A year ago she would have been hopeful and excited. As scattered and harried and upset as her thoughts were, she knew that. She’d wanted to please her mother, to be the young lady she’d been raised to be. Winning Hurst would have allowed her to prove to herself that she wasn’t a failure.
Her mother came away from the window. “Be grateful, Amelia-Rose. I understand it can be thrilling to have a handsome, virile man’s attention. But ask Lady Aldriss if that is enough to make a good marriage. I’ve saved you. And this is the last time.”
“I never asked you to save me.” She wanted to say more, wanted to yell that for a day and a night, for an afternoon, she’d been happy. She’d been able to see a future with love and warmth and humor, with a man who encouraged her to speak her mind and surrounded by family who’d welcomed her even with all the trouble she’d caused them.
“I’m your mother. I’ve done it regardless. Lord Hurst will come by to escort you on your shopping expedition this afternoon, and you will chat with him, you will be pleasant, and you will comport yourself as a woman engaged to be married, because that is what you are.”
With that Victoria left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. Amelia-Rose set down her brush. Everything had happened so fast last evening. She could put things in terms of one emotion or another, surprise, horror, disbelief—but it was so much more tangled and roiled together than that.
She’d tried always to be honest with herself, and for that reason she had to admit that yes, at one time she would have welcomed a suit from Lionel West. Even at the beginning of her first Season, when she’d realized that she would be marrying a title, whoever happened to own it, she’d decided that he would be the least objectionable. Over the course of her two Seasons they’d barely spoken a dozen words together before last night. It seemed more important that he was pretty and seemed kind, and lived close by London.
She would never have called Niall pretty. His looks weren’t feminine in the least, despite his long lashes. Those eyes with their impossible color and the laughter in their depths, his strong jaw, the arched brows and brown-red, untamable hair, the lean, hard strength and grace of him—he was entirely, unmistakably, masculine perfection. Her warrior. Her lover.
Did it matter that she’d known him only a handful of days? She’d known Lionel West, if she combined all the minutes together, for perhaps an hour. Of the two, she knew Niall much better, and preferred him indescribably more.
Yes, she’d danced around her feelings for Niall. She’d said that she cared for him, that she valued his friendship, that she wanted to be close by him and kiss him and share his bed. But she hadn’t said the last, most important thing—and she hadn’t done so because she’d somehow known they wouldn’t end up together. Because she’d wanted it too much, and admitting to it would break that future into pieces.
Well, she hadn’t said the words, and everything was broken, anyway. She’d waited for the perfect moment, for some promise of ever after, and now it was gone. She’d had it all pulled out from under her, and she’d allowed it to happen. He would know that she’d allowed it to happen, because she hadn’t fled or thrown herself out a window or whatever it was that damsels in need of rescue did.
Even that, though, couldn’t change one thing. The thing she’d known since probably the afternoon of Lady Margaret’s picnic, when she’d been meant for someone else and he’d supposedly been attempting to endear his brother to her. She loved Niall MacTaggert. She loved the way he didn’t give a damn what other people thought—except for her, apparently—and the way he looked at her as if nothing mattered to him as much as what she might have to say. She loved his mouth, his body, his brogue, the way she felt stronger just knowing he found her important.
In all this mess she’d done one brave thing. She’d asked Hughes to inform Niall, if he should call, that she would be standing by her schedule for the day. If the butler had passed on that information, Niall would know precisely where she would be this afternoon. Would it make a difference? Would he consider her a lost cause, now? She had no idea what she would say to him if he did appear. Or worse, what she would do if he didn’t.
Her door cracked open. “Miss Amy?” Mary said, peering in. “Your mother says I’m to help you dress to go out shopping.”
“Come in, Mary. Yes, please fetch my light-blue muslin with the puff sleeves.”
“Your mother wished you to dress more grandly, you being newly engaged and all.”
“It’s a small rebellion, Mary. The blue gown, if you please.”
“Yes, Miss Amy.”
