by Claudia Dain
It was just ridiculous. Two years of this, and nothing. Oh, of course he kissed well enough and she’d decided she wanted him and only him one year, eleven months, and some odd days ago and in all that time and within all those kisses Cranleigh had decided nothing. He had not acted. He had not pursued. He had not done anything. Except kiss her.
It was really too-too impossible of him. She just might marry a duke after all, just to annoy him. He deserved it.
“Yet it appears you have an aversion to me,” she said, pulling out of his tepid embrace. “I’m so sorry to have intruded, Lord Cranleigh. You shan’t be bothered by me again, I assure you.”
She turned and stalked to the doorway to the library, half expecting and half hoping he would stop her, some violent rush of emotion, some blazing declaration, perhaps a tussle on the settee. But no. Nothing. She walked out of the drawing room without hindrance on his part or hesitation on hers.
Very well. If that’s how he wanted to play it, then she would win it, by whatever means possible. And the means had names: Calbourne and Edenham. Either one, if properly motivated, would marry her. She even knew the name of the proper motivation: Sophia Dalby.
Twenty-two
“SHE looks determined,” Aldreth said.
“And unhappy,” Sophia said. “That’s an interesting combination, isn’t it? I should think things are going to get quite lively now.”
“They’ve been quite lively for some time.”
Sophia glanced sideways at Aldreth and smiled. “You need to get out more, Aldreth.”
Aldreth made some noise, but said nothing. Well, but what could he say? His daughter had been not quite as discreet as she ought to have been in her amorous adventures and it had landed her in a very peculiar position. Cranleigh, of course, had mismanaged the thing entirely, but men did that so regularly that it really bore no comment. When the sun came up every day, was it necessary to remark upon it? So with men. They did try, by every appearance, but they succeeded so rarely that a woman was hard-pressed not to pity them their awkward incompetence, particularly in regards to women.
Why, just look at Amelia. She had, like any healthy girl of good family and pleasing looks, wanted to marry as well as she possibly could. Nothing wrong with that, nothing at all. Cranleigh, like most men, had stumbled into her orbit, been rendered nearly helpless by desire and appreciation of the most basic type, and proceeded to clumsily woo her. Clumsily, badly, and ineptly. Nevertheless, he had, quite obviously, ruined her for any other man.
They were at complete cross-purposes, which anyone could see, anyone who’d seen them kiss over the past two years, that is. In this room alone, she estimated that there were at least three who’d seen them kissing. Hardly discreet, but that was part of the charm of first love. Discretion required a certain level of sophistication and experience. It was almost sweet that Cranleigh, a man who had been out upon the world, had fumbled it so completely with Amelia.
How completely like a man lost in love.
That Amelia couldn’t see how lost Cranleigh was only proved how lost in love she was.
As a couple, they could not have been more beautifully suited.
“I do think we’d suit,” Calbourne said to Aldreth. “It’s perfectly obvious by the look on her face now that she and Edenham did not get on well together at all.”
“I beg your pardon,” Edenham said to Calbourne. “She looked perfectly delightful when I left her. ’Tis Cranleigh who’s responsible for her current ill temper. As to that, I was under the impression that Lady Amelia was quite docile and extremely pleasing in her character.”
“Only if one finds docility pleasing,” Sophia said. “Not every man does, you know.”
Edenham looked at her conspiratorially, which was not at all discreet. Men. They did miss so many nuances of communication because of tromping about being indiscreet. Calbourne, not a fool by any measure, took good note of Edenham’s look.
“You’re not interested in her at all, are you?” Calbourne said. One could almost describe it as an accusation.
“Of course I am. I’m not opposed to marrying again. I quite enjoy being married,” Edenham said. “But what of you? You surely never thought of marrying again until this list was thrust upon you.”
“I certainly did,” Calbourne said. It was perfectly obvious that he was lying. “It’s just that I didn’t think to find myself on some young woman’s list.”
“But were so flattered to find yourself upon it, once it was created?” Sophia said.
