Yes, he would kiss her, but what kind of kiss would it be? As soft as a butterfly landing on the skin? Firmer. There would be some pressure behind it, sternly controlled passion even, softened to her innocence. His eyes would speak to her of what he held back, his lips of what he was unable to rein in. Mmmm. It would not be brief, she decided. Awkward, on horseback, but possible. Her mare was very patient—too patient, she had frequently told Peter. But now she appreciated this patience, the animal placidly remaining in one spot, one hidden spot off the Row where no one could see them.
Perhaps it would be better if they dismounted and walked under the trees? Then he could hold her hand as they strolled, and stop to kiss her whenever she lifted her face to his. But no, this time it would be best to remain on horseback. Another time she could consider the possibilities of a stroll through a sun-dappled woods. It wasn’t the kind of day when you wanted things to move too quickly. You wanted them to be slow, stretched out over time so that every moment could be savored. His kiss, for instance, could go on, in her mind, for an hour and she’d be quite content.
There was a crunching noise from the gravel path beneath her window and Amelia looked down to see the kitchen maid carrying a bucket of water that she poured conscientiously on the border of earth that had produced dozens of swaying yellow daffodils. The girl wore a blue scarf over her hair and hummed to herself as she returned slowly toward the house, no doubt relishing the short break out in the spring weather. Amelia very nearly called down to ask her to inform the stable boy that she would be riding out directly, when two things suddenly occurred to her.
One was that Tommy Carson’s mother had been very sick the previous evening.
The other was that the gentleman about whom she’d been daydreaming was none other than Lord Verwood, archenemy.
Amelia quickly withdrew her head from the window and brought the sash down with unnecessary force. How could she possibly have forgotten Tommy’s mother? And what in the devil was she doing daydreaming about Lord Verwood like some moonling? He had done nothing but irritate her since the first time they’d met. He had mocked her and ignored her and exasperated her every moment she’d spent in his company. Plus which, he stood some chance of being a political as well as a personal enemy.
It was the way he’d looked at her last night, of course. And that brief kiss. Probably she had dreamed of that mocking kiss, and simply woven it into her waking fantasy. Full moons and spring days had a lot to answer for! Amelia refused to believe it was any more than the strange combination of events. How could it be?
An air of mystery clung about Lord Verwood, and a strong suggestion of masculinity, but Amelia wasn’t given to developing tendres for mysterious, masculine strangers who kissed her to teach her a lesson. In fact, she wasn’t given to developing tendres at all.
The last time she’d been smitten with a male was when she was thirteen years old and thought a neighbor at Margrave, Rodney Cartwright, was the most dashing creature on earth. Rodney had been twenty at the time and given to every excess of male fashion, including extraordinarily high shirt points, extravagantly arranged neckcloths, and boots so highly polished that they reflected one’s image. Though it was given out in the neighborhood that Rodney was attending Oxford, Amelia had learned from him that he’d been sent down for some childish prank (she could no longer remember what it was), and he kept close to home until he was reinstated. Since Peter had been away at school at the time, Rodney had spent many hours with her, having no other friends in the vicinity.
There hadn’t been anything physical in their relationship, except the one time he had kissed her, just before returning to Oxford. Amelia had been far too young to consider, ahead of time, the possibility that he would kiss her. It had seemed to happen so naturally, when he had said good-bye and was about to mount his horse. He’d suddenly leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, withdrawing after a moment to say, “It’s a damned shame you’re so young, Amy.” Then he rode away without looking back.
For a year she’d dreamed about him, and about that kiss—night dreams, daydreams. She was quite sure she was in love with him. He came home very seldom, and when he did, she did not see him alone after that. And then he married, a woman he’d met in London during the season, and Amelia had thought her heart was broken. But she had learned that wounds like that healed, a lesson that seemed to shield her somehow from impetuously “falling” for other men. If it was a protective measure, it was also a practical one.
Look at Rodney Cartwright now, for instance. There wasn’t a thing about him that she admired anymore, really. She had long since decided his extraordinary style lacked taste, and he was given to drinking and gambling still, as though he’d not outgrown his adolescence. He took no interest in the small estate on which he and his family lived, and paid little attention to what was going on in the rest of the country. Such a waste. He had seemed so promising.
That kiss, though, was another matter. The kiss, she hadn’t forgotten. She had suffered a number of kisses in the last few years—in the service of her country, as she thought of it. None of them could hold a patch to Rodney’s kiss... because she had been attracted to him, had felt a great affection for him, had perhaps in her schoolgirl way even loved him then.
Well, she hadn’t loved anyone since, and she hadn’t had the least desire to be kissed by anyone. Until now. And this was surely an aberration. Lord Verwood’s kiss had not been the same sort of thing at all. It was neither in the line of duty nor in the way of an attachment. Yet it had moved her somehow.
Amelia shook off the lingering mists of bemusement and turned to her toilette. There were more important things to think about than the reprehensible Lord Verwood. She had to find out from Robert what had happened at the Carsons’.