Whatever happened this afternoon, she had two wishes. First that Niall wouldn’t give up on her, and second that someone owed him a miracle. Because on her own, she couldn’t think of how this could possibly end well for either of them.
* * *
Niall headed south and east toward Pall Mall. When Coll and Aden, a street or so behind him and attempting to remain unseen, fell behind a trio of coaches and an ice wagon, he sent Kelpie into a swift trot north until he’d managed to put enough space between himself and his brothers that they wouldn’t be able to track him, then edged west toward Bond Street.
They wanted to help. He understood that, and he also knew that there were occasions when three large, opinionated Highlands men together caused more mayhem than was warranted. So while he badly wanted to beat Lionel West, Marquis of Durst, into the ground and shovel dirt over him, he would fare better without his two shadows digging the hole for him.
He needed to speak to Amelia-Rose Hyacinth Baxter. Until he heard from her, the doubts kept swirling. Admittedly he wasn’t a man accustomed to being turned down by a lass, but this wasn’t about his bruised pride. They’d had a plan. Aye, a nebulous plan filled in mainly with phrases like “we’ll see to it” or “I’ll convince them,” but she’d wanted to remain in his life. He still damned well wanted her there.
None of it would matter, though, if he’d merely seen what he’d hoped to see. If she’d allowed him to court her because no one more acceptable to herself or her parents happened to be waiting behind the curtains. If she’d merely been grateful that he’d saved her from embarrassment that night at the ball.
Cursing under his breath, he handed Kelpie and a shilling off to a lad who promised to keep the bay standing in an alley. Beneath his anger and frustration and … pain, he knew he could help her. He could fix this. He excelled at fixing things. When a cotter or anyone else had a problem they couldn’t settle on their own, they came to Niall. If that made him a peacemaker, or a charmer, then so be it. Today he meant to use all those talents to get Amelia-Rose back in his arms, or to determine once and for all that she’d never wanted to be there in the first place.
He took a position beside a lamppost where he could see most of Bond Street. If he’d wanted to go completely unnoticed he likely shouldn’t have worn his kilt, but who he was had become as much a part of this as where she wanted to live. Even with his six-foot-three-inch height and his kilt, he managed to stay out of most everyone’s way, though lasses seemed determined to flutter their lashes at him or drop handkerchiefs practically down his front. After the first half a dozen he ignored them, and they lay like wilted, fluttering butterflies at his feet.
After nearly an hour it occurred to him that Hughes might have been lying about Amelia-Rose’s schedule, or she might have lied about it to Hughes. It would be an effective way to see Niall well away from Baxter House in the case they meant to acquire a special license, find the nearest church, and wed.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He should have sent Aden to shadow the house.
Niall straightened. In all this, even with the doubts he made himself conjure about her sincerity, he knew—he knew—that Amelia-Rose cared for him. This had been done to her, not by her. And so he meant to stop it. She wouldn’t have lied, because she didn’t lie.
As he wrestled with that thought, she stepped out of a hat shop halfway down the street.
She’d w
orn a pale-blue gown that he knew would deepen her eyes to the color of cornflowers. The plain lines and lack of decoration made her look pure and fresh, a golden-haired English Aphrodite. His feet started toward her before his brain could register that she wasn’t alone.
Jane joined her, a hat box in one hand, and behind the companion strolled a slender man with wavy golden hair, a well-fitted brown coat, yellow waistcoat, and black trousers in glinting Hessian boots. Hurst, no doubt. Niall could see why Eloise had described the marquis as soulful; Lionel looked like a poet’s fever dream of a young man about to be struck down because he was too beautiful, or some such nonsense.
Squaring his shoulders, Niall continued forward. He knew the exact second Amelia-Rose caught sight of him, because she dropped her reticule and froze. Whether it was good or bad, it was something. She wasn’t indifferent.
“Good afternoon,” he drawled, crouching to retrieve her bag. “Ye’ve dropped someaught, lass.”
She stared at him, her blue eyes bottomless and … stunned? Hopeful? Pleading? Niall refused to put a word to her expression, because it would only be the one he wanted to believe. Her soft mouth opened and closed, and then she visibly shook herself. “Niall. I’m … You’re here.”
