by Jane Goodger
“Goodness, Edward, I’ve never seen you take so long to read a single book. You must be busy. Else the book is boring,” she said, reaching for the familiar blue-bound book.
Edward made to move the book out of her reach, making her smile. “Is it naughty?” she asked, delighted. “Is it?”
He picked it up and showed it to her. Much to her disappointment it was simply an ordinary adventure story. “I read this years ago,” he said, slipping it into his desk. “I have been too busy to read it. Now, speaking of being busy, why are you interrupting me? Again.”
Simply put, Amelia was bored and wanted a bit of company. Lady Matilda and the children were on a shopping expedition, one that she was not invited on as she suspected they were buying her Christmas presents. It was rather dreary and quiet and she was, frankly, bored.
“What are we planning for Christmas? Are we going back to the duke and duchess?”
“I hardly think they’ll want us back given that we were there nearly two months. Besides, with the new baby, they have enough to think about without us invading their house again so soon.”
“Perhaps after the holidays, then. When Miss Pierce returns. Or perhaps we can invite the Pierces here. It’s so dreadfully boring round here in the winter, especially if Lady Matilda takes the children to visit her sister. I simply cannot wait until the season begins.”
“About that.”
Amelia felt panic grow in her. “You promised. And Mrs. Pierce will happily chaperone.”
“I’m not certain she’s an ideal chaperone,” Edward said, recalling the drunken Mrs. Pierce.
“She’s been fine since that one little incident. Besides, Miss Pierce can chaperone as well.”
“Miss Pierce is a single woman not much older than you who needs her own chaperone. And not two minutes ago you were gushing on and on about Mr. Kitteridge and how much you were in love. Why attend the season if you’ve already found the love of your life?”
“You are very unattractive when you are mocking,” Amelia said.
“I’m sorry, Amelia, but be reasonable.”
“Be reasonable! I have never had a season and you promised me that I would. Are you to tell me that the only purpose for attending all those parties and balls and operas is to find a husband? I daresay if that were true, then ninety percent of the people who attend those things are wasting their time. I’m hoping I can convince Carson to stay a few more months. Surely his brother can handle things at the ranch for a little while longer. That way we can experience the season together. Perhaps even as husband and wife.”
Edward, who had been trying to work while he was talking, threw his pen into his inkwell. “Must we have this discussion now? The season doesn’t even begin for months.”
“And when it does, I am going. With Carson.”
“This discussion is over,” he said.
“I’ll attend the season if I have to bring myself round,” she said, then strode angrily away from her onerous brother. She could not believe that just moments before she’d thought him charming.
Edward watched his sister stomp from the room, knowing he was being unfair but not caring. There was no way in hell he would be able to endure a season with Maggie and her mother tagging along everywhere. How absolutely torturous to have her beneath his roof, attending parties, dancing with suitors, while he would have to pretend he wasn’t being ripped in two. The only alternative, though, was to act as his sister’s sole chaperone and Lord knew, he didn’t want to escort his sister to every ball and soiree that London had to offer. And he had promised, not only Amelia, but Mrs. Pierce, who was probably as excited about attending a London season as his sister.
But he simply…could not.
When his parents had died, he’d been more than devastated. Their deaths had changed him forever. He’d been forced to grow up seemingly overnight, and he’d been forced to endure pain like he couldn’t have imagined. Of course he knew logically that he wasn’t to blame for their deaths. He hadn’t known when he’d arrived home sick that it would result in the deaths of the two people he loved most in the world. He’d almost lost his sister, too. And when he’d sat by her bed, begging God to spare his sister, he realized that if she’d died, he would want to die as well.
“You feel too much,” his mother would often say. Edward had seen it as a flaw, something that made him weaker than he ought to be. And from the way he’d reacted when he lost his parents, it was true. He lived, he breathed, he ate, he slept, but he wasn’t alive for a very long time.
