by Maya Rodale
His dark hair had the stubborn habit of falling forward into his eyes and she constantly wished to push it aside, run her fingers through his hair, perhaps caress his cheek. Perhaps pull him close to her for a kiss.
She’d never entertained such thoughts before—certainly not home, in America, when the boys she knew were . . . just boys. In London, most of the men the duchess had introduced her to inspired revulsion or, at best, boredom. Never this tingly curiosity to touch, to taste, to feel, to know.
She’d never experienced such awareness of a man—the heat of him when she got close, the muscles of his arm when they were linked, the sound of his laughter and the constant wondering of what it would be like to kiss him.
Amelia wasn’t sure what to do with these thoughts and feelings.
Did he feel the same? She wasn’t sure. Once again, her gaze darted at him, quickly. She leaned slightly against him, savoring the feel of him. But he didn’t seem to notice or respond, and she was at a loss.
So she tried to focus on the moment. This glorious, wonderful, liberating moment.
But her thoughts did stray to her family at Durham House. She was sorry her siblings were probably worried—though they knew her habit of running away and returning—and she wouldn’t have entirely minded their company. They were a fun bunch when they didn’t have the duchess trying to make them diamonds of the first water or whatever nonsense.
Well, no, actually. She would mind having company. She tightened her grip on the arm of Mr. Finlay-Jones. She did not wish to share him.
“I was walking through Mayfair,” he said, apropos of nothing and distracting her from her thoughts. “It was late, and I was, I confess, a bit drunk.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The moment we met.” Silly. He shook his head and half smiled. “You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Not one bit. You’ll have to remind me.”
“I was singing.”
“Oh, let me hear you sing!”
She watched with glee as Alistair seemed to consider it. That was why she was falling for him. Anyone else would say it wasn’t seemly and give her a dismissive look for even making the request. Amelia, gentlemen are not in the habit of singing aloud when the mood strikes them. But no, Mr. Finlay-Jones looked around to ascertain that there were not many people about who would mind terribly if a gentleman broke into song.
And then he sang. His voice was a lovely, rich baritone. She smiled dreamily and closed her eyes as snatches of memories came back to her: leaning out the window, the cool night air on her face, hearing a man’s voice in song, faintly. She remembered the longing to feel as free as she did in this moment.
And then she paid attention to the words. They were tremendously impolite.
A country John in a village of late,
Courted young Dorothy, Bridget, and Kate,
He went up to London to pick up a lass,
To show what a wriggle he had in his a . . .
Amelia laughed and shushed him when people started looking their way and frowning in disapproval. Lord, perhaps the duchess was rubbing off on her after all.
“What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “That was the song I was singing the night I met you.”
“I am horrified.”
“No you’re not. It is exactly the sort of song you would expect a drunken young wastrel to sing whilst walking down the street at a late hour. You wished you knew the words so you could join in. Now repeat after me:
“O when he got there it was late in the night
Two pretty young damsels appeared in his sight.”
She laughed again, nervously now, and sang along with him. They gazed into each other’s eyes. It would have been a romantic, swoon-worthy moment if the lyrics weren’t so absolutely filthy and if he hadn’t stopped to ask, “Has anyone ever told you what a terrible singing voice you have?”
She swatted his arm playfully, then grudgingly admitted yes.
So much for the romantic moment. But then again, whoever said love and romance were proper and polite all the time?
“I think I remember your voice,” Amelia said. “I think I remember leaning out my bedroom window and listening to you sing.”
“My wonderful voice must have lured you out. You did say something about the sirens.”
“I’m ever so glad to know that my knowledge of Greek literature remains when I am out of my wits. I shall have to write to my tutor and let her know.”
“And then suddenly you were there on the street,” he said. She could see how this all happened. She’d been captivated by his voice and snuck out of the house. It wasn’t entirely out of character for her. But why could she not remember it? “You were stumbling about like a drunkard.”
“Like this?” Amelia feigned stumbling around drunk, swaying to and fro and taking one step forward followed by three steps to the left and one step back. Then she sort of accidentally on purpose bumped into him and then reeled back, spinning around.
He laughed at her impression. “Are you sure you don’t remember?”
“Barely.”
Truly, she barely did. She remembered the horrible fight with the duchess and her siblings. A vision of hairpins skidding across a marble floor. The sensation of a cool glass of water. And then, vaguely, the feeling of night air on her skin and his voice.
A girl didn’t forget a voice like that.
But then . . . nothing.
“Then you collapsed into my arms,” he said softly.
“Like this?” she asked. Then she collapsed into his arms. He caught her. Of course he caught her. He caught her with his strong arms, and made her feel weightless.
“Like this?” She gazed up at him; he wasn’t smiling. His eyes were dark, lowered, focused on her lips. She wasn’t smiling either. Because this was the moment that it—whatever it was between them—was no longer just a lark.
This was the moment it became real.
“Yes.” His voice was rough.
“How forward of me.” She meant to tease, out of habit, but the words only came out as a whisper.
“I didn’t mind,” he said. And then, “I don’t mind.”
