by Maya Rodale
Horse breeders from the colonies—that’s who cared to watch the horse guards!
Fraser looked again for the girl with short hair, out with a gentleman he didn’t recognize. But she was gone and he couldn’t confirm what he saw. It was probably nothing. And he had debts to worry about, not hicks from the colonies with unfashionable coiffures.
Beside him, Algernon started snoring.
Chapter 9
In which our heroine runs off to the circus. As one does.
Just shy of two o’clock
It inevitably occurred to Alistair that if Amelia was truly the sister to a duke—and niece to the Duchess of Durham, a woman he remembered as a terrifying dragon who regularly struck fear in the hearts of grown men, and made babies cry, probably—people would be looking for her.
Bow Street Runner kinds of people.
Perhaps even the king’s own army.
Perhaps, even most terrifying of all, the duchess herself.
At the very least, there would be household servants—whom he wouldn’t have a prayer of identifying and thus avoiding—roaming the streets searching for her.
It would not be a good thing to be caught together. Charges of kidnapping would swiftly follow, especially once other damning facts emerged: namely, that Amelia had no memory of how she came to wake up in his bedroom and that his uncle had essentially ordered him to marry her.
There was a chance that the duchess would insist on a wedding—which would certainly suit his purposes and there was no reason he should have qualms about it. But . . . it felt wrong to take advantage of a woman thusly, especially one as open, trusting, and kind as Lady Amelia.
Besides, entrapment was no way to begin a marriage.
His noble concerns could all be for naught; there was also a chance that Amelia’s relations would refuse a match with him. He was hardly a catch—he was a mixed-race orphan who stood to inherit an impoverished minor title. Why would someone as lovely as Amelia wish to pledge her troth to the likes of him? What family would even allow it?
This was a quandary.
She was a quandary.
Alistair reminded himself that they only needed to spend enough time together so that when they inevitably met again, he would stand out amongst all the other desperate fortune hunters.
By that rationale, he could return her home now.
He glanced down at her. Even with her hair lopped off, she appeared feminine. With her short hair, petite frame, and delicate features, she reminded him of a fairy or a woodland sprite. Except he wasn’t in the habit of lusting after fairies or woodland sprites.
Perhaps after Astley’s, he would escort her directly back to “finishing school,” otherwise known as her home.
He glanced at her again.
Focus. Focus not on her lips, or the dimple in her left cheek when she smiled. He ought to focus on avoiding anyone who looked like a Bow Street Runner or who eyed Amelia twice. She seemed oblivious to the fact that more than a few gentlemen took a long look or two at her—until they saw Alistair glaring murderously at them.
And above all, he had to continually focus her attention away from newsagents, people reading newspapers, people wrapping purchases in newspapers, newspapers that were trampled underfoot, and newspapers that were simply blowing in the wind begging for her to notice.
He didn’t want her to see the scandalous and humiliating cartoon of herself on the front page of The London Weekly. It seemed like something that might be spirit crushing, and it just seemed wrong to crush the spirit of Miss Amy Dish, who was chattering away about something—he couldn’t quite follow, but he did enjoy the sound of her voice.
Astley’s loomed ahead—a tall domed structure surrounded by crowds of people milling about before the show—reminding Alistair to focus on his next problem.
Admission. Specifically, money for admission.
He had none. Not even a pence.
According to his calculations, Amelia surely had some left in her possession.
There was obviously one course of action and it was not asking her to borrow a few quid. He would have to pick her pocket; fortunately he’d seen her slip a few remaining coins into her skirt.
The crowds were a help. It gave him a reason to draw her in close to him and wrap his arm around her, sliding lower, to her waist.
This was wrong. On so many levels, this was wrong.
But she fit against him so perfectly, her head nestled right below his shoulder. He could easily imagine them lying like that, lying other ways. Alistair made the mistake of breathing her in, and he was left with that heady, sated feeling of having just made love. So this was why ladies and gentlemen were kept at a distance.
This was no time to be distracted. Not by her scent, or the feeling of her waist beneath his palm, or the desire to feel her all over.
The ticket takers were ahead, and—bloody hell—a pair of Bow Street Runners. Miss Amy Dish saw them at the same moment as he did. They were easily identifiable by their red waistcoats and blue greatcoats. Two of them sat on horseback, surveying the crowd in search of one lost heiress.
He felt her step falter. She lowered her head.
She was worried about being found.
And he was worried about losing her.
But her family knew where to look for her.
They knew her. Knew that she had likely run off to—if not join the circus—see it. For one hot second, he was jealous. He felt the burn of envy, the raw sense of heartache and longing.
When he ran off, no one had looked for him.
The baron was happy to see him go. And Elliot was dead and buried. He had friends, of course. But they had estates and families to manage, which left little time for chasing him across the continent. They had lives to live and Alistair? Well, he wandered and wondered about what his purpose might be.
And somehow all that running—all that searching and wanting for a feeling of home—had led to this moment, in which he was about to rob a runaway heiress under the watchful gaze of the magistrate’s own representatives.
