by Connie Lane
“I certainly do not.” Willie crossed her arms and stepped back, her weight against one foot. “If you think you can walk in here and bully me with some—”
“Bully?” Nick’s shoulder’s went back and he looked down his nose at her. She had not realized until that moment just how aristocratic that nose was or how a man who had been trained since youth in the fine art of being better than those around him might use such a skill so effectively. “If I wanted to bully you, Miss Culpepper,” he told her, “you would be well and truly bullied. No. That is not at all what this is about. This is about our bargain.”
“Our—”
“Bargain.” As if it had some bearing on the matter, he fluttered the paper and her neatly written list. “I rescued you from your father: and in return, you said you would find me a wife.”
“And I have tried.”
“But you have not succeeded.”
“And as you yourself admitted, it is not for any lack of enthusiasm for the project on my part. If you were not so—”
“Obstinate?”
“If that is the word you choose to use, so be it. I thought, rather, that particular might be better suited to describe how you’ve been acting. If you yourself were not so particular, you might have had a dearly beloved by now. Instead, you complain when the women are too tall. And you protest when they are too short. You criticize the ones who are too plump for you and you worry about the ones who are so thin they look as if the next good wind will blow them to Bristol. You don’t like the talkative ones and you like less the quiet ones. Lord knows, I have tried my best. I am beginning to think you were right last night, m’lord. Perhaps it is not the ladies at all who are the problem, but you.”
She had hoped the mention of the night before would have some effect on him. If he was half as staggered as she had been by the kiss that had shaken her to her soul and the touch that had sent her screaming toward the brink of ecstasy, he would not have been able to stand there and look at her so levelly. If he was half so perceptive as she, he would have been able to see the truth that had been staring her in the face for longer than she cared to remember: Once he had the wife he so badly needed, any relationship between them would be impossible.
There would be nothing left for either one of them. Nothing but regret and heartache and more regret still.
If he saw the truth, if he felt it gnawing away at his heart as she did at hers, he would not have been able to stand there looking as if they were discussing the week’s list for the greengrocer.
“You said you’d find me a wife, Willie.” He tapped his finger against the list written in her neat hand. “You have failed to deliver.”
“I never—”
“You said you would oversee the matter, beginning to end.”
“And I have done my best to—”
“You said you would take care of things.”
“I cannot.” It wasn’t until the words were out of her mouth that Willie realized her voice was just as loud as Nick’s. “I have done all I can do. You’ll have to do the rest yourself.”
“No.”
It was as simple as that. At least to him.
When Willie made to go around him, he stepped into her path and blocked her way. “You promised, Willie.”
“I never said—”
“I won’t let Ravensfield get the best of me.”
Like the fog outside her window, the truth seeped through Willie and chilled her to the bone. “You only care if you marry because by doing so, Ravensfield will lose a good deal of money.”
“Isn’t that reason enough?”
“I never thought so.”
For just a second, she thought she saw the fire in Nick’s eyes fade. She must have been mistaken. The next moment, he was as sure of himself as ever and just as sure that a loud voice and a great deal of bluster was sure to convince her. “One more try.” He pointed at the last name on the list and Willie did not have to see it to know which one it was.
“Amelia Morrison. The American heiress.”
Nick’s eyes lit. “She’s in London.”
“Americans are not as enamored of titles as some of our families here.”
“That’s not at all what you told me when you suggested her. You said her father—”
“Was eager to establish some sort of aristocratic ties for his family. Yes.” Unfortunately, Willie remembered it well. That would teach her to be so honest.
She turned from Nick and went over to where she’d left her portmanteau. “Will you host another dinner?” she asked him.
“I was thinking of a ball.”
“And you want me to—”
“To organize the thing. To take charge. To make sure Jem is scrubbed as clean as a church floor and the girls are on their best behavior and that Simon Marquand doesn’t take advantage of the fact that he’s a poisoner and—”
“Alleged poisoner,” Willie corrected him. “And after that?”
“After that…” Nick shrugged. “I will consider our bargain to be at an end. If Miss Morrison is as fine a young lady as you reported, then I will have my wife and all will be well.”
“And if she is not?”
“If she is not, then you will have tried your damnedest and that will be the end of that. You will be free to leave. Anytime you like. I won’t try to stop you.”
She apparently didn’t need to tell him that she agreed. As if it were just the outcome he expected, he nodded, satisfied, and headed out the door.
He was gone no more than a minute or two when Madame poked her head into the room. “Gladder than I can say to see that they’re takin’ your things from the wagon.”
“I am not at all sure it is a good thing.” Willie took off her mantle and draped it over a nearby chair. “I think, rather, that it might be the biggest mistake I have ever made.”
“Not bloody likely.” Madame laughed. “Believe me, lamb, there will be plenty more missteps in your life. Only…” She glanced over her shoulder toward the passageway and the stairway. “Only however did he talk you into it?”
“He didn’t talk me into it at all.” It was the truth and even though it gave her no satisfaction to admit it, Willie knew she had no choice. She had been sidestepping the truth since the very first moment Nick smiled down into her eyes.