It frightened the hell out of him, loving someone that much. It hurt too much, the loss was far too painful. He hated it, hated the weakness, the loss of control.
Yet he’d allowed himself, finally, to fall in love. He’d let it happen. He could have avoided her, he could have married Maggie off to one of his friends and be damned with her. Instead, he’d thrown himself headlong in front of her, declared his love, asked her to marry him.
And she’d said no. God, how could she have said no? Edward let out a curse for allowing himself to get all maudlin yet again, and he picked up his pen with renewed vigor.
He’d just lost himself in his work again when Amelia walked into the room, white-faced, holding a copy of the London Times in her shaking hands.
“What is wrong, Amelia?”
“What ship did Miss Pierce sail on?” she asked, her eyes glued to the newspaper.
“I haven’t any idea,” he said. “Why?”
“Because a ship that sailed out of Liverpool soon after Miss Pierce left has sunk. The White Star.”
“Does it say anything about survivors?” he asked quietly.
His sister scanned the article. “No, only that it sank. Do you think the duchess would know?”
“I suppose I could ride over there to see,” Edward said, feeling his panic grow. What were the chances that two passenger ships left Liverpool the same time in December? Edward started to leave his study, only to be stopped by Amelia, a bemused look on her face.
“Edward. The telephone. You can call the duke.”
Edward looked momentarily startled, then smiled broadly. “You’re right. I’d forgotten Rand had a phone installed a few months back. You, my dear, are a genius.”
“Aren’t I, though?”
Edward shuffled through the top drawer of his desk, looking for his phone directory. He lifted the receiver and gave the telephone a good crank before lifting it to his ear. Edward dragged his free hand through his hair while he waited for the operator to respond. “Yes. Operator,” he fairly shouted. “Connect me to Bellingham 241, please.”
He clutched the phone hard so Amelia would not see how badly he was shaking, saying silent prayers over and over. It seemed to take forever before the operator said, “Your party is available.”
“Yes. This is Lord Hollings.” He waited. “I said, this is Lord Hollings. I wonder if I could speak with His Grace, please. His Grace.” He waited, his heart pounding in his chest painfully. The line had a loud crackling noise that made it nearly impossible for him to be understood or to understand the person on the other end. Finally Randall was at the telephone. “Randall,” he said without preamble. “What was the name of the ship Miss Pierce sailed on?”
“Her what?”
“Her ship. The ship she sailed on.”
“I don’t remember. Why? You going off to chase her, are you?”
“Was it the White Star?”
“Yes. The White Star. She sent a postcard from Liverpool with a picture of it. We got it two days ago.”
Edward felt his entire body go still. “Thank you.”
“Edward, is something wrong?”
Edward couldn’t talk, could hardly breathe.
“Edward. Is something wrong?” Randall repeated.
“No, no. Good-bye.” He didn’t want to frighten the duchess if all was well and he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud what he was thinking.
He looked bleakly up at his sister. “It was the W
hite Star.”
“Are you quite certain? Because…because…” She couldn’t finish her sentence.
She walked over to his desk and laid the newspaper down and pointed a shaking finger to the headline WHITE STAR SINKS. SURVIVORS UNKNOWN.
Edward read: “The White Star, one of Britain’s premier passenger steamships, was reported sunk off the coast of New England. The ship and all its cargo were lost December twenty-second during a large coastal storm, according to the captain of the fishing vessel Betsy May, who witnessed the sinking. The fate of its crew and passengers is unknown at this time.”
His eyes scanned desperately for more information, but there was none. “Today is the twenty-fourth. This is yesterday’s edition. Did we not get today’s edition?”
“We never get it the same day,” Amelia said, and she began to cry. “It can’t be true. It can’t be. She was coming back. She was going to come back. She promised.” Amelia began sobbing into her hands. “I can’t take it if another person dies, Edward. I just won’t be able to take it.”
Edward’s drew his sister into his arms and comforted her, even though his tortured mind was thinking exactly the same thing. If Maggie were dead, he wasn’t entirely certain he could go on.
