by Lisa Kleypas
She rolled her eyes. “If you mean Mr. Rohan, I assure you, I’m perfectly—”
“No. Not Rohan.” His hand went to her waist as if anticipating the need to steady her.
And she understood.
Before she even turned to see the man who approached them, Amelia knew the reason for Leo’s strange reaction, and she went cold and hot and unsteady. But somewhere in the internal havoc, a certain resignation lurked.
She had always known she would see Christopher Frost again someday.
He was alone as he approached them—a small mercy, as one would have expected him to have his new wife in tow. And Amelia was fairly certain she couldn’t have tolerated being introduced to the woman Christopher had abandoned her for. As it was, she stood stiffly with her brother and tried desperately to resemble an independent woman who was greeting her former love with polite indifference. But she knew there was no disguising the whiteness of her face—she could feel the blood shooting straight to her overstimulated heart.
If life were fair, Frost would have appeared smaller, less handsome, less desirable than she had remembered. But life, as usual, wasn’t fair. He was as lean and graceful and urbane as ever, with alert blue eyes and thick, close-trimmed hair, too dark to be blond, too light to be brown. That shining hair contained every shade from champagne to fawn.
“My old acquaintance,” Leo said. Although his tone held no rancor, neither did it evince any pleasure. Their friendship had been shattered the moment Frost had left Amelia. Leo had his faults, certainly, but he was nothing if not loyal.
“My lord,” Frost said quietly, bowing to them both. “And Miss Hathaway.” It seemed to cost him something to meet her gaze. Heaven knew it cost her to return it. “It has been far too long.”
“Not for some of us,” Leo returned, not flinching as Amelia surreptitiously stepped on his foot. “Are you staying at the manor?”
“No, I’m visiting some old family friends—they own the village tavern.”
“How long will you hang about?”
“I have no firm plans. I’m mulling over a few commissions while enjoying the calm and quiet of the countryside.” His gaze strayed briefly to Amelia and returned to Leo. “I sent a letter when I learned of your ascendancy to the peerage, my lord.”
“I received it,” Leo said idly. “Although for the life of me, I can’t remember its contents.”
“Something to the effect that while I was pleased for your sake, I was disappointed to have lost a worthy rival. You always drove me to reach beyond the limits of my abilities.”
“Yes,” Leo said sardonically, “I was a great loss to the architectural firmament.”
“You were,” Frost agreed without irony. His gaze remained on Amelia. “May I remark on how well you look, Miss Hathaway?”
How odd it was, she thought dazedly, that she had once been in love with him, and now they were speaking to each other so formally. She no longer loved him, and yet the memory of being held by him, kissed, caressed … it tinted every thought and emotion, like tea-dyed lace. One could never fully remove the stain. She remembered a bouquet of roses he had once given her … he had taken one and stroked the petals over her cheeks and parted lips, and had smiled at her fierce blush. My little love, he had whispered—
“Thank you,” she said. “In turn, may I offer my congratulations on your marriage?”
“I’m afraid no felicitations are in order,” Frost replied carefully. “The wedding didn’t take place.”
Amelia felt Leo’s hand tighten at her waist. She leaned against him imperceptibly and looked away from Christopher Frost, unable to speak. He isn’t married. Her thoughts were in anarchy.
“Did she come to her senses,” she heard Leo ask casually, “or did you?”
“It became obvious we didn’t suit as well as one would have hoped. She was gracious enough to release me from the obligation.”
“So you got the boot,” Leo said. “Are you still working for her father?”
“Leo,” Amelia protested in a half-whisper. She looked up in time to see Frost’s wry, brief grin, and her heart twisted at the painful familiarity of it.
“You were never one to mince words, were you? Yes, I’m still employed by Temple.” Frost’s gaze moved slowly over Amelia, taking measure of her brittle guardedness. “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Hathaway.”
She sagged a little as he left them, turning blindly toward her brother. Her voice was tattered at the edges. “Leo, I would very much appreciate it if you could cultivate just a little delicacy of manner.”