“Good,” she whispered. But she really meant yes to the question in his eyes.
And he understood.
And lowered his mouth to hers.
Amelia felt a spark the instant his lips touched hers. This! This was what she had been missing, this was what she had been craving, what she had been seeking. He tasted like excitement, adventure, like mystery. He made her feel alive, tingling skin, pounding heart and all.
His lips were firm and she yielded to the gentle pressure, opening to him, willing, so willing to explore this. Every tangle and thrust and gasp. Every beat of her heart. As he pulled her close, the sparks turned to a slow burn of pleasure.
She never wanted to let him go.
The time?
This was not supposed to happen. This was not part of the plan. This was a pounding heart, soft lips, a sweet taste, a kiss. And yet this kiss felt inevitable. Like he was powerless to stop it and could only surrender to it.
Not that Alistair minded.
Noble intentions beat a quick retreat, because a man didn’t have a kiss like this every day.
When it was just a kiss, this one, for a moment, right now and no more, a man slowed down to savor every second of it. The taste of her. The feel of her, warm and luscious and pressed against him. The way he could plainly tell that she wanted him. It made him a bit dizzy, so he held on to her tightly, pulled her close, completely forgot about plans and intentions. Instead, he kissed her deeply as if nothing else mattered.
A moment too soon?
First it was the thunder that interrupted. Low and rumbling and not so subtly hinting that it was time to wrap this up. But oh, Amelia wanted this kiss to go on forever and ever. Apparently so did he. Because thunder, and now lightning, be damned. He kissed her—tangled tongues, soft laughter, bodies pressed together—a
nd didn’t stop.
It was only when voices—human voices, of adults and children—interfered that they hastily broke the kiss. Alistair—she would call him by his given name now, after that intimacy—helped her to stand on her own two feet. She swayed slightly and this time, she wasn’t pretending to be drunk. His kiss had actually made her knees weak and disrupted her center of gravity. She reached out and placed her hand on his chest to steady herself and beneath her palm she felt his heart pounding.
This wasn’t nothing to him.
He might have ulterior motives but the kiss well and truly affected him. That kiss made her want to believe that he did not simply wish to spend the day with a pretty girl, that this was the day that she finally fell in love.
That kiss almost made her desperately want to ignore that all this—the man, the day, the grand adventure—was too good to be true.
“We should go,” he said finally.
“Yes, we really should.”
Neither of them made any move to leave, even though the thunder issued another warning. The intruding people rushed past, in a hurry to find shelter.
“This is improper.”
“An egregious violation of propriety,” she agreed.
“You are trouble.”
“And you like it,” she blurted out. But she meant, And you like me.
He was serious for a moment—agonies—and then his lips drew up into a seductive smile.
“Yes, yes I do,” he said. She knew he really meant that he liked her. He liked her! The truth of it made her warm up from the inside out. Not many gentlemen liked her—she was too imprudent, impudent, improper, just too much.
But this man liked her.
Gad, she was surely starting to fall for him now.
Time to go, surely
Alistair was vaguely aware of the thunder and more aware of her. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her dark eyes and her impish smile with lips reddened from his kiss. They might have stood there all day, gazing like love-struck morons into each other’s eyes, were it not for the arrival of the Bow Street Runners.
A flash of red that caught and commanded his attention. He turned to look, and confirmed his worst suspicions.
He held his breath and watched as one, two, three, a dozen appeared. They marched in uniform down the garden path, sweeping their gazes down each little walkway.
Without thinking it through, Alistair swept Amelia into another kiss so their faces wouldn’t be visible. He turned their bodies so they might appear as just another couple . . . Nothing to see here, do carry on . . .
Thunder rumbled again, loud, insistent, and ominous.
Is this when and where and how it ended?
His heart pounded hard in his chest.
Alistair’s goal for the day had been met: he would no longer be just another gentleman in the ballroom to her. If they were to part now, and meet again at a soiree, she’d certainly give him a special smile and favor him with a waltz or two. He’d continue his courtship properly and they might, just might, get married and live happily ever after.
Everything he wanted was just within reach.
And other flash of red intruded upon his vision. Another Runner. There must be dozens of them, fanning out all over Vauxhall and all over the city. Odds of escaping undetected were low.
But Alistair wasn’t ready for this day to be over. He wasn’t ready to part with her just yet, not when he could still taste her on his lips and his heartbeat hadn’t returned to its normal pace.
“A rainstorm seems imminent,” he said. “And we are out-of-doors.”
“Exposed to the elements.”
“At nature’s mercy.”
Neither of them moved. They stood there, gazing stupidly into each other’s eyes, and the thunder grew louder, more instant, and lightning cracked in the distance. The Bow Street Runners picked up their pace.
“Shall we stroll toward shelter?” he suggested. Perhaps they’d find some out-of-the-way building; they couldn’t stay in the open and risk discovery.
“Yes, it wouldn’t do to be caught in the rain,” she replied.
