by Connie Lane
Beautiful women had the propensity for being demure. Generous women had the tendency to be sanctimonious. Women whose relatives called them by sweet little endearments such as Amy were quite often and quite unfortunately, quite boring.
Miss Amelia was none of those things.
She told comical stories and laughed heartily when others said something amusing. She danced as if she’d been born waltzing and did not even once tramp on Nick’s feet. When he looked at her across the refreshment room and offered her—briefly and ever so discreetly, of course—the kind of smile he’d learned made timid women tremble with fright and those who were more plucky tremble with anticipation, she did not hesitate to smile back. Openly. Warmly. With just enough heat to let Nick know that if they were stirred at the right time and in the right place and by the right man, Miss Amelia’s passions would be every bit as impulsive as her smile.
And just as vigorous as her riding was said to be.
Catching himself in the thought, Nick forced himself back to the matter at hand.
At the moment, that matter was Miss Amelia’s father, Samuel Oswald McGlinn Morrison, a man with a bushy head of silver hair, bristling eyebrows, and a jaw like a shovel blade. He had a personality that was every bit as formidable as were his looks and a tenacity that made him famous on both sides of the Atlantic as the driving force behind any number of successful enterprises.
“Delicious!” Morrison wasn’t the least bit shy about smiling broadly when he finished one of Willie’s Indian biscuits. “You’re an incredibly gutsy fellow,” he told Nick. “There’s not a host I can think of in Boston or New York who would have the imagination to serve a menu the likes of the one you put out for us tonight. My compliments, sir, to your cook.”
“My cook is not so much responsible for the menu as is my—” Nick hesitated for a moment, realizing suddenly that he didn’t quite know how to refer to Willie. She was not so much his housekeeper as she was his steward, not so much his steward as she was his secretary. Not so much his secretary as she was a matchmaker, an administrator with the organizational powers of an army general, a force of nature.
She was also, he reminded himself, the one and only reason he was standing there now, chatting with Samuel Morrison at the same time he considered Morrison’s daughter’s attributes, her more-than-pleasing smile and the delightful way she had of looking at him as if he were the only man in the world.
Or at least as if he were the only man who mattered.
He would have been less than human had he not admitted that he liked the feeling. And less than honest with himself if it didn’t make him uncomfortable.
“Can’t tell you how it would fry their bacon to have me show back up in the States with a title in the family,” Samuel Morrison said and when Nick was not quick enough to cover the fact that he had been too deep in his own thoughts to be listening, Morrison laughed.
“Those who said I’d never make anything of myself,” he explained. “Those who believe that a poor boy from the streets of Boston can never amount to a hill of beans. That is the beauty of our great country, Your Lordship, meaning no disrespect to your kingdom here. Back home, any man, rich or poor, can make anything of himself, just as I have. And still, there are those who think it means little.”
“And yet, you’ve proved your worth.” It seemed enough for Nick, yet Morrison shook his head.
“Want to rub their noses in it,” the older man confided. “You know, show them just how wrong they were all these years. And the way I figure it, there’s no better way than snagging a title for my beautiful daughter here.” Morrison wound his arm through Miss Amelia’s. “Now that would show them all, wouldn’t it?”
Miss Amelia had the good grace to blush mightily. The color in her cheeks perfectly matched the tiny sprigs of pink roses embroidered on her gown. “You are forgetting, Papa…” She gave Morrison’s arm an affectionate squeeze at the same time she turned her extraordinary blue gaze full on Nick. “You’re forgetting about love.”
“Love!” Morrison barked out a laugh that made heads turn. “I will leave that part up to the two of you.” He gave Nick a broad wink. “As for me…I’m going to look for some more of those incredible biscuits. If you’ll excuse me.” He bowed and backed away at the same time he took his daughter’s hand and placed it in Nick’s.
“You must forgive Papa.” Watching her father walk away, Amelia smiled. She did not pull her hand away. “He gets so enthusiastic about each of his projects.”
“And are you?”
She smiled prettily. “Am I—”
“Enthusiastic?”
She may have been surprised that he was so coming, but she was not put off by it. It was another thing Nick decided he liked about her.
Miss Amelia took a step closer. “Oh yes, my lord, I am very enthusiastic indeed.”
It was a good thing, Nick reminded himself. It meant he had found the one thing he had convinced himself did not exist: a woman who didn’t exasperate him beyond all measure with her prattling and her chattering and her guffaws like a monkey’s. A woman who did not offend his sensibilities with her public attempts at seduction nor one who was likely to turn tail and run the first time he made a move to kiss her.
In short, he had found the perfect woman who would make him a perfect wife.
And damn it to hell and back, it was all Willie’s fault.
Even before it was over, those in attendance declared that Lord Somerton had done the evening’s ball to a cow’s thumb. The menu was both exotic and unique—not to mention delicious—and unbeknownst to each other, many of those who wolfed the samosas and devoured the kaju badam harbored secret plans to be just as exotic and just as unique and to serve just such food in their own homes at their own upcoming gatherings. The spirits, as was expected from Lord Somerton’s cellar, were high quality and liberally poured and though not one of the guests got foxed except for old Lord Donald Lampert who was—or so they said—in such a state even before he arrived at the front door, there was a great deal of good-natured laughter and even some song before the night was over. The company was top-of-thetrees.
