by Anne Barton
He sat beside her, and without preamble said, “I am not going to insult you by glossing over the truth or trying to soften the blow of what I must tell you.” There was no pity in his voice; on the contrary, it was almost emotionless. He was good at this.
Amelia nodded and squared her shoulders.
“Samuel has eloped with Miss Holton.”
Her mouth fell open, and she thought her heart might pound right out of her chest. Winnie. Beautiful, thin Winnie. Not trusting herself to speak, she simply nodded again.
They sat in silence, and Lord Brookes seemed to understand she needed time to compose herself.
After a few minutes, he said, “May I be frank with you, Miss Wimple?”
She bobbed her head in assent but secretly wondered how much more frank discussion a girl could take.
“Sam has been a good friend of mine since we were boys. This sort of behavior is completely out of character for him, and I can only assume that the reason he is acting so erratically is that he fancies himself in… in love with Miss Holton.” Lord Brookes said this last part as if love were an affliction he sincerely hoped he would not catch. “I, of all people, am in no position to judge another man for his treatment of a lady,” he admitted. He pursed his lips as he searched for the proper words, and Amelia found herself staring at his beautiful mouth. “But even I would not court a young woman while planning to elope with another. I apologize on behalf of my friend.”
She sighed deeply and clasped her trembling hands. “Samuel is not the only one to blame,” she said softly.
“No, I suppose Miss Holton is involved in this too.”
Amelia shook her head. “I meant that it is partly my fault.”
Lord Brookes raised a dark brow and waited for her to explain.
“I knew Samuel was marrying me for my fortune.” How was that for being frank?
“I see.”
“He made no secret of the fact that he was having financial difficulties and needed to marry an heiress,” she confessed. Her voice was surprisingly steady given the flip-flopping of her belly. “I knew he didn’t love me. I thought I could help him and he would be a good husband in return.”
“Well,” he said, “I suspect many marriages begin in just that way.”
“Perhaps, but I wanted more than that,” said Amelia. “I deserve more than that.”
Lord Brookes smiled and looked curiously at her, like he was seeing her for the first time. Like she had just earned his respect. “Indeed.”
They sat quietly for a few moments, till she felt a small drop splatter on the bridge of her nose. Light rain began to fall, and she imagined it was washing away all the hurt and betrayal she felt inside. Well, maybe not all, because she was going to have a good hard cry when she got back to her bedchamber, but it was a start.
“Would you like my coat?” He shrugged out of the finely tailored garment.
“Thank you, but no. This is actually quite refreshing.” She turned her face to the sky and let the warm rain roll down her cheeks and neck. He must have thought she was mad, but after looking at her oddly for a few moments, he chuckled and leaned back his head as well.
“You are not what I expected, Miss Wimple.”
That was precisely what Amelia had needed to hear.
Chapter 4
It would appear that Miss W. no longer has any use for Lord V.
In a bold move, she sent him away from London, advising him to rusticate in the country.
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
God, he was thirsty. And in pain.
It took Stephen a moment to realize he wasn’t alone. Through half-shut eyes, he spied Amelia in an armchair at his bedside. Legs crossed, she absently bounced a foot as though she were keeping time with a Scottish reel.
“Good morning,” he said, though it sounded more like a croak.
She bobbled the book resting on her lap and leapt to her feet. “Goodness, you startled me. It’s actually afternoon, my lord.”
She filled a glass with water and held it out to him. When he strained to lift his head, she quickly slipped an arm behind him for support. She smelled like springtime.
He downed the water and she placed the empty glass on the table beside him. “Please, call me Stephen. I insist on dropping the ‘lord’ once a woman has caressed my bare chest.”
Miss Wimple blushed and coughed awkwardly. He supposed it was poorly done of him to tease her, but he didn’t know any other way to talk to women. Her simple day dress was the color of posies and had a neckline much too modest for his taste. Her coffee-colored hair was pulled back from her oval face in a sensible style that made her look fresh and innocent. Far from his usual type, and yet—
“I think I should change the bandage on your head.” Her forehead furrowed in concern as she brushed some of his hair away from the strips of linen.
His body thrummed in response, proving that it would take a hell of a lot more than a head wound and a couple of broken ribs to squash his desire for a pretty woman.
“Will you be all right if I leave you alone for a few moments? I need to retrieve some more bandages.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
She left the door cracked and pattered down the hallway.
Stephen flipped off the blankets, glad to see someone had put a nightshirt on him. Gingerly, he slid his legs over the edge of the mattress, ignored the stinging around his lungs, and took small, even breaths.
The laudanum on the bedside table tempted him, but he’d been in a strange haze long enough. More water—that was what he needed. The pitcher on the table was within reach, but his right arm hurt like the devil. He recalled the sickening crack when the doctor had jammed his shoulder back into its socket. Swallowing a wave of nausea, he applied himself to the simple task of pouring a bloody glass of water.
He stood slowly and deliberately, filled the glass, and drained it. His pounding head screamed for him to lie back down, but a small mirror on top of the bureau proved irresistible. He hobbled to the chest-high dresser and propped himself up with his good elbow.