“Let’s find a place to wait out the storm,” he suggested, forcing his voice to stay neutral. Wouldn’t do to sound the alarm about the Runners and let the runaway heiress know that he knew that she was a runaway heiress.
4:29 in the afternoon
Amelia saw the Runners but quickly decided not to say anything. Dozens of men in uniform did not search the city for one wayward girl running away from finishing school. But dozens of men in uniform, under the command of the government, did, apparently, search for dukes’ sisters who were missing.
She didn’t want Alistair to know the truth about her. Not yet. He would insist on taking her back to Durham House, where her brother would kill him. In the meantime, Alistair would become formal and proper and stop kissing her. Their wonderful rapport and perfect day would be over. She wasn’t ready for that just yet.
Best to continue to allow him to believe she was just Miss Amy Dish.
Arm in arm, they strolled quickly along the paths, taking turns to avoid Runners. Amelia took care to keep her head down to help escape detection. The thunder had become louder, more insistent, and she was glad of it because it covered up the pounding of her heart. The sky had darkened considerably too.
The lightning came next—a terrifically loud and bright crack. It was instinct to look up and turn toward the noise and the light. And it was instinct that doomed her. Her face was turned up and exposed at just the moment a Runner turned and saw her.
He murmured something to his companion, and both men started stomping toward her.
“I wonder what is down here,” she murmured, turning and pulling Alistair down a different pathway. He did not resist turning left with her. Nor did he protest that right turn, another left, a turn around and a quick kiss in the bushes before another dash down a pathway to the right. As soon as they’d lose one Runner, another would appear. She was haunted by those red coats trailing her, and afraid of being caught.
It did not escape her notice that Alistair seemed just as keen as she was to avoid the Runners. She wondered if perhaps they weren’t after her, but him.
Or was he just trying to avoid being caught in the imminent rainstorm? They were walking at such a brisk pace that they were nearly running and she was too breathless to ask.
There was more thunder, more lightning. And then, with one terrific burst, the heavens opened up and unleashed a deluge upon them. They were both soaked in an instant. Amelia shrieked, Alistair did not.
Suddenly, finding shelter was the most important thing and the Runners were the least of her concern.
4:41 in the afternoon
Alistair dared to breathe a sigh of relief when he and Amelia had not only managed to evade the Runners, but also to find shelter from the storm in a pavilion. A crowd of people had gathered, all seeking protection.
When it seemed they were safe, they turned to each other and burst out laughing. She shook out her wet curls and he laughed harder. A rivulet of water trickled down her cheek and he wanted, badly, to lick it. Then kiss her.
But there were people present.
Just average, everyday people. Women in dresses, men in hats, children with governesses, begging for sweets. And—here he gulped—a few men in those telltale red coats.
One of whom was threading his way through the crowd, his black beady eyes fixed on Amelia. He came and stood close, far too close for comfort. Though he didn’t look at her, the Runner leaned in and murmured into her ear.
“Lady Amelia?”
She stiffened. A flush of pink suffused her cheeks.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come with me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The Runner placed his thick, gloved hand on her arm.
That is when Alistair stepped in.
“Sir, unhand me!” Her voice was a strangled whisper, as she did not wish to draw attention
to herself.
“You heard the lady,” Alistair said in a voice so low and fierce he almost didn’t recognize it as his own. There was no denying the surge of possessiveness he felt upon witnessing that man’s hand on his woman.
“Who are you?” the Runner asked gruffly.
“This young woman’s protector.” Truer words were never spoken.
But the Runner wasn’t buying it. He started to pull Amelia away, despite her protestations. The crowd had swarmed around—there was no other entertainment—watching this agent of the crown attempt to take and subdue a spitfire of a woman.
Alistair threw a punch.
It connected solidly with the man’s jaw.
And with that, all hell broke loose. More Runners arrived, streaming in with the rain. The crowd became swept up in the melee, pushing, jostling, and swatting at one another. Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair saw Amelia grabbing a parasol from a young woman and using it to thwack one of the Bow Street Runners.
In the midst of the drama and confusion, with everyone’s attentions occupied, Alistair and Amelia took the opportunity to flee.
Hand in hand, they dashed along the garden paths, seemingly taking one wrong turn after another, skidding into each other as they tried to stop, getting tangled up as they tried to turn around.
“How do we get out of here?” Amelia cried out over the rain and thunder.
“I have no idea. Did you not take a map?”
“When would I have taken a map? I thought you knew the way since you’ve been here before.”
“Six years ago, at least. While drunk. In the dark.”
“We will have to talk about your habit of wandering around drunk in the dark,” she said in a nagging, wifely way. “But another time.”
Eventually they managed to find a way out of Vauxhall, but not after what felt like an extended scenic tour of every last walkway. He’d never been so reckless as to start a fight or run like a madman through a public space; it was not the done thing by someone who was eager to fit in and aware that the ton needed only the slightest reason to exclude him.
Yet even though he wore rain-soaked clothes and his lungs burned from the exertion of running through the entire damned park, he felt exhilarated. For a moment there, it had been him and Amelia against the world and they had won.
