Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes

by Maya Rodale

  “Fate is tremendously overrated,” Amelia said.

  “It wasn’t fate,” the baron said. “It was my idea.”

  Everyone ignored him.

  Alistair fixed his gaze on her and said, “Lady Amy, may I have the honor of a dance?”

  “It’s Lady Amelia,” the duchess corrected.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said to the duchess, but not to Amelia.

  She did not answer immediately and his invitation hung in the air, awkwardly, overheard by those nearby.

  A long pause was the least he deserved.

  A long pause in which she considered what would be more satisfying—giving him the cut direct, or giving him a piece of her mind when he would have to listen to every last word of her outrage.

  She smiled at the prospect.

  But it seemed Alistair knew better than to see just the upturn of her lips; aye, she knew he detected the furious sparks in her eyes.

  She knew, because he gave her an apologetic smile. Which only made her more furious because it indicated that he knew all along and that he knew it had been wrong. And he had taken advantage of her anyway.

  “Amelia . . .” He murmured her name in the sort of lovesick, longing, I’ll-die-a-thousand-deaths-to-have-you-forgive-me sort of way.

  He swept her into his arms and it took a herculean effort on her part to ignore his scent, the way his arms felt around her, and to banish anything remotely like a romantic feeling.

  She succeeded. Barely.

  Alistair didn’t even know where to begin. She was obviously—rightfully—angry. With him. With Wrotham. With the lot of them. Her impulsive day of joy was revealed to be an opportunity seized by a fortune hunter.

  Of course she was angry. He had half expected this to happen, but he wasn’t fully prepared for it, perhaps with the vain hope that she might never discover Wrotham’s orders. Within the span of a waltz, he needed to win her back. After he had broken her trust, possibly irrevocably.

  Bloody hell.

  Let the scrambling and groveling begin.

  “Amelia.” He murmured her name again, marveling that now he could say it. The truth was out. He felt some relief, in spite of her anger, which he hoped would blow over.

  “Don’t do that,” she snapped. “Don’t pretend to be tortured with longing and heartsick when everything we shared is obviously one big lie.”

  “So says Miss Amy Dish,” he dared to murmur, to tease. Her anger flared.

  “I might have lied about my name—a trifling thing—but you knew who I was all along. When did you discover it, anyway?”

  “That morning. I had known when I returned to the flat and you were leaving.”

  He remembered opening the door to find her there, awake and smiling and his salvation. If he didn’t screw this up . . . he could still wake up to her smiling, find salvation, happiness, everything . . .

  “And the night before?”

  “Truly a coincidence. Dare I say it was fate?”

  “It was laudanum,” Amelia replied. Laudanum? That made more sense than brandy. “And fate can go hang itself.”

  “I only took you to my lodgings because you would not tell me where you lived. As a gentleman, I couldn’t leave you on the street alone at night.”

  “As a gentleman.” She sniffed. “That’s a bit rich, coming from you.” He gave her a sharp look; Englishmen did not take kindly to having their word as a gentleman questioned. No man did.

  “I carried you home,” he said. “Nothing untoward happened. Though in the interest of full disclosure, I did leave you to sleep on the settee.”

  “And you call yourself a gentleman,” she retorted. “To leave a lady to sleep on that rickety scrap of furniture and allow her to think you’d sacrificed your comfort for hers. Mine. A gentleman. Ha!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We didn’t accidentally encounter each other on the street the next morning now, did we?”

  “No.”

  “And the perfect day of all the things that I wished to do?”

  He heard the catch in her voice; was he going to take that happy memory from her?

  “It was real,” he said honestly and fiercely, eyes flashing with passion. “It was all real.”

  She blinked quickly and turned away for a second. Tears?

  “And when you lied about having an ulterior motive? I asked you.”

  “I panicked. I had already started to fall for you and didn’t want to lose you so soon.” It was the truth.

  “Hmmph. Was it all your uncle’s idea or did you come up with that plan on your own?”

  “He wishes us to marry; there is no denying that,” he said. “I knew that I, an impoverished, undistinguished gentleman wouldn’t have a chance with you in a room full of equally impoverished but more socially connected gentlemen. I simply seized the opportunity presented to me. After she luckily stumbled into my arms in the middle of the night.”

  “Interesting choice of words, Alistair. An opportunity. Let me see if I understand this correctly: your uncle needs money. So he summons you back from Europe and orders you to court me, the scandalous heiress with an enormous dowry and few marital prospects.”

  “You are well versed in the ways of the haute ton.”

  “Tell that to the gossips,” she said sharply. “And speaking of the gossips, what happens now?”

  “We waltz. And I begin my woefully inadequate attempts to convince you that everything we shared was real, true, and beautiful.” He dropped his voice, speaking earnestly, “Because it was, Amelia.”

  That was the truth. Yes, admittedly, they only enjoyed that day because of a few lies at the outset, but what they had shared that day was something rare, and special and real.

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” she said, impatiently. She looked nervous and sad.

  It was clear: he had broken her heart and any feelings for him had died. He could tell, because that sense of laughter and teasing was gone from her eyes and the way she spoke. He could feel her stiff and indifferent in his arms.

