by Maya Rodale
“I’m not going to blackmail her into marrying me.”
He could. Perhaps he even should, if he wanted the baron’s forgiveness. But there was a small part of him that rebelled against forcing her hand.
“Did you ever think that perhaps the lady might wish for a marriage proposal?” Jenkins mused. Left unspoken: the words you idiot.
“She made it abundantly clear that she would not accept one. My options are to force her hand in marriage by spreading rumors or speaking to her brother, or I can let her go, and live with the baron’s eternal disapproval. These are my choices, Jenkins. I find I don’t care for either of them.”
“I think it’s obvious what you must do,” Jenkins said simply. “You let the lady decide. You will have to woo her.”
Chapter 18
In which siblings interfere with courtship.
Later that afternoon
If it weren’t for the odious Mr. Collins, Amelia might never have been at home to Mr. Alistair Fin-”lying”-Jones. She would have refused to see him, being too busy plotting his imminent demise. The future happiness of her entire family was now in jeopardy because Alistair had the sort of charming smile that made a girl forget her wits and he had used it on her.
Swords or a swarm of angry pigeons?
But Mr. Collins—James’s heir, a distant relation of the Cavendishes who nevertheless insisted on calling them all “cousin,” and an insufferable ass—had come to call upon the family.
The purpose of his visit was to propose to Bridget, who of course refused him, because he was an insufferable ass.
And because love was what mattered most of all.
Amelia only realized this after Mr. Collins stormed out in a huff and Pendleton was left standing awkwardly with a bottle of champagne, ready to celebrate. Or rather, it was the conversation that happened after that made her think differently about that last little shred of feeling in her heart. Because, it turned out, a girl couldn’t just forget something like love overnight.
“Don’t bother to open the champagne, Pendleton,” the duchess had said with a disapproving frown after a red-faced Collins left. “It is clear we have nothing to celebrate.”
“Did you honestly think that we would?” Bridget asked her incredulously.
“You must marry. You must all marry!”
For once, the duchess actually raised her voice. This intrigued Amelia, so she had paid attention.
“I do not think we are opposed to marriage,” James said evenly.
“We are just opposed to pledging our troth to cork-brained men with nothing to recommend them,” Bridget said in huff. Wasn’t that the truth.
“Well, if you continue to flout society, you may only have the likes of Mr. Collins to choose from!” the duchess cried, and Amelia, a flaunter of society, took note in the form of a small knot of guilt and regret beginning to ache in her stomach.
The duchess continued in a sharp voice, clearly out of patience with the Cavendish siblings: “And he is not the worst possible person. At least the dukedom would stay in the family. You would be provided for. What if your brother dies and you are all unwed? How will you support yourselves? Who will marry you then, when you have no reputations because you have flouted the rules at every turn and when you have no dowries because everything has gone to Mr. Collins?”
“James won’t die,” Amelia protested weakly. He couldn’t die. He couldn’t leave them alone, especially not with a potential scandal looming that could ruin them.
“People die, Amelia. Look at our parents,” Claire said softly.
Ah, Claire with the logic. As always. Even if it hurt.
“Yes, but people love, too. Look at our parents,” Bridget said. “Don’t we all want that?”
Everyone fell silent, thinking about true love and happily ever after and maybe, perhaps, even a particular person. She knew Bridget was caught in a love triangle, Claire had a suitor, and James had that distracted look he got when he was infatuated with a woman.
“We want what our mother and father had, Josephine. Love,” James said quietly. “The kind of love you throw a dukedom away for.”
Amelia may not have that sort of love, ever.
But she would be damned if her one day of adventure and pleasure seeking—an admittedly glorious day—ruined the future happiness of her family and kept them from their true loves.
That was the only reason she was at home to him when he had the audacity to call later that afternoon.
“Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones,” Pendleton announced, presenting his card to the duchess on a silver tray.
“Wrotham’s nephew,” the duchess said. Then she made A Face. “And a fortune hunter. Though Amelia seemed rather animated whilst waltzing with him.”
“Amelia often seems rather animated,” Claire said.
“Yes. I am very animated,” Amelia said. “It had nothing to do whatsoever with my waltzing partner.”
The duchess looked at her with those startling blue eyes, as Amelia wondered if Josephine was, in fact, a witch and could