“Why’s that?”
Jemmy glanced away. “Her health prevents it.”
“Meow,” Nelson called out.
“Exactly,” Esme agreed. “She looked well enough yesterday.”
He wasn’t about to lower himself to arguing with a cat, so he stared Esme in the eye and ignored her feline companion. “Her looks are deceptive. I have it from the lady herself that she is dying.” He had promised Amanda that he wouldn’t tell his mother, but he hadn’t said anything about not telling the matchmaker.
But if he thought that Esme would see Amanda’s failing condition as a detriment to marital bliss, Jemmy was wrong. Very wrong.
“Dying, you say? We all are, my dear boy. One way or another.” She turned around to leave, but he caught her arm and stopped her.
“You don’t understand. She’s ill. Truly dying.” Gads, he was loath to say the words, let alone hear them. “Don’t you see, she can’t be matched.”
Esme shrugged. “I see no such thing. Now if you will excuse me, I have—”
Jemmy held firm, unwilling to let her go. “I won’t have Amanda spending her last days with someone she doesn’t love.”
At this, Esme smiled, her face awash in wrinkles, but her blue eyes rang sharp and clear. “She won’t be.”
“But Esme—”
“Shh,” she told him, patting his sleeve and soothing him just as she had when he’d been a young boy and come to her with his troubles. “Don’t fret so much. You’d be amazed at what love can heal.” She pulled her arm free from him and picked up Nelson’s basket. “Now, I’m sure you have things to do, don’t you? I know I’ve a dress to examine.” She shook her head. “Ah, matchmaking used to be so easy, but now it’s all gowns and hair and proper number of waltzes. Bah, I should retire.” She toddled off, her litany of laments meant obviously for Nelson and not Jemmy.
As he watched her go, he grit his teeth. He’d have no help from that quarter, but then he should have known better. But damn them all, he wouldn’t let Amanda be matched without a fight. He stormed out of the room, plans whirling in his mind for a midnight escape.
Which of the horses in the stable were the fastest…where to change their mounts…how to hide his curricle from Mr. Holmes …and the most discreet posting houses along the route.
Demmit, he didn’t even know if he could still drive his curricle. Then he laughed. If he couldn’t, he’d bet his last farthing Amanda could— practical, wonderful minx that she was.
As he left the room, he realized everyone was staring at him as if he’d gone mad. He had, he wanted to tell them. As mad as the king. Instead he grinned for one and all, then continued storming out of the room, with the servants gaping after him.
For who among them had seen the young master without his cane since he’d returned from Spain?
Seven
For all her secret yearnings to discover a bit of passion before she died, Amanda never imagined that she would find it in the arms of, of all people, Jemmy Reyburn.
Was it too selfish and too much to believe that he could care for her as passionately as she did him? Truly, it was too much to hope for.
He hadn’t appeared at dinner that evening, and Lady Finch had kept her busy up until she’d dropped into her bed, dazed and exhausted.
But in the morning there had been a note and a spray of orange blossoms on her nightstand, their sweet, tangy scent enticing her out of her slumbers, while his missive had left a blush on her cheeks.
I would risk a kingdom for your freedom. The gallows for yet another kiss from your lips.—J
She’d pressed the flowers to her nose and inhaled deeply, then glanced around her room and wondered how and when he’d been able to place them there.
That he’d chanced so much, to secure her the flowers and leave a note for her eyes only, told her that he would indeed risk it all for her.
But why? Because he loved her or because he pitied her plight? She didn’t know if she was brave enough to stay and discover the truth.
For most of the day Amanda reminded herself time and time again of all the reasons that she shouldn’t remain at Finch Manor for a single moment longer. Yet each instance when she gathered up her courage to slip away, there was Lady Finch or Esme or Mr. Holmes nearby. Each was a problem, but the most insurmountable obstacle was Jemmy.
Gads, one look at his craggy features, his strong shoulders, the determined line of his lips as he went about making his furtive plans, and her resolve crumbled.
