Lady Agatha touched her mop of curls tinted an improbable gold color. “That’s me, generous to a fault. You may repay me by marrying well.”
A frisson of alarm skittered down her spine. “My lady?”
Lady Agatha sat up and fixed her beady gaze on her. “My boon companion, Maria, and I have something of a wager. She insists she can make a superior match with her charge. Because the girl has an ample dowry, she thinks she can puff her off to a duke.”
Alarm mushroomed into panic. Amaryllis worried that her rate of breathing might soon match the wheezing of the dogs.
“She won’t be able to compete with your looks, however. I had a notion Sinclair’s daughter might be a diamond of the first water. Your mama was a reigning belle of London in her day.”
“Thank you,” Amaryllis said faintly.
“And the icing on the cake will be the tidy dot I’ll settle on you if you do as I say. No one will be able to say you don’t have a dowry.” She peered closely at her face. “You don’t, do you? Poor as a church mouse, hey?”
“No dowry, my lady.”
She leaned back, seeming satisfied. “Well, we’ll put a spoke in Maria’s wheel this very night. Colette, my maid, will be able to alter something. I took the liberty of choosing a few gowns for you. That’s me, generous to a fault. Now off with you.”
A petite woman entered the room, with dark hair, darker eyes, and sallow skin.
“Go with Colette. She’s French, so ignore her prattle.”
Amaryllis rose from the couch and swallowed. “Am I to understand we are to attend an event this eve, my lady?”
Lady Agatha turned to her, her face an angry purple. “Now didn’t I just say that?”
“I had thought to rest after my journey from Dorset—”
“Pah! There’s no time to be wasted. You ain’t one of those milk-and-water misses, are you?”
“No, my lady,” she said with an inward sigh.
“Good. Now show your appreciation by going with Colette. Make haste, girl! There’s a wager to be won!”
“A curse on all these newfangled ways to tie a cravat!” Lord Matthew Leighton snarled, tearing the offending garment from his neck and tossing it onto the floor where several others lay piled in a heap.
He heard his friend, the Honorable Peregrine Haddon—Perry to his friends—chuckle from where he sat in the corner of the bedchamber.
“Faith, I’ve never seen you in such a pother. Surely you don’t suffer from a case of the nerves. This is hardly your first ball!”
Matthew peered at his expression in the cheval glass and wondered if his plan to appear as a fop was worth the effort. His dark hair had been teased so high he resembled a Friesland hen. His face still bore marks from the recent scrubbing he’d given it after deciding he couldn’t bring himself to wear paint.
Matthew wrinkled his nose at the pungent musky cologne with which he’d liberally doused himself, and the lurid red-and-magenta stripes of his waistcoat made him cringe. His brown-eyed reflection stared back at him as if he’d gone mad.
Maybe I have.
“Tonight’s ball,” he said evenly, “is my first since the lengthy convalescence from my leg wound at Salamanca. Naturally, I want to look my best.”
Perry scoffed good-naturedly. “What I think is now that you hold the title of viscount, you plan revenge on all those debs who ignored you when you had no money.”
“Now, Perry,” Matthew said with a note of sarcasm in his voice, “you know I would never stoop to such levels. I am rather too bookish, too religious a man, to involve myself in such a Machiavellian scheme.”
“Much to the dismay of those pretty señoritas who plied for your attention back in Spain. I wish I’d garnered such attention, but I possess neither your figure nor your fortune.”
“Spare my blushes, Perry,” he said, glancing at his rather chubby friend. Perry had round blue eyes and a mop of black curls. “You’re well enough in your own way. And it goes to prove the fickle, petty snobbery of London females. They pass over a heart of gold for some old lecher with moneybags. Or in my case, ignore the fact that I had to bear the loss of my father and brother to get the title, never mind that I’m barely out of mourning. To the fairer sex, I’m nothing more than a means to an end. It’s enough to send me back to the fighting.”
“It’s the way of the world, Leighton. Only you seem not to understand that. Too sensitive for your own good.”
Matthew made a final pleat in his cravat. “Then all the more reason to stiffen my backbone and accept my fate as a rich, eligible bachelor. I shall enjoy the hurly-burly spectacle made to secure my newly acquired fortune.”
