The Earl's London Bride

by Lauren Royal

He moved his king one space; then, the game well in hand, he turned his thoughts to something even more diverting: plotting the perfect practical joke.

  Amy’s gray marble knight made a decisive click against the black and white board. “Check.”

  As Colin’s hand shot out to rescue his king, he decided he would offer to prepare supper. Alone in the pantry, he ought to be able to dream up a clever prank.

  Ahh…yes.

  She grinned, oozing confidence, and slid her bishop into place. “Check.”

  He managed to respond with no more than a speculative glance and a raise of one brow. Though he was relieved to find them much more evenly matched in chess than they’d been in piquet, there was no reason to rub his impending victory in her lovely face.

  He tapped his king into place, threatening her knight.

  Amy frowned at the board, then slowly withdrew the knight, relieving the pressure on his king.

  Colin rubbed his hands together in glee. Now he controlled the events of the board, and he quickly moved one of his jade-green rooks across to threaten Amy’s gray one.

  She had no choice—either move her rook or lose it. Colin saw her freeze—she could see the inevitable. No matter which way she went, she’d be dead in two moves—checkmated by his bishop.

  She looked up, a surprised, wry smile on her face, then her hand moved to her king and gently laid it down.

  Colin reached across the table to offer the obligatory victor’s handshake. “Good game.”

  “Shall we make it three out of five?”

  He grinned. “I believe two out of three was the agreement.” The slim margin of one game made victory all the sweeter. “Shall I collect supper?” Rising, he glanced at the clock on the mantel. “A midnight supper, as it turns out.”

  “I’ll help,” Amy offered.

  “No, it’s my turn.” He shrugged into his cloak before she could offer again. “See if you can finish that book. You said you cannot bear to let me return it to Jason’s library without seeing how it ends.”

  Reaching for the book, the tenth volume of Madeleine de Scudéry’s Clélie, she smiled and settled back.

  Apparently she wasn’t suspicious.

  He ducked out the door before she could change her mind.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  WHEN COLIN came in whistling, Amy was jarred out of Clélie’s adventures.

  She’d never heard him whistle before. Although he did it quite well, he sounded a bit too cheerful, even for a fellow who’d just won a chess match.

  “What might you be so happy about?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Still whistling, he moved the chess set off the table and laid out their light supper. “Sorry, but I’ve no bread,” he said, apologizing for the unusual offering. Wine, oranges, smoked salmon, small dried biscuits, and another jar of those disgusting pickled snails.

  Amy frowned at the stupid brown things. “Haven’t you had enough of those?”

  “Never,” he said, and went back to whistling.

  Amy’s book lay open and ignored as he poured wine into two goblets. He was happy about something, she thought—probably that he’d finally be able to get rid of her tomorrow. The snow had stopped a couple of hours earlier.

  Handing her a goblet, he leaned down to kiss the top of her head. She sipped, watching him through her eyelashes. He was hardly acting like someone who couldn’t stand her presence—it was confusing, to say the least.

  “Like it?” he asked.

  “It’s nice.” Accepting a biscuit layered with fish, she popped it into her mouth, closed her book and set it on the table.

  “It’s Madeira.” He took a swallow of his own wine, then raised the goblet in salute. “King Charles’s favorite.”

  Chewing slowly, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Underneath his light, meaningless conversation, she sensed a glee he could scarcely contain.

  Something was up.

  On the other hand, she reminded herself, she didn’t know him very well.

  Since he’d come charging into the bedroom half-naked last night, she knew him better than she had before, though, she thought, feeling her cheeks heat. Her gaze traveled his snug breeches and white shirt, which was loosely laced, revealing his tanned throat. And beneath that shirt, she remembered…

  “Where did you get the scar?” she asked suddenly.

  “The scar?”

  “On your arm. The long, white—”

  “Oh. That scar.” He sat beside her and placed more salmon on a biscuit. “I seldom notice it anymore.” As though the injury were of no consequence, he waved the hand with the biscuit airily. “It’s an old fencing practice wound—I was fourteen or so.”

