My Runaway Heart

by Miriam Minger

  She hadn't expected a response and none came but the softest exhalation of delight. Lindsay glanced over her shoulder to see Donovan bend to kiss Corisande's smiling mouth. Her heart aching all the harder, she closed the door quietly behind her and fled to her room.

  Her best friend had progressed beyond her.

  ***

  By the next evening, Lindsay was back in a social mode, her flustered aunt clutching at her arm.

  "Oh, dear, oh, dear, this ballroom is dreadfully stuffy, such a crush of people. Where's my fan? Matilda! Oh, my, where could she have gone? Just when I need her most, she disappears—"

  "Here's your fan, Aunt Winnie, dangling from your wrist," Lindsay said with indulgent gentleness. She caught her aunt's fluttering right hand and popped open the prettily painted silk fan. At once the plump older woman began to beat vigorously at the air, her dimpled cheeks crimson with agitation as she searched the huge second-floor room for the lady's maid who accompanied her everywhere, even to balls.

  "But Matilda—"

  "I'm sure Matilda will return at any moment. She told me she wanted to fetch you a glass of lemon punch."

  "Oh, my, yes, punch would be very nice. She must have known just how peaked I was feeling. Such a dear, my Matilda."

  "Yes, she is a dear, but how about if we move closer to that window where you might catch a breath of fresh air?" Without waiting for a reply, Lindsay carefully steered her beloved aunt through the thronged room, the Dowager Baroness Penney nodding greetings to acquaintances even as she turned and whispered with exasperation into Lindsay's ear.

  "I don't understand why Lady Oglethorpe had to invite the whole of London to this ball! Even three marriageable daughters shouldn't warrant such a crowd, and not a beauty among them, no, no, not like you."

  "Aunt Winnie . . ."

  "It's the truth," the lady protested. "But with so many guests, why, there'll be little room for dancing and that would be such a disappointment, not only for yourself, my dear, but for all the nice young men whom you've met since you came to London. Yes, such a pity."

  More a relief, Lindsay thought with a small sigh, grateful when at last they had reached the window. An impeccably dressed older gentleman in buff-colored breeches and a stiff white cravat at once vacated a chair, Lady Penney plopping onto the crimson brocade cushion with an audible groan. As her aunt continued to fan herself with an energetic vigor that negated any real cause for concern, Lindsay surveyed the brilliantly lit ballroom, which was indeed as crowded as any she had seen.

  Bejeweled ladies dressed in stylish gowns of every hue—though lavender seemed to be especially favored tonight—and gentlemen dapper in formal evening wear milled around the room in an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colorful confusion, the pitch of conversation sounding to Lindsay like an agitated swarm of bees. She and Aunt Winifred had only just arrived at the fashionable assembly and already Lindsay wished they could return home.

  Other than the mad crush of people, it appeared a ball just like any other she had attended: formal, stuffy, hopelessly predictable and with the same faces. And she wasn't feeling very festive, not since Corisande and Donovan had left that morning.

  Their ship had to be well into the Channel by now, forging its way to Lisbon, Portugal. How she wished she were aboard, too. It would have been so exciting, so much more than enduring night after night of these interminable balls. She had even packed a bag in the hope that at the last moment she might persuade Aunt Winifred to allow her to accompany Corisande, but she had never carried it from her room. Her aunt might have succumbed to a swoon that even Matilda's ever-present smelling salts wouldn't remedy, and Lindsay couldn't do that to the poor dear. Aunt Winifred was trying so wretchedly hard to accommodate Olympia, damn that ridiculous woman!

  Lindsay spun around to the open window, suddenly needing fresh air herself. Her face felt hot, her chest constricted. How long was she to be a prisoner of her stepmother's plans for her?

  She could at least be thankful that Olympia's vanity hadn't allowed her to come to London as well, the woman preferring instead to stay in Porthleven, where she was the high priestess of society and not just another baronet's wife in a sea of glittering nobility. Although Lindsay wouldn't have minded at all to have her father here. Instead he was still with her stepmother . . .

  Forcing Olympia from her mind, Lindsay was startled by a nearby outburst.

  "Zounds, I owned stock in that ship! The Superior was top of the line from foremast to keel, only two years at sea. That bloody bastard must be caught and hanged! No, no, better yet, drawn and quartered!"