Perry sighed loudly. “By courting the simpering misses, that’s what you’ll find. Better to look out for a sweet girl, unspoiled by avarice or cynicism.”
Matthew placed a ruby stickpin into the snowy folds of his cravat and regarded his friend with a mocking smile.
“It is you who are the romantic, Perry. Such a girl does not exist!”
Chapter 2
Amaryllis trembled on the threshold of a mansion, waiting to experience her first ball—something she never had imagined would happen.
A red carpet had been rolled down the steps. Blazing torches flanked the entrance. Light from hundreds of beeswax candles poured out from the doorway, and the scent of hothouse flowers hung in the air. She followed her aunt into the ballroom.
“Lady Agatha Dreggins and Miss Amaryllis Sinclair,” the butler announced. After curtsying to Lord and Lady Taylor, the purveyors of the ball, she followed Lady Agatha to the rows of rout chairs lining the dance floor.
Amaryllis gazed about with wide eyes. As Lady Agatha settled onto one of the chairs, her avid gaze ranged the room. “Hmmm, Maria has not made an appearance. Mayhap she realizes the futility of trying to compete with such as I!”
Amaryllis perched on the edge of the chair, trying not to allow her benefactress’s words to alarm her further. The idea that this whole undertaking was based on a wager!
She glanced across the crowd. Dancers swayed to and fro in a cotillion. Ladies dressed in every color of the rainbow flashed and twirled around men dressed mostly in black evening garb. Amaryllis glanced down at her celestial blue gown worked with silver embroidery, and a portion of her dread eased. Perhaps she would meet a worthy man here, someone who would be kind and cheerful. Someone who shared her faith in God.
Suddenly, Amaryllis became aware of a huffing and puffing beside her. She looked over to see Lady Agatha breathing hard and fastening a gimlet eye on a bony, long-faced woman who was leading a wispy-haired girl toward the chairs.
As the two older women glared at each other, Amaryllis chanced a smile at the young lady. The girl, who had gray eyes and light red hair, smiled back. Warmth flooded Amaryllis at the response. Surely this girl was as sweet-natured as she appeared, and Amaryllis very much desired a friend.
“Maria,” Lady Agatha said gravely as they came to a stand before them. “Meet my charge, Miss Amaryllis Sinclair.”
“And meet mine, Miss Fanny Elwood.”
Curtsies were traded all around. Fanny sat down on the chair on the other side of Amaryllis. “Are you as nervous as me?” she whispered behind her fan.
Amaryllis felt instantly comfortable at the girl’s merry expression. “I’m terrified,” she confided.
“Well, don’t worry too much. You’ll undoubtedly win the wager.”
“You know about that? I don’t mean to disparage my hostess, but it seems a rather odd way to go about things.”
“It’s dreadful! But when you’ve got pots of money and no husband to keep you in check, I guess there’s a risk of becoming totty-headed!”
“Shh!” she whispered, horrified Lady Agatha might hear.
Fanny gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I may be a trifle blunt, but it’s the truth. Anyway, there’s no contest. With your looks, you’ll be engaged within a week!”
Amaryllis felt her cheeks warm. “Don’t
talk fustian! Even I know blonds are unfashionable.” She waved her fan in the direction of the dance floor. “That woman there is in the current mode of beauty.” A dancer with dark brown hair, liquid brown eyes, and a tiny, pouting mouth, swished past them in the arms of her gallant.
Fanny shrugged. “I suppose.” She leaned close. “What do you say about having our own wager? We could see who gets engaged first!”
Amaryllis fanned herself. “No, thank you.” She shuddered at the notion of making a game of finding a life partner.
Fanny grinned. “You must be the only one who doesn’t gamble in this town. Just the other day, I overheard two men bet on which fly would climb a wall faster. Ludicrous!”
“Indeed!”
A party of men strolled past. Amaryllis gazed at them with interest. Most were soberly dressed in black coats, white waistcoats, and clocked stockings. One, however, stood out like a peacock among crows. He wore a pink satin coat over a garish waistcoat set about with an absurd assortment of fobs and seals. Purple silk breeches, striped stockings, and red-heeled shoes completed the unbelievable ensemble.
