He heard the quick intake of her breath. “Lord Hayden!”
“Tell me you feel the same!”
And now a trill of laughter. “Enchanted? So, I am a witch after all.”
He caught her hand in his, even though they stood within easy view of the open French doors. “You’re quite right to laugh. I said ‘enchanted’ only because I am afraid of what your response would be if I were to name my true feelings.”
“Are they so frightening, then?” she asked shyly.
“They are to me.”
“Why is that?”
“Because once spoken, I entrust them to you and am at your mercy.”
“And you think I am cruel and would abuse them? Then perhaps you’d best remain silent. Or not.” She was playing the coquette, he realized in astonishment. But when she did it, she did it adorably. He wanted to seize her hand and kiss each finger from its tip to its base and then her palm and wrist and on and on…
“I have no choice,” he declared. “I must speak!”
“You admit that you inveigled yourself into an ailing gentleman’s household as a companion to his child under false pretenses?” Disappointment made Grey’s voice gruff.
“No,” Fanny denied flatly. “Colonel Chase knew my history. It is only Amelie who remains oblivious.” She leveled him with a haughty look. “Did I say ‘only Amelie’? How remiss of me.”
He would not let her assume the role of the injured party. “That’s an easy enough claim to make,” he said. “Colonel Chase can hardly vouch for you, can he? Lest you intend to call up his spirit to do so. That ought to prove interesting. Perhaps you can call up a few angels to flutter about the room, too. That was your specialty, wasn’t it?”
Finally, he’d managed to bring a flush of color to her cheeks. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it ought to have been. This was what he’d wanted, he reminded himself, to catch her in her pretense and then, while she was off balance, push until she revealed her plan. Whatever that might be.
He knew she was hiding something. His instincts in this had never failed him. Whether her plan was motivated by greed or other reasons, he did not care. He cared only that she hid something from him, that some deceit was going on, and it was his avocation to uncover that which was hidden, expose lies, and reveal deceits.
“Will you tell Amelie?” she asked. The dark eyes meeting his were stricken but unwavering.
“Is there any reason I ought not to?”
When she finally spoke, it was in a voice so low he had to strain to hear it. “I would not want her to think less of me.”
The admission was so poignant, the explanation so simple, he almost believed her.
“And,” she went on, “there is no reason to tell her. My past has nothing to do with my life now. Or with that letter. Or you. Or Lord Hayden. Or Lord Collier.” She lifted her head, meeting his gaze directly. “Please.”
Reason demanded he ignore her plea. He’d heard scores of the convicted ask for mercy in just such a tone. Few, if any, deserved it.
“You are claiming that after making a fortune as a sham spiritualist in London, you assumed a new name, a new identity, and have hidden yourself away up here for the last six years as companion to a purported witch and kept your identity secret from everyone, with no other reason than that you wish to remain in your charge’s good graces?”
“Yes!” she declared hotly. “What do you think I’m doing up here?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps grooming Miss Chase to take your place in London’s spiritualist salons?”
Fanny snickered. “Amelie has no psychic abilities, nor does she pretend to have them—except when goaded by the local population into putting on a show. And even if I wanted to train her as my protégée, why ever would she agree to such a thing? Money?” Her laugh was scornful. “She will be wealthy in her own right soon enough.”
True. But it wasn’t the only possibility. “Then perhaps you have in place a scheme to secure some of her wealth for your own?”
“And why would I do that? You certainly must know the terms of Colonel Chase’s will. You seem to know everything else,” she said sarcastically. “I shall be handsomely rewarded for my service here.”
“Handsomely,” he sneered. “Your husband stole twice the sum you’ve been promised from the men and women he duped in the course of four years. Such a ‘reward’ would seem paltry in comparison.”
“I see. I am insatiably avaricious. Fine. And what is this scheme you think I have to extract more money from my situation?”
“I’m not sure. But it would rely on Miss Chase’s remaining ignorant of your past.”
Her skin paled. He disliked himself intensely at that moment, but then he reminded himself of all the people Brown had victimized. He did not want Amelie to be another. Still, he had to give her a chance to explain herself, even though he knew she would just spin some credible tale. It was what a confidence artist did best. But he had always been just that much better at discrediting them.
“If you are virtuous, why the assumed name? Why pretend we had never met? Why accept a position so far from that which you’d previously known?”
She cast around the room. For a moment he thought she might refuse to answer. But then she swung toward him.
“Can’t you understand? Don’t you see?” The words came from deep within, vibrant and intense. Outside dogs began to bay.
“I didn’t want to be her. If I’d stayed in London, if I’d kept my name, there would be no escape from people like you! With your suspicions. Your prejudices. Your grievances.”
He started to speak, but she shut him down with a burning glance. How could anyone think this woman cold? She breathed fire.
“Do not mistake me. You are entitled to your acrimony. But that doesn’t mean I have to bear it willingly.” Her voice broke, and he’d taken an involuntary step toward her before stopping himself.
“I saw the chance to rid myself of my past and I took it,” she said. “If that makes me a coward, then that is what I am.”
