by Anne Barton
Chapter 11
Miss W. is attending a ball?
Surely, the end of the world cannot be far behind.
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
Savage leaned back in his chair, drew on his cigar, and pushed a box across his gleaming desk toward Stephen, who sat in a chair opposite him. “Care for one?”
“No, thanks.” Stephen tried to keep his breathing easy, slow the pounding of his heart.
“This is McGee,” Savage said, jerking a thumb at the henchman who stood behind him. “I believe you’ve already met Maltby.” He nodded toward the man standing guard by the door.
Ah yes, the oaf who’d blackened Stephen’s eye. Charming fellow.
“I’m here to settle my debt.”
“Excellent. Let’s see it then.” Turning to McGee, the gaming hell owner asked, “What does he owe me?”
“One thousand pounds.” McGee ground a fist into his palm—unoriginal as threatening gestures went, but effective. Stephen’s neck broke out in a cold sweat.
“I don’t have cash,” he said smoothly. “But what I’m offering is worth considerably more than one thousand pounds.”
Savage snorted and smoothed a palm over his slicked-back hair. “I’ve no use for family heirlooms, Brookes. Not unless they can be melted down or sold. But I’m listening.”
“My curricle is parked out front, with a fine pair of matching horses. They’re yours—if you’ll release me from my debt.”
Savage puffed on his cigar for a long moment then waved it at Maltby. “Go inspect it. If it looks like something my great aunt would ride in, I’m not interested.” To Stephen, he said, “It would appear that my assistants made an impression on you.”
Stephen grunted. They’d left their marks, all right, but they’d also done him a favor—they’d driven him to Amelia’s doorstep. Hell, he should buy them all drinks.
He and Savage sat in uncompanionable silence while McGee hovered. When at last Maltby returned, huffing from hauling his twenty-stone body up the stairs, he said, “Nice gig. Fine horseflesh.”
A gross understatement. The curricle and horses were easily worth 1,500 pounds. A lavish gift from his brother when he’d turned twenty-five, they were his most prized possessions. But he’d gladly hand them over to Savage if it meant he could go to Amelia with a clean slate.
“Fine,” Savage said. He clamped his cigar between his teeth and stuck out a pudgy hand. “We have a deal.”
Relief coursed through Stephen as he stood, shook his hand, and turned to leave.
“You know,” Savage called out. “Now that you’ve paid up, I can extend another line of credit. Why don’t you go downstairs and have a drink on me? Try your luck at some of the tables. Who knows? You might even be able to win your curricle back.”
Stephen hesitated, not because he was tempted by the offer but because, for once, he wasn’t. “No thanks. I’ve got a long walk home.”
He didn’t really let out his breath until he’d stalked out of the gaming hell and started down King Street. He had a lot to think about during his walk.
Tomorrow, he’d talk with his older brother, Charles, the Marquess of Greystone, about playing a bigger role in the management of the family estate—about making a contribution, somehow. Stephen was tired of playing the part of a dissolute rake. He might be a younger son, but he could do more than drink, gamble, and whore. At least, he was fairly certain he could. It was time he found out.
Stephen also planned to have a conversation with his mother. She was always begging him to give up his debauchery and marry a nice young lady from a respectable family. Well, he’d found a nice young lady. He had a sneaking suspicion his mother wouldn’t approve of a family whose fortune came from a brass mill in Bristol, but he didn’t care. He loved his mother and didn’t want to hurt her, but she was wrong if she thought that Amelia wasn’t good enough for him.
She was better than he deserved.
But he was going to try to convince her to marry him anyway.
* * *
Amelia had to admit that attending the Norrington ball was not nearly as onerous as she’d feared. Of course, it helped that she’d made her entrance with the Duke and Duchess of Huntford. Olivia and Rose introduced her to everyone they knew and made sure she was never left alone by the potted palms or in want of a dance partner. They’d lent her an apple green gown with a daring neckline—rather similar to the one she’d imagined wearing as she’d waltzed with Stephen. She couldn’t wait to recount the events of the night to him.
He’d been right. Reading about a ball in the newspapers did not compare to actually attending a ball. And while the gossip papers may have reported most of the scandals correctly, they didn’t tell the whole story. Like how it felt to succumb to fits of breathless laughter after a lively reel. Or how magical it felt to be on the dance floor moving in unison with scores of other people.
For all she knew, people could have been whispering or making snide remarks about her. She was just having too much fun to mind.
When their party piled into the duke’s coach at the end of the evening, everyone was pleasantly exhausted. Amelia, Olivia, and Rose sat on one bench, while the duke and his lovely wife, Anabelle, sat on the bench facing them.
Olivia reached out and affectionately squeezed Amelia’s arm. “I’m so glad you decided to join us tonight.”
“So am I. Thank you for inviting me. This was a far more enjoyable experience than the last ball I attended. However, I suppose that’s not saying much, really.”
“Which ball was that?” Anabelle asked. “And why was it so awful?”
“We mustn’t talk about that night,” Olivia said quickly. “It will spoil our excellent mood.”