She had read about such excesses in the newspapers but assumed they’d been exaggerated. Here before her stood what she could only describe as a dandy. His voluminous cravat nearly covered the lower part of his face. A quizzing glass swung idly from his slender fingers. She hid a smile behind her gloved hand.
“Leighton,” she heard Lady Agatha boom. “Meet my charge, Miss Amaryllis Sinclair.”
Amaryllis looked up with expectation, wondering which man her aunt addressed. The colorful fop put up the quizzing glass and stared at her with a horribly magnified eye.
“La! She’s a beauty, but I can’t be bothered,” he said in a mincing voice. “Your servant, Lady Dreggins.”
When he started to walk away, Amaryllis sucked in a little breath. The man had cut her! The rude, uncouth—
“Ah, I must insist. The girl needs a bit of town bronze, and one dance with you will establish her in society.”
Amaryllis was even more shocked by Lady Agatha’s coercion. What a dreadful moment!
The man called Leighton stopped and gave Lady Agatha a haughty stare.
“Your mother would’ve wished it,” she pressed, dabbing a lace handkerchief to her eye. “We were great friends, as you know.”
The man dropped the quizzing glass and turned back to Amaryllis. She cringed under his scrutiny, glancing at Fanny for support. Fanny gave another wink and whispered, “He’s rich as Croesus.”
Amaryllis hoped the floor would open beneath her and swallow her up. A look at the man, and the frown marring his features, told her he’d heard Fanny’s comment.
He made an elaborate bow, flicking a delicate handkerchief, his nose almost touching his knee. “Would you do the honor of dancing with me, Miss Sinclair?” he drawled.
There was nothing for Amaryllis to do but accept. She rose and put her fingertips on his proffered arm. She avoided looking back at Lady Agatha or Fanny, knowing they were somehow delighted with the turn of events.
On the dance floor, they took up positions for a Scottish reel. Amaryllis hoped she could remember the steps. She and the housekeeper at the vicarage had practiced to while away winter afternoons. As they waited for the music to commence, she studied the man before her. His heavy-lidded expression and mocking smile didn’t seem to match the absurdity of his clothes.
“Is this your first season, Miss Sinclair?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And you are on a hunt for a rich husband?”
Amaryllis gasped. Before she could respond, the music began, and she was forced to follow his lead. The dance lasted half an hour, and the figures kept them separated for the most part. She took a measure of relief from each reprieve, but whenever they met, his glinting gaze seemed to find her wanting. Amaryllis experienced a savage urge to cry.
By the time the dance came to an end, she felt tears well up in her eyes. Exhaustion from her travels made her want to collapse, and her head ached from trying to remember all the steps. As Lord Leighton promenaded her around the room, the dancers blurred into a dizzying swirl, and she stumbled.
“Are you unwell, Miss Sinclair?” he asked in a deep voice at odds with his earlier falsetto. His surprisingly strong arm encircled her waist.
Amaryllis pressed a hand to her forehead as the floor seemed to heave beneath her. “I feel faint.”
She was vaguely aware of being hustled from the dance floor. A rush of cool, musty air hit her face, and she realized the viscount must’ve taken her into an unused room.
“The crush in the ballroom was such that I could not return you to Lady Agatha quickly enough,” said Lord Leighton, depositing her onto a sofa. He took a branch of candles and lit them from a smoky sea-coal fire in the grate.
Amaryllis lowered her head in her hands and concentrated on taking deep breaths. After a moment, she glanced at the door and was relieved to find it open to the hall.
“Now that you’ve established the conventions are being observed, you may forget your plan to compromise me.”
She stared up at the viscount in wonder. He stood with his arm along the mantel of the Adams fireplace, glaring at her.
“My lord?”
“Don’t play the country innocent with me,” he snapped. “I heard your friend mention the state of my finances. Well, I can tell you, you shan’t get your hands on it!”
Amaryllis shot up from the sofa. “That’s absurd!” The room lurched crazily. She staggered. As if from the wrong end of a telescope, she saw Lord Leighton lunge for her—and saw his leg buckle from beneath him when he tripped on the edge of the sofa. He fell forward, knocked her backwards onto the sofa, and landed on top of her. The air whooshed out of her lungs.
