by Maya Rodale
There was also the matter of the girl.
He’d carried her home, reluctantly. The last thing he needed was to be saddled with an unconscious young woman. Especially one who likely came from a prestigious family. They would not take kindly to finding her thus, and especially with the likes of him.
He especially did not need an unconscious woman who nuzzled against his chest affectionately. She snored softly and it somehow managed to be adorable, which annoyed him, though not as much as having to carry a sleeping female, who seemed to become heavier with each step he took. Alistair wasn’t some Hercules and she wasn’t as light as a feather.
When they finally arrived at his flat, he left her sprawled on the settee in the small chamber that passed for the drawing room in his suite of rented rooms.
She was still there when he woke up in a panic. Heart pounding. Now he needed to get rid of her. Not in a nefarious way, just in a she’s-not-my-responsibility way.
He dressed in breeches and a shirt—Jenkins had taken care of everything, good man—and peeked in on the girl. Beautiful pale skin. A dark mass of curls. Pink lips parted slightly.
“Good morning,” he said.
There was no response.
He shook her shoulder. Nothing.
He paled, fearing her dead. The last thing he needed was a highborn and gently bred woman, dead. In his flat. He’d hang for sure.
He pressed his fingertips to her wrist and exhaled when he felt a pulse, confirming that she was indeed among the living. She was just sleeping off one hell of a bender.
“Jenkins,” he called loudly. His valet slept in a room off the kitchen. He emerged a moment later. “I need my waistcoat and jacket. Something must be done with my cravat. Also, there is a woman on the settee.”
“I have brushed your wool jacket, which I found on the floor, which is apparently a suitable place for it.”
His disdain for Alistair’s disregard for his clothing was apparent.
“Thank you. I am late for a meeting with the baron. An interview for which I have traveled all the way from Europe.”
“I am aware. I was with you. If you’ll recall.”
Of course he recalled. Jenkins had been by his side on his first day at Oxford, when he’d been hired to serve as valet to both Alistair and Elliot whilst they were at school. He hadn’t left Alistair’s employ since.
“And if you’ll recall, I mentioned a woman on the settee.” He glanced down at her. She was quite pretty. He should probably move her to the bed, because eventually she would wake up and it wouldn’t do for her to discover she’d been deposited on a rickety little scrap of furniture.
Reluctantly, he scooped her up. She was warm, curvy, and all kinds of luscious in his arms. He dropped her on his bed as if she were something dangerous from which he needed distance.
She smiled a lazy, sleepy, sweet-dream smile and curled up and kept sleeping. God, he wanted to strip off his clothes and join her. Bury his face in the crook of her neck and breathe her in. Then, more. But what man wouldn’t?
“See that she gets home safely before I return,” he told his valet.
“Where is her home?”
“You’ll have to ask her. If—no, when—she wakes up.”
Confident that his valet would manage to get rid of the girl by the time he returned, Alistair set off for his meeting with the Baron.
10:00 in the morning
Alistair knocked once, twice, thrice at number seventeen Curzon Street. Rutherford opened the heavy oak door. He stared, blankly, not showing any sign of recognition.
“I am here to see Wrotham,” Alistair said. Obviously.
“Your card, please.”
“Rutherford, we have been acquainted for over twenty years now, since I was sent to this very household to live with my uncle, the baron, as his ward, at the tender young age of eight. As a cruel twist of fate would have it, I am the heir to Baron Wrotham, this house, and you.”
Rutherford sneered at the phrase cruel twist of fate and Alistair couldn’t fault him for it.
“I will see if Lord Wrotham is at home to callers.”
It was clear that Rutherford hadn’t yet forgiven him for that stupid, tragic thing he’d done. Hell, no one had. Not even himself.
So Alistair cooled his heels in the foyer, willing to wait out the ridiculous charade. Of course Wrotham would be home to him; the man had summoned him from Europe for this interview. And finally, after precisely fifteen minutes had passed—fifteen minutes in which he wondered about the girl in his flat and not the mysterious reason for which he’d returned to England after six years—he was summoned to the baron’s study.
The room hadn’t changed at all; Alistair noted the same dark paneled walls, a faded forest green carpet, and white marble mantel with the same portrait hanging above. Alistair couldn’t bring himself to look at it.
“Finlay-Jones.” His uncle, and sole surviving relation in the world, greeted him formally. As if he did not wish to acknowledge their connection.
“Wrotham.”
“I’m surprised to see you here,” the baron said, glancing up from where he sat comfortably behind a large carved oak desk. He was a typical English lord: slightly pale and puffy from an excess of fine food and wines and a dearth of fresh air and exercise. In the intervening years, the lines around Wrotham’s mouth had deepened. His hair had gone from black to gray.
“Well, you did request my presence in no uncertain terms,” Alistair pointed out. The exact words of the letter were burned into his brain:
I have figured out a way for you to be useful. Call upon Wrotham house in London immediately.
“Well I didn’t think you’d listen. You’re not known for your sense of duty, responsibility, or discipline.”