Since he felt every cut and bruise all too keenly, the sight of his face shouldn’t have alarmed him, but it did. His left eye looked like it was bulging from its socket and the swollen skin surrounding it glowed a bright reddish purple. A small gash along his right cheekbone puckered beneath tight stitches. It wouldn’t leave much of a scar.
Stephen lightly pressed a fingertip to the purple, egg-sized lump along his jaw and winced. But it could have been worse. He had all his teeth, and somehow his nose had escaped unscathed too.
“Lord Brookes?” Amelia briskly entered the room and gave a start when she realized he was out of bed.
“Just Stephen, remember?”
“What are you—” she began, then spied the mirror in front of him. “Heavens,” she exclaimed. Like she’d discovered her frail old grandpapa dancing a jig. She set the bandages she was holding on the nightstand, then walked over and gently but firmly wrapped an arm about his waist. “Come back to bed,” she urged.
“Under different circumstances,” he quipped, shuffling alongside her, “those words would be quite welcome.”
She stopped walking and looked up into his face. Her skin was smooth and clear, her eyes intelligent. “You don’t have to be so droll with me.”
He felt a stab of remorse. “I’ve offended you.”
“No, you haven’t.” Her forehead wrinkled. “But how do you have the energy to be glib right now?”
He didn’t. He was having a hard time just standing, even with her half-holding him up. But what they said about old habits was true.
“Never mind. Let me help you get settled.” She fluffed some pillows before easing him back onto the feather mattress. A bed had never felt so heavenly. She wrung out a cloth above the washbasin and tenderly dabbed at the exposed skin on his face, cooling and soothing him. Though he enjoyed her ministrations—what warm-blooded man wouldn’t?—it w
as distinctly uncomfortable to have a beautiful woman tending to him like he was an invalid. Which he supposed he was.
As though she could read his thoughts, she said, “Listen. You were kind to me when I was going through something of an ordeal.” She smiled, and an adorable dimple surfaced on her cheek. “You are going to need someone to care for you for a few days, and I am in a position to do it.”
“Where is Samuel?”
“I told him to go home to Winnie.” She tugged at the blanket and it billowed up, floating over him before settling lightly on his chest.
He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of freshly laundered linens. Good lord, her offer was tempting. But no. “I can’t stay here.”
“Why ever not?” She shot him a saucy grin. “Concerned for your reputation?”
“I’m concerned about one of ours.”
“No one knows you’re here. Mama returns in four or five days. Do you think you’ll be sufficiently recovered to venture out by then?”
“God help me if I’m not. But you must realize that you are the one with everything to lose. Think of the risk.”
She shrugged as though she cared little. “You’re already here. I don’t go out in society, so why should I care what they say about me?”
“You don’t go out? Not even to Almack’s?”
She gave a slight shudder. “No.”
“Balls?”
She sank into the chair beside his bed and shook her head.
“The theater?”
A wistful look flitted across her face but disappeared so quickly he might have imagined it. “No. I occasionally go for walks in Hyde Park, but I avoid the promenade hour.”
“But you’re a young and beautiful heiress. You shouldn’t miss out on all the revelry.”
She scoffed at that. “I have no wish to take tea with the same women who scorned me after… your house party. I have no desire to attend soirees with the same women who made sport of my weight.”
Her weight? “Why would they—”
“In any case, we’re not talking about me. You are the one who looks like you just fought Goliath.”
“David won. I can’t say the same.”
Amelia leaned forward, and for a moment, he was sure she was going to ask who’d hurt him. “I realize accepting help may be a blow to your manly pride, so if it helps, just think of this as repayment of a debt.”
It was his turn to smile. “Miss Wimple—”
“Call me Amelia, please.”
“Amelia.” He’d already begun thinking of her as Amelia but liked the feel of her name rolling off his tongue even more. “You owe me nothing. And yes, it’s difficult for me to rely on someone else. But if you’re sure about this… I’ll try.”
“That’s good, because you really have no alternative,” she said cheerfully, “unless you’d like me to deliver you into the hands of your mother.”
“No.” The picture of his disfigured face was fresh in his mind. If his mother were to see him like this, it would break her heart.
“I have a proposition for you.”
“I’d like to hear it,” he drawled. Perhaps the next couple of days would be even more interesting than he’d anticipated.
“I’ll do my best to keep your presence here a secret from your mother, if you’ll make me a promise as well.”
“Anything.”
“Promise you won’t pretend with me.”
What? “I don’t understand.”
She perched on the edge of the bed and took one of his hands between hers. A shot of desire, unbidden but fierce, swept through him. “Don’t try to hide your pain from me. Don’t attempt to talk to me like we’re at a dinner party when I know it hurts you to breathe. Be genuine with me… and tell me what you need.”
A few wicked thoughts crossed his mind. He shoved them aside. “Thank you. I shall.”
“We must start by changing these bandages”—she lightly touched the one at his crown—“and then I’ll have a nice bowl of soup sent up.”
