by Claudia Dain
“Yates? ”
“Yes, my lady,” Yates said. He looked overwhelmed, very nearly sweaty.
“Send someone round to Dalby House. Have the messenger request Lady Dalby’s presence here, as soon as is convenient for her.”
“Yes, my lady,” Yates said. He sounded relieved. Clever man.
“BUT, darling, how glorious,” Sophia said when she was admitted, to the protest of the men standing at the door. “You have them precisely where a woman wants a man, standing at the ready, eager to provide her with every pleasure. Isn’t this fun? ”
It was not fun.
Sophia had come alone, for which Amelia was grateful. She couldn’t have borne dealing with Anne Warren just now. Or with Aunt Mary. Mary, ever since the night of the Prestwick ball, had not been readily available. She would have suspected that Aunt Mary was busy with Mr. John Grey, Sophia’s brother, since it had recently and most shockingly been revealed to her by Mary herself, rather more deeply in her cups than was usual even for her, that she had at some younger point in her life engaged in some sort of relationship with Mr. Grey.
Amelia was positive that it was the most innocent and tenuous of relationships. Or nearly positive. Still, that Aunt Mary had at one time been on more than speaking terms with an Indian, and worse yet, clearly would like to be on more than speaking terms with him again, well, the only reason that Amelia did not suspect that Aunt Mary was abandoning her function as her chaperone was because Mr. Grey was at the Dalby estate of Marshfield Park. Which left her with only one conclusion available, that Aunt Mary had abandoned her because of the scandalous events on the night of the Prestwick ball.
Just when a girl needed a chaperone most, she was left with Sophia Dalby. That was an odd form of justice, to be sure.
Yates had shown Sophia into the library at the front of the house and they were looking out the large window together, Sophia in delight and Amelia in horror.
“This isn’t at all what I expected, Lady Dalby,” Amelia said.
“No?” Sophia asked brightly. “You didn’t expect to be pursued by every available man in Town?”
“Of course not!” Amelia said sharply, keeping her gaze out to the street below. “And he’s not even available,” she said, pointing. “I met him at a musicale a year ago and he’s married! Lord Stilby or Stillbough or some such.”
“Are you certain?” Sophia said, her brow furrowed in disappointment. “Perhaps she’s died.”
“Then he should be in mourning!”
“A man can only mourn for so long and then he becomes tired of it,” Sophia said. “Men are so easily bored, particularly when it comes to remembering women.”
“That is not the point, Lady Dalby,” Amelia said. “I only wanted, that is, I only agreed to consider dukes. These men, this crowd, is not a crowd of dukes!”
“Well, of course, darling,” Sophia soothed. “There are only so many dukes to go around. But you can’t have expected all the other men in Town to be discarded without the opportunity of presenting themselves for your scrutiny.”
“I certainly did expect that! I expected precisely that, and why should I not? Dukes, Lady Dalby, dukes are—”
“But darling,” Sophia interrupted, “men can’t be sorted quite as easily as all that. Of course, a woman will sort them, naturally, but they never tolerate being obviously sorted. I thought you understood that. Men are quite unyielding in that regard. They simply must be seen to measure up, to compete and to best all other men. Of course, they can’t, but they must feel they’ve had their day, you see. I thought I had explained all this to you. The need to compete? The drive to win?”
Yes, that did sound unhappily familiar.
“Then this throng has nothing to do with the events at the Prestwick ball?”
“Don’t be absurd, darling,” Sophia said. “Of course it does. Didn’t you expect some sort of a response to having the dress nearly torn off your very lovely body?”
Amelia had no answer to that. She was too appalled to even blush.
“Oh, look, there’s Cranleigh now,” Sophia said with a smile. “Fighting his way in, I see. He is rather a brawler, isn’t he? I begin to wonder how you escaped the conservatory with your chemise intact. You were wearing a chemise?”
“Of course!”
“Just wondering,” Sophia said casually, keeping her gaze on the street below, where Cranleigh truly was … brawling, just like a common sailor.
“He appears to be trying to get them to disperse,” Sophia said. “Small chance of that. He’s quite outnumbered.”