  Chapter 2

  "Oh, Lord." Lindsay rested her forehead on the cool pane and closed her eyes, finding some comfort in one of Corisande's favorite expressions as she willed the blustering fellow nearby to find another topic of conversation. He didn't. For the past three days, the talk among the ton had been of little else.

  "Damned if that scoundrel didn't make the officers row to Wight, the poor blokes half drowned and chilled to the marrow by the time they dragged themselves ashore. Made them row, mind you!"

  "Yes, indeed, like common sailors—and one of my own nephews among them!" piped up another gentleman. "Said the Superior was blown to bits and sank like a stone while that devil's ship disappeared into the night as if swallowed by hell itself!"

  Lindsay shivered, imagining the scene. Crackling flames, deafening explosions and frightened men crying out in the dark. She thought of Corisande and Donovan sailing at this moment to Lisbon aboard the brig Industry, and was grateful Donovan had arranged for a sixteen-gun King's cutter to escort them safely through the Channel. But once it had rounded the northwestern tip of France, the Industry would be left to its own defenses.

  Another man added his voice to the mounting uproar. "The name Phoenix suits him well enough, I'm deuced to say. Every time the villain fires a ship, he rises from the ashes to burn again—bloody constant as the sun and laughing at us all, I'd wager! Forty-two British merchantmen and nine warships in three years, and our esteemed navy hasn't come close to stopping him. An American privateer, no less, making his home in our fair waters! It's an outrage! Something must be done!"

  "The Phoenix?" A sharp tug came at Lindsay's skirt. "Oh, dear, are they talking about that dreadful pirate again? Where's Matilda? Where's my punch? My smelling salts!"

  Lindsay sank down next to her aunt's chair, the poor woman's silk fan fluttering triple time. Aunt Winifred looked ashen, which was exactly what Lindsay had feared. When a young bride, her aunt had lost her first husband, an official with the East India Company, to a pirate attack in the Bay of Bengal.

  "You mustn't let them distress you so, Aunt Winnie. Their conversation has nothing to do with us."

  "But your friend Corie and Lord Donovan. Oh, dear, oh—"

  "You saw how they shrugged off such talk at their party last night. Corie's very brave, you know. And Lord Donovan arranged for an armed cutter to accompany them just in case. He would be the last to take any heedless chances with his new wife aboard. So you mustn't worry for them—ah, look, here's Matilda with your lemon punch."

  Lindsay rose and threw a grateful look at the sweet-faced lady's maid whose stout girth so matched that of her mistress, whispering the word "pirates" as Matilda held out a brimming crystal punch cup to Aunt Winifred.

  "Frantic about pirates, are ye?" the old Scotswoman chided softly while her mistress took a shaky gulp. "Nonsense, now, milady. They're far out to sea and far away from ye, ye can be sure. And if any comes near, they'll have to contend with Matilda MacDougal first, don't ye forget it. Now drink up yer punch, it'll calm ye."

  "Yes, Aunt Winnie, drink your punch, and if you don't feel better soon, we could always lea—"

  "Miss Somerset! Oh, Miss Somerset!"

  Lindsay stiffened, groaning inwardly as she told herself if she didn't move, didn't make a sound, the russet-haired, earnest-faced apparition plunging toward her through the crowd would surely disappear. She even blink
ed, once, twice, but Lord Ambrose Lamb, the twenty-four-year-old son of an impoverished marquis and one of her most determined suitors, didn't stop his headlong rush until he was virtually upon her, a black buckled shoe trodding upon her slippered toe.

  Lindsay tried to stifle a wince, but it was too late. Lord Ambrose reddened from his snowy starched cravat to the roots of his neatly combed hair and immediately took her elbow to support her, his expression stricken.

  "Oh, my, Miss Somerset, I'm so terribly sorry! So clumsy of me. Does it hurt? Perhaps we should find a physician."

  "Please, my lord, I'm fine. Really." Lindsay groaned to herself again as she tried unsuccessfully to disengage her arm, Lord Ambrose Lamb no doubt fearing she might topple. "I'm made of quite sturdy stuff, I assure you. No, no, that really isn't necessary . . . oh, dear."

  Lindsay felt her face growing hot as flame as Lord Ambrose dropped to one knee, awkwardly groping for her foot.