“Aye, that I am, adae. Did ye wish me elsewhere?”
The soulful dead man stepped between them, reaching for Amelia-Rose’s reticule. “I’ll take that, my good man. Thank you for your attention.”
Niall shifted it backward. “I wasnae speaking to ye, ye soft piece of lambskin.”
“I beg your pardon?” Hurst glanced behind him at Amelia-Rose. “Do you know this man, Amelia-Rose?”
“I … do.” She blinked again. “My lord, this is Niall MacTaggert. Niall, the Marquis of Hurst.”
The marquis’s expression became a touch less soulful. “You’re that Scotsman. I must inform you that Amelia-Rose and I are engaged, sir, and your presence here is unwanted. Please begone.”
“That doesnae sound reasonable,” Niall returned, wondering if the man had any idea just how narrow the safe path before him lay. “I came upon ye while out shopping for a hat, and greeted this fair lass. Surely ye can spare me a word or two, Miss Baxter, in exchange for yer wee bag?”
“Certainly I c—”
“We’re quite busy at the moment, sir. Perhaps you could leave your card at Baxter House.” The marquis started forward. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Mr. MacTagg—”
Niall didn’t move, didn’t step aside, and as Hurst bumped his shoulder the soft man came to an abrupt halt and took a half-step backward. “That wasnae very effective, was it?” Niall observed, looking down at him. The lad was nearly six feet, but most of his exercise looked to be from getting out of bed in the morning. Niall doubted Hurst could hoist a pitcher, much less a sheep.
Hurst lifted his cane, putting his free hand on the ivory dog’s head. No doubt he carried a rapier sheathed in there, just in case large Scotsmen refused to move from his path. They were wasting time here, when he needed to speak to Amelia-Rose. And yet, if she did bear this goose-down pillow some degree of affection, perhaps this was what she needed to see. He forced a grin.
“Dunnae make me break ye in half, ye pasty rag doll. I’m just after a word or two. We’ll stand right there, so ye can watch over us and keep her from harm.” He pointed at a spot directly in front of a shop window.
The marquis began to look rather like he’d swallowed something sour. “I warn you, I am surrounded by friends here. You may think to challenge me to fisticuffs, but you may find yourself taking on the entire aristocracy.”
Niall shrugged. He’d tried. No one could say he hadn’t. But he wanted to speak with Amelia-Rose now, at once, and hear from her what the devil had happened, and the need to hear her voice, to be close to her, drove everything else out of his mind. “I asked nicely.”
Coiling his fist, he took a half turn sideways so he could get his weight behind the punch—and Amelia-Rose put her own fist over his. “Please, Lionel,” she said, with a half smile that didn’t fool him for a minute, “I don’t wish a scene, for goodness’ sake. One minute, and we can continue with our afternoon.”
“I … One minute, then,” Hurst agreed. “But not alone. I insist on making certain this rogue doesn’t threaten or injure you.”
Niall was ready to stomp all over the pretty scarecrow’s demands, but she continued holding on to his hand. “Please,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Aye.” Not letting her out of his sight, he moved to one side of the walkway. When she and the marquis joined him, he faced her. “Were ye surprised?”
Her jaw clenched. “Yes, I was.”
“What surprised you?” Hurst asked, frowning.
“Ye keep yer shite to yerself,” Niall snapped. “Ye’re to listen; nae speak.”
“I didn’t agree to any s—”
“That’s it. I’m killing him.” Niall grabbed the pretty lad by the cravat and hoisted him off his feet.
Hurst yelped, punching at Niall’s arms and kicking out at him. “Unhand me, you—”
“Put him down, Niall,” Amelia-Rose ordered.
Unless he was mistaken, she found part of this amusing. Niall hoped it was the bits where Hurst nearly wet himself. Clenching his jaw, he set the man down on the ground again, but kept a hand wound into his cravat. “Have ye changed yer mind about anything?” he asked Amelia-Rose, otherwise ignoring the wriggling trout at the end of his arm.
