his.
“I would never.”
“Never?” She echoed. But there had been something in the paper that morning . . . “And what of your uncle?”
“My uncle, who believes that he is the one to introduce us?”
She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Are you saying that we are the only ones who know?”
They were the only ones who knew. So many secrets, large and small, just between the two of them. So many little moments of understanding and intimacy.
Alistair smiled at murmured, “Know what?”
She was enchanted for a moment, before she realized he must not have read the newspaper that morning then.
Alistair had persuaded her to dance with him, and it had felt right to hold her in his arms. With her, he was surprised to find that he felt like less of an outsider at ton functions. He was reluctant to part from her.
A short while later, they stood off to the side of the ballroom, trying to avoid the crush. A footman passed by with a tray full of glasses.
“Champagne?” Alistair offered.
“No thank you,” Amelia demurred. “After the gossips noted that I had been quaffing an excessive quantity of champagne, I’d better restrain myself. If they had said sipping, that would have been one thing. But quaffing! I was informed in no uncertain terms that proper young ladies do not quaff anything.”
Alistair sipped his champagne and gazed down at her, mildly amused and very impressed. This was the girl who once ran through the rain and danced around his kitchen wearing his breeches.
“You really are determined to behave.”
“I am,” she said sadly. “’Tis a mighty struggle that pales in comparison to any challenges Hercules faced.”
Alistair leaned down and whispered in her ear. “I love it when you misbehave.”
He was rewarded with a blush across her skin.
“I bet you do,” she murmured, snapping her fan open to cover her pink cheeks.
“You seem warm,” he couldn’t resist pointing out, and she scowled. “I suppose I cannot persuade you to join me for air on the terrace?”
“Are you trying to compromise me?”
Subtlety is overrated indeed. How many maidens would have protected their virtue if they’d only just asked such a question?
“Quite the opposite. I’m trying to woo you.”
Subtlety indeed.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” Amelia chided him. “For I do like to be contrary. Just to be contrary.”
“How charming.”
“Not according to my siblings. I have been told that it is a horrible defect of my character.”
“Are you trying to scare me away, Lady Amelia? Because it’s not working.”
“I’m merely trying to scare you into keeping our secret. After all, who wishes to find themselves saddled with a contrary wife?”
He didn’t hear the phrase contrary wife so much as our secret. Their day together was this thing that hung in the air between them. It had brought them together—just as he had predicted, it did distinguish him from all the other fortune hunters in the room. But he had not anticipated that it would keep them apart. She feared being forced into a marriage to a man who had lied to her. In fact, he had the distinct impression that she was just making nice so that he wouldn’t reveal the secret.
He hated that.
He could not fault her for that.
But he also could not deny how he ached for her. He’d been all over the world but only she made him feel right, complete, and at home. Even if she was contrary. Maybe he wanted contrary. Maybe he wanted someone who challenged him and tugged him out of the fog he’d been living in the past six years and into the sunlight.
“Your secrets are safe with me,” he said softly as he strolled with her in the direction of the terrace.
“Are they?” There was no hiding the skepticism in her voice and in her expression as she peered up at him. She had every reason to doubt him because he had so much to gain from revealing her secret—or threatening to do so. “And what of your secrets? I should like to have one. Then we’ll be even.”
He took her arm and guided her out to the terrace. It was hardly the desolate, romantic spot he hoped for. More than a few guests had escaped the suffocating heat of the ballroom for the cool night air.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he confided and her eyes sparkled in anticipation. “I once spent the day gallivanting around London with a runaway heiress.”
“I already know that one.” She scowled.
“But I want you to know that no one else does.”
“Oh, I know that they don’t know. For if they did, I would not be at this ball. Instead I would be locked away in a tower, at a monastery, on a remote island. But I want to know about you, Mr. Finlay-Jones. Whose funeral?”
The words blindsided him. One second they were flirting at a ball, like any other young couple. The next, she was casually inquiring about the most devastating incident of his life.
Alistair didn’t want to talk about it. He never did. He struggled to remember Elliot, alive. Not the wretched aftermath. And he certainly did not make a habit of trotting out his Secret Pain so that he might elicit sympathy from women.
His instinct was to say nothing. But Alistair thought of soft pale skin and sweet, passionate kisses. He thought of her boundless enthusiasm and the wonderful but maddening excitement of not knowing what would come next with her. Then he thought of losing her. He thought that since she had trusted him with a massive secret, then perhaps he could open up to her and share his.
He found the words.