* * * *
Robert had returned only an hour previously and had decided to stay up until he’d had a chance to talk with Lady Amelia before seeking a little rest. She found him sitting in the kitchen over a strong, hot cup of coffee, the remains of a sizable breakfast on the plate in front of him on the deal table. He didn’t look as though he’d been up all night. His livery was still neat and his hair freshly brushed, and he didn’t look the least surprised to see her arrive in the kitchen at seven in the morning. He rose instantly and bowed to her.
“Good morning, Robert. How’s Mrs. Carson?”
“Dr. Wells thinks she’ll pull through. He’s put her in hospital, and I stayed with the children until he sent a woman to care for them. She’s a motherly sort of person, very good with the youngsters. I left her some money and told her I’d be by this afternoon to see how everything was going.”
“Good. I’ll come with you.”
“It’s a rough neighborhood, milady.”
“I dare say. Still, I should like to go with you. About three, perhaps? You should get some sleep now.”
Robert bowed his agreement and Amelia retreated to the breakfast room for tea and toast, a slice of ham, and an orange. It was still early when she finished, and she was again tempted by the sun streaming through the windows. Sparkling light glinted off the knife on her plate and separated through the crystal glass into a rainbow on the snowy damask cloth. There were few times in London when she felt this springtime enchantment stirring in her blood, and she decided not to waste the opportunity. She flung down her napkin and rang for a footman.
“Please send a message to the stable that I’ll be riding Cleo in about fifteen minutes. I’ll want Jason to accompany me.” Amelia hastened out the door the footman held open for her and ran up the stairs two at a time.
* * * *
Lord Verwood watched as Lady Amelia rode through the Grosvenor Gate and past the rows of trees on either side. She adjusted the skirts of an emerald-green riding habit over the pommel of the sidesaddle and set her horse to a gentle canter, the groom trailing after her at a respectful distance. Verwood followed at a greater distance, not wishing to be seen, but intent on finding out whether she was out so
early for some sort of assignation. The tale of the sick mother the night before hadn’t seemed the least plausible to him.
She was a delightful sight, Lady Amelia, with her bronze hair streaming out behind her as she rode. And she rode very well. There was none of the stiffness one associated with young women who feared horses, nor even particularly the haughtiness one sometimes saw in women who prided themselves on their riding ability. Here was a simple elegance in the pleasure of cantering across the dewy grass on a perfect spring morning. Verwood found himself not unmoved by the sight.
There were few people out yet, only one or two others on horseback, and a few gentlemen strolling along the paths. Lady Amelia skirted the ring, heading down toward the Serpentine. Verwood maintained the distance between them, so he could not see her clearly, but he could imagine the color in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes. His own mount was impatient to be given his head, but Verwood held him back. If it hadn’t been necessary to find out what she was doing, he would have liked to ride up to her and simply pass the time of day. On a morning like this he might not have teased her in quite the same way he had the night before.
More likely, though, he would have been tempted to pay homage to her, something he had not the least intention of doing. Verwood thought himself entirely lacking in the proper graces to carry on a light flirtation, but he was tempted, as he watched Lady Amelia’s charming progress toward a stand of trees beyond the water, to give it a try. He would, after all, need some sort of practice if he were to spend much time in London society. ...
She slowed her horse as she approached the trees and looked about her in a way that seemed furtive to Verwood. Fortunately, he was directly behind her, though quite a way, and her swinging glance to left and right did not encompass him. At the edge of the grove she slid from her mount and tossed the reins to her groom before walking purposefully toward the leafy bower.
Verwood felt sure this was where her assignation was to be. The growth was dense and in a moment she disappeared from sight behind the outer row of trees. He set his horse to the gallop, approaching the wood from the north, as she had entered from the west. There was not a soul in sight, save her waiting groom, and no horse tied in the trees that he could see. Verwood swung from his saddle out of sight of the groom and led his horse into the obscurity of the trees, wrapping the reins tightly around the lowest branch he could find.
Sunlight penetrated several yards into the trees, then was more sketchy, with patches falling through spaces between the overhanging limbs and leaves. Verwood made his way quickly and quietly in the direction he presumed Lady Amelia would be, treading carefully on the fallen twigs and the shoots of new grass. At another time he might have noticed the wildflowers nestled around the ancient trees, but now he was too preoccupied with his mission to pay them any heed. What he listened for was the murmur of voices, to direct him to the meeting place, but all he heard was the trill of birdsong.
He very nearly walked right into the small, sun-dappled clearing where Lady Amelia stood leaning against a tree, her bonnet swinging by its ribbons in her hand. If she hadn’t been lost in thought, she would surely have heard or seen him, but she seemed oblivious of his presence. Her head rested against the rough bark of the tree; her gaze toward the branches above was absent, almost dreamy. A whimsical smile lifted the corners of her lips. It’s an assignation with a lover, he thought, unsettled.