  It slayed him, that.

  He breathed her in, remembering when she was warm and wanting in his arms.

  “I mean, do you blackmail me into marriage?” she asked. His heart sank. “You easily could. We could be married by the end of the week. Your uncle could spend my dowry by the end of the month.”

  Hell, he could say something now and they would be married by morning. Alistair glanced away and his attention happened to land on Wrotham, beaming smugly. It was the closest thing to the approval Alistair had wanted. And damn if he wasn’t tempted to play his hand and make Amelia his wife.

  But he had memories of when she opened to him, trusted him, let him in. He wanted that again. He wanted her happy and teasing once more. He wanted them happy.

  “That is definitely a possibility,” he admitted.

  “You are so logical. You should meet my sister Claire.”

  “Please do introduce us,” he joked. “Uncle only said I had to marry one of the American girls; he did not specify which one.”

  She seemed to sense that he was teasing and she scowled at him.

  “I am so far from wooed.”

  “I don’t need to woo you. As you pointed out, I have the option of blackmail.”

  “Be still my beating heart,” she retorted.

  “Of course I will still try to woo you, Miss Dish,” he murmured, gazing down at her, teasingly gently. “A gentleman must do something to while away the hours. I cannot imagine a more pleasurable way to spend the time.”

  “I thought you were going to help your uncle with his business affairs.” Then she paused as it all made sense. “Ah. I am the business affair. Very clever, Alistair. I see what you did there—you told an impartial truth for exactly this moment. You anticipated I would discover this racket and you wanted to be able to say you never lied.”

  “We are very greedy in my family. But while Wrotham only wants money, I want something else.” He gazed into h
er eyes. “I want more than one perfect day with you, Amelia.”

  “Look at you with the devastatingly romantic line. Shall I swoon now or wait for your grand declaration of true love as you attempt to convince me that what we shared was unique and that we belong together forevermore?”

  “We have spent but one day together. I might be utterly enchanted by you and gutted to be fighting, but I will not throw around the word love so that you might forgive a deception that may well be unforgiveable. When I say it to you, it is because I mean it. Because I cannot not say it. And I bet that, at that moment, you’ll say it back.”

  “The problem with your plan is that I’ve just decided to never speak to you again.” And with that, she turned and walked away.

  Chapter 17

  In which our heroine plots a murder.

  The next day

  Amelia had considered the matter of Alistair’s Betrayal all night and decided that the only logical course of action would be to murder him.

  It was the least he deserved for the heinous crime of making her fall in love with him, making love to her, while deceiving her the whole damned time about his reasons.

  Oh, and then having the nerve to tease her about it.

  And then promising to woo her. Within an otherwise polite and routine conversation at a ball, totaling perhaps no more than five minutes, Amelia was made aware that what had felt like love was a lie.

  Pistols or poison?

  Even worse, she had placed her heart and reputation—and her family’s reputation—in the hands of a fortune-hunting scoundrel with nefarious intentions and an ulterior motive (and who lied about it! But was one ever honest about one’s nefarious intentions?). She wanted to run away all over again, but that’s what got her into this situation, wasn’t it?

  Knives or venomous snakes?

  She had to do something to protect them all, to save them from ruin because of her folly. Never mind that she was only out and able to commit said folly because she had been drugged against her knowledge.

  However, she was in no position to think at all about how to do away with Mr. Fin-”lying”-Jones due to a few glasses of champagne the previous evening, resulting in a relentlessly pounding head and this stubborn ache in her heart.

  It would also help if her stomach ceased threatening to revolt.

  “The London Weekly is reporting that Amelia was seen quaffing an excess of champagne,” Josephine said with a frown at Amelia, who most certainly was. Combined with regret and fury, it was a noxious combination. She was in no position to protest. “When she wasn’t quaffing champagne,” the duchess read, “she was seen shooting daggers with her eyes at Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones, the vaguely disreputable heir to Baron Wrotham.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Amelia muttered. “One cannot shoot daggers with their eyes.”

  She mourned the impossibility of this. For if it had been possible, the newspapers would instead be reporting on the deaths of Alistair and his uncle and the bloody mess they would have made on the ballroom floor, all thanks to the daggers shot from the eyes of Lady Amelia Cavendish.

  “It’s not I that am talking about it, but rather The London Weekly and thus the entire town,” the duchess replied. “My only consolation is that they are not speaking about your mysterious illness.”

  “The Morning Post is,” Claire said, looking up from yet another newssheet. “The ‘Man About Town’ says that Lady Amelia appears to have made a remarkable recovery from her grave and sudden illness.” Then she read from the column. “In fact, the lady looked as if she had a spent a day out-of-doors rather than a day on her deathbed.”

  Curses. Hell and damnation. Was that merely idle speculation or had someone seen them? Did she put it past Alistair and his half-wit uncle to plant something in the newspapers, thus forcing her hand? There was a scoundrel out there who had ruined her and the only thing keeping her from a scandal of unfathomable proportions was the word. Of a liar.

  Damned curses. Bloody hell and damnation.

  “If only they could see you now,” Bridget teased. “You really do look incredibly ill.”