Alistair’s heart pounded hard in his chest.
It was over in seconds.
He guided them into a thick crowd, pretended to stumble, falling against her. She grasped him to hold herself steady. His arms slipped around her waist . . . hand slid into the pocket . . . fingers closed around coins.
But he was more aware of her breasts against his chest, where his heart pounded. Those velvety brown eyes gazed up at his face. He was lying to her, stealing from her, and she looked up at him adoringly.
It slayed him, that.
Deception did not suit him.
After slipping the coins into his own pocket, they stepped apart, and laughed awkwardly. Alistair steered them toward the ticket taker on the far right, who wasn’t in direct view of the Runners. He was a fat, jowly old fellow—he put Alistair in mind of a plump albino toad—and he had absolutely no interest in anyone or anything.
“Two tickets for my, uh, sister and I, please,” said Alistair, handing over some of the money pilfered from Amelia.
A few steps later she laughed and asked, “Your sister?”
“You’re right. I should have requested two tickets for myself and the unmarried young woman with whom I have absconded. And with whom I am traveling without a chaperone.”
“This is such fun,” Miss Amy Dish gushed.
Alistair wasn’t sure if fun was the word he would use. Heart pounding and nerve-wracking? Yes.
Exhilarating and enchanting? Yes.
And terribly, terribly confusing.
Showtime
Astley’s Amphitheatre was nothing short of spectacular. Three tiers of seats surrounded a circular arena and they were packed with all manner of people: from governesses with children of the rich and titled to families visiting London or those who had no other pressing engagements. High above them all hung a massive chandelier, lighting the merriment below.
The dull roar of the crowd hushed as the show beg
an with a dramatic demonstration of equine feats. Fancily groomed and decorated horses wearing feathered headpieces pranced and galloped about.
The crowd gasped as the riders—lady riders—did the unthinkable: they stood on galloping horses’ backs and performed acrobatic feats while the horses flew around the arena at a breakneck pace.
Alistair stole a glance away from the ring at the woman beside him. Amelia was leaning forward in rapt attention. Lips parted, eyes gleaming. He had the distinctly unsettling impression that she wasn’t merely finding amusement in the performances.
No, he feared she was taking notes.
Of things to try.
Herself.
“I can do that,” Miss Amy Dish said matter-of-factly as an equestrienne stood atop a horse as it cantered around the ring.
“Is that so?” He first felt a pang of horror as he imagined it and then a pang of empathy for her family.
“It is so. But I have been forbidden from displaying my prowess.” Her dismay was evident. But he couldn’t blame anyone for forbidding her to do it, if only for the stress to one’s heart it would cause.
“Well, it is incredibly dangerous.”
“Indeed, but I think my aunt’s reasoning is that it necessitates the wearing of breeches,” she explained. “In her book, scandal trumps mortal danger when it comes to things to fear.”
“Is wearing breeches one of those wild American practices that have so horrified our refined English society?”
They both realized his mistake at the same time. He froze; she pursed her lips. God, he was an idiot. He might as well address her as Lady Amelia of America and inquire after her dowry and ask why she was parodied on the front page of the newspaper. He wracked his brain for something else to say and came up wanting.
She saved the day.
“I suppose it would be, if I were out,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “But I am only at finishing school, you see.”
“Right, of course. But can you do that?”
Someone dressed in an outlandishly exotic costume was juggling flaming swords.
“I would certainly try,” she said with a wicked smile.
He absolutely believed her. It excited him, that. It shouldn’t have. But there was no denying the frisson of something because she was a woman who did things. She acted. She took risks, courted danger, and flirted with scandal.
And he . . . didn’t. Not anymore, anyway.
Once upon a time he’d been a hellion, like any young buck—there was no dare, wager, race, or expedition he would say no to. He lived for the thrill of danger, rejection, failure, and he lived for the thrill of triumphing over the fear.
And then Elliot was killed because of Alistair’s need for excitement.
That put an end to that.
Ever since, he’d wandered, biding his time until he inherited. He tried to find peace with the tragic events that had made him Wrotham’s heir. He was like so many other gentlemen, who simply passed the time until they inherited or married or something happened to them. It never bothered him until he sat beside a woman who was unlike other ladies.
But today, he had a purpose.
Her.
He liked having a purpose.
The dramatics of the flaming swords and juggling gave way to some lighthearted entertainment in the form of dancing dogs, who pranced and spun about upon command.
He was no better than one of those dogs. Alistair shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Aye, he had a purpose for the day, but it was not one of his choosing. Here he was, jumping on command and following the orders of someone who didn’t even like him.
Amelia leaned in his direction, the better to see the performance below. He breathed her in. And he thought again about that moment when he arrived at his empty flat and it didn’t seem so empty when she was there. And he thought perhaps there might be another purpose to this day . . . one that wasn’t about what the baron wanted, but what Alistair needed.
The tightrope walkers were next. Everyone fell silent for this performance. A rope was stretched taut, high above the arena. And there was nothing to catch their fall. A violent spectacle of death seemed inevitable.