“We can’t all be as suave as your Mr. Frost.”
“He’s not my Mr. Frost.” A pause, and she added dully, “He never was.”
“You deserve a hell of a lot better. Just remember that if he comes sniffing around your heels again.”
“He won’t,” Amelia said, hating the way her heart leaped behind her well-manufactured defenses.
Chapter Seven
Just before the Hathaways had arrived, Captain Swansea, who had spent four years serving in India, had been regaling some of the guests with an account of a tiger hunt in Vishnupur. The tiger had stalked the spotted deer, brought it down with a pounce, and clamped the back of its neck in its jaws. Women and even a few men had grimaced and exclaimed in horror as Swansea described how the tiger had proceeded to eat the chital while it was still alive. “The vicious beast!” one of the women had gasped.
But as soon as Amelia Hathaway entered the room, Cam had found himself entirely in sympathy with the tiger. There was nothing he wanted more than to bite the tender back of her neck and drag her to some private place where he could feast on her for hours. In a crowd of elaborately dressed women, Amelia stood out in her simple gown and unadorned throat and ears. She looked clean and winsome and appetizing. He wanted to be alone with her, outside in the open air, his hands free upon her body. But he knew better than to entertain such thoughts about a respectable young woman.
He watched the tense little scene involving Amelia, her brother, Lord Ramsay, and the architect, Mr. Christopher Frost. Although he couldn’t hear their conversation, he read their postures, the subtle way Amelia leaned into her brother’s support. It was clear some kind of history was shared between Amelia and Frost … not a happy one. A love affair that had ended badly, he guessed. He imagined them together, Amelia and Frost. It provoked him far more than he would have liked. Tamping down the surge of inappropriate curiosity, he dragged his attention away from them.
As he anticipated the long, bland supper to come, the interminable courses, the mannered conversation, Cam sighed heavily. He had learned the social choreography of these situations, the rigid boundaries of propriety. At first he had even regarded it as a game, learning the ways of these privileged strangers. But he had grown tired of hovering at the edge of the gadjo world. Most of them didn’t want him there any more than he did. But there seemed no other place for him except at the periphery.
It had all started approximately two years earlier, when St. Vincent had thrown a bank passbook at him in the casual manner he might have used to toss a rounders ball.
“I’ve established an account for you at the London Banking House and Investment Society,” St. Vincent had told him. “It’s on Fleet Street. Your percentage of Jenner’s profits will be deposited monthly. Manage them if you wish, or they’ll be managed for you.”
“I don’t want a percentage of the profits,” Cam had said, thumbing through the passbook without interest. “My salary is fine.”
“Your salary wouldn’t cover the annual cost of my bootblacking.”
“It’s more than enough. And I wouldn’t know what to do with this.” Cam had been appalled by the figures listed on the balance page. Scowling, he tossed the book to a nearby table. “Take it back.”
St. Vincent had looked amused and vaguely exasperated. “Damnation, man, now that I own the place, I can’t have it said that you’re paid pauper’s wages. Do you think I’ll tolerate be
ing called a skinflint?”
“You’ve been called worse,” Cam had pointed out.
“I don’t mind being called worse when I deserve it. Which is often, I’m sure.” St. Vincent had stared at him in a considering way. And, with one of those damnable flashes of intuition you would never expect from the former profligate, he murmured, “It means nothing, you know. It doesn’t make you any less of a Roma whether I pay you in pounds, whales’ teeth, or wampum.”
“I’ve compromised too much already. Since I first came to London, I’ve stayed under one roof, I’ve worn gadjo clothes, I’ve worked for a salary. But I draw the line at this.”
“I’ve just given you an investment account, Rohan,” St. Vincent had said acidly, “not a pile of manure.”
“I would have preferred the manure. At least it would be good for something.”
“I’m afraid to ask. But curiosity compels me … what in God’s name is manure good for?”
“Fertilizer.”