But no one came, and she continued to stand there, the sun falling on her creamy skin. She didn’t give the appearance of eagerly waiting for someone, paid no attention to the scuffle of small animals in the undergrowth, never cast her gaze about in search of the errant swain. Verwood was totally confused by her seeming indifference to the inexplicable nonappearance. He would have shown up if she’d…
He stopped the absurd thought before it could be finished. Either Lady Amelia was still indulging in her information-gathering activities, or she was a rather loose young lady, and in either case it was his duty to keep an eye on her. For Peter’s sake. Verwood didn’t relish the responsibility, of course. It would be most uncomfortable eavesdropping on a pair of lovers, and highly distasteful for him to carry the tale to Peter. Well, he wouldn’t have to do that, if it was a lover she planned to meet. He could have a talk with her himself, letting her know he was aware of her activities and sternly insisting that she desist under threat of his revealing them to her brother. But if it was a conspirator she met, he wouldn’t have the least compunction in approaching Peter about the matter.
After a while Lady Amelia sighed and walked away from the tree. Verwood carefully concealed himself where he could still catch a small glimpse of her adjusting the bonnet over her shining hair. She tied the ribbon at a smart angle under her chin, picked some wildflowers that grew at her feet, and headed back out of the wood. Was that it? Was she leaving?
Verwood found it difficult to believe the determined young woman would give up so easily on her planned meeting, so he followed at a cautious distance and actually saw her aided onto her mare by the patient groom. She did not look around her to see if anyone were coming, but rode off at a sedate pace toward the reservoir.
Verwood remained standing in the shadows for some time after she was out of sight. None of it made any sense to him. Whether she was waiting for a conspirator or a lover, she should have been impatient, agitated, something other than the placid, dreamy creature she had appeared in the woods. Was he wrong about her? Verwood was willing to consider the possibility, but he thought it highly unlikely. There was M. Chartier’s direct and unequivocal statement; there was Lady Amelia’s acknowledged clandestine activity in the past, the advent of the child from St. Giles Rookery last night. Too much to be simply overlooked.
It occurred to him, in a suspiciously welcome burst of inspiration, that the logical thing for him to do was to spend more time in her company. Only by being closer to the situation was he going to be able to judge for himself just what Lady Amelia was, and what she wasn’t. He would pretend to court her, never getting himself in so deeply that he could not extract himself with honor, but deep enough so he came to know what depths those violet eyes hid from the casual observer.
The only difficulty he was likely to encounter was Lady Amelia’s obvious dislike of him. A small matter, he thought ruefully as he hurried back to his horse through the woods. One he could no doubt overcome with his nonexistent charm, his sterling lack of polite conversation, and his impressively un-Corinthian looks. To say nothing of his limp.
There were a lot more people around when he emerged from the woods and mounted his horse. The spring day had drawn them, at an unprecedentedly early hour for some of the ton. He hadn’t been surprised to find Lady Amelia there, but he took care now to avoid anyone he might know as he cantered his horse across the grass to where she was approaching the Grosvenor Gate.
She paid no attention to the approaching hoof beats, but showed a surprising confusion on his coming alongside and speaking to her. The color in her cheeks deepened and she looked about her rather anxiously, as though she were alarmed at being seen with him. “Good morning, Lord Verwood.” Her gaze seemed centered on his face, but he didn’t have the impression she was meeting his eyes.
“I trust you slept well last night,” he offered, wondering what one did say to set up a flirtation.
“Very well, thank you.”
They had come through the Grosvenor Gate and were crossing Park Lane. “I hope the boy’s mother is better this morning.”
“She’s in hospital, but the doctor thinks she’ll recover.”
Verwood searched her face for some sign of the charade he felt this must be, but Lady Amelia was frowning absently at the house they passed. He was startled when they reached the corner and she said, reining her horse left onto Upper Grosvenor Street, “Have a pleasant day, sir.”
“I thought I’d accompany you home.”
She gave him a sharp look but inclined her head in agreement. The color had receded slightly from her
cheeks, but her eyes still skittered about in an uncomfortable way, unwilling to linger on his face.
“If I... upset you last night, I apologize,” he said, thinking perhaps she was still annoyed with him for that foolhardy kiss. On the balcony he’d suddenly had a vision of her in similar circumstances dozens of times, trying to wheedle information from her companions by bribing them with kisses, or worse. Hadn’t Chartier said precisely that? And she had been trying to get information from him. But she had reacted more like a Fury to his kiss than the docile maiden Chartier had painted, who didn’t protest at all. Maybe getting information from him wasn’t worth accepting his advances.
“The sooner last night is forgotten, the better,” she muttered. Her hands on the reins clenched more tightly for a moment and she stared straight ahead to the corner of Grosvenor Square.
Verwood softened his voice to a most persuasive tone. “I’d be infinitely grateful if you could see your way clear to forgetting it. Is it asking too much to depend on your charity, Lady Amelia?”
Her eyes finally lifted to his face, still half-suspicious. Apparently satisfied with what she saw there, she said, “I’m sure it’s already forgotten. We needn’t mention it again.”
“Certainly not,” he agreed, and smiled at her. He found he wished to erase those little frown lines above her nose, to coax some warmth into her violet eyes. Her lips, in the spring sunshine, looked even more tempting than they had the night before, but he brushed aside the thought to apply himself to cajoling her into a better humor toward him. “You’re an excellent rider, Lady Amelia. I fear, though, that your mare isn’t quite as young and energetic as she used to be.”
The Ardent Lady Amelia Page 8