Amelia unwound the old, bloodied strips carefully, but they still stuck to his hair and skin. His head felt warm and wet where a few of the gashes began to bleed anew. She pressed her lips together in a thin line as she worked, as though she felt every stinging sensation he did.
When she’d finally cleaned the wounds with tepid water and redressed them, she sat on the bed beside him. Swiping at the light sheen of perspiration on her brow, she sighed softly. “There. All done.”
“You’re exhausted.” He was too. “I’m sorry. I should have insisted on waiting for the doctor.”
The corners of her lovely mouth turned up and her eyes grew moist. “Don’t be daft,” she scolded. “You’ve seen me at my worst—looking like a stuffed sausage rolling around on the floor of your ballroom—and now I’ve seen you at your worst as well.” She picked up a cloth and lightly patted his face with it. “I’d say we are completely beyond trying to impress one another.”
“Thank you. Again.”
“Do you think you could eat some soup?”
“I think I’ll rest for a while.”
She pressed a palm to his good cheek, forcing him to meet his gaze. “But you’ll eat something when you wake?”
“Will you sit with me while I do?”
She eased herself off the bed and smiled, her dimple winking mischievously. “Perhaps. I still have a few questions for you. But for now, you have been granted a reprieve. Sleep.”
“Good night, Amelia.”
“Good night, Stephen.”
In the twilight between consciousness and sleep, he thought about what she’d said. Be genuine with me.
Most females expected—wanted—him to act the part of a titled, irresponsible rake. Hell, it wasn’t even an act. But Amelia was different. She saw beyond his face, beyond his reputation.
She challenged him to be something more.
And for her, he just might try.
Chapter 5
Miss W. shows positively no regard for the correct forms of address.
Thus begins the crumbling of a once great civilization.
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
“Do you miss your mother terribly?”
Lady Rose, Amelia’s second cousin by marriage, asked the question with such feeling, such sincerity, that Amelia almost choked on her scone. Her dear cousin hadn’t spent much time in Mama’s company, obviously. Amelia took a sip of tea, needing time to formulate a response that would somehow be both polite and truthful. “The house is ever so quiet without her,” she said soberly.
Rose nodded her red head sympathetically and patted Amelia’s knee.
Rose’s sister, Lady Olivia, gazed about the richly appointed drawing room. Mama had selected every furnishing with the intention of impressing London’s elite. However, when one bought up scores of expensive objets d’art and placed them haphazardly around a room dressed with crimson silk on the walls… well, the effect was less “fashionable Mayfair townhome” and more “tawdry house of ill repute.”
When Giles announced that Lady Rose and Lady Olivia had come to call, Amelia had actually considered turning them away, pleading a headache or some other ailment. But if her cousins were worried about her, they were certain to make a return visit, so Amelia thought it best to receive them and be done with it. Stephen wasn’t likely to saunter into the drawing room in his nightshirt. Just the same, she’d bid Cicely to warn him that they had visitors. It would never do for him wander out of his room. Or his bed for that matter.
Amelia’s cheeks grew hot.
Olivia set down her teacup and made a sweeping arc with one arm. “How do you like being mistress of a large house such as this? Are you going mad with boredom? Or,” she added somewhat hopefully, “have you had any daring adventures?”
Did hiding a man in a bedchamber qualify as an adventure? Amelia’s pulse began to pound in double time.
“You know I’m not fond of the social scene,” Amel
ia said. “I like staying at home.”
Olivia sat on the edge of the settee and leaned toward her. “Do you? What do you do to occupy yourself?”
“I read.” Gossip rags, mostly, but Amelia saw no need to divulge that detail. “I write the occasional letter. I take walks at unfashionable hours.” It did sound rather pathetic now that she said it aloud. Was that really all she’d done in the past year and a half?
“An idea came to me during the coach ride over,” Olivia announced.
Oh no. Olivia’s ideas were rarely of the tame variety.
Rose smiled warmly. “I thought it splendid.”
Amelia breathed a little easier. “What was that?”
“Since your mother is in Bath for a few more days, why not attend the Norrington ball with Rose and me? Owen and Anabelle will be there too. You’ve never had the chance to meet our new sister-in-law, and we just know you’d adore her.”
“And she would adore you as well,” Rose added.
“The ball’s tomorrow night, and we promise you’ll have a lovely time.”
“I couldn’t possibly.” Amelia couldn’t. And not just because she had a secret house guest. The mere thought of mingling with dukes and duchesses made her palms sweat and her belly clench. The last ball she attended had ended with her sprawled on the floor, humiliated and alone.
“Why ever not?” asked Olivia incredulously.
Amelia reached for the easiest possible excuse. “I have nothing to wear. I haven’t bought anything new since… well, for a couple of seasons. I’ve yet to have my old gowns taken in.” She threw up her hands. “So, you see? Even if I desperately wanted to go, which I’m not certain I do…”
“You may wear one of my gowns.”
“Or mine,” offered Rose.
“And if the dress requires minor alterations, Anabelle is wickedly skilled with a needle.”
The duchess? Amelia had read something about this in the papers but couldn’t quite believe it.