  “Didn’t it hurt?”

  “Oh, yes.” He bit off half the biscuit and washed it down with a gulp of wine. “Someone poured brandy on it—that was the worst part—and then even more brandy down my throat. Then they stitched it up with a needle and thread.”

  “Marry come up! I cannot even imagine.” Amy took a deliberate sip of her own wine, to fortify herself or wash away the image—she wasn’t sure which. “And it was only a practice…didn’t that make you angry?”

  Colin stuck the rest of the biscuit in his mouth and chewed it slowly, considering. “No,” he said finally, “it made me one of the best swordsmen in all of Europe. I made sure it would never happen again,” he added with a grin.

  Amy thought about that: How Colin seemed determined to turn every disadvantage life dealt him into a benefit. He’d done it with his disappointing childhood, resolving to do much better with his own family. He’d done it with his dilapidated estate, laboring tirelessly to turn it into something of value. He seemed to believe hard work and dedication—whether countless hours of swordplay or working the land with his own hands—were the best means to a happy ending. And he didn’t expect the good things in life to be handed to him on a silver platter.

  There was much to admire in such an attitude, she thought.

  Colin, on the other hand, had ceased thinking about it at all. The jar of snails on the table had reclaimed one hundred percent of his attention. Those snails beckoned, practically begging to be opened and play their part in this evening’s performance.

  He considered himself a veritable model of patience as he waited until he’d polished off his fifth biscuit before reaching for the jar and removing the lid.

  “Ready for one of these?” he asked innocently.

  She held up a half-eaten biscuit. “Not yet,” she said through a mouthful of fish.

  With a shrug, Colin nonchalantly dipped his spoon into the jar, scooped a snail, and placed it in his mouth. Now came the difficult part.

  Even the foreknowledge left him vastly unprepared for the taste of his concoction. Struggling to keep his face straight, he washed down the snail with a large gulp of wine as quickly as he could. If Amy succeeded in pretending she liked these snails, she’d be the best actress he’d ever seen.

  She finished her biscuit and put together another, and then another. At last, when he doubted she could cram in another bite, she announced, “I’m ready.”

  “For what?” He fixed her with a puzzled, innocent look.

  “For a snail, of course,” she snapped.

  “Oh, you want one?” Quelling a smile, he spooned out a snail and watched the liquid dribble back into the jar, his tinkering undetectable. He licked his lips.

  “Here,” he offered, moving his spoon toward her mouth with the mock generosity of a man reluctant to part with his favorite morsel of food.

  When she opened her mouth, he delicately placed the snail inside. Though her face scrunched up in a look of dismay, she managed to swallow it. Then rushed to wash it down, draining her goblet of wine in the process.

  Refilling the goblet with pretended indifference, Colin struggled to contain his mirth. “Is something wrong?” he asked, knitting his brows in feigned concern.

  “It—it tasted a bit different. Do you suppose it might be a bad jar?”<
br />
  Colin was enjoying himself immensely. “No, they all came from the same batch. Perhaps you simply don’t care for pickled snails.”

  “No, no, I like them,” Amy insisted. “But this one tasted different. Try one, you’ll see.”

  “I already had one,” he reminded her. “It was fine. Try another.”

  She put a hand on her stomach. “Please, I’d feel better if you have another one first.”

  There was nothing for it. He had to eat another snail or give up the game—and he was having too much fun to admit his trickery just yet.

  He took a deep breath before popping one in his mouth, then swallowed it without chewing.

  “It’s fine,” he declared. “Delicious, in fact. Perhaps there was one bad snail in the batch.” He fished out a snail and handed Amy the spoon. “Here, try another.”

  While Amy moved at the speed of a snail herself, inching the spoon toward her lips, he took a long sip of wine and swished it around his mouth to remove the foul taste.

  Relieved, he turned to her expectantly.