“Ah. Well, then, let’s approach it this way: money is just another variety of fertilizer.” St. Vincent had gestured to the discarded bank passbook. “Do something with it. Whatever pleases you. Although I would advise something other than composting it in sod.”
Cam had resolved to get rid of every cent, by scattering it in a series of lunatic investments. That was when the good-luck curse had befallen him. His growing fortune had begun to open doors that should never have been open to him, especially now that upper society was being raided by men of industry. And, having walked through those doors, Cam was behaving in ways, thinking in ways, that weren’t usual for him. St. Vincent had been wrong—the money did make him less of a Roma.
He had forgotten things; words, stories, the songs that had lulled him to sleep as a child. He could barely remember the taste of dumplings flavored with almonds and boiled in milk, or boranija stew spiced with vinegar and dandelion leaves. The faces of his family were a distant blur. He wasn’t certain he would know them if he met them now. And that made him fear he was no longer Roma.
When was the last time he had slept out under the sky?
The company proceeded as a whole into the dining hall. The informal nature of the gathering meant they would not have to be arranged in order of precedence. A line of footmen clad in black, blue, and mustard moved forward to attend the guests, pulling out chairs, pouring wine and water. The long table was covered by an acre of pristine white linen. Each place setting, bristling with silverware, was surmounted with a hierarchy of crystal glasses in assorted sizes.
Cam wiped all expression from his face as he discovered he had been seated next to the vicar’s wife, whom he had met on previous visits to Stony Cross Park. The woman was terrified of him. Whenever he looked at her, tried to talk to her, she cleared her throat incessantly. Her sputtery noises brought to mind a tea kettle with an ill-fitting lid.
No doubt the vicar’s wife had heard one too many stories of Gypsies stealing children, placing curses on people, and attacking helpless females in a frenzy of uncontrolled lust. Cam was tempted to inform the woman that, as a rule, he never kidnapped or pillaged before the second course. But he kept silent and tried to look as unthreatening as possible, while she shrank in her chair and made desperate conversation with the man at her left.
Turning to his right, Cam found himself staring into Amelia Hathaway’s blue eyes. They had been seated next to each other. Pleasure unfolded inside him. Her hair shone like satin, and her eyes were bright, and her skin looked like it would taste of some dessert made with milk and sugar. The sight of her reminded him of an old-fashioned gadjo word that had amused him when he had first heard it. Toothsome. The word was used for something appetizing, conveying the pleasure of taste, but also sexual allure. He found Amelia’s naturalness a thousand times more appealing than the powdered and bejeweled sophistication of other women present.
“If you’re trying to look meek and civilized,” Amelia said, “it’s not working.”
“I assure you, I’m harmless.”
Amelia smiled at that. “No doubt it would suit you for everyone to think so.”
He relished her light, clean scent, the charming pitch of her voice. He wanted to touch the fine skin of her cheeks and throat. Instead he held still and watched as she adjusted a linen napkin over her lap.
A footman came to fill their wine glasses. Cam noticed that Amelia kept stealing glances at her siblings like a mother hen with chicks gone astray. Even her brother, seated only two places away from the head of the table, was subjected to the same relentless concern. She stiffened as she caught sight of Christopher Frost, who was seated near the far end of the table. Their gazes locked, while the ripple of a swallow chased down Amelia’s throat. She seemed mesmerized by the gadjo. It was obvious an attraction still existed between the two. And judging from Frost’s expression, he was more than willing to rekindle their acquaintance.
It required a great deal of Cam’s willpower—and he had a considerable supply—not to skewer Christopher Frost with a dining utensil. He wanted her attention. All of it.
“At the first formal supper I attended in London,” he told Amelia, “I expected to come away hungry.”
To his immediate satisfaction, Amelia turned to him, her interest refocusing. “Why?”
“Because I thought the little side plates were what the gadjos used for their main course. Which meant I wasn’t going to get much to eat.”