In her supine position, blood rushed back to Amaryllis’s head. She blinked owlishly at Lord Leighton’s face only inches from her own. He scrambled to his feet, glowering down at her, his handsome face flushed a dark red. He brushed his sleeves in a finicky manner as if to remove all traces of their encounter from his person. It wasn’t my fault! Amaryllis bit her lip.
“Well, Miss Sinclair. Was that one of your little tricks?”
Before she could answer, Lady Dreggins stumped into the room. She waved her fan at Lord Leighton in a menacing manner.
“I saw the whole thing, Leighton! You compromised my charge, and now I demand satisfaction. You will marry Amaryllis to save her reputation!”
Chapter 3
Amaryllis sucked in an icy breath. She put her gloved hands to her cheeks, unable to believe her aunt’s accusation.
Lord Leighton’s words dripped with venom. “You are mistaken, madam. I have no intention of allying my name with that of your charge or anyone else at this time.”
Lady Dreggins peered up at his tall form, apparently unmoved by his stature. “On the contrary, you placed Miss Sinclair in a delicate position and were caught.” She thumped her cane on the floor. “That sort of behavior will have to wait until after the honeymoon.”
Amaryllis let out a low groan. She longed for the poky little Tudor pile she had called home her entire life, despite the threadbare furniture and damp patches on the walls. Her father, a timid, bespectacled man who cared for nothing but flowers, transformed in her mind from an emotionally absent parent to a loving one with his arms outstretched. Surely, any place was a haven compared to the likes of London and its inhabitants!
She peeked up at Lord Leighton. As if aware of her attention, he turned and fastened his gaze upon her. Amaryllis shrank back against the cushions of the sofa.
“What do you have to say for yourself, you scheming little minx?”
His dark eyes glittered in the pallor of his face. His lips were thinned in a white line. He appeared to be in pain, as well as justifiably angry. She remembered the way his leg had collapsed from under him. She clasped her hands together.
“Are you hurt, my lord?”
Matthew scowled. Was he that obvious
? The vixen peered up at him with wide blue eyes, looking admittedly fetching with her flushed cheeks and blond hair in disarray from their tumble. He fought the sudden temptation to believe her concern was genuine. Her air of innocence was an act, of that he was certain. Despite his inclination to believe the worst, he found his senses quickening at the girl’s loveliness.
“La, my Amaryllis is all solicitation,” Lady Dreggins said, waggling her fingers. “She’ll make a fine viscountess.”
Matthew opened his mouth to deliver her a stinging set-down. He heard a disturbance in the hall. His cousin Bertie Snell ambled into the room, gazing about with obvious interest. A brunette floated alongside him, her limpid gaze taking in every detail. Matthew remembered her as Lady Olivia Thorpe, a dazzler with whom his cousin had made him promise to dance.
“What’s to do, Leighton? Lady Thorpe is simply pining for you. Remember, you are engaged with her for the supper dance.”
Matthew looked with disfavor upon Bertie. His oily behavior and darting dark eyes gave him the manner of a horse trader.
Bertie raised his quizzing glass at Miss Sinclair and sent her a haughty stare. Although Matthew had done the same only a short time before, Bertie’s action irritated him. Miss Sinclair’s color was high, but she held herself with quiet dignity.
“Well, Leighton,” Lady Dreggins thundered. “What are you going to do about my charge, hey?”
“What’s this?” Bertie squawked. He gave the older woman an outraged glare, flicking his handkerchief as if to shoo her away.
Matthew’s bad leg throbbed and burned from his stumble. The room seemed to close in on him. Lady Thorpe glided up to him and slid her hand around his arm. Her liquid brown gaze threatened to swallow him up. He glanced at Lady Dreggins, whose humorless smile and hard eye boded a scandal if he refused to come to heel.
Miss Sinclair kept her gaze averted to her clasped, gloved hands. Only the quick rise and fall of her chest indicated her high state of emotion. The bugle beads of the cap in her lap winked in the low light of the room.
British Brides Collection Page 14