  Her face was slowly turning red. When she gagged, he burst out laughing.

  THIRTY-SIX

  AMY GASPED as she finally realized what was happening. She spit the snail into her napkin. “Colin Chase,” she demanded. “What have you done to these?”

  Wiping tears from his eyes, Colin sputtered, “S-salt. And sugar.”

  A smile dawned as she reflected that she’d been well and truly duped. She deserved it, she decided, starting to giggle. “What else? What else was in there?”

  “Nothing, I swear. You didn’t care for them to begin with, remember?” His eyes glittered again, diabolically. “Oh, I forgot. You’d never admit to that.”

  “I admit it; I admit it,” she choked out, laughing. “I hate pickled snails! I’ll never eat another of those vile creatures so long as I live—with or without your special recipe.”

  She laughed again, partially because his joke was funny, and partially in relief, because she felt as though he’d just given her a test which she’d passed with flying colors.

  One wasn’t allowed to be close to Colin Chase if he or she couldn’t take a joke.

  And yet…he wasn’t really trying to get closer to her, was he? She’d be leaving the country tomorrow, after all. His pleasure at her reaction, and the motive she’d credited him with, had to be figments of her imagination.

  “Having coerced that admission from you,” he declared now, “I proclaim my practical joke an unqualified success.”

  “Wait a minute, Lord Greystone. You were forced to eat two of those putrid snails, the same as I was. Surely a superior practical joke would not require its perpetrator to suffer the same consequences.”

  “You would dare to criticize the quality of my joke?” Though Colin’s eyes went wide with pretended outrage, in truth he couldn’t have been more pleased with Amy than he was at the moment.

  He was pleased with her good-humored response to his joke. Pleased with her rediscovered ease in his presence. Pleased with her quick wit, pleased with her high color and those incredible sparkling amethyst eyes…all in all, he was very pleased.

  “Mrs. Goldsmith, what qualifications do you have to recommend you as a joke judge?”

  “My qualifications are beside the point entirely. The fact is, I saw the joke you played on Kendra a few days ago, and she told me about Benchley’s fake murder and other tricks you’ve played over the years.” She raised her chin. “The fact is, this joke was just not up to your usual standards.”

  Raising a brow, he brought his nose to within an inch of hers. “Is that so?”

  Amy’s heart beat a little faster at his nearness. “Absolutely. Without a doubt—” She broke off as his lips came down on hers, cutting off any further aspersions on his joke, not to mention her air supply.

  Their good-natured argument was forgotten. This kiss was unhurried, his lips exploring her as though he were trying to commit her to memory. Time slowed until there was nothing else but the taste of him, the scent of him, the feel of him. She felt and heard his breathing become uneven, matching hers.

  Colin heard a little sound escape her throat, driving him to distraction. He knew he was acting irrationally; he’d been irrational since the day he’d walked into her shop. But she would be gone tomorrow, and he could be rational for the rest of his life. He’d be faithful to Priscilla for the rest of his life—just as soon as these incredible feelings faded away.

  But he didn’t want the feelings to fade away just yet, and so he kept kissing Amy. He eased her back onto the couch, still kissing her, then pulled away an inch to look at her. “Oh, my love,” he found himself whispering.

  Love? My love? What was he saying? And why? For heaven’s sake, why?

  He didn’t know. All he knew was she was beautiful and sweet and intelligent and…

  You’re a fool, Colin Chase, said a little voice in his head, a fool if you let her get away.

  But a louder voice was speaking, too, the voice that Colin considered his honor and his logic. It drowned out the other one, telling him he was committed to a lovely, aristocratic girl who fit his every need. Unbreakably committed.

  He should be committed to Bedlam, he thought briefly. Then he silenced the voices by going back to kissing Amy.

  But he couldn’t keep kissing her forever.

  When he finally lifted his head, her arms tightened around him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

  She nodded her head and squirmed closer still—and nearly made him fall off the couch.