“I talked myself into it,” she told Madame. “And only because this is the very last try. Chances are, it won’t work any better than the last one. Or the one before. And by then, the time will be up and Ravensfield’s ridiculous wager will be at an end and Nick won’t feel as if he has to find a wife any time soon and then perhaps—”
“And then perhaps…?” The question glistened in Madame’s eyes.
“Perhaps then things can go back to the way they were,” Willie admitted. “Perhaps just for a little while longer.”
“I hear tonight’s menu has a decidedly Eastern flavor!” Outside the ballroom of Somerton House, Arthur Hexam grinned in anticipation. “Indian food. How absolutely marvelous! And how unique! You know…” As if sharing a secret, he bent his head closer to Willie’s. “They are talking about you from one end of London to the other, Miss Willie.”
“Me?” Willie’s stomach went cold. Her mouth went dry. She was sure Mr. Hexam was referring to the fact that she was a fool. After all, only a fool would have stayed to orchestrate Nick’s last chance with the last woman on this Season’s list of appropriate partis. Only a fool would have convinced herself that by doing so, she would watch him find fault with this woman as he had found fault with all the others and that because of it, she might somehow change the things that couldn’t be changed, alter the things that had happened between them, and redirect the course of his future. A future, which she knew for a fact could not possibly—in any way, shape, or form—include her.
At the same time she told herself it was impossible, she wondered how everyone in town had come to learn what a goosecap she was.
“I don’t know what to say.” Willie offere
d Mr. Hexam a smile that, no doubt, looked as wilted as it felt. “Do you mean they are saying I am—”
“They are saying you are the Shakespeare of hostesses! The Isaac Newton of decorators! The Nelson of the culinary arts!”
“Good heavens, Mr. Hexam!” Willie laughed, as much from relief as from Hexam’s tendency to embellish. “You shall turn my head!”
“As you have turned the heads of every hostess in town.” Palliston joined them, brushing his hands together to get rid of the crumbs that, Willie suspected, had come from the lamb and curry samosas that had already been put out on the tables for the guests to enjoy along with their drinks. “Why just yesterday, Hexam and I—”
“Paid a visit to Lady Catherine.” Apparently not willing to be left out, Hexam picked up the telling of the story. “You remember what she said the night we were at Vauxhall. She said Eastern food was—”
“The words were, if I remember correctly, positively passé.” The tone of Willie’s voice told them she had not forgotten. Nor was she likely to.
“That may have been what Lady Catherine said,” Hexam’s brows slid up his forehead.
“But she does not practice what she preaches,” Palliston added. “Because yesterday when we stopped in for dinner—”
“Wouldn’t you know it, she served curry!” Hexam grinned, pleased that he’d been the one to deliver the last word. “And she is not the only one. You’ve started something of a fashion, Willie, though none of what I’ve had in other homes is nearly as good as yours. And no one else serves those kajoo—”
“There are plenty baked for tonight,” Willie assured him, but when he made a move to go in search of them, she stopped him. “They will not be brought out until after dinner.”
“Damn!” Hexam’s expectant expression dissolved. The next second, he recovered his usual good spirits. “I say, you haven’t seen Somerton anywhere about, have you?” he asked.
Today, like every day these past few weeks, Willie had not.
Nor had she spoken to him more than was necessary.
He was staying out late again.
And Willie—who might have been a fool but was not a big enough of one to wait in the library as she had the fateful night he’d first kissed her—was lying awake in her bed until the wee hours to hear his carriage pull up to the door.
He was spending more and more time with the Dashers again, drinking and carousing.
And Willie was missing the easy friendship they had allowed themselves to develop in the days before they were want-witted enough to let their passions get the better of them.
He had directed the planning of tonight’s ball.
And Willie was at his side the entire time, wishing every day of it that she had had the courage to leave that foggy afternoon. Dreaming that things might somehow change.
As soon as he declared Miss Amelia Morrison as unsuitable as every other woman he’d met this Season.
The thought brought her back to her senses and it was a good thing, too. She heard Lynnette sweep into the entryway with a greeting to one and all and knew that Nick’s other guests would not be far behind.
“I must see what Miss Lynnette is wearing, for she’s been talking about nothing but her dress ever since the day Somerton announced this ball.” Hexam headed down the stairs.
Never one to be left behind, Palliston hurried after him.
And Willie was left by herself to stand where she could not be seen from the front door and watch the parade of Society’s best arrive looking splendid and much in spirits for the night’s festivities.
“Has she arrived yet?”
Willie was not surprised when she heard Madame’s voice behind her. She had smelled Madame’s perfume only a moment earlier.
“I take it you are talking about Miss Amelia Morrison.”
“That’s the one.” Madame leaned over Willie’s shoulder and clicked her tongue in critique of the gown the duchess of Nelderly had chosen to wear. “No sign of ’er yet?”
“Not yet.” Willie watched the continuing parade.
“And you aren’t worried?”