“I’ll call the Times,” he said, pushing Amelia gently away. He put his hands reassuringly on her shoulders and forced himself to smile. “No doubt they’ll have more information. Why the hell they would put such a story in a newspaper without anything about survivors is beyond me. But we’ll find out all is well and have an amusing story to tell Miss Pierce when she comes back.”
Amelia gave him a watery smile. “I do hope so. She will be tickled, won’t she?”
“We’ll have a great laugh,” he said, feeling an awful tightening in his chest.
He picked up his phone again, and asked to be connected to the Times in London. He began pacing and nearly pulled the telephone wire from the wall, and would have if Amelia hadn’t lunged for the phone and stopped it from tumbling off the desk. Finally, he was connected. “Yes. I need to speak to someone about the White Star sinking. I say, I need to talk…Hello? Yes. I need to talk to someone about the…Hello? By God, these wretched things are useless,” he shouted. “No, not you, sir. The White Star. I need information about the ship.”
“It sank,” he heard through a loud crackling. The person said something else, but he couldn’t make it out.
“What? I cannot hear you, confound it. Were there survivors? Hello? Yes, survivors.” He drew his brows together in concentration, trying to understand what the man was saying, but it was nearly impossible. Amelia hovered near him, pressing her ear near the receiver. No doubt she could hear even less than he could. “Bloody, bloody, bloody hell,” he shouted in frustration. And then he heard the distinct sound of the connection being terminated. Edward slammed down the receiver, letting out a curse no doubt Amelia had never heard before, and her eyes went wide.
“My apologies,” he said, “but I couldn’t understand the bloke and he’s hung up on me. I’m heading down to the wire office. Much more reliable service if you ask me.”
“I want to come, too.”
“No, I’ll get there faster alone. I’ll be home with news before you know it.”
He was about to rush from the room, but he stopped, opened his drawer, and grabbed the blue-bound book. Amelia gave him a curious look, but he ignored it and began shouting orders that his horse be prepared.
Amelia sat down, feeling emotionally drained. She knew why she was so upset, but why was Edward? It was more than being troubled about an acquaintance. She hadn’t seen him act this way since…her parents were dying. He’d looked tormented, which was quite astonishing since he claimed he held no special feelings toward Maggie. It made sense now. Maggie was the reason Edward had been so out of sorts when he’d returned from America, and she was the reason he’d seemed so briefly happy at Bellewood and why, of late, he seemed to have become the sort of man who hardly smiled.
“My God,” she whispered. “He is in love with her.” She began to pray in earnest that Maggie was safe, for she didn’t know if her brother could take another blow to his heart.
Edward stayed at the telegraph office until he received a reply from the Times. His telegram had been cryptic and brief. “Request information on White Star survivors STOP Immediate response requested STOP.”
While he waited, he paced until the telegraph operator cleared his throat pointedly. He sat, holding the book and gazing at it, praying as he hadn’t prayed since his mother and father died, since he sat by his sister’s bed and watched her struggle to breathe. “You will not die,” he’d whispered. “I will not allow it.”
And now, clutching the precious book, he prayed again. Each time he heard the clatter of the telegraph machine, he raised his head only to have the clerk shake his. Even though he’d read it a hundred times, he opened the book to read her inscription: “Nothing is lost which is worth finding. Yours, Maggie.” He still didn’t know what the hell she meant, he thought, smiling.
The telegraph machine clattered, and he raised his head.
“This is it, sir,” the clerk said, pulling the tape from the machine. He handed it over as soon as it stopped. Edward took the small slip of paper, thanked the man, and walked out of the office without reading it. It was a cold, blustery day and few people were walking about. It was Christmas Eve, after all. He slipped into an alley, pressing the paper against his lips. “Please, God, please,” he whispered. He opened his eyes and read the message: “All survived.”