  He caught himself just in time. “We don’t really fit here, you know,” he teased. “And it’s late. We’ll be leaving early. We should both get a good night’s sleep.”

  The intimate moment was shattered. Amy released him. “You’re right.”

  Her flat tone took him by surprise. He felt a pang of hurt, or guilt, or he wasn’t sure what. He struggled to keep his confusion hidden as he stood. “Let me get you settled,” he said stiffly, and pulled her up beside him. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing to the bedchamber next door.

  Not wanting a repeat of last night’s embarrassment, Amy kicked off her shoes but otherwise got into the bed fully dressed. She watched Colin stir up the fire and add a couple logs, thinking over the last couple of days she’d spent with him—eating, laughing, whiling away the hours. Kissing…

  It had felt like someone else’s life. A whole other Amy.

  Amethyst. She pronounced the name in her head, drawn-out and elegant. Amethyst, Lady Greystone.

  No, she decided, she was still Amy. “Lady Greystone” would never work with her hands and create jewelry, never own and run a shop. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—let herself contemplate the possibility of staying with Colin. Lucky circumstances had resulted in these stolen hours, and it was almost time to return to the real world.

  But must she be wrenched from his side so soon? She knew full well she had to leave, but she wasn’t quite ready to face her new life. She needed to steal a few more hours…a few more kisses. She cast around wildly for an idea, any idea—

  “Good night,” he said, turning to leave.

  “Colin?”

  He turned back toward her. “Yes?”

  “I—I know we have to leave tomorrow, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Do you think you could take me to London?” she asked on a sudden burst of inspiration. “I have no clothes at all, not anything, you know, and—well, it would take me naught but a couple of days to purchase everything I need, and then—”

  “I’d be happy to take you to London for a few days.” Was it her imagination, or did he sound relieved? “We’ll find you a chaperone there, and—”

  “—I’d prefer not to arrive in France with nothing—”

  “Amy.” Colin walked closer and planted a warm kiss on her forehead. “I said I’d be happy to take you.”

  “Oh.” It had worked. She could hardly believe it. A
few more days with Colin. It seemed like a dream come true.

  “We’ll stay at the family town house,” he said.

  Amy’s heart galloped with excitement. “Thank you,” she breathed.

  She was still smiling when he left the room.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  RETRIEVING HER book from the study, Amy dragged her trunk to the front door and sat on it to watch through the narrow window. She unfolded the note and read it again. Amy, it said in Colin’s bold printing,

  I have gone with Benchley to retrieve the carriage. Please ready yourself to leave. We will breakfast on the way to London.

  Greystone

  That was it. No “Dear Amy.” No “Love, Colin.” Amy told herself nothing was wrong—Colin simply wasn’t demonstrative on paper—but she knew she was fooling herself. The Colin she thought she’d come to know here at Greystone had vanished.

  She looked up from the note to see the carriage pass under the portcullis and onto the little circular drive in the courtyard. When Colin opened the door, she was standing by her trunk, book in hand, the note safely tucked away.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said as cheerfully as she could manage.

  Colin winced at the formal address. “Good morning,” he muttered back, avoiding her gaze.

  He lifted the trunk—more carefully than he had before he’d known what it contained—and carried it to the carriage. Amy trailed slowly. Colin waved her inside and returned to lock the door, then climbed in opposite her, and they were off.

  “Breakfast?” he asked, pulling Kendra’s basket from under his seat and setting it on the floor between them. He reached in, selected an apple, and polished it on his shirt before taking a bite.

  Amy dug out another apple. Any minute now, she expected him to smile and tease her or start pointing out the features of his estate, but as time crept by she realized it was less and less likely.

  They drove a mile or so in awkward silence, the only sounds those of the wheels on the rutted, slushy road, the steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, and the juicy crunch of apples being chewed and swallowed. Colin fetched a napkin from the basket and deposited his apple core in it, then held it out for Amy to do the same. Their eyes met, Amy’s questioning, Colin’s hooded and indecisive.