So in her indecision, the day passed, and now it was just a scant half hour before the ball was to begin. Not that she’d have much chance of escaping now, for she was trapped in her room as the dressmaker and Lady Finch fussed over her gown, while a multitude of other servants hovered about, each at the ready to help the next Bramley Hollow bride be matched.
Not that she could fault their efforts to see her wed. One of the maids, who had “a way with hair,” spent the better part of the afternoon fussing over Amanda’s usually wayward strands until the talented girl had created a waterfall of perfectly curled tendrils. Then with a deft hand, she’d tucked Jemmy’s orange blossoms around her head until they made a fairylike crown of white.
Amanda stared into the mirror in awe at the magic the girl had wrought. Dull brown hair that had always made her look mousy now shone with a lustrous glow from the tart lemon juice the maid had used as a rinse.
Then there was her gown, and what a creation it was! Lady Finch’s dressmaker had chosen an emerald-green silk that gave new fire to her eyes, lent a dramatic background to her fair coloring and the Titian tint of her hair.
“Oh, miss,” the maid enthused, “you look like a princess. Wait until your groom sees you.” She giggled. “Whoever he may be.”
A groom? Her heart skipped a beat. She should be on her way to Brighton right this very minute, not standing about being trussed up for this impromptu Marriage Mart.
Yet Esme had been right. Dreams could come true. After all, hadn’t she been able to see Jemmy again? But this ball was pure folly. Her identity could be revealed by any number of the guests, though if she were honest, she wondered if any of the ton would remember her. There was an irony in the fact that her health had started to fail when she’d been told she wasn’t going to be included in their party when the family went to London for her younger sister’s Season. How she’d longed to return to Town just once more, her dreams still holding to the tiniest of hopes that perhaps she might find someone who could love her. But those dreams had been shattered when her father had said that he’d spent the money on one Season for her, and he wasn’t about to waste more “trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
But look what one silk dress had done—turned her into a princess—like the one in the Bramley Hollow legend. Truly, she barely recognized herself—so she had to believe that no one— possibly not even her family would recognize her.
Yet it was more than just the dress that was different about her. She’d certainly lost a lot of weight over the winter, what with her lack of appetite. Perhaps it was as she’d told Jemmy the other night, that in learning about her imminent death, she’d left all the boring vestiges of herself behind as well.
Having spent her entire life being usurped by her lithesome and blond sisters, she felt as if for the first time she’d been able to set her dreams free. Not that this new gown didn’t help. Her mother had never seen any reason to dress her in anything but hand-me-downs, since it was unlikely that she’d attract an eligible parti worthy of such expense. Her sisters’ ill-fitting gowns, let out to the very edge of their seams, had never felt as this gown did—the emerald silk flowed over her new figure and showed it off like nothing she’d ever worn. And it breathed with life—the color setting off her eyes and hair. Her sister Bethany’s old gowns, all whites and pastels, had done nothing for her coloring, save leave her looking pasty, blending her into the sea of other debutantes. The only exception had been Regina’s blue silk, which Amanda
had taken the day she’d left because she’d always thought the gown might make her look pretty.
Lady Finch stood nearby, rummaging through a jewel case she’d brought in. “Ah, here they are.”
One of the maids gasped as the lady plucked from the velvet confines a spectacular diamond necklace.
“Just as I remember them,” Lady Finch declared. “Fit for a bride.” She held them up to Amanda’s throat.
Never before had Amanda seen such glorious, glittering jewels. “My lady,” she said, her hands going to her mouth to cover it from gaping. “I can’t wear those.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Finch told her, coming behind her and putting the necklace around her neck. The largest stone rested just above where her mother would say her gown became “indecent,” while the other gems, surrounded by intricate gold settings, sparkled their way up and around her neck.
Lady Finch glanced up at Amanda’s reflection and smiled. “This is not just any necklace, but the Finch Diamonds. I received them on my wedding day. They are said to have been a gift from Henry the Eighth to the wife of the eleventh baron, whom the king had an eye toward seducing.” Lady Finch chortled as she did the clasp. “The wily lady managed to retain her virtue, prevent her husband’s head from being separated from his neck, and most importantly, keep the diamonds— without having to visit the king’s bed.”