  Anyone would be, if there were a nefarious scoundrel at large, with information that could utterly and irrevocably ruin her. Having had too much to drink had nothing to do with it, though it provided an excellent cover for the real source of her distress.

  Amelia halfheartedly swatted at Bridget.

  “Sisters,” James groaned. He too, seemed to have consumed an inordinate amount of spirits the previous evening. “What did I ever do to deserve three sisters?”

  Bother her brother’s laments about sisters. Bother the dramatic reading of the gossip columns and whatever anyone else was chattering about. Did they not know that everything was wrecked and that ruin might befall them at any second?

  In which our hero laments and his valet is impertinent.

  Everything was ruined. Alistair wanted to blame Wrotham—the stupid, blathering, scheming, idiotic baron—for ruining his own plan. It was the least the social-climbing, fortune-hunting bounder deserved. To be so close and wrenched away.

  But Alistair deserved some blame for the role he played. He was the one who did the old man’s bidding; he was the one who swept her away, fell half in love with her, made love to her, ruined all her other prospects.

  He didn’t even give her a chance. Or a choice. What an irredeemable and unforgiveable scoundrel he was.

  He was the one who held the sword over their heads.

  And he hated himself for it, almost as much as he hated the choice he had to make.

  Alistair could protect Amelia’s secret and fail the baron once more. The forgiveness he sought would never be his.

  Or it would take just one word with the duke or one well-placed rumor and Amelia would be his wife. He would have a home and family of his own. The baron’s approval would be his. It was, oh, everything he had ever wanted.

  Neither of these options felt quite right. Thus, he brooded, lamenting the state of affairs, while sitting at the small table in his flat and pretending to read the newspaper whilst Jenkins bustled around doing God knows what.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am brushing the lint from your jacket.”

  Alistair glanced over at the navy blue wool coat in his valet’s hands.

  “You needn’t bother,” Alistair told him. “I’m not going out. I’m certainly not going out anywhere so fine as that.”

  Jenkins merely ignored him and carried on with the brushing of the jacket, which was decidedly free of dirt, lint, or anything requiring the valet’s attentions. This, clearly, was not about the jacket.

  “Where do you think I should be going?” Alistair asked warily, even though he suspected he already knew the answer.

  “You’re not going anywhere. You just said so.”

  Jenkins was now turning his attentions to a shirt. Then he started to whistle a merry tune. If there was one thing Alistair was in no mood for, it was someone else’s good mood. It interfered with his brooding.

  “Why are you so bloody cheerful?” Alistair grumbled.

  “Why are you so bloody morose?” Jenkins replied. “It’s not as if you have anything to be morose about.”

  “Of course not.”

  But that was a lie, was it not? He had been revealed as the worst sort of lying, fortune-hunting scoundrel to the woman he was half in love with. She now despised him, rightfully so. He would lose her and his chance at redemption with the baron. So no, there was nothing to be morose about. Except for everything.

  “You wish to wed Lady Amelia, correct?”

  Of course his valet would mention her. Of course he had the valet who, over the years, had become something of a friend and confidant and who had such a sense of security in his position that he would feel at liberty to start such conversations.

  Alistair groaned. Jenkins took this as agreement and continued.

  “Then just go tell her brother, the duke, that you
have thoroughly compromised his sister. You’ll be married by sundown.”

  Jenkins smiled proudly, satisfied with his logic.

  Alistair had to concede that was certainly a possibility. He could don that shirt that Jenkins just starched, the jacket his valet had just brushed, and the rest of his finest attire. He could walk to Durham House, confess everything to the new duke, risk being challenged to a duel, and request the hand in marriage of Lady Amelia Cavendish.

  He might find himself wed. The baron would be pleased with him for once. He would come home to his beautiful wife, Amelia.

  And Alistair would always know that he’d blackmailed her to please the baron, and he suspected that she would be a champion grudge holder.

  He would never be truly happy. Neither would she.

  No, Alistair did not wish to have her under such circumstances. Because he cared, he could not do that to them both. Damn.

  “I cannot do that,” Alistair told Jenkins.

  “It’s because you’re a sensitive sort,” Jenkins said with a twinge of despair. “You always were.”

  “You say that as if it were a bad thing.”

  “That moral compass of yours, too, gets in the way sometimes,” Jenkins said, with an emphasis on sometimes.

  At heart, Alistair was a good person, but he was not a saint. While he did not take advantage of Amelia, he certainly hadn’t marched her straight home. He certainly hadn’t made much of an effort to stop their lovemaking. His moral compass had certainly taken leave of its responsibilities that day.

  For a moment, Jenkins disappeared.

  While Alistair was lost in thought and fixated upon lamenting his tragic circumstances (admittedly of his own making), Jenkins reemerged and began bustling around with hot water, soap, towels.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I should think it’s obvious. I am gathering the accouterments should you wish for a shave.”

  “Why would I do that?” He had no plans to venture out into polite company.

  “In the event that you wish to go out and, say, pay call upon Lady Amelia.”

  This was the problem with servants who were confident in the security of their positions. They said things about women whom certain gents were trying not to think about.