As for the rumors about Lord Somerton and Miss Amelia Morrison that started up even before the first dance of the night?
The talk went from mouth to mouth and from ear to ear as fast as Lord Somerton’s great good friend Arthur Hexam ate biscuits, and nearly before the first guest walked out of the door of Somerton House, word of the way Miss Amelia looked at Lord Somerton and the way Lord Somerton smiled at Miss Amelia was already on the tips of a thousand excited tongues. As was the fact that Samuel Morrison had invited His Lordship to visit the family privately the next day.
There could be only one thing he was so anxious to discuss.
It did not take long for the news to reach across town to the Duke of Ravensfield who, though he was occupied with a certain Parisian lady who called herself Gigi even though her given name was Bertha, grumbled a curse. In spite of Gigi’s best efforts to keep his mind on other things, the duke himself could not help but think of the amount of money he would lose should the gossip be true.
It took even less time, of course, for the report to make its way to the kitchen of Somerton House.
Bess, who had been serving in the ballroom, could not help but notice that Miss Amelia waltzed more than once with Lord Somerton and that Lord Somerton did not seem to mind the lady’s rapt attention at all.
She mentioned it to Clover.
Clover, who was cleaning up the glassware, had heard a crumb of conversation between an elderly dowager and a young buck that was all about the way that even after Lord Somerton delivered her from the dance floor and deposited her back with her mother, Miss Amelia kept her hand on his arm a moment longer than was necessary.
She told Marie.
Marie confirmed the account, for she had seen as much for herself when she peeked into the ballroom after refilling the food on the buffet table in the refreshment room.
Of co
urse, she couldn’t wait to tell Flossie the story.
Flossie, always too sensitive both for her former profession and for her own good, instantly turned into a watering pot and could only be soothed by Mr. Finch, who had been spending more and more time with Flossie of late. Luckily, he had come belowstairs for a bit of a respite at just that moment and quite fortuitously, he had a silver flask filled with brandy in his back pocket. Grateful for the nip when they needed it most, they passed the flask from hand to hand, too troubled by all that was going on abovestairs to question where the flask had come from or the fact that it was etched with the coat of arms of the Duke of Horley, one of the guests.
Once her sobs subsided and Madame Brenard was found, Flossie told her what was afoot. Madame did not need to hear it. She had already gotten word from Rooster O’Reilly, who was in the back garden teaching Jem the difference between an uppercut and a right cross while they waited for Lord Somerton’s guests to depart.
None of them had the heart to tell Willie.
None of them needed to.
Two hours after the last guest was gone, the news still sat square inside Willie. Right where her heart used to be.
She looked around the ballroom, checking to be sure that everything had been cleaned and put away and when she was sure it was, she extinguished the candles that had been left on the tables around the perimeter of the room. With each little flame she snuffed out, she felt more and more in the dark and as cold as ice even though the June air that wafted in from the open windows was pleasant.
She had only herself to blame and she knew it. Not for what had happened, of course. It was not her fault that Miss Amelia was beautiful. It was not her fault that Nick was attracted to the woman.
It was her fault, she reminded herself, that she was there to see it happen, and for that if for no other reason, she supposed she deserved what she was feeling. The aching that tore at her insides. The blackness that wrapped around her heart.
If she had not been so easily persuaded by Nick’s request for help, she would be far from Somerton House by now and she would not know how Amelia Morrison smiled at Nick.
Even if she did still care that Nick smiled back.
“If wishes were horses…” Willie’s voice fell dead against the silence that filled the house. She’d long since shooed the rest of the staff off to their beds and she walked the empty hallways one last time to make sure everything was in order, convinced now as she was when she sent them away that she’d rather be alone than watch the way they looked at her, their expressions filled with a sympathy they dared not put into words and she dared not let herself hear.
If she had been more impervious to Nick’s smile and less susceptible to his charm.
If she had been more realistic and less a fool.
If she could convince herself that she did not love him.
The thought had no sooner settled inside her than she heard a crash from the direction of the library. Curious, Willie hurried to investigate.
She opened the door even as the brandy in the glass Nick had thrown across the room was still dripping down the wall. He didn’t look at all surprised to see her.
“I wouldn’t have suggested this damned ball in the first place if it wasn’t for you.” Nick’s voice matched the thunderous expression on his face. “If you had a brain in your head—”
“I?” Though she was tempted, Willie didn’t make a move to retrieve the pieces of crystal scattered near the point of impact. Neither did she try to sop up the brandy. This was one mess that wasn’t her responsibility.
