The Ardent Lady Amelia

by Laura Matthews

  “Alexander? Can I come in?”

  Amelia didn't stop to think. A reflex action took her straight off Verwood’s lap, and with only a second’s pause she dived under his bed.

  “Don’t…” he started to say. There was a brief pause before he raised his voice and called, “Come in, Peter.”

  “How’s your knee?” Peter asked. Amelia could see only his feet, but they headed straight for the chair she’d so recently left. So recently that it would still be warm?

  “Not bad,” Verwood replied. “The towels have cooled off but I don’t think I’ll need any more.” A soggy mass fell to the floor with a wet smack. “In fact, I’m ready to call it a night. Don’t bother to send your valet, old man. I can manage.”

  “Here, I’ll help you. Do you want a nightshirt?”

  Verwood hesitated. “I don’t think I’ll bother. If you could just give me your arm…”

  Apparently Peter did so, because Verwood hopped on one foot over to the bed, which sank down dangerously close to Amelia when he lay down on it. “Is there anything at all I can get you?” Peter asked, now standing by the door.

  “Not a thing. I can get the candle from here.”

  “Then I’ll wish you a good night’s rest. Hope your knee will feel better in the morning.”

  “I’m sure it will.”

  Peter paused when he already had the door partially open. “About Amelia…” he said.

  “What about Amelia?” She could hear the tight note to his voice.

  Peter interpreted it according to his own thoughts. “You mustn’t think I invited you down here to court her, Alexander. I know Trudy’s determined to believe that’s why you’re here, but I simply wanted your moral support.” He was silent for a moment. “Are you interested in Veronique?”

  “No.” The single word came out flat and firm.

  Amelia could hear the smile in her brother’s voice. “Good. Well, good night, Alexander. If you need any help during the night, just give a tug to the bell rope. Someone’s always on duty.”

  “Thanks.”

  The door closed softly and there was silence in the room.

  After a while Verwood asked, “Aren’t you coming out?”

  “No. I think I’ll just stay here all night.”

  “Poor dear. You’re that embarrassed are you?”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” she muttered, wriggling out from under the bed. Her beautiful jonquil gown had gotten slightly rumpled in the process, and smudged with dirt. Instead of meeting his eyes, she stood up and cautiously dusted at herself. “I had already told you Trudy doesn’t always know what she’s talking about.”

  “Quite right, you had.”

  “I’ll just be going now,” she said.

  “Yes, I think that would be wise.”

  She turned briefly to face him. “You will think about this information I’ve given you on Chartier, won’t you?”

  “Definitely. Let’s find out a little more before we discuss it with Peter. All right?”

  “All right.”

  His eyes were unreadable in the dim light, but his voice was soft when he said, “Good night, Amelia.”

  “Good night... Alexander.” Just before she turned away, she saw him smile.

  * * * *

  The smile lingered after she had left the room, but only for a few minutes. Verwood leaned back against the headboard, his arms folded under his head, and stared at the ceiling. He was inclined to agree with Trudy that Amelia had a fondness for him, if only to account for her ardent behavior when he took her in his arms.

  It was too painful to think that she had conducted herself that way with any number of other men, in her attempts to wrest information from them. The very thought made a muscle in his jaw twitch and his hands clench at his sides. What sort of thing did Chartier consider a “liberty,” anyhow?”

  Surely his intimate kiss had been a surprise to her, something new. But how could he really tell? It was no more proper for her to be kissing him, with nothing established between the two of them, than it was for her to be kissing anyone else. Yet she showed not the least reluctance. And he was sure he had convinced her that there was no need to press him further, to doubt him. It was possible that her earlier experiences had simply given her a taste for some degree of physical intimacy. Verwood groaned at the thought. How much physical intimacy?

  His wild imaginings earlier about the Reverend Symons and the footman Robert were ridiculous, of course. Amelia had too much dignity and sophistication for that sort of intrigue. And where had she gotten all that sophistication, at one-and-twenty? Obviously from her encounters with the men she was intent on coaxing into revealing secrets to her. When he had pressed her the previous day in the pavilion, she had protested complete innocence. But her trick of luring men out onto balconies at balls was an established habit; he would have sworn to it. So, how much could happen on a balcony? She could have made other assignations with them. Like ones in that stand of trees in Hyde Park, where her groom waited patiently out of sight with her horse.

  And what about the way she’d dived under his bed?

  Perhaps that scene had been enacted before, in reverse, for her reaction to have been so quick. Verwood sighed. Perhaps it hadn’t. With Amelia, one simply couldn’t tell. She certainly wasn’t going to answer his questions on the subject. The only way to find out was to see just how far she would let him progress with her. Which, since it was a matter of some importance to him, might or might not justify his own conduct with her. In any case, it seemed likely their association would not stand still, nor was it likely to regress. He could, of course, see that that happened but he doubted he would.

  Amelia had taken a firm hold on his mind, or his heart, probably both. There was really no going back, but there was a lot to discover before some resolution was reached. He assumed he was a tolerant enough man to accept a certain amount of impropriety in her past. After all, she had indulged in her activities out of patriotism. What was more difficult to assimilate was that she might have thoroughly enjoyed them. He, poor fellow, wanted her only to enjoy physical intimacy with him!