This was fair. He managed no estates, did not run a business or engage in trade; he had not entered the clergy or enlisted in the army, navy, or what have you. Why should he? In school, he thought he might pursue a profession, but then Elliot died and that changed everything.
Suddenly, Alistair was The Heir, a role he’d never been prepared for and a role he never wanted. It was a role Wrotham hadn’t wanted him for either.
There was only one thing to do, as he saw it: live life to the fullest because it could end at any moment. So Alistair traveled around Europe, then even as far as India, living.
Perhaps, in the back of his mind he was searching for something, something impossible: a sense of belonging. A feeling of home. Lord knows he wouldn’t find it here, at number seventeen Curzon Street.
“And how is Lady Wrotham?” Alistair asked politely, changing the subject away from his failings to the baron’s very young, pretty wife, whom he wed shortly after Elliot’s funeral.
“Still barren,” he said witheringly.
“Ah, I see.”
And he did. Clearly. Wrotham hated having someone like Alistair as his ward, let alone as his heir. He never did forgive his brother’s choice in a wife. Never forgave Alistair for his mother, either. The only way for him to oust Alistair was to have another son. Hence the young wife.
“Did you have a reason for summoning me?”
Or was it just to see if you could?
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. If you must be my heir”—the word must hung in the air, heavy with regret, grief, and embarrassment—“then you might as well make yourself useful.”
“Of course.”
He meant it. Even though Wrotham detested him, Alistair still craved his acceptance. They were family after all. They shared blood.
Alistair craved his forgiveness, too. He would do anything, ANYTHING, to make up for what could never be made up. Wrotham had tolerated his nephew at best, but what had happened six years ago . . . that destroyed everything.
“There is a ball tonight. You will attend.”
I traveled from Europe to attend a ball. Of course.
“And at this ball, you will make the acquaintance of the hostesses. The new duke of Durham is some horse-
breeding hick from the colonies. It’s an embarrassment. Almost as much as the three sisters he brought with him. The duchess has her work cut out for her with that lot. Needless to say, they are having a difficult time finding acceptance with society.”
“I see?”
“Obviously you don’t. You won’t just make their acquaintance,” the baron said, now smiling, presumably at his own genius and/or ability to manipulate Alistair, “but you will also marry one of the girls.
“Marry?”
“Eventually, the duchess will succeed in her efforts to launch them into society. And then it’ll be too late for the likes of you to snare one.”
There it was again: the likes of you. Not even a gentleman’s education and his status as heir to a barony could erase the fact that he was born of an English man and Indian woman. He did not have a pedigree. He did not have enough wealth to make anyone overlook that lack of pedigree. And he was only the heir of a minor barony, due to happenstance and a tragic accident.
Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones was no one’s definition of a catch.
The likes of him would never have a chance with a duke’s sister unless something was very wrong with her. But still, he did not reject Wrotham’s order outright. And it rankled, slightly, what he would consider doing for someone’s approval. Marry. Til Death Do They Part.
“I suppose it’s their dowries you’re after,” Alistair remarked.
“It so happens that when one no longer cares for the future, he makes riskier bets on the future,” Wrotham remarked wryly. “Sometimes these pay off tremendously. And sometimes they do not.”
“You owe money.”
“Try not to be so blunt. It’s ungentlemanly.” Wrotham gave him a withering glare. Idiot.
“Right. So I am to attend the ball and marry one of the American girls.”
“I hope your courtship shows more subtlety than what you’ve just demonstrated. Otherwise we’re sunk.”
“You are sunk.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said we. I have nothing to lose. If you’ll recall, you cut me off. Completely. Not a penny to my name.”
Not that Alistair blamed him for it.
“Well here’s your chance to land us a fortune,” the baron said, showing no remorse. “Hopefully, even you can manage it. Given one of the chit’s scandalous antics last night, you have a fighting chance.”
Wrotham turned his attentions to some papers on his desk, clearly sending the message that this interview had concluded. Alistair had received his orders and would, of course, obey them.
“Best be off then,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “I ought to stop at the tailor. I’ll want to look my best when I go a-courting.”
“Try not to ruin this, too.”
It was then, and only then, that Alistair allowed himself to look over at the portrait of Elliot hanging above the fireplace. He’d been young, vibrant, and handsome then. The painter had somehow managed to capture that spark in his eye that made all the girls mad, or the smile that always got him out of trouble. He’d been Alistair’s best friend. He’d been Alistair’s family—the only family who cared for him, anyway, after his parents had died.
And Alistair had been responsible for his death.
On the way back to his flat, Alistair stopped to buy a newspaper. If he was going to reenter society, he would need to know all the latest gossip—who was this season’s incomparable, who was rumored to be having affairs with whom, what wagers were in the works, and just what the ton was saying about the American girls and their scandalous antics from last night. He picked up an issue of The London Weekly, intending to have a leisurely read upon returning to his quiet and empty flat.
But he let out a low whistle when he saw the cartoon on the front cover.