Calbourne didn’t answer.
Sophia sighed inwardly and looked at Aldreth. Aldreth was looking across the room at Raithby. Raithby, standing with Penrith, was smiling at Amelia quite cordially. And Amelia, looking only slightly distracted, was smiling back.
Cranleigh came into the room then from the drawing room, scowled at Amelia, scowled at Raithby, Penrith, Calbourne, Edenham, Sophia, John and his boys, and, really, the list was too long. Better to say that he didn’t scowl at Eleanor Kirkland or Lady Jordan or Hawksworth, though he might have frowned at Hawksworth. It was so difficult to tell from across the room. He positively ignored Markham, and what he had done?
Lady Jordan, Eleanor firmly tucked at her side, which by the expression on Eleanor’s face was entirely Lady Jordan’s idea, joined their conversation without any hesitation, or indeed, preliminary.
“Is this what you intended? To make mockery of my family and my ability to properly chaperone my nieces?” Mary, Lady Jordan, said, obviously directing her charge at Sophia. Aldreth raised a single dark eyebrow and waited for Sophia to respond.
“What I intended? I don’t know what you mean, Lady Jordan. Certainly my wish is for Lady Amelia to enjoy her Season and to make a fine marriage. Isn’t that what we all wish for her? ”
“I do,” Eleanor said swiftly, her charming little chin lifted in defiance of whatever Aldreth or Mary might say. “I wish the same for myself, Lady Dalby, and when I’m out, I shall very certainly seek your counsel.”
“You most certainly shall not!” Mary said, her cheeks quite flushed by the statement. By her tone, one would assume in horror and not delight. Ah, well. “I agreed to allow you to … to …”
“Yes?” Aldreth prompted. As Amelia was his daughter and Mary his sister by marriage and Amelia’s chaperone, what Mary had allowed was entirely of interest to him. Mary seemed suddenly and uncomfortably to realize that. Also, belatedly. “You allowed what, Lady Jordan? Precisely what?”
“I, ah, I,” Lady Jordan said, slightly flushed. Eleanor looked on in frank delight. What a charming girl. She would be a true delight once formally out. As this visit was to her uncle’s home during an At Home, it was hardly to be construed as being truly out. “I agreed to allow—”
“You agreed,” Aldreth interrupted. “Interesting. Please continue.”
“I thought it was in Amelia’s best interest to allow her some freedom, that is, to allow Lady Dalby to aid Amelia in seeking, that is, in finding—”
“A husband,” Edenham said. “Yes, that bit has always been very clear.”
“Yes,” Mary said. “A particular type of husband. When the list was proposed, it seemed, I mean to say, it didn’t seem, there didn’t seem to be any—”
“Any reason not to attempt it,” Sophia said. “And it did do so brilliantly precisely what it was intended to do. You were very wise and very brave to take your niece’s future so firmly in hand, Lady Jordan. Aldreth could not have chosen a better chaperone.”
A remark that resulted in Eleanor letting escape the smallest giggle.
“And the results,” Sophia said, “the results speak for themselves. Lady Amelia will be married as soon as she wishes, I should think.”
“You mean that,” Calbourne said, his eyes starting to shine with mirth. “The list. The interviews. The men. All designed, all approved, and now Lady Amelia shall have her husband. Who, I should like to know? Edenham has clearly been your agent through all.”
�
�Clearly? How flattering,” Sophia said. “Edenham, I had no idea you were so devoted to me. We must do something about that, mustn’t we? I do feel I’ve been shortchanged, not even a bracelet to mark your devotion. How niggardly of you.”
“Calbourne, you mistake the situation entirely,” Edenham said, staring at Sophia in frank appreciation. She did so enjoy it. “Once there was an affirmed list, all dukes or heir apparents, how could I not be found on it? I do not bear insults of that type or degree. I am a duke. I deserve to be on a list of dukes. ’Tis no more complicated than that. As to marrying, I do believe I shall marry. Perhaps not this Season, but some other one.”