  "But we should really call for a physician—I say, bones could be broken. Perhaps if I rubbed—"

  "Lord Ambrose, please!" Lindsay jumped back a step, bumping into the window ledge as she glanced up to see a host of shocked faces turned toward them, Aunt Winifred's fan frozen in midair. It was all so ridiculous she couldn't help but laugh, and at once Lord Ambrose ceased his fumbling and looked up at her, relief shining in his hazel eyes. But just as quickly came mortification, the young gentleman's shiny scrubbed face glowing even redder as he realized the immodest impropriety of his actions.

  "Miss Somerset, f-forgive me. I fear I've made quite a mess of things."

  "No, no, don't be silly—you were simply concerned about my welfare and I'm very grateful." Summoning a reassuring smile, Lindsay knew she now risked enduring his company for much of the evening, but Corisande had always said she was too kindhearted for her own good. Lord Ambrose's deep chagrin had been too pitiful to bear. Yet as the first strains of music, a minuet, filled the air, she couldn't help thinking that there still might be an escape . . .

  "Miss Somerset, I was hoping to ask you for a dance, but now that your toe—"

  "Truly, my toe is fine, my lord, but I fear that Aunt Winnie is feeling indisposed this evening. We were planning to call our carriage as soon as she finished her punch."

  "Oh, my, no, I never said a word about leaving," Aunt Winifred announced with surprising vigor after her recent complaints. "It appears there's going to be dancing after all, my dear. See, they're making room this very moment. Lady Oglethorpe is leading the way with her daughters and their escorts. How absolutely delightful for you!"

  "Yes, delightful," Lindsay said under her breath, the night suddenly looming long and drearily before her. And to think only weeks ago a glittering ball would have thrilled her, being so new to London and the Season. But after eleven such assemblies and not one trip to the theater or pleasure gardens, thanks to Olympia's deeming such amusements entirely too frivolous and unnecessary in securing a husband, she felt as doomed as a prisoner bound for Tyburn.

  "May I have the pleasure, Miss Somerset?"

  Forcing a bright smile, Lindsay nodded and allowed herself to be led to the dance floor, Lord Ambrose beaming so broadly she wondered if his face might split as they joined the minuet.

  Of course, she could always pretend a swoon and claim later that she had underestimated the injury to her toe. She was very good at swoons, her flair for the dramatic having come in quite handy on several occasions in Cornwall as a way to thwart her stepmother. And swooning was particularly useful when telling tales of damsels in distress, as she had done for Corisande's three younger sisters, Marguerite, Linette and Estelle Easton. Twelve-year-old Linette had especially liked her stories—

  "Y-you look very lovely tonight, Miss Somerset. Simply exquisite."

  Lindsay pushed away warm memories of many happy hours spent at the Easton parsonage as a refuge from her stepmother, and tried to ignore, too, Lord Ambrose's persistent squeezing of her fingers. Grateful that the dance wasn't a waltz for the bruised ribs she might suffer, she politely inclined her head. "It is kind of you to say so, sir."

  "Not kind at all. I say, Lindsay, you're the most beautiful woman in the room—in all of London! Forgive my boldness, but may I call you Lindsay?"

  Somehow she managed a nod, not sure what she might say if he insisted that she call him Ambrose. And he had voiced his effusive compliment so loudly, she was certain that there were many guests who might have overheard. As they circled around each other, Ambrose's expression growing all the more earnest, she began to hope fervently that the minuet would soon end.

  "Your gown is all the crack, too. If you were my wife I'd shower you with dozens like it. Yellow truly suits you—"

  "Jonquil."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Not yellow. Jonquil," Lindsay repeated nervously, fearing suddenly that Lord Ambrose Lamb might be considering dropping a second time onto his knee and proposing marriage to her right there on the dance floor. His wife? Kindheartedness be damned. It was definitely time for a swoon. Pulling her fingers free of Ambrose's, she pressed them to her forehead and rolled her eyes heavenward. "Dear Lord, the room is positively swimming. I feel the most horrible pain in my foot—quite dreadful—"

  "Lindsay? Lindsay!"

  Lord Ambrose's stricken cry echoed around them as Lindsay spun and collapsed to the floor, not as gracefully as she would have wanted, but effective all the same. She heard several gentlemen command loudly for the guests to stand back and make room, ladies gasping and a few complaining that they felt faint as well; then she felt herself being lifted.