She waited, breathing heavily but silently, only the rapid movement of lace above her décolletage testifying to her agitation. He wanted to believe her. Like his father had wanted to believe a dozen like her. But he wasn’t like his sire: an easy dupe, a prime mark, always getting his heart broken, always willing—no, always eager—to have it broken again until there’d been nothing left to break. He would not blindly accept the assurances of his heart.
He was made of sterner stuff than that. Tougher stuff than those who’d broken his father. Than her.
He had only history and experience to use to guide him, and her history was as an admitted bunco artist, and his experience was that cheats cheated. He owed it to his father’s memory not to follow in his footsteps.
“You will forgive me if I doubt you?”
He might have slapped her. Her chin snapped up. “I don’t really care what you believe,” she said. “Just please do not tell Amelie. She wouldn’t understand.”
She would not let this point go. He vacillated. He could think of no reason not to keep her secret. “Unless it becomes clear it is in Miss Chase’s immediate and best interest to know, your secret is safe.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” he said, his voice gruff. “And…don’t worry.” The words came out of nowhere, surprising them both.
She glanced away, confused.
Whatever she saw caused her eyes to widen. She turned back. “The only thing I am currently worried about is out there,” she said, the familiar suaveness back in her voice. “And I want to know what you intend to do about it.”
She pointed out at the deepening twilight, where Hayden had—Grey leaned forward and peered more closely—secured Amelie Chase’s hand. Fanny was right to be indignant; Hayden should know to be more circumspect. But then, Hayden was naive (as only those convinced of their worldliness are naive,) and, more important, susceptible to playing Sir Gal
ahad (as all men are susceptible, even, at one time six years ago, Grey).
Still, there was no cause for alarm as far as Grey was concerned. Hayden might be young, romantic, and enamored of his role as white knight, but he had also already spent several seasons successfully eluding the machinations of marriage-minded debutantes—a danger-fraught journey that, Grey flattered himself, his own excellent tutelage in such matters had helped pilot the boy through. Hayden might fancy himself in love with Amelie and flatter her a bit, but he would never raise her hopes by declaring himself.
“I love you!” Hayden declared passionately. “I love you!”
Amelie didn’t swoon.
This rather disappointed Hayden, who’d been looking forward to holding her in his arms, if only to carry her back inside.
Instead, she bit her bottom lip and regarded him with a probing gaze. “You do?” she asked.
This response made him uncomfortable. Generally, when one told a girl one loved her, one anticipated an encouraging response, not suspicion. Not that he’d told other girls he loved them. True, he might have occasionally—and, in hindsight, imprudently—insinuated something similar to love, but only to be polite.
Girls, in Hayden’s experience, dearly loved being loved, and occasionally, just to bring that special glow to their adorable faces, he might encourage them to hear in their imaginations what they wouldn’t with their ears. But it went without saying that he would never feign a deeper affection for Amelie Chase than he felt. He could never be dishonest with her—though dishonest seemed a rather harsh indictment of the harmless flirtations with which he was now, and forevermore, done.
He truly, sincerely, and most ardently knew himself to be in love with Amelie, and it wounded him that she doubted him. It also presented him with a delicious challenge. He would prove his love and make her love him in return.
“I do love you! Please. I beg you, tell me there is hope that you could return my feelings. If not now, on some day in the future. And tell me what I can do to make myself worthy in your eyes!” he demanded, though he was having difficulty imbuing his voice with the ardency such sentiments deserved, circumstances forcing him to whisper.
“How can you love me on so short an acquaintance?” she replied. “How do I dare believe you? I may lead an isolated life, but I assure you, Fanny has seen to it that my mind has roamed free. Far freer, I warrant, than those of many of the young ladies you know. I have read all about young swells and how they like to trifle with girls’ affections,” she finished darkly.
“I am not a young swell. I don’t trifle.” He caught the hard glint in her eyes. She’d heard the hint of hesitation in his voice. God! It only made him love her all the more! Already she knew him better than any woman ever had. She would be the making of him. He was sure of it.
“I’m not trifling now. Not with you. And never again. You are unlike any woman I have ever met, and yet I feel I have known you forever. You are clever and artless, vivacious and adorable, unspoiled and elegant.”
“You really think I’m elegant?” she asked.
“Intensely.” He seized on the slight advantage, tugging her gently away from the doors.
“I say,” he announced loudly. “Is that a cat down there, do y’suppose?”
Clever girl, she understood at once.
“Perhaps. Or a fox. Let us try to get a closer look, shall we?” she answered in a carrying voice. “You’d best stay inside, Fanny!” Amelie called over her shoulder. “I think there’re some foxes out here.”
She looked up at him from the shadows. “Fanny doesn’t care for animals,” she whispered. “They unnerve her.”
He didn’t care what unnerved Mrs. Walcott. He had Amelie well away from the door now, her small hands still clasped in his. All traces of the unsettling skepticism in her face had vanished.
“Say you can love me.”
“I dare not.”
“Why?” He’d meant to sound commanding; he feared he sounded petulant.
“You don’t know me.”
“I do. I know you in my heart. My soul is mate to your own. I was unwhole until now. I did not know how bereft I was until I looked into your eyes and—”
“But, Hayden, you don’t understand. I really may be a witch.”