“You were delighted to be considered as a possible husband for Lady Amelia,” Calbourne said. His tone was not flattering.
“Why not?” Edenham said.
“Yes,” Aldreth said stiffly. “Why not?”
Calbourne had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable, which was only proper, then he smiled and regained his good humor, as was only proper, and said, “No reason at all, Aldreth. Your daughter is quite lovely in every regard. The man who wins her will be fortunate, indeed.” Which was, again, only proper.
“I don’t think Amelia cares about her list anymore,” Eleanor remarked, sounding as casual as she possibly could, but not quite casual enough. They all turned to stare at Amelia, who was standing in quite animated conversation with Raithby and Penrith, both men looking completely charmed by her. Cranleigh, who was standing near John and his boys, did not look charmed in the least.
“I do agree, Lady Eleanor,” Sophia said. “The list is crushed and beneath Raithby’s boot, I should say. Or might it be Penrith’s? So difficult to discern at this distance. Aldreth, I do wish you had smaller rooms in this house. Anything, anything at all, could happen at this distance.”
She did hope so.
Twenty-three
CRANLEIGH was not so distant from Amelia that he couldn’t see everything. He could hear nothing, but that hardly mattered. What he saw was more than enough. But what could he do? He’d done too much already.
He’d kissed Amy, and he’d kissed her again. Again upon again upon again. He’d lost count of it all. He’d lost his way. He’d come near to losing his honor. But he hadn’t lost the most important bit: a duke for Amelia.
He would not steal that from her.
He was no duke. He was only a man who could not resist her.
He could not remember precisely when it had started, what had started it, why he had succumbed to the temptation of her mouth. Had he not always wanted her? Had he not been born with this fascination, this hunger for her? It seemed so.
It had started when he met her, a simple meeting, a shared look, nothing to cause remark. But he had felt the jolt, felt something break loose upon looking into her eyes.
He had ignored it.
It would not be ignored.
He had watched her that first day in her father’s house. Watched her play the pianoforte. Watched her at cards. Watched her walk in the gardens. Watched her as she wandered into the gallery.
He had followed her. He had spoken to her, which had made it all worse, a thousand times worse. She was such an odd sort of a girl, so careful and proper, so cautious and deliberate. On the surface. Just beneath, she raged with passion and ideas. She sent off sparks of wit and wry humor. Did she know he had seen through her mask of demure propriety? Had she let him see past her defenses because he was a man she would never marry?
He hadn’t thought so. Not at all. Not then.
He had approached her in the gallery, drawn to her nearly magnetically. Her hair had played with the light of the room, soft eastern light, yet she sparkled in it. Her eyes, her smile, her voice, had beckoned, called to him like nothing had ever called before and he, listening, had fallen.
Fallen and still falling.
Kissed and still kissing.
A hard fall, a forever fall.
What was to be done?
What a man did when he fell like that for a woman like that. Leaving her, he had sought out Aldreth and Hyde, eager to gain their permission to marry Amy, certain he would be granted it. Why not?
Why not?
He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but voices carried so very well over marble and glass. Aldreth saying that he did expect Amelia to marry well, his voice low and deep as he murmured that he had hoped Iveston would have come, that the pairing of their two children would have been a tidy arrangement for both their houses. Hyde murmuring in response that if any girl was suited to being the next Duchess of Hyde, it was the delightful Amelia Caversham.
He was no fool. A casual conversation between two dukes, discussing their marriageable children, was not a thing to make a man change his life’s course. But it was a thing to make him pause and consider.
He was a second son with brothers aplenty behind him. He was not needed to ensure the Hyde line, the proof being, if proof were required, that he had been sent off to sea with his American uncle without a single restraint put upon him. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, expendable, or at the very least, replaceable. Did a father who sought a duke for his daughter want such a man?
Yet he was an earl and that was no small thing.