Amelia laughed. “You must have been relieved when the large plates were brought out.”
He shook his head. “I was too busy learning the rules of the table.”
“Such as?”
“Sit where they tell you, don’t speak of politics or bodily functions, drink soup from the side of the spoon, don’t use the nut pick as a fork, and never offer someone food from your plate.”
“The Rom share food from each other’s plates?”
He stared at her steadily. “If we were eating Gypsy-style, sitting before a fire, I would offer you the choicest bites of meat. The soft inside of the bread. The sweetest sections of fruit.”
The color heightened in her cheeks, and she reached for her wine glass. After a careful sip, she said without looking at him, “Merripen rarely talks about such things. I believe I’ve learned more from you than I have after twelve years of knowing him.”
Merripen … the taciturn chal who had accompanied her in London. There had been no mistaking the easy familiarity between the two, betraying that Merripen was more than a mere servant to her.
Before Cam could pursue the matter, however, the soup course was brought out. Footmen and underbutlers worked in harmony to present huge steaming tureens of salmon soup with lime and dill, nettle soup with cheese and caraway floats, watercress soup garnished with slivers of pheasant, and mushroom soup laced with sour cream and brandy.
After Cam chose the nettle soup and it was ladled into a shallow china bowl in front of him, he turned to speak to Amelia again. To his disgruntlement, she was now being monopolized by the man on her other side, who was enthusiastically describing his collection of Far East porcelain.
Cam took a quick inventory of the other conversations around him, all featuring mundane subjects. He waited patiently until the vicar’s wife had bent her attention to the soup bowl in front of her. As she raised a spoon to her papery lips, she became aware that Cam was looking at her. Another throat-clearing noise, while the spoon quivered in her hand.
He tried to think of something that would interest her. “Horehound,” he said to her in a matter-of-fact manner.
Her eyes bulged with alarm, and a pulse throbbed visibly in her neck. “H-h-h…” she whispered.
“Horehound, licorice root, and honey. It’s good for getting rid of phlegm in the throat. My grandmother was a healer—she taught me many of her remedies.”
The word “phlegm” nearly caused her eyes to roll back in her head.
“Horehound is also good for coughs and snake bites,” Cam continued helpf
ully.
Her face drained of color, and she set her spoon on her plate. Turning away from him desperately, she gave her attention to the diners on her left.
His attempt at polite discussion having been rebuffed, Cam sat back as the soup was removed and the second course was brought out. Sweetbreads in béchamel sauce, partridges nestled in herb beds, pigeon pies, roast snipe, and vegetable soufflé laced the air with a cacophony of rich scents. The guests exclaimed appreciatively, watching in anticipation as their plates were filled.
But Amelia Hathaway barely seemed aware of the sumptuous dishes. Her attention was focused on a conversation at the end of the table, between Lord Westcliff and her brother Leo. Her face was calm, but her fingers clenched around a fork handle.
“… obvious you possess a large acreage of good land that has gone unused…” Westcliff was saying, while Leo listened without apparent interest. “I will make my own estate agent available to you, to apprise you of the standard terms of tenancy here in Hampshire. Usually these arrangements are unwritten, which means it is an obligation of honor on both sides to uphold the agreements—”
“Thank you,” Leo said after downing half his wine in an expedient gulp, “but I’ll deal with my tenants in my own time, my lord.”
“I’m afraid time has run out for some of them,” Westcliff replied. “Many of the tenant houses on your land have run to ruins. The people who now depend on you have been neglected for far too long.”
“Then it’s time they learn my one great consistency is neglecting the people who depend on me.” Leo flicked a laughing glance at Amelia, his eyes hard. “Isn’t that right, sis?”
With visible effort, Amelia forced her fingers to unclench from the fork. “I’m certain Lord Ramsay will lend his close attention to the needs of his tenants,” she said carefully. “Pray don’t be misled by his attempt to be amusing. In fact, he has mentioned future plans to improve the tenant leaseholds and study modern agricultural methods—”