“All survived,” he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. He slid down the cold brick of the building because he found his legs could no longer hold him. And, despite the few passersby who looked at him curiously, he began to sob in relief so profound it unmanned him.
“You all right, mister?”
He looked up to see a small boy, only his eyes showing in his bundled up little body.
“I am exceedingly well,” Edward said, laughing even though his face was wet with tears.
The boy gave him a baffled look, then went on his way, perhaps a bit frightened by the man who was crying but insisted he was “exceedingly well.” Edward stood, dusted himself off, and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his face.
It appeared, he thought grimly, looking at his tearstained cloth, that his efforts to get over Maggie had not entirely worked. That was not well done at all. Not at all.
Chapter 22
Really, Amelia thought, tilting her neck so that Carson could gain better access, Edward should take his responsibilities as chaperone much more seriously. Or perhaps he thought Lady Matilda was supposed to be making certain Carson wasn’t taking liberties…or that she was happily giving him liberties. They were in a small alcove in the breakfast room, and as it was two o’clock in the afternoon it was quite deserted. Carson and Amelia had run to this room, laughing like children, knowing that they could kiss to their hearts’ content without being discovered.
Had anything ever felt better than a man’s lips on her neck? She was positively ready to melt to the floor, a puddle of lust. Yes, lust and desire and love. Love, love, love.
“I love you,” she said, smiling when he moved his hand up to cup her breast through her dress.
“An’ I love you, darling. I love everything about you. I just wish I could see more of you,” he said, pulling her dress away and pretending to peek.
Amelia gasped, more in delight than shock. “Sir, you mustn’t.”
“I love the way you talk, too. Mmmm.”
Amelia felt that mmmm right down to her toes.
“I think I’ll die if I can’t have you.”
Amelia laughed. “You won’t die, Carson.”
“I’ll expire right on the spot,” he said, his breath coming harsh as he reached around her back and started unbuttoning her dress.
“What are you doing?” Amelia asked, feeling the first bit of panic hit her.
“I just want to see you. Th
at’s all. Just see you. I just know you’re going to be the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he said. “It might be easier if you turned around.”
“I don’t think we should.”
“I do,” he said, kissing her neck and making her sigh. Then he started caressing her through her dress again, making her breast swell against his hand, making her nipple hard and aching. Until Carson, she’d had no idea, none at all, that a man would want to touch her this way or that she would so absolutely want him to.
“Oh, good Lord, Carson.”
“Mmmm,” he said, again, all the while his free hand worked those buttons, until she could feel the cool air on her back, delicious and naughty and wonderful. What would it hurt for him to simply look at her? She knew when to stop him. She knew she could never, ever let him take her virginity. Surely one look wouldn’t hurt. She turned around saucily, presenting her back, and was rewarded by a sharp intake of his breath.
“Lordy, you are a beauty,” he breathed. Then he finished unbuttoning quickly, and returned to kissing her neck. He drew her against him, until she could feel his erection against her buttocks, a frightening and glorious feeling. He moved his hands to her front, to cup her breasts again, but this time he was bolder, moving his body against hers in a rhythm that was erotic and intoxicating. “I want you so bad, honey. So bad. Can you feel how bad I want you? You’re drivin’ me crazy, darlin’.”
Then he slipped her dress from her shoulders and turned her gently around. In short work her corset was pushed down, her chemise unlaced, her breasts exposed to the cool air and his hot gaze.
“Holy God,” he said. “I’ve been dreamin’ of this from the first day I saw you, honey, and you’re better than any dream I’ve had.”
Amelia blushed, both from the compliment and from the embarrassment of having him stare at her so. She’d never thought of her breasts as beautiful or not. They were just part of her, a very feminine part to be sure, but nothing special. Now, as she looked down at her exposed breasts, she realized they were beautiful. He laid a hand on her bare breast and she closed her eyes. She felt him touch her nipple, twist it gently between his thumb and forefinger, and she nearly cried out at the exquisite feeling, a sharp, piercing sensation that went from her nipple to between her legs.