Chapter 17
Anxiously, Amelie twisted her hands together. Hayden did not look quite so dashing with his jaw hanging open, though in his defense surprise hadn’t opened it. It had opened when he’d begun his wonderful, romantic speech. Surprise had simply kept it open.
To his credit, Hayden didn’t actually stutter or squint or flee, all of which Amelie considered very good signs. Especially since she had fallen head over heels in love with Hayden and decided that since he loved her (and not for one instant did she believe otherwise, at least not after she’d caught him fudging a bit and he’d staunchly forfeited his part in any and all future flirtations), it would be smashing if they were to wed. She felt confident she would be the perfect wife for him.
But first, while there were some things she had no intention of revealing, she felt strongly that she must tell him about those things that made her unique. It only seemed cricket, and despite Fanny’s adamancy that she ignore her exceptionalness, she knew otherwise.
Being different was what, well, made her different.
As a child on the Indian frontier, she’d gained notoriety as a good-luck talisman because of her bright red hair. She’d quite liked it. And later, in London, she’d never been frightened of the odd falling picture or sliding vase. It had been a wee bit exciting, truth be told.
She had no choice but to tell Hayden, really. It would be dishonest to do otherwise. Besides, if he could not love her as she was, then it really wasn’t love, was it? She might as well know now, when the blow would be only devastating but perhaps not fatal. But, oh, she so hoped it was true love! She waited in breathless anticipation.
His smooth, manly brow wrinkled in consternation, he tipped his head to regard her soberly, cleared his throat, and said, “Ah…come again?”
She took a deep breath, telling herself she had nothing to fear. Love would conquer all. Even witchhood. Or whatever it was. “Well, not a witch, exactly, but I have certain attributes other young ladies do not.”
“Most decidedly,” he averred at once. She sighed. He was so lovely.
“Not those sorts of attributes. I do things. Or, rather, affect things.”
He’d released her hands, she noted, and clasped his own behind his back. Oh, dear. Not a good sign.
“Such as?”
“Well, objects occasionally have moved when I am nearby. Without my touching them.” At his expression, she hurried on. “But that sort of thing hasn’t happened in, oh, years.”
He stayed silent.
“Lord Hayden?” she ventured worriedly. “Hayden? Please. Say something.”
“What sorts of things do you affect now?” he asked.
“Animals,” she replied weakly. “I…” She searched for the appropriate word but couldn’t find it, so she made do. “Sometime in the last six months or so, I have acquired the ability to talk to animals.”
His smile faltered, true, but then he drew a deep breath, expelled it, and, without a blink, said in an almost normal voice, “How unusual. Pray, what do they have to say?”
“Well, what do you have to say about that?” Fanny repeated, glaring out toward the terrace.
“Calm yourself, madam,” Grey said. “They are simply viewing the wildlife.”
“Oh, for the love of all that’s sacred. They most decidedly are not viewing the wildlife. They are canoodling.”
“Canoodling,” Grey repeated blankly.
“There’s hanky-panky going on out there, mark my words.”
“Are you under the delusion that you are speaking the King’s English? Do you think you might communicate without resorting to vulgar slang?”
She set her hands on her hips, looking magnificent. She had buried her momentary vuln
erability and was once more ready to do battle. He had never met a woman more bracingly audacious… Be damned.
“Perhaps this is clear enough,” she said now. “Your nephew is outside dallying with Amelie.”
“Well, yes. I expect so. Strapping, red-blooded young man, pretty girl. Natural as breathing.”
Her jaw slackened before snapping tightly together. She covered the distance between them with one long stride that sent her skirts swirling, giving him a glimpse of slender ankles and shapely calves, before stopping just short of him.
The scent of her surrounded him, disturbing and breath-stealing… Aha! That was why he found her so formidably distracting. Some opiate in her perfume coupled with her mesmerist’s tricks would account for his inability to concentrate on anything important when she was close, like discovering what she was up to, and who—if anyone—was threatening Miss Chase.
He wouldn’t have it. He would overcome this irrational fascination with the woman. He was a man of reason. She was all about illusion and deception. Why even this persona, this formidable, dazzling hellcat, was probably just another construct.
But what to do about it? And what to do about this?
Whatever accusation, demand, or protest she’d been about to make had died on her lips. Her head had tipped back so she could look him more directly in the eye, and hers had grown luminous. Her lips softened, parting slightly, releasing on her breath. It carried the slightest hint of cloves. She blinked, like a sleeper trying to rouse herself from a dream, but without much success.
“I will not have it,” she whispered, echoing his thoughts. For a fateful instant, he thought she’d read his mind. From outside came the distant sweet, trilling song of a nightingale.
“Won’t have what?” he asked, struggling to retain his composure. But he could see the pulse shivering in the elegant niche nestled above her collarbone, almost feel the velvet-silk texture of her fine-grained flesh, the silkiness of her glossy sable locks. “A bit of dalliance? Pray, do not act the prude with me, Mrs. Walcott. I recall quite clearly the interesting dishabille in which you displayed yourself in your husband’s salon, even if you choose not to.”
So Enchanting Page 14