He was that. Cranleigh, built not unlike a young ox, was pushing and shoving and punching all the men who stood between him and the door to Aldreth House. There had to have been thirty men, conservatively. He didn’t seem to care.
Amelia felt her heart hammer to bursting in her chest just watching him.
Fighting his way to her? That was precisely to the point.
“Will your butler allow him entry, should he make it to the door?” Sophia asked. “Oh, that was a cunning blow,” she said, sounding almost wistful. “I must say, Cranleigh can hold his own. I do find that an attractive quality, don’t you?”
She most certainly did.
“Why, look at that,” Sophia said, smiling at the scene below them. “I do think Cranleigh has just hit Calbourne on the mouth. Calbourne doesn’t look at all pleased, but then, who would? ”
Amelia shamed herself completely by standing riveted at the window, watching Cranleigh hit everyone within reach just to get to her door. He was a complete brawler. It was slightly adorable of him.
“Was that Dutton who just took a fist to the belly?” Sophia said. “Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” Shaking her head in obvious amusement, she added, “That does seem to happen to him quite frequently, by all reports. I’ve heard a rumor, unsubstantiated, naturally, that he might not be allowed back into White’s. He appears to instigate all sorts of violence in the other members. He always seemed so pleasant to me.” Sophia shrugged and smiled. “But then, I do find most men to be pleasant, don’t you? ”
Amelia dragged her gaze away from Cranleigh, who was now arguing with Calbourne and pointing at Edenham. Edenham was here as well? Amelia had just enough time to scowl in annoyance at Sophia before Penrith leaned down to help Dutton to his feet, and was shoved by Dutton into Edenham for his efforts. Edenham did not look pleased.
Neither did Dutton.
Neither did Penrith.
“Penrith, too?” Sophia said. “You are doing well, Lady Amelia. I thought he had the beginnings of an affaire started with Lady Paignton. You seem to have quite eclipsed her.”
Amelia couldn’t help herself. She preened. Just a bit. If Lady Paignton were standing here, she’d snap her fingers in her face.
“I want to say again that I did nothing to encourage any of these gentlemen. I can’t think what’s got into everyone,” Amelia said. “All I did was talk to Calbourne. That’s all.”
Sophia’s dark brows rose in mock astonishment. Amelia was quite certain it was mock.
“That’s all? Darling, don’t think you can dissemble with me. I was there. Of course you only talked to him, no one thinks otherwise, but it is what you said to him that began all this. Once you had spoken honestly and clearly to one duke, did you not think that all the others wouldn’t demand the same? They are men, darling. They are not going to step aside and let another man take the field, as it were. Fighting is in their nature. Just look at Cranleigh if you require even more proof.”
She did look at Cranleigh. His coat was torn at the collar and his pantaloons filthy. He had a bruise coming up on his left eye and a bloody lip. He didn’t look at all alarmed by any of it. No, in fact, he looked energized. Empowered. Alive. Male.
“He is quite a dashing-looking man, if you like the sort,” Sophia said, staring down at Cranleigh. “If I weren’t so close to his mother, I do wonder …”
“Wonder what?” Amelia snapped.
Sophia
smiled fractionally and, her gaze trained on Cranleigh, which was most annoying, said, “It’s difficult to explain to a virginal girl.”
“Try,” Amelia said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I am good friends, old friends, with Molly,” Sophia said, watching Cranleigh with an ardent gleam in her eyes, “but even so, I can’t help but wonder how he’d be.”
“How he’d be what?”
Sophia laughed lightly, the sound clawing at Amelia’s nerves.
“In bed, darling. How he’d be in bed. Like a tiger, I should think. Ravenous. Powerful. Perhaps even a bit ruthless. Which, as I hope one day you will find out, is quite a delicious experience.”
The only reason, the only reason why Amelia did not physically assault Sophia in the next instant was because Yates entered the library at that precise moment.
“My lady? Are you at home for the Earl of Cranleigh?”
“I most certainly am,” she said, glaring at Sophia.
Sophia merely smiled and sat herself down in languid ease on the sofa.