Even as her trembling fingers trailed over the treasure, Amanda protested again. “My lady, I can’t wear this. What if—”
“Stuff and nonsense!” the lady exclaimed. “They were meant to be worn by someone young and beautiful. And you are both. Besides, they are said to bestow the bearer good fortune, and tonight I wish for you your heart’s desire.”
Her heart’s desire. If only the baroness knew what that meant.
Guilt assailed Amanda. How could she accept such a kindness? She reached back to undo the clasp and return this undeserved gift. But Lady Finch stopped her, closing her fingers over Amanda’s hands.
“Please humor an old lady and wear them,” she said softly. “I haven’t a daughter to see into society, nor a son who is inclined to go out and find a wife. Indulge me this one pleasure—to see the diamonds worn as they ought.”
Amanda’s eyes began to well up. Lady Finch had done more for her in the last forty-eight hours than her own mother had done in a lifetime. And how was she about to repay the baroness? By sneaking away and breaking the bargain that the Finches held so dear.
“Lady Finch, I-I-I don’t know how to thank you for all your kindness.”
“There is no need to thank me. You’ve done more than you already know.” The lady patted her on the shoulders then dabbed at her own moist eyes with a lacy bit. “Now, now, no more tears. You’ll have me going on like a watering pot, and that wretched Lady Mitton will spend the rest of the Season telling the entire ton that I’ve reached my dotage.”
Amanda laughed, then wiped away her own tears and wondered if the lady would regret her generosity when the midnight announcement came and Amanda had long since fled Finch Manor and the only real home she’d ever known.
Addison’s usually strong voice was growing hoarse as he continued to announce the guests, while Lord and Lady Finch greeted old friend and new alike.
Jemmy couldn’t remember another time when Finch Manor had entertained so many people. He’d been kicked out of the gatehouse so Lord Worledge and his wretched entourage of family and friends and hangers-on would have lodging, while the main house was bursting to the seams. Their neighbor, Lady Kirkwood, had generously opened her doors to any number of guests for the night, for it seemed nearly every member of the ton had taken the long drive from London to Bramley Hollow for Lady Finch’s unprecedented ball.
On Esme’s advice, Amanda was not part of the receiving line. The wily matchmaker wanted her to remain unseen so that speculation and anticipation would run rife.
Much to Jemmy’s chagrin, the woman’s plan was working. With all the mystery surrounding the bride, the house was also crawling with every fortune hunter and lordling with pockets to let, as well as a few cits hoping to improve their social standing through Lady Finch’s good favor.
He’d have a hell of a time getting Amanda out of their greedy grasps once she was announced, but do it he would. He was only too glad she was stowed away in the music room, behind the door on which he lounged, guarding it with single-minded determination—especially given the company milling about.
“Say there, Reyburn,” an old acquaintance called out.
Jemmy racked his brain to remember the man’s name.
Bemley? No, Denley. Bother, that wasn’t it either.
If he hadn’t been particularly fond of the fellow before, the man’s next questions didn’t do much to make him anxious to renew the acquaintance.
“Where is this gel to be matched?” The fellow turned his head right and left as he scanned the crowd with an assessing eye. “Hear tell she’s an heiress.” He nudged Jemmy in the ribs. “Is she a worthy filly? A fine bit? Knowing my luck, my mother’s badgered me down here for another one of these cit’s nags—all teeth and no bite, if my name isn’t Fently.”
Fently! That was it. And heir to an earldom if Jemmy remembered correctly. Oh, his mother had been busy inviting the “right sort.”
The pompous fellow had his thumbs stuck in his waistcoat. “I’ll dance with her, mind you, but only because Mother expects it. Then I’m off to find some sport—that is, unless this bride is worth the effort.”
Jemmy straightened. Had he been so shallow and crude?