“Oh, forgive me,” Anabelle said. “I didn’t realize.”
“Please, don’t apologize,” Amelia said. “I’m the one who brought it up. And though I used to be very sensitive about it, I don’t mind talking about it now. It was about two years ago at Greystone Park. Mama and I took a spill in the middle of the dance floor. It was quite a spectacle.”
“Oh, how awful,” Anabelle said sincerely. “Were you hurt?”
“Not really. My pride, on the other hand…”
Anabelle nodded with understanding. “People can be so cruel—there’s nothing the ton loves so much as someone else’s misery.”
And then, because Amelia couldn’t resist mentioning Stephen, she said, “Not everyone was awful to us. Lord Brookes came to our rescue—he was most kind and considerate.”
The duke nodded. “Brookes is a decent fellow.” But then, while issuing a warning look at his sisters, he added, “He’s too much of a rogue for either of you, however. He spends more time in gaming hells than is good for him.”
Innocent though the statement may have been, Amelia’s hackles rose. “Perhaps Lord Brookes means to change—to give up gambling.”
Huntford chuckled. “Maybe. But I don’t think that’s happening anytime soon. I saw him walking out of a hell on King Street earlier today.”
Amelia felt as though she’d been kicked.
“Today?”
“Mmm,” said the duke. “Just before dinner.”
“I see.” Amelia’s nose stung and her eyes burned. She didn’t trust herself to say anything more. And what was there to say? He’d filled her head with promises and hope before he left. A scant few hours later, he’d probably forgotten the things he said—forgotten about her—and returned to his destructive habits.
Rose leaned forward. “Are you feeling well, Amelia?”
Grateful for the dark interior of the coach, she swallowed the huge, painful lump in her throat. “Of course.”
“Still,” said Olivia, “I don’t like the idea of you going home to an empty house. Why don’t you stay with us tonight? We could set you up in the guest chamber until your mother returns to town.”
“Thank you, but no,” Amelia said quickly. “I’d like to go home.”
<
br /> Her world had seemed so full of possibilities earlier tonight.
Now it felt like a shell—empty and hollow.
She’d been so stupid and naïve to let Stephen manipulate her. He could accuse her of hiding in her bedchamber and wasting her life all that he wanted. Once she was back in that safe, isolated world, she intended to stay there for a very long time.
Chapter 12
Miss W.’s adventure was predictably short-lived.
Much like a mole, she shall now burrow underground
and disappear for the remainder of the Season.
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
“Miss Wimple is indisposed.” Giles’s tone was icy, and he wouldn’t look Stephen in the eye.
“I need to speak with her,” Stephen said. “I promise it won’t take long.”
The butler snorted. “The last time I admitted you to this house, you stayed four days.”
“Give me four minutes.”
Giles pulled himself to his full height, maybe five and a half feet. “You don’t understand, my lord. It is not up to me. Miss Wimple does not wish to receive you.”
Stephen scratched his head. She’d been justifiably peeved with him yesterday, but now she wouldn’t even see him? “Just me?”
The butler confirmed this with a crisp nod.
“She’s upset about something, but I have no idea what,” he muttered to himself more than the butler. “That’s not true—it could be any number of things.” Perhaps things hadn’t gone well at the ball last night. “The problem,” said Stephen, “is that I can’t mend things with Amelia until I figure out why she’s hurting.”
Giles gave him a measuring look, hesitated, then spoke. “She is hurting, my lord. It fairly breaks my heart to see it.”
“If I were to write her a note, do you think she’d read it, or just toss it into the fire?”
“It’s hard to say. In my experience, however, women enjoy a good bit of groveling.”
Stephen peered around the butler into the foyer. “I assume she’s upstairs, locked in her room?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Would you consider letting me in the drawing room—just long enough for me to write her a note?”
“I suppose you’ll need a paper, pen, and ink.” Giles made a sour face, but his wily old eyes twinkled.
Stephen smiled and clasped the man’s shoulder. “A large pot of ink. I have a lot of groveling to do.”
* * *
Amelia suspected it was Stephen at the door. The only other callers she might have had would have been Olivia and Rose, but they wouldn’t have argued with Giles when he said she wasn’t receiving. They had good manners.
But she had to admit, it was somewhat gratifying to know that Stephen hadn’t given up on her that easily.
She was tempted to slip out of her room and creep down the corridor for a peek at the foyer, but then the house grew quiet. Stephen had left after all.
Part of her wanted to run down the street after him, but he’d lied to her about giving up gambling. And that lie cast doubt over everything else he’d said before he left. I was thinking maybe I’d settle down. Start a family. With you.
But perhaps what he was really thinking was that it might be nice to be married to an heiress who could support his rather extravagant gambling habit. After all, he’d said nothing about love.
She picked up the quilt that they’d lain on the night they spent together, clutched it to her chest, and inhaled deeply. She could still smell the faint scent of Stephen and their lovemaking.
She would miss him—his irreverent sense of humor, the way he challenged her to expand her world, and the way he made her toes curl with a single smoldering look. But she wouldn’t resign herself to a marriage where all the love was on one side. She was better off being single.