The question was so close to the one Willie had spent so many days asking herself, she could not help but smile. “She will be too tall,” she said and when Madame looked at her in wonder, Willie did not even try to explain. “Or she will be too short. She will be too chubby. Or she may be too thin. She will chatter like a loose shutter in a windstorm. Or perhaps she will be of that particularly annoying sort who never speaks a word unless spoken to and even then, does it in tones so quiet, no one can possibly hear.”
“Ah!” Madame’s eyes lit. “I see what you’re getting at, lamb. It’s why you stayed, isn’t it? You think ’e will not find ’er fit.”
“I am sure of it. Even so…” Willie’s expression sobered.
“Nothing can change. You know that well enough.” Madame nodded sagely. “It doesn’t mean a woman can’t dream.”
“Even if her dreams can’t possibly come true?”
“Especially then.” There was a flurry of excitement down in the entryway and Willie moved forward just a bit for a better look. Because of where she stood, Madame’s view was blocked and she moved impatiently from foot to foot behind Willie.
“Well?” Madame strained her neck but short of walking out into the open where every guest could see them, there was no place for Willie to move to allow her a better view. “Is it ’er? Is she ’ere?”
“Yes. It must be.” Willie stood on tiptoe.
“Is she too tall?” Madame asked.
“She does not appear to be.” Willie looked again, sizing up Amelia Morrison according to Mr. Finch, whose height she was familiar with. “Nor does she look too short.”
“Ah, too fat then?”
“Hardly.”
“Too thin?”
“Not from the looks of things.”
Behind her, Willie heard Madame growl a curse. “What of ’er, then? ’Er ’air? Is it too dark? Too drab? Lookin’ as if was made from the tail of an ’orse?”
“Her hair is perfectly styled. It is the very color of Lord Somerton’s.” Willie watched the way a golden curl of Miss Morrison’s head caught the candlelight and gleamed. “She’s as golden as a goddess. And she seems to smile a great deal. And quite sincerely.” Before she could stop herself, Willie moved forward just as Nick came forward to welcome Miss Morrison and her parents.
“She speaks only when spoken to?”
“Hardly.” Willie moved a step nearer the railing. “She seems to have already engaged N—that is, Lord Somerton, in conversation. He’s smiling down at her.”
“And ’er?” Too impatient to wait any longer, too curious to care who might notice, Madame pushed past Willie for a better look. “Oooh…” One look and Madame’s face went pale. “Damn it, but they do look well together.”
They did.
And at the same time she realized it, Willie’s heart sunk to her slippers and her blood ran cold.
For as well as she had organized the staff and readied the house and prepared herself for tonight, she realized now that all along, she had been counting on one thing and one alone. There would be something about Amelia Morrison. Just like there had been about all the others.
Something Nick could object to.
Willie’s breath caught in her throat and the truth choked her.
As carefully as she planned, she had not planned on Amelia Morrison’s being perfect.
15
Amelia Morrison was perfect.
Standing across from the lady herself, a brandy in his hands, the truth hit Nick like one of Rooster O’Reilly’s beefy right hooks. Just as Rooster’s opponents must have done at such moments, he braced himself, breathless and stunned, while the truth vibrated through skin and tissue, muscle and bone.
Amelia Morrison was as golden as a summer dawn. She had a nose that was slim and turned up just slightly at the end. She had a chin that was as perfectly shaped as that of a marble Roman goddess. He
r skin was flawless. Her eyes were a blue that matched Nick’s almost perfectly. Her lips were not too full or too thin, her body was nicely rounded and as appealing as her easy smile, her melodious laugh, and the engaging way she had of looking a man directly in his eyes when she spoke to him.
She was not too tall.
Though there was a time or two during the evening that Miss Amelia’s father apologized ever so politely for the unfortunate fact, the lady herself knew a thing or two about politics and she was not afraid to express her opinions—always graciously, of course, and never without allowing sufficient time for rebuttal from whoever it was she was talking to and ample opportunity for lively debate.
She was well read and better educated than Nick expected an American to be and as well mannered as any lady of his acquaintance. The Morrisons had distant relatives in London with whom they were staying for the Season and those who were in attendance did nothing but add to the impression Miss Amelia—whom they affectionately called Amy—made with every clever word and every delightful smile.
She painted more than competently with watercolors, they told Nick. She rode exceptionally well and with great vigor. She sang like a lark and played any number of musical instruments. She was, in short, a joy to be around, and—they mentioned it even though they were sure it was not well-bred and His Lordship must know it besides since it was common knowledge about their dear, dear Amy—she was exceedingly plump in the pocket.
He might have been suspicious of such praise if he himself had not been witness to one demonstration after another of the lady’s sweet disposition, her kindness and her endearing manner.
Though no one was meant to see it, he noticed that when she arrived at Somerton House accompanied by her parents, Miss Amelia slipped Jem a crown. A little later in the evening, she did not so much as bat a long and luxurious eyelash when Bess—who was serving drinks—stepped on her foot. In fact, it was Amelia who apologized to Bess for being so much in the way.
It was, all in all, an irresistible package, but Nick knew better than to be swayed. He had met such paragons before and he knew that often, loveliness hid a multitude of sins.