“No, I haven’t. I didn’t…” She trailed off. “I don’t know what to say.”
Tears rose in her eyes, and he wanted to kiss them away. “He’ll give ye what ye wanted,” he made himself say anyway. Their words had to be careful, but he needed to know, for certain, what—who—she wanted. What sort of future she wanted, and whether he would be in it. He couldn’t rescue a damsel who’d pledged her troth to the dragon.
A single tear trailed down her cheek. Blinking, she swiftly wiped it away. She wouldn’t want any other passersby to notice. “How can…” Amelia-Rose looked down for a moment, then abruptly met his gaze. “Do you recall that Scottish dish you told me to try? Skellum? I did try it. I love it. Very much. I’d like to try it again.”
Niall’s heart stopped. Simply stopped. Sound, sight, everything seemed clear as a crystal, all around him. He could hear the gulls over the docks, he thought, as far away as they were. Abruptly everything centered again, with the concussion of cannon fire, and his heart started beating. Hard. Fast, and hopeful. Saint Andrew, she was brilliant. And she loved him. She loved him. “I’m partial to adae, myself,” he returned, keeping his voice calm. “It’s best with an open window, though. The smell, ye ken.”
“I’ll try it that way,” she said, then stuck out her hand. “That’s that then, I suppose. I’m afraid I am occupied tomorrow as well, as Lord Hurst will be taking me to luncheon at noon.”
He released the marquis to free a hand. When he took her fingers, they shook. He held on for a bit longer than he should have, then gave her back the reticule. “Aye. That’s that.”
“That is not that,” Hurst stated, trying to straighten his cravat. “I will see you banned from every club in London, you savage.”
“Aye. Ye do that, ye wilted lily.”
“You might at least wish us well,” the lily insisted.
“Now why the devil would I do that?” Niall returned. With a last glance at Amelia-Rose that he hoped said everything he’d been unable to tell her aloud, he turned his back and walked away. He had a thing or two to see to today. And a favor or two to ask.
* * *
Amelia-Rose watched Niall walk away. He’d come. And he’d listened. She hadn’t been able to say much, but she had the feeling that if she’d been less concerned with scandal, less aware of the fragility of a reputation, she might well have left with him. The idea of that made her shiver—her, completely ruined, leaving her betrothed in the street while she rode off across a Highlander’s saddle to a life of isolation from her friends and fami
ly. But she would have him. She would have Niall. And while he hadn’t outright said so—how could he?—she knew that he meant to help her. How, she had no idea, but it would involve him visiting her tonight. A low, delighted shiver started up her spine.
“I cannot believe this,” Hurst muttered, still wrenching at his cravat. “That animal tries to kill me, and you speak to him about food?”
“I was attempting to calm him down,” she countered. She hadn’t been rescued yet. And none of this was Lord Hurst’s fault. “He did let you go, and he did leave, and you weren’t required to resort to violence to defend us.”
He looked at her, the scowl on his face dropping to a reluctant grimace. “You make a point. Even so, I cannot believe you were eyeing him with an idea toward what—marriage? The man probably lives in a stable.”
“I don’t think so, but let’s put it out of our minds, shall we?” she urged, placing a hand on his arm.
“Well, I’m quite out of the mood for shopping,” Lionel said, finally giving up on his wrinkled neckwear. “Perhaps a stroll in Hyde Park will lift my mood.”
The more people who saw them together, the more difficult ending an arrangement would be. “I’m somewhat overset, actually,” she decided. “Would you be a dear and mind taking me home?”
“Yes, of course. I should have considered your delicate nature.” Lifting his free arm, he signaled for his coach. “You know, now that we’ve become acquainted, I’m quite pleased I returned to London when I did. I’m generally more partial to dark-haired women, due to their naturally sober nature, but you seem solemn enough.”
Amelia-Rose sent him a sideways glance, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I do try to be serious,” she offered. “I have meant to ask you, do you enjoy walking? Reading? Riding?”
“I sketch,” he returned. “Lately I have done a study of the lugubrious saints.”
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