A knock at the door startled her, and she quickly set the quilt on the stool. “Come in.”
Cicely scurried into the room, her cheeks flushed. “Mr. Giles asked me to give this to you.”
Amelia took the folded paper from her. There was no address on the front, just her first name. It had to be from Stephen. “Is Lord Brookes still downstairs?”
The maid shook her head. “No ma’am. Mr. Giles let him write the note but said he wouldn’t deliver it till Lord Brookes left. I knew you didn’t want to see him but I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about a note. If you’d like me to have a footman return it—”
“No. Thank you, Cicely.”
“Very well.” Her maid gave a sympathetic, thin-lipped smile. “Oh, and I almost forgot. Your mother sent word. She’ll be returning tomorrow afternoon.”
“So soon,” Amelia murmured.
“Perhaps that means she’s much improved,” Cicely said cheerfully. “I’ll be back around tea time.”
Amelia sank into her chair and pulled the quilt over her lap. Her heart raced as she unfolded Stephen’s note.
My dearest Amelia,
As you are, by now, well aware, there are many disadvantages to being wooed by a rake. The following are but a few.
1) He may employ devious means in order to bend you to his will. For example, a rake might stoop to falsely signing your name on a letter to your friends in order to persuade you to attend a ball. Clearly, this sort of behavior is unacceptable (even if the rake did have the very best intentions and only wanted you to enjoy an evening in the company of your friends).
2) He may display a shocking and deplorable lack of respect for your privacy. For instance, if he were to happen upon a diary or other personal document, he would not hesitate to read it. This blatant disregard for your privacy is inexcusable (even if it was motivated by a desire to better understand you so that he might know the way to win your heart).
3) A rake may employ every means possible to seduce you. Such means include, but are not limited to, waltzing (in the complete absence of music), midnight assignations, and the removal of clothing. His only defense for such scandalous behavior is that he is quite powerless to resist you. And even though it may have been wrong for him to take such liberties with you, he cannot bring himself to regret a moment of that night.
Amelia, you have every right to be angry with me, and I’m sorry that I’ve upset you. There are many things I want to say to you—that I need to say to you—but they are things that must be said face-to-face. I probably don’t deserve a chance to explain myself, but I’m asking for one anyway. Meet me in Hyde Park at dusk tonight—on the bench beneath the tallest tree by the pond. Please.
Stephen
Amelia’s heart thawed a bit, blast it all. Fine. She would give him a quarter of an hour—no more.
That evening, when the sky started to glow pink and orange, she and Cicely set out for the park. Amelia wore a lilac silk pelisse over her white cambric walking dress, matching lilac slippers, and a straw woodland hat—one of her more fetching ensembles. Cicely had taken extra care with her hair, but none of this was to impress Stephen. Well, perhaps a little. But mostly, Amelia wanted to feel confident as she wished him well and said good-bye.
As they strolled down Oxford Street, Amelia turned to her maid. “I shall give Mr. Brookes a quarter of an hour of my time—no more.” The problem was that when Stephen launched his charming smile in her direction, she had a tendency to lose her resolve. “You may make one turn about the lake. After that, you must come for me and insist that I leave with you.”
“Very well.” Cicely nodded her approval.
“And if I should request a few minutes more, or tell you to take another turn about the lake, simply refuse. Drag me away if you must.”
Her maid shot her a concerned look. “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”
They crested a gently sloping hill and the lake rose up before them, glistening in the waning evening light. “There he is,” said Cicely.
Indeed. He sat with his back to them, facing the water. His dark hair curled slightly over the back of his collar and Ameli
a remembered how he’d moaned when she’d kissed his neck. He wore the same Hessians he’d worn that first night—all night—as he brought her to the height of pleasure. Dear God.
“Remember,” she said to Cicely as she prepared to join Stephen on the bench. “One turn about the lake. Then we head for home—no matter what.”
Chapter 13
When it comes to wooing women, Lord B. has many weapons
in his arsenal—dashing good looks, self-deprecating humor,
and something else… that shall not be named.
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
Stephen turned as she approached, then stood. “Thank God. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
Amelia sighed. “I’m a glutton for punishment, it seems.” Seeing him and knowing that she couldn’t have him was the cruelest form of torture. He wore a dark blue jacket, a lighter blue waistcoat, and buckskin breeches so expertly tailored that they could have been painted on him. His bruises were healing nicely, and the smile that slid across his face made her belly flip. “I cannot stay for long,” she said.
“I understand. Please, sit.” He slid down the bench to make room for her, but not as far as he could have.
She smoothed her skirts and pretended that his closeness didn’t make her skin tingle with desire. “I received your note. You said there were some things you needed to say in person,” she said primly. “I thought you deserved that opportunity, even if I don’t expect it will change anything.”
“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “For whatever it is I’ve done. Will you tell me what it is?”
“It’s not worth discussing. A leopard can’t change its spots.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve changed. You’re the last person I’d want to hurt, Amelia. I wish I could take you in my arms right now and kiss away your doubts.”
“I don’t think that would be wise.”