“My cousin, Elliot. Wrotham’s son.” As if that explained anything. “I should add that he was nothing like Wrotham.”
“Your grief makes more sense then.”
His grief still made it hard to breathe and made it hard to get the words out. But for her . . .
For Amelia he would try.
“He was my cousin. My best friend. My only true family—I lost my parents at a young age. And then Elliot died too. It was a carriage race. We were racing. There was an accident and I survived and he didn’t. So you see, Amelia, I’m all alone in the world. Except for Wrotham.”
“That is the saddest thing I have ever heard,” she said softly. She reached out to touch his arm affectionately, consolingly. He wanted to say something about how opening the door to see her in his home was the happiest moment, how he longed to wake up beside her. But then . . .
“Oh God, it’s working!” she lamented. “It turns out I am one of those females whose hearts are softened by stories of tragic pasts and secret pain.” She glanced up at him. “I’m sorry, that is a horribly insensitive thing to say.”
For a moment, he was not sure how to respond.
“I lost my cat when I was a young boy of eight,” Alistair said, finally. “A young orphan boy alone in a foreign county. Tip Toes was just a kitten. I sobbed for days.”
“Stop.” Amelia made a choking sound. Was it laughter? Or was she crying? She was holding on to him now, leaning in close. He felt her breasts brush against his arm. Relating tales of woe was indeed a promising way to woo reluctant females. Damn if he had only known it sooner.
“And my dog—” He added.
“Oh, don’t say anything tragic about a dog!” She wailed and then she was pounding against his chest with her little fists. He caught her wrists. Gazes locked.
They burst into laughter, drawing looks from other guests on the terrace.
When no one was looking, he stepped back and tugged her with him. They slipped around the corner, into an alcove, where it was quiet and dim. There were things he wanted to say to her with the hopes that she might understand him and forgive him.
“I have known pain. And loss. And grief. And then there is you . . .”
“It was just one day.” She tried to sound flippant.
“The best day,” he said earnestly.
“I’m so mad at you for your deception, Alistair. And I’m so angry with myself for believing in you. And I’m so distressed because it ruins the memory of that one perfect day.”
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “But I am not sorry for what we did that day.”
And then, after a long moment of silence, she said, “I can’t say I’m sorry either.”
It wasn’t clear whose lips found whose. One moment they were whispering and gazing into each other’s eyes and the next . . . sparks gave way to a slow smolder. He tasted, she yielded, and then they switched, a delicate back and forth of wanting, having, craving, knowing. Always, always that feeling of connection and belonging he had sought for so long. It was here, in her arms, his lips against hers. It was a sensation so intoxicating it could make a man forget everything.
Except . . .
“Wait. Stop.” He jerked back. He whispered an explanation: “I don’t want us to get caught.”
He braced himself, waiting for a well-deserved, mocking comment: Are you sure about that? But there was none forthcoming from her lips, reddened from his kiss.
“When I marry you, I want it to be because you choose me,” Alistair added. He still wanted the baron’s approval. But he also wanted a life with Amelia. He wanted Amelia to choose him, flaws and all. He wanted to have it all.
“Then we had better return to the ballroom before anyone notices we are missing.”
No one noticed they were missing. This time.
In which siblings are exasperating.
Later that evening
Whether in America or in England, the Cavendish siblings had a habit of congregating in Claire’s bedroom late at night just to talk. Bridget, Amelia, and Claire snuggled up in her large, four-poster bed. James pulled up a chair.
They had all survived another ball, in which, miraculously, nothing of note happened. There were no faux pas or scandals. Amelia had been on her best behavior. There had been no removal of shoes or other attire. She had not quaffed, sipped, or imbibed champagne. She had danced and conversed amiably about the weather. She’d been perfect.
Except for that one stolen kiss that had her reconsidering the virtues of being virtuous (she decided that, like subtlety, it was overrated). It was a kiss that had ended too soon.
She’d been left breathless and wanting more.
No one had noticed. The kiss, that is. Not that she was left breathless and wanting.
This was for the best. She couldn’t help but marvel that Alistair had her in a perfect trap. He had lured her away, kissed her senseless, and anyone could have seen. He could have easily arranged for them to be discovered.
But he didn’t.
It almost made her think that she could trust him after all.
“So, Amelia, did you enjoy the ball this evening?” Claire asked. It was an innocent question, but one look at her sister and she saw the sly insinuation in her eyes. What had Claire seen?
“Of course not,” Amelia grumbled, lying. “I never do. Social affairs bore me to tears.”