It was when Aldreth then told Hyde that Amelia had cherished the thought of being a duchess from her youth and he would willingly see her attain her desire that Cranleigh felt his plans crash into dust. But not his heart. His heart stayed true, centered on Amy, but he could not act. Not beyond seeking her out, kissing her, tormenting her for rejecting him before he had even had the chance to win her.
She wanted to be a duchess. It was a fact well known, but he had not known because he had been at sea. Her father wanted her to be a duchess. His father thought that she would make a fine Duchess of Hyde.
That was where he had rebelled. A small rebellion, but important. She could not marry Iveston. Anyone but Iveston. He was aided in that Iveston rarely went out in Society. Hyde would never push for a loveless marriage and Aldreth was forced to let the matter drop. And Amelia, little Amy, was without her duke, Iveston or otherwise.
And as far as he could tolerate it, she was without him.
He only kissed her whenever he could not resist. His resistance was pathetically inadequate. But he had not touched her, not fully, not as a man, not the way he wanted. Some small honor remained, and he would not compromise her. He wanted her to have what she wanted for herself and what her father wanted for her.
He did not know how else to love her.
Let her have her duke, then. Let her find some duke. But not Iveston, not his brother. He would not, could not, imagine her in Iveston’s bed, in Iveston’s arms. His brother. Not that close, not in his own family.
She could have another. But not Calbourne. Calbourne was too coarse.
And not Edenham. Edenham was too experienced, too many wives had Edenham enjoyed. Where would Amy fit among that list? Just another wife. Another woman to bear another child.
That damned list.
Everything, while not fine, had been regular, had fit the pattern of his life. Amy wanted her duke, but no duke, indeed, no man noticed her. She was too quiet, too proper, too careful. It was not like her, not truly, but if she thought a man wanted that, wanted proper and careful, he said nothing to dissuade her. He had some honor left him, but he wasn’t a fool.
Invisible to them, but not to him. He had hoped, in time, that she would want more than his kisses. He had hoped that, his kiss still hot on her mouth, she would abandon her dream of dukes and want him.
And then there came the list and everything had broken loose. He had sworn not to ruin her, not to dishonor her that way, and he had not. Barely, but he had not. But with the list, all rules were shattered. The list, the interviews, the scandal of it—her reputation was hanging by a thread. She was, by most measures, already ruined.
He could have her now. He could ruin her in fact, if she would only act like a ruined woman.
She wanted a d
uke, that was all. She wouldn’t allow him to ruin her because she would have her duke at any price.
That blasted list, Sophia’s list, he was certain. It was just like Sophia to think of a list, to make a list of men. And it was just like Amy to agree to it. She wanted her duke. She would risk anything to be a duchess.
But Lord Raithby was not a duke. Neither was Lord Penrith.
He was willing to give her up to some nameless duke, not the dukes he knew of course, but some other one yet to be determined, but he was not willing to give her up to anyone or anything less. Raithby’s father was an earl and Penrith was a marquis. Very well then, a marquis was ranked just lower than a duke, but he was an earl in his own right and that ought to count for something in her mercenary little heart.
“You look like you want to kill someone,” the Earl of Dalby said. He was very young and Sophia’s son, not at all experienced, hardly worldly, but at that, he was correct. He wanted to kill everyone, starting with Raithby and working his way up, or down, however it fell out.
“Ridiculous,” Cranleigh said. “Maiming will do.”
Dalby chuckled. Hawksworth, Amelia’s inconvenient brother, did not.
“Lord Cranleigh,” the Marquis of Hawksworth said, “I believe there is some history between you and my sister, some bad feeling perhaps, some misunderstanding.”
“No, no misunderstanding, Lord Hawksworth. We understand each other entirely too well,” Cranleigh said.
“If that is true,” Hawksworth said slowly, watching him, “then you know she deserves the best in life. I would see her get it.”
Cranleigh dragged his gaze away from Amelia to look at Hawksworth. He was young, inexperienced, and he was Aldreth’s heir. Hawksworth would be a duke.