  "You heard them, damn you. Stand back and give the young woman air."

  Damn you? That profane command didn't sound like Ambrose at all, Lindsay never having heard him use anything but the most impeccable speech. And she would never have imagined Ambrose possessing such strength to lift her so effortlessly, the marquis's son being somewhat on the slender side. Tempted beyond measure to open her eyes, Lindsay had to will herself to remain limp, although she was finding these strange inconsistencies quite disconcerting.

  "Oh, dear God, what has happened to my niece? Lindsay? Can you hear me? Set her down—set her down in this chair! Matilda, my smelling salts!"

  Deposited just as easily as she'd been swept up from the floor, Lindsay prepared herself for the disagreeable smell of ammonia and started appropriately when the vile stuff was waved under her nose. Fluttering open her eyes, she smiled weakly at Aunt Winifred and Matilda, the two women hovering over her.

  "Lindsay? Oh, my dear child, you've given me such a fright. Matilda, fetch some punch—hurry!"

  "I believe the good gentleman already went to the refreshment table, milady."

  "Good gentleman indeed," Aunt Winifred said in outrage, to Lindsay's surprise. "I'll have none such as he fetching punch for my niece—why, it's bad enough he had to come to her rescue, carrying her so brazenly from the dance floor—"

  "Who carried me, Aunt Winnie?" Lindsay did a fair impression of shaking the cobwebs from her head while her aunt seemed intent upon half lifting her from the chair.

  "Never you mind. Matilda, help me support her! I want us gone before that blackguard returns." "What blackguard? I thought it was Lord Ambrose—"

  "I'm here, my dearest, right here!" cried a familiar tenor voice. Lindsay focused upon Ambrose's flushed face as he tried unsuccessfully to squeeze his way past Aunt Winifred and Matilda's girth to come to her side. There was such a crush of concerned guests around her chair that it was a wonder the two older women could maneuver at all, but together they drew Lindsay to her feet, each gripping an arm, and she could do nothing but walk with them.

  "Aunt Winnie, I'm feeling better, really," she said with some embarrassment, stunned by her aunt's strange behavior. "We don't have to rush so."

  "And I tell you we do! Some say he's a spy against Napoleon himself, but we'll have no part of that notorious fellow, oh, my dear, no. A rake he is, not to be trusted with any young girl, and certainly not
with my—"

  "Did you say a spy?" Suddenly heedless of the curious faces as they hastened across the room, Lindsay threw a glance behind her but saw only a distraught-looking Lord Ambrose gazing forlornly after them. She glanced wildly to the left and right, gooseflesh dimpling her skin as she recalled the sheer strength of her rescuer. He had gallantly gone to fetch her punch, but who . . . ?

  "Oh, dear, it certainly won't look very gracious of me if we leave without bidding Lady Oglethorpe good night," Aunt Winifred said with clear frustration, her fan fluttering crazily. "I'll only be a moment, Lindsay. Stay right here by the door with Matilda."

  "Never ye fear, I'll protect the lass," the Scotswoman intoned briskly, looping her plump arm through Lindsay's. But as Aunt Winifred bustled back into the crowd, Matilda leaned to whisper into Lindsay's ear, "Pity he's a rogue. I've ne'er seen so handsome a gentleman as that one, no, not even in the Highlands, where fine, strapping men are as common as rain."

  Lindsay felt her heart plummet into her slippers, her disappointment so keen she could taste it.

  A spy against Napoleon? She had been so close to so noble and heroic a gentleman, and she wasn't going to be allowed to meet him? If only she had peeked! She would have known then it wasn't Lord Ambrose carrying her but another man altogether—

  "I'm pleased to see you so remarkably recovered, Miss Somerset. I trust you no longer need a glass of punch?"

  Chapter 3

  Lindsay spun around, her heart suddenly in her throat as she met a pair of amused blue eyes.

  And not just any blue, but a deep turbulent blue that held her mesmerized, at least until a wry smile drew her gaze reluctantly away. She was staring, she knew, but she couldn't help herself, the man truly as handsome as Matilda had said—even more so. And to think he had held her in his arms, had come to her rescue like a gallant knight, had

  "Your lemon punch, Miss Somerset?"