“I’ll stay as chaperone, shall I?” Sophia said. It was not actually a question. Amelia could plainly see that Sophia was in the library to stay, perhaps for all time.
Cranleigh entered the library like a, well, like a tiger. Surely the only reason Amelia would think such a thing was because Sophia’s bewitching words were still ringing in her head. A tiger. Yes, perhaps Cranleigh was a bit like a tiger. Ruthless in bed. There was an image to make a virgin blush.
Amelia was not blushing. All those kisses had clearly rubbed the fear off of her, at least where Cranleigh was concerned.
Cranleigh was covered in dust, his blue eyes blazing white, and something was crushed in his hand.
“Have you seen this?” he said, looking at Amelia, ignoring Sophia completely, which was quite nice of him.
“Good day, Lord Cranleigh,” Amelia said stiffly, forcing him to keep to protocol, or at least trying to force him. Tigers did not readily submit to force.
Cranleigh swallowed heavily, bowed, and said, “Good day. Lady Amelia. Lady Dalby.”
“Lord Cranleigh,” Sophia said silkily, her dark eyes shining, “how fit you look, quite robust. The manly arts clearly agree with you.”
“You saw?” he said, looking at Amelia. “You see what’s happening? ”
“Well, I only arrived just before you did, Lord Cranleigh,” Sophia said, answering when Cranleigh had obviously not been speaking to her at all. Really. The woman was so forward. “But I certainly saw enough to be both impressed and entertained. Well played, my lord. Of course, Lady Amelia deserves every bit of the credit for managing thing so well.”
“Managing things?” Cranleigh snapped. “Things are not managed, Lady Dalby, not in this fashion. She is made a laughingstock and a scandal, her name all but ruined.”
“All but ruined?” Sophia said casually, checking the seam on her glove. “Well then, that’s nothing to be upset about, is it?”
“No man will marry her now,” Cranleigh said, staring at Amelia. Amelia could only stare back at him. He did look rather lovely, all dusty and bruised.
A tiger in bed. What would that entail, exactly?
“No man?” Sophia chuckled. “Impossible. I can think of three who’d take her today.”
Three?
“Lady Amelia,” Sophia said, “I do hate to be a bother, but could you ring for refreshment? It’s been an invigorating day. Perhaps something to settle the blood, cool the ardor?”
“I’m so sorry. Of course,” Amelia said, hurrying to the door to call for Yates. “Tea?”
“Madeira,” Sophia said.
“Yates. Madeira,” Amelia said briskly and then turned back to Sophia and Cranleigh.
Three?
“Impossible you say?” Cranleigh said. “You have yet to see this?” And he uncrumpled what he’d had clenched in his fist, shoving it at Sophia.
Sophia barely glanced at it before saying, “But of course I’ve seen it, Lord Cranleigh. It’s a perfectly delicious print, isn’t it? The rendering is quite well executed, I must say, and so quickly done. I got mine the moment the shop opened and there was quite a run on them, according to Freddy. I’m surprised there are any left.”
“There weren’t,” Cranleigh said. “I got this one off Dutton.”
Ah, the hit to the belly was now fully explained.
“A print?” Amelia said, feeling herself go light-headed. “A satire? ”
“Yes, darling,” Sophia said in clear delight. “Gillray did one up and it appeared in Humphrey’s shop this morning. Quite a coup for you, naturally, as Humphrey only carries the best and Gillray only does the most compelling on dits. Why, I can’t think of a girl who’s had a satire done of her at your stage of life. You truly are the talk of the Town.”
Amelia’s knees—far from collapsing, which she did wish they’d do, to be followed by a healthy faint, which would take her out of this situation—locked in place and her breathing stilled in her lungs.
A satire. Of course there were duchesses who’d had satires made of them, the Duchess of Devonshire first and foremost among them, but they did not have satires made of them before they became duchesses. That was an important distinction.
Aldreth would send her to a nunnery in Castille. Did they still have nunneries?
“And when Aldreth hears of it?” Cranleigh asked Sophia, not at all politely.
“Isn’t he out of Town?” Sophia asked in return, as if that solved anything. Yes, he was out of Town, but no one stayed out of Town forever.