It depicted a girl in the act of fainting, with her hand draped languorously over her forehead. Her bare feet and ankles were rudely exposed. Her gown was a clashing pattern of stars and stripes in an outdated style. She wore a chieftain’s headdress, with beads and feathers. In her hand was a riding crop, which the accompanying text explained as a reference to decades-old gossip about Durham’s younger brother absconding to America with his prized stallions.
The message couldn’t be any clearer: She was the wild, uncivilized descendent of a horse thief. She was not to be trusted. She was not one of them.
Alistair saw just why his uncle had selected this girl, or one of her sisters: she was a laughingstock. An ill-mannered, horse-stealing heathen of a girl, running barefoot and wild amongst the refined members of the haute ton. He imagined the worst.
But she was, presumably, in possession of a hefty dowry. And in time, perhaps, people would forget this incident and just remember the title.
Until then, a mixed-race, fortune-hunting scoundrel would have a chance with her.
Ah, romance.
“You going to buy that, or what?” The shopkeeper wanted to know; and it was clear there was only one correct answer to the question.
“Here.” Alistair gave him a coin and started walking away, slowly, unable to look away from this cartoon girl because he also noticed a familiar mop of dark curls, a pert little nose, and a rosebud of a mouth.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said softly. If he wasn’t mistaken, the girl he was supposed to marry was currently in his bed.
Chapter 5
In which our heroine wakes up where she should not.
10:37 in the morning
It was tremendously disconcerting to wake up in a strange bed and to have absolutely no recollection of falling asleep in it. No, tremendously disconcerting did not do the feeling justice. Terrifying came close, as did horrifying and baffling. This was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, something no true and proper lady ever did. It wasn’t something even Amelia Cavendish, rebellious lady of two continents, had ever done.
Yet here she was.
In a strange bed.
In a strange room.
Without even the slightest memory of how she might have arrived here.
If there was ever a time for swearing, this was it.
“Bloody hell,” Amelia whispered, because while the room seemed empty, one never knew who or what lay beyond the doors. She was not ready for discovery.
She had just woken up.
In a strange bed.
In a strange room.
Without even the foggiest notion of how she might have arrived here.
When bloody hell seemed insufficient, she added, “Holy mother of God.”
As far as she knew, there was no one here to reprimand her for unladylike language. But that was the least of her concerns.
Take a deep breath when you are scared. James had taught her that.
Think logically. Claire had always advised her thusly.
Think of what a good story it will be in your diary later. That was Bridget, or how Amelia preferred to imagine her. In truth, Bridget would probably be taking this as a personal affront to her quest to be a True Lady.
Thinking logically, though. That seemed just the thing.
If she did not know where she was, she probably hadn’t set out for here intentionally. If she did not recollect coming here, she must have been brought here.
She immediately proceeded to imagine the worst: some horrid thug with a few blackened teeth and even fewer brain cells, and who perhaps frothed at the mouth. He would have beady eyes and an air of malevolence.
This was bad. This was beyond bad. This was The Worst.
She didn’t need Bridget or the duchess to tell her that.
This was quite possibly—nay, definitely, absolutely—the worst scrape she’d ever found herself in, and Amelia wasn’t a stranger to terrible predicaments.
The first thing to do was take stock of the situation. And be logical. And be a deep breather.
She was still wearing her dress. That was something. She reached under the covers, under her skirt and . . . exhaled a sigh of relief. Her underthings were on, pr
operly. Which didn’t mean they hadn’t been off. But she didn’t feel different at all and she felt like she would feel different if something had happened.
Next, Amelia reached up and felt her hair—a tangled, knotted mop of curls that would require the dedicated attentions of at least two lady’s maids to untangle. Whoever had kidnapped her had not the forethought or experience with a woman’s curly hair to know that it would need to be braided before bed or else this would happen.
But hair troubles were the least of her worries.
Amelia slid out of bed, taking care not to make a sound just in case Someone Was Out There. She was not yet ready to face a person, or this day.
When standing, it became apparent that her dress was open in the back. She spun around a few times like a dog chasing his tail, trying, and failing, to do some buttons herself. Stupid fashionable dresses that require maids. She could not manage it on her own, which meant she could not leave. Walking down the street with her dress falling off was just not done.
But presumably she had walked down the street at some point, with her dress undone. That was terrible. She took a moment to pray, fervently, with her hands clasped at her heart, her gaze lifted to the heavens and her lips moving slightly, that she hadn’t been seen.
She gave up after a moment. She may not have been seen, but getting back to Durham House, half attired, in daylight, without attracting attention, would require more than an act of God.
“Hell and damnation,” she muttered.
She decided to explore, perhaps find a clue as to where she was.
The bedroom was small, neat. Sparse. It didn’t even seem as if someone lived here, but there were sheets and a blanket on the bed. She pushed open the door, which opened into a small drawing room. It contained a tiny, rickety settee and not much else of note. Her spencer was thrown over it. Amelia picked it up, ready to put it on over her dress.
The next room was a very small kitchen, and there was another room just off that. It was empty, save for a cot and washstand.