No, better not to answer that question. If there was any relief to be had, it was that Amanda had never known him in his London days. Now he was ashamed of how he’d treated the poor debutantes standing in the wings of Almack’s.
But there was one good thing about his dashing days, he knew how to answer the fellow in his own language and what words would send the reluctant bachelor packing.
He wagged his finger at Fently to lure him a little closer. Nothing like the appearance of a confidential conversation to garner every gossip’s attention. As Fently struck a nonchalant pose— so as not to attract too much attention, but acting quite the opposite, like a magnet for the curious—Jemmy shook his head as mournfully as possible and then leaned closer. “I told Mother not to go to all this trouble, but when do they ever listen?”
“That bad, eh?” Fently’s staged whisper drew three more potential grooms into their fold—best of all, the trio was as gossipy as his mother. “You’d best hear this,” he told the newcomers.
Ah, yes, Jemmy thought. This will do the trick. He glanced around, making a great show of trying to preserve the confidential nature of their conversation. “On the other side of this door”—he jerked his thumb behind him—“is a gel as cowhanded as they come,” he said loud enough to catch the attention of two other young gentlemen, who immediately stopped and joined the growing crowd. “Now don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he told his curious audience, “but I ’spect this is the only way they could find to marry the gel off.” He shot them a knowing look, and they all nodded in understanding. “In my opinion, by midnight there won’t be a fellow left in the manor, ’less he’s so far into his cups he’d be inclined to marry my father’s three-legged foxhound.” He shook his head. “I for one will be long gone by then. Can’t stand listening to the wailing and tears—in which I understand this one is rather inclined to partake—mostly ’cause she hasn’t a farthing to her name.”
“Poor chit,” one soft-hearted fellow said.
“Poor chit? Poor us,” a Corinthian in the back complained. “Been lured down here on false pretenses. An heiress, indeed!”
“In truth, if there is anyone who should be pitied, pity me,” Jemmy told them, adding another long mournful sigh to his act. “I’ve got to dance the first set with her. The dancing master left this morning nursing a broken foot, and I’ve only got one good one left.” He tapped his boot with his walking stick.
At th
is, his companions laughed.
“Wouldn’t be in this fix if it weren’t for my mother,” he complained further. “She’s had me dancing attendance on the lady ever since she arrived.” He cleared his throat. “James,” he said, effecting a rather good imitation of Lady Finch, “please show Miss Smythe around the Orchid Room.” Laughter followed. “James, Miss Smythe will require a dancing partner for the opening set; I expect you to do your duty.” He waved his hand at them. “As if my time with Wellington wasn’t enough service for one lifetime.”
“Exactly, my good man,” one of them declared.
Fently cleared his throat. “I think we’ve been had, my good friends. I’m for going back to the inn. The only way to save this wasted evening is a rousing game of loo and enough port to dull the memory. What say the rest of you?”
His compatriots were of a like mind. “Oh, aye!” one of them said.
“Count me in,” came the enthusiastic chorus.
Fently turned to Jemmy. “Shall we save you a chair, Reyburn?”
“Most decidedly.” Jemmy pointed at the double doors that led to the garden. “I’d suggest using the side door over there. You’ll be able to make your escape that much quicker.”
Fently grinned and slapped him again on the back. “Missed you in Town, Reyburn. Do come around, and I’ll introduce you to this pair of dancers I’ve had my eye on. Twins, I tell you. Best part is, we won’t have the dilemma of which of us gets the lesser one.” He laughed and strode through the room, his bold, gallant manners parting the way for him and his boon companions.
Relieved he and his lot were gone, Jemmy tugged at his cravat and shifted in his coat. They were both too tight and hardly comfortable. There had been a time when he wouldn’t have felt dressed unless he was turned out to the nines, but country life had shifted his priorities and his sensibilities.
As had Amanda.
He’d gone nearly half the day before he realized he hadn’t reached for his cane once. In fact, he realized he’d dropped it in the garden when he’d kissed her and hadn’t needed it since.
Her passion had filled him with life and a desire to live that spread through his limbs as swiftly as her tempestuous response.
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