Yates knocked at that moment and brought in the Madeira on a tray with many more than three glasses. When Amelia looked at him, the question in her eyes, Yates responded, “In the event that any of the other callers are admitted, my lady.”
Yates, very forward thinking, but not altogether practical in this instance.
“How very clever you are, Yates, quite up to form,” Sophia said. “I should think that Lady Amelia will begin admitting one or two at a time very soon now.”
Yates? Did Sophia know Aldreth’s butler? How did she know Aldreth’s butler?
“She’ll be admitting no one,” Cranleigh said, beginning to pace the library as if on a very short leash.
She did wish he’d stop doing things that reinforced Sophia’s tiger reference. She had enough problems already without imagining him prowling into her bedchamber, kissing her raw.
Amelia shuddered at the thought, and not in distaste, which was most inconvenient at the moment.
“Whyever not?” Sophia said, looking at Amelia. “They’re here, practically storming the gates. They’ve seen the print, everyone has seen the print, and they are not alarmed by it as Lord Cranleigh so clearly is. Why is that, Lord Cranleigh? Don’t you enjoy prints?”
“I am not going to do battle with you over this, Lady Dalby,” Cranleigh said tightly, the veins in his neck showing most clearly.
“Aren’t you?” Sophia said, leaning her dark head against the pale blue damask sofa cushion. “That sounds rather pointedly like you, Lord Cranleigh.”
Cranleigh stared at Sophia, his jaw muscle working, his eyes like January frost.
“I haven’t seen the print,” Amelia said into the tension. “I should like to. Actually, I shouldn’t like to at all, but I think I must.”
Cranleigh tore his gaze away from Sophia and walked over to where Amelia stood by the Madeira. Without a word, with only the look in his eyes to prepare her, Amelia took the crumpled print from his hands and spread it out on the secretary.
It was typical Gillray, which made it very bad indeed.
How often had she laughed at the satires done of others in her class? Constantly would be an accurate summation. Having a satire done of oneself was not at all laughable.
It was a rendering of the Prestwick conservatory. Amelia, looking more voluptuous than she was in fact, was shown surrounded by pots of roses, their blooms reduced and their thorns increased. Her dress was torn
, her body exposed, her expression delighted. She had been made to look debauched and thrilled by the fact.
Cranleigh had been made to look worse, which should hardly have been possible. Cranleigh was a rose. He had a rose for a head, from which his face peered out from the shadows of the petals, and his hands were thorns. With his thorny hands, he was ripping her dress. Hence her delighted expression.
Oh, and another part of Cranleigh’s anatomy had been made into a gigantic thorn. It protruded out of his breeches and curved wickedly in her direction.
The caption read Lady A gets pricked.
“Isn’t it marvelous, Lady Amelia?” Sophia said. “It’s quite a distinction. The Duchess of Devonshire, who has had quite a few satires done up of her, never achieved one before becoming a duchess. But you have. Only think what you will manage once you are a duchess in fact.”
Amelia sat down slowly on the chair by the secretary, the sounds of the brawl in the street coming clearly through the library windows. “I shall never be a duchess,” she whispered, still staring at the satire.
Why had Gillray drawn her as being so delighted to be mauled by Lord Cranleigh? Why should he think that a girl of good family would be delighted by such a thing, by such an act, by such a man?
By such a man.
Her gaze drifted up to Cranleigh’s, who was looking at her in such stern protectiveness that it caused her breath to catch in her throat.
“Never be a duchess?” Sophia exclaimed. “Don’t be absurd, darling. You are eminently more appealing now than you were a month ago. Just look out the window if you doubt me.”
Cranleigh, his eyes never leaving her face, slowly dropped to one knee at her side.
“Is it still all of dukes, Amy?”
All of dukes? Did he think that was what she was, what she wanted? Hadn’t he understood what kissing him meant? That all other men were dust; all other men and all other dreams were dead because Cranleigh breathed himself into her heart?
And then, because he was Cranleigh and because the library was quiet, and because he had that look and when he looked at her that way there was only and always one result, he kissed her.