She closed the door behind her and stood with her back to it. “You are the one who insisted on hosting a ball,” she reminded him. “You are the one—”
“I wouldn’t have needed to.” Nick stalked over to where she stood. “If you hadn’t threatened to leave.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He was being anything but and if Willie needed more proof, she had it instantly. He held her in place, one hand on each of her arms, and frowned down at her. There was no mistaking the anger that simmered in his eyes, but there was another emotion in them as well. One so filled with longing, it took her breath away.
She struggled to find her voice. “My leaving had nothing to do with—”
“Your leaving had everything to do with it.” He hauled her nearer. “I only thought of hosting another damned social function to make you stay. I thought if you had some work to do—”
“You thought what?”
His hands slid to her shoulders. “I thought we could figure out what the hell we’re going to do,” he told her. “I thought we could find some way out of the muddle. I thought I’d make one last attempt at finding a wife and when I didn’t—”
It was impossible to stand there with the unspoken words hanging between them. Willie pulled out of his grasp and moved away from his disturbing nearness.
“Even the research I did into the lady’s background did not prepare me,” she said. “She’s all and more than I expected.” Willie turned away and went to stand near the desk. “She’s lovely.”
“And as pleasant as a day in May.” She knew he was simply reporting what she’d heard to be true.
“She’s as wealthy a wife as you’re ever likely to need.”
“And as charming as can be.”
“She’s perfect.”
“Hell, Willie, she isn’t you.”
The most difficult thing she’d ever done was not respond to the emotion that shimmered through Nick’s voice. She ached to have him hold her in his arms. She yearned for him to kiss her the way he had at Vauxhall Gardens. Still, she kept her place.
“But you’ll ask for her hand nonetheless. And as soon as tomorrow if what I’ve heard is true.” It was not a question, but he owed her an answer. And she owed him the honesty of looking at him when he gave it to her.
Willie turned to face him.
She was just in time to see the stab of regret that sparkled in his eyes as surely as did the light of the fire that flickered in the fireplace. “I have the family name to consider. Family estates. Family honor.”
“And she has the blunt to take care of that and more. It will help, I think, that you are well matched.”
“A little.”
He was trying to make her feel better. She wondered if he knew that she never would. “A lot, I think,” she told him. “You are of like mind and that means a great deal. And though I had heard the lady was pretty, I had no idea she was so lovely. Your coloring is remarkably similar. Your children will be beautiful.”
A smile came and went over his expression, lighting his eyes for a moment. He stepped closer. “That’s funny,” he said, “I keep picturing little carrot-headed children.” He reached for her and put a hand in her hair, tugging at the pins as he did so that her hair came loose and tumbled around her shoulders. He combed his fingers through it. “I keep imagining a whole troop of them, little boys and little girls with freckled noses.” He glided his thumb over her cheeks and nose. He brushed it over her lips. “I keep thinking—”
“Don’t.”
The single word was enough of a surprise to make him stop. He moved back a step and looked into her eyes. “Don’t—”
“Don’t think,” she said. “Not about anything. Don’t let’s think about the future, Nick. We both know what you have to do for your family name and for your family honor. But that is tomorrow. And tonight—” Willie pressed her hands to his chest. His heart was beating as fiercely as hers and she let herself enjoy the sensation. Right before she kissed him.
For a moment, he was startled by her brazenness. The next second, all his surprise was forgotten in a rush of desire the likes of which Nick had never felt before. He deepened the kiss and when Willie melted into his arms, he kissed her ear and her neck and the hollow at the base of her throat. He brushed a trail of kisses across the tops of her breasts but unlike the night at Vauxhall Gardens, she did not shy away.
“It’s all I’ll ever have of yo
u.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “It isn’t enough. It isn’t all I want. But—”
“I know.” His lips touched hers like a whisper. “It isn’t all I want, either, but—”
“Nick…” Willie looped her arms around his neck. “We are talking again. We are always talking. And if we’re not careful, soon enough we’ll talk ourselves out of what we would like most to do.”
He tried for a smile that didn’t quite make its way past the lump of emotion that blocked his breathing and made his chest feel as if it were being squeezed and because he knew he would never find the words—not when Willie was looking at him with desire sparkling in her eyes and his own longing for her so strong, he could taste it—he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the fire.
Even when he set her on her feet, she kept her arms around his neck. Her fingers feathered through the hair at the nape of his neck, the touch both casual and intimate, and he felt suddenly as callow as a boy and as eager as he’d ever been for anything.
“If you will help me…” Turning, Willie scooped her hair off her neck and for a moment, Nick could not think what she wanted him to do. The next second, it hit with all the power of a summer storm.
“You want me to—”
Willie laughed, the sound as warm as the fire that danced in the grate. She glanced at him over her shoulder, her eyes alight. “I want you to undress me, m’lord.”
“Willie…” Nick could not imagine what was wrong with him. He wanted her more than he wanted his next breath and she, it seemed, was of much the same mind. Still, he hesitated.
Reaching around her, he hooked a finger under her chin and tilted her head so that she was looking at him over her shoulder. “Do you know what you’re asking?”
“Oh yes.” There was a sparkle in Willie’s eyes that had nothing to do with the fire. “Madame has told me, you see. All about it. She says that a man and a woman—”