“I shall leave the tightrope walking to you,” Amelia whispered, leaning in close. He felt the soft whisper of her breath.
“Afraid of heights, my dear roof jumper?”
“My skirts would get in the way. Besides, we need something for you to do in the circus while I’m juggling flaming swords and standing atop two galloping horses.”
He felt, again, a flare of something—anger, jealously, rebellion? He did have a purpose—following Wrotham’s orders and seeking his forgiveness. Wedding the woman beside him.
And maybe, just maybe, finding a person who felt like home.
Everything all came back to the woman beside him.
As long as he didn’t screw up. He could perhaps make her fall in love with him . . . or hate him forever for this deception.
Like those tightrope walkers, one misstep could lead to certain disaster. But a dozen or two tiny, perfect steps could lead to triumph.
“Are you all right?” she asked him.
“Of course.”
“For a moment I thought I might have hurt your feelings, but then I remembered that Englishmen don’t seem to have any.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “That would be unseemly.”
“Of course they do have some feelings,” Amelia continued, unaware of his turmoil. “Namely, hunger, thirst and horror at an excessive display of emotion.”
“You seem very knowledgeable on the subject of Englishmen. For an American.”
“I have made the acquaintance of many. They’re a lot of pompous, intoxicated bores who don’t seem to do very much except drink, wager, and pass judgment on young ladies.”
He decided not to point out that a young lady in finishing school wouldn’t have such knowledge.
But what could he claim to do beyond what she listed?
Woo innocent young ladies for selfish purposes.
Best not to say that aloud.
“I notice that you do not disagree with me,” Amelia said. “I’m so often right. I just wish my family would recognize it more often.”
Here she heaved one of those dramatic sighs that only young ladies can manage because only they can manage such depth of emotion.
Alistair was left with the impression that Amelia wasn’t just running away from her home and family. She was seeking something in the guise of Miss Amy Dish. For all that she was enchanted by the display of Astley’s Amphitheatre, he suspected dancing dogs and tightrope walkers weren’t really what she was looking for.
Just like him.
He wanted to tell her to return home to her family, who undoubtedly loved her; he could just tell from the way she spoke of them in that teasing but loving way. And yet she was his ticket to finding that feeling of home and belonging for himself. If he could just marry her he could both atone for the mistakes of his past and secure the future he longed for.
The show at Astley’s had been everything her dog-eared guidebook said and more. Amelia had witnessed gravity-defying feats, charming little dancing dogs (oh, how she wanted one!), and the juggling of flaming swords. To say nothing of the dramatic feats performed atop horseback and all the other activities in which the performer risked his or her neck for everyone’s entertainment.
But it was the tightrope walker who had Amelia holding her breath. Because even with her feet firmly on the ground, she felt as if she were performing high in the air, with an audience watching, and everyone waiting for her to fall.
Just one misstep could ruin her.
The only thing to do was keep moving forward, to take one step and then another.
If she paused, she would fall.
If she hesitated, she would fall.
Today, she vowed not to hesitate.
With an extra spring in her step and sparkle in her eye, she linked her arm with Mr. Finlay-Jones as t
hey strolled along the Thames.
“I feel my life would be complete if I only had one of those dancing dogs.” Amelia sighed. She felt Alistair stiffen beside her. Had she said something wrong?
“I’ll see what I can do,” he murmured.
She noticed that he spoke, if however vaguely, of a future encounter. He couldn’t be so terrible if he planned for them to meet again, right? Thus far, he had been a perfect gentleman—as far as she knew. It mattered; Amelia wanted him to be good, a gentleman, because she liked him. His company was enjoyable and he seemed more than happy to indulge her whims to see the city. He wasn’t like any of the other stuffy, boorish gents the duchess had introduced her to with the absurd hope that Amelia would want to marry one of them.
That reminded of her of what awaited her at home—the duchess, the pressure to marry, the horrible suggestions of future husbands.
“Where shall we go next?” Amelia asked. “Vauxhall?”
“Wherever the lady wishes,” he said, which were words any lady loved to hear. “Or you might wish to return home.” Which were words she was less thrilled to hear.
Of course she would go home. Eventually. Naturally she should go home immediately. But the sky was blue, the air was warm, the man with her was quite handsome and said they could do whatever she wished. He was not giving her grief for, say, being discovered at a ball free of her footwear.
“Not quite yet . . .”
She thought of the tightrope walkers, halfway between one ledge and another. Turning around and going back was an impossibility. One had to simply keep moving forward. Somehow, it seemed the same for her.
“Your family must be worried.”
Oh, Lud. Amelia glanced up at Mr. Finlay-Jones. He seemed genuinely concerned. She found herself imagining a dramatic scene involving her worried family in the drawing room:
“I should have never insisted she wear shoes,” the duchess wailed, clutching a perfectly starched linen-and-lace handkerchief to her dry eyes, because duchesses do not do anything so human as cry.
“And I should have taken her to the British Museum instead of my horridly dull lecture at the Mathematical Society,” Claire lamented. “I almost bored my sister to death and now she might be actually dead.”