“How funny,” Claire mused. “Because you seemed to have a lovely time. I saw you dancing, and conversing and taking air on the terrace . . .”
Amelia took a moment to grumble over perspicacious older sisters.
“You mean that she didn’t cause a scandal,” Bridget said. “For which I am so glad.”
“Yes, I kept my dress on and everything,” Amelia retorted.
“No, I mean that she spent most of the evening in the company of Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones,” Claire said.
Another moment lamenting perspicacious sisters was had.
“Was he the one you spent the day with?” Bridget asked, nudging her.
“I told you a thousand times, I’m not talking about That Day.”
That Day was hers and hers alone. She cherished those memories of following her whims, roaming all over the city and finally feeling fully alive. And then there were the intimate, quiet moments in Alistair’s flat where she lost herself but found him. No, these weren’t things she wished to talk about with people who weren’t there. Who weren’t Alistair.
But that didn’t stop her siblings from pestering her for details. Amelia didn’t blame them for it; she would have done the same.
“At any rate, he is clearly in love with her,” Claire said with such assurance.
“Not exactly,” Amelia said. “He is only courting me for my dowry at the behest of his uncle, who is an old toad.”
“To hell with fortune hunters,” James grumbled. Amelia concurred.
“I met the uncle and he is an old toad,” Bridget concurred. “His wife—his young—wife is quite nice though.”
“We are not talking about some toady old baron and the young lady with the misfortune to be wed to him,” Claire said. “We are talking about the young, handsome nephew who is in love with our sister. It’s so very clear from the way he looks at you . . .”
“Can we not discuss men looking lustily at my sisters?” James said, pulling a face.
“I’m not betting my entire future on the way a man looks at me,” Amelia said.
And that was the crux of it. She thought she and Alistair had shared something like love, something true and genuine and beautiful. But he’d had an ulterior motive with her from the beginning and had lied about it. So how was she supposed to trust him now? How were they even to have a happy life together if they wed only because of a looming scandal?
Every day that details of their exploits did not appear in the papers made her trust him a little more. Yes, there had been that vague mention, but it had clearly been reported by Lady B, whoever she was, and there wasn’t enough information to compromise her.
He had stopped the kiss.
He had kept their secret.
He courted her, like a proper gentleman.
Every day that he courted her anyway, every kiss that wasn’t discovered, made her fall for him a little more.
“But you admit he looks at you like he loves you?” Claire persisted.
Amelia mumbled something, again, about nagging older sisters.
Because yes, he looked at her like he was undressing her, pulling away one layer after another to reveal the woman underneath. And yes, he gazed at her with love and lust so plain she felt it warming her from the inside out.
“Why don’t you just marry him already?” James asked, a bit exasperated with the conversation. “That’ll be one sister off my hands.”
Amelia had to laugh a little. Her sisters would spend an hou
r at midnight dissecting how a man might look at her, but James cut right to the heart of the matter.
“I’m not certain I trust his motives,” Amelia said. And the sword of scandal hanging over her head did put a damper on romance. “I need someone to love me, for me, and not just my dowry. Because, you know, I can be difficult sometimes.”
“Oh no,” Claire said. But her lips were twitching with the effort to hide a smile.
“Occasionally I can be contrary.”
“Never say,” James deadpanned.
“And I sulk if I don’t get my way.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Bridget asked, giving in to giggles.
“What if I am too hard to love?” Amelia cried.
Ugh, she hadn’t meant to say that! She didn’t even know where the words had come from. It wasn’t a conscious thought but just a feeling that had been lurking inside. But now that she gave voice to it, everything made sense.
She couldn’t believe that Alistair could really truly love her. Because she was contrary, difficult, sulky, trouble . . . all those things. And she had a fortune that his uncle wanted. This was not a recipe for happy ever after.
But as soon as she said the words, her siblings dispelled the notion.
“Never that, Amelia,” Bridget said sweetly, as Claire pulled her into her arms for a hug.
“If you were so hard to love,” James pointed out, “would we really have put up with you all these years?” He lifted his brow, questioning.
“We could have left you in America,” Bridget said, clasping her hand. “But we didn’t.”
“We were never going to leave you,” Claire said. “Don’t listen to her.”
“We love you, Amelia, even though you cause trouble,” James said. “And we Cavendishes stick together, even when it’s hard to do so.”
And that was the other thing: For all that her siblings vexed her, she was dismayed at the prospect of being separated from them, dismayed at losing this. If she married—if they married—there wouldn’t be any more of this.