  His candle was guttering and he reached over to snuff it. There was a dull throbbing in his knee, which he assumed would be gone by morning. He certainly hoped so. For a few minutes, in the darkness, he flexed the joint, then massaged it, willing himself to change his line of thought from Amelia to Chartier. But he had little success, and fell asleep with a small rueful smile on his lips.

  Chapter 16

  Amelia had more difficulty getting to sleep. It was not every day that she experienced the sort of sensations she’d just encountered with Verwood. For one thing, no man had ever kissed her that way, though now she thought of it, Fernhurst had attempted to bring his tongue into play. She’d been so disgusted by the wet-fish touch of it, so sure he had nothing interesting to tell her, that she’d pulled back with a scowl and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Even for her country she wasn’t willing to undergo that sort of torture!

  It hadn’t been at all the same with Verwood. Somehow it had been the most exciting, the most intimate sensation she could imagine. Well, almost the most intimate. Amelia was not naive, in the purely mental sense. She knew what went on between men and women, though it would never have occurred to her that Verwood might consider her experienced in such matters. Raised in the country, curious about such things she had managed to learn what she needed.

  Peter had had mistresses, of course. Amelia supposed that Verwood must have, too. A lowering thought. She disliked the idea of his kissing other women the way he had kissed her. But it made her wonder what sort of women he was attracted to. He had told her that day that pale women didn’t appeal to him. And he had, in the pavilion, though not in a particularly pleasant manner, called her violet eyes beautiful. It was just possible that he found her more attractive than he had as yet admitted.

  Plenty of men had admitted to an attraction to her. Really, it became quite boring to be forev
er flattered with such unctuous nonsense. One got to be immune to it. Not that she would have minded a few compliments from Verwood. His actions apparently were a great deal more in evidence than his words. What it came down to was that he was either attracted to her or he was toying with her.

  Now, though he didn’t seem the sort of man who would toy with a woman, it did just occur to Amelia that he might be trying to teach her a lesson. Obviously he believed she’d let other men kiss her, and this might be his way of showing her the impropriety (nay, even the danger) of acting so incautiously. Certainly that was his intent on the balcony that night. Was he merely prolonging the lesson?

  How she wished he’d said something more when Peter had mentioned her. It was comforting, of course, that he had adamantly disavowed any interest in Veronique Chartier, but he hadn’t responded to Peter’s assurance that he didn’t expect Verwood to court his sister. Amelia rather hoped that was what he was doing, and would have felt certain of it (from his actions), if he hadn’t seemed always to be poking fun at the suggestion. It couldn’t, after all, be any more proper for him to behave as he was, than it was for her. Or not much. But he had such a strange concept of a gentleman’s proper behavior, that it might merely be something he didn’t understand.

  These thoughts chased one another around her head for altogether too long. She could find no solution, and eventually determined she would be more circumspect in the future. Let Verwood give some indication of his intentions before he took her in his arms again. She certainly wasn’t going to make a fool of herself...

  When she arrived in the breakfast room the next morning he was already there, along with Mlle. Chartier and Peter. The men rose as she entered and she waved them back to their seats, noting the cane beside Verwood’s chair. Amelia spoke to the Frenchwoman and to her brother, then turned to inquire of Verwood’s knee.

  “It’s better this morning, but I’ll need to exercise it. I thought you might let me accompany you on a walk to the Carsons’.”

  She felt herself stiffen slightly. “Oh, I think that would be a bit too far for you, my lord. It’s a good mile by the road, and you wouldn’t want to walk across the fields. They’re too uneven.”

  “A mile sounds just right. You won’t mind resting with me now and again, I trust.” His black brows rose quizzingly.

  “Until your knee is healed, a shorter walk might be more desirable. We might walk to the church in the village, for instance.”

  “No,” he said pleasantly, “I’d prefer to see the Carsons. You haven’t forgotten that I’ve met your protégé, have you?”

  Amelia couldn’t understand his insistence on going there, any more than he seemed capable of grasping the fact that she didn’t want him to go with her. “Very well,” she said grudgingly. “This afternoon, perhaps.” Something was bound to come up before then to distract him.

  “Oh, I need the walk this morning. So my leg won’t stiffen too much, you understand.”

  Peter had been watching the two of them with mild curiosity, and now interjected his suggestion. “You’d best go this morning, Amelia. We’re planning an expedition to Winchelsea this afternoon.”

  Defeated, Amelia agreed rather curtly, concentrating on her breakfast to end the discussion. Verwood shortly excused himself, saying he would wait for her in the Summer Parlor. She would have liked to remain over her meal for a lengthy period, but once Peter and Veronique had excused themselves, she feared M. Chartier would descend on her, which was probably the worse of the two fates planned for her. Not that being with Verwood was such a bad fate, if it only hadn’t involved walking to the Carsons’.

  Sunlight filled the glassed-in Summer Parlor, sparkling off the green walls and the Delftware vase on the gate-leg table. Verwood was seated in a spoonback chair with his legs stretched out in front of him, the cane resting against one knee. His gaze was abstracted and thoughtful. He didn’t hear Amelia enter the room through the open door.

  “Really, I can’t believe you’re up to such a long hike,” she began, nervously fingering the light shawl she’d thrown over her shoulders. “The church is Norman and rather interesting.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he assured her, rising slowly and taking a firm grip on the cane. “We’re in no rush, I presume. We can walk slowly.”

  When they had started down the path that led to the road, she spoke again. “Have you given any thought to what might be done about M. Chartier? With your bad knee, you really aren’t in a position to do much, are you?”

  “I doubt if it will be necessary for me to run about, my dear,” he said, sounding amused. “Let’s look at the situation in the clear light of day. The conversation you overheard between the two men could have two possible connotations. One is that Chartier was bargaining for smuggled goods from Upham, the other that he was arranging for transportation to France. There may even be other possibilities, but we’ll discard them for now. Say Chartier wants to get to France and Upham will provide the boat. In that case it sounds like they’d leave him and pick him up a few days later, right?”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought.”

  He smiled down at her, touching a finger briefly to a curl that rested on her shoulder. “Now, if you were a French spy, and you’d picked up information you wanted to have conveyed to Napoleon, doubtless you’d have a routine for conveying it.”

  “Yes, but his contact may have been unavailable,” she protested. “Or having the revenue officer on the lookout in Bournemouth may have made it difficult for him to use his ordinary routine.”

  “True. One would think there would be some sort of backup, but let’s not quibble on that point. He has decided to take the information to France himself, and he can see Upham will do anything for the right price.” They had come out on the road, which was narrow and dusty. Verwood stopped a moment and leaned more heavily on his cane. “Chartier could even have spun him some tale of smuggling of his own. Surely he wouldn’t have trusted a stranger with the information that he’s a spy.”

  Amelia glared at him. “You’re mocking me, Verwood. He wouldn’t have told him either thing. He’d have made up some story of a sick relative there, or something of that sort.”

  “You called me Alexander last night.”

  Her hands fluttered but she said nothing as they walked on.

  “Very well,” he went on smoothly. “He has told some story about needing to get there, in any case. The problem is that he seems to want to stay there for a few days. That’s what I don’t understand. If he were a spy, he’d have someone to hand his message on to within the hour, one would think. Why does he want to stay there so long?”

  Amelia shrugged. “Perhaps he just likes the feel of French soil under his feet.”

  “A sentimental spy?” Verwood grinned at her. “Come, now, we’ll have to think of something better than that. Does he want to take the message to Napoleon himself? Could it possibly be that important? I doubt it. And Napoleon isn’t in France just now, in any case. He’s getting ready for a renewed battle with Russia. It seems unlikely Chartier would have any information that would help him there.”

  They were walking slowly, but still the first of the cottages was in sight. The Carsons lived at the very far end of the village, a much farther walk. Amelia was still determined to terminate their excursion at the church, which was already in sight. “Well, what do you suggest?” she asked brightly, putting on her best such-an-intelligent-man-will-have-the-answer smile.

  Verwood gave a doleful shake of his head. “None of that, Amelia. You may have noticed that Chartier never mentions where his home was in France before he immigrated to England. Fortunately, his sister is not so tight-lipped, though apparently she was brought here very young. Their family home was near Cherbourg, which you may realize is directly across the Channel from Bournemouth. But Upham isn’t likely to be willing to make so long a crossing. His usual route is probably Rye to Boulogne-sur-Mer or Outreau. If Chartier wanted to get to Cherbourg and back, he would need time.�
��

  Amelia tried to look admiring. “Did you find out about Cherbourg from Mlle. Chartier yesterday when you were out riding?”

  “I did.”

  They had come opposite the church and Amelia stopped. “Shall we have a look inside? It’s still a distance to the Carsons’, and I can see your leg is troubling you. There isn’t really any need for me to see them today.”

  There was a puzzled tilt to his black brows, but he shook his head. “No, I’d rather continue.”

  “It will just make the walk back longer,” she said desperately.

  “I’m sure you won’t mind stopping with me now and again.”

  Amelia sighed and walked on. “So you think it more likely he wishes to get to his old home. Why?”

  “Because the timing is right. It’s still possible he’s a spy, but I’m beginning to think it’s more likely he has business at his old home. Didn’t you tell me he gave you the impression he can get at his financial assets anytime he pleases?”

  “Yes.” She frowned down at her dusty half-boots. “But if his money is there, why wouldn’t he have taken it out long ago? Surely it would be safer in England.”

  “It probably isn’t money. French banknotes wouldn’t be of any use to him. Much more likely to be goods he can sell in England for a handsome sum. He couldn’t manage to get much out at any given time without arousing too much suspicion.”

  Amelia stared up at him. “So you don’t think he’s a spy at all?” she asked, incredulous.

  “I really don’t know. He could be doing both things.”

  The Carsons’ cottage was directly in front of them now, a neat whitewashed building with several windows open to the mild May morning. There was a bench alongside the green door. “Why don’t you sit out there in the sun and rest your leg, Lord Verwood?” she suggested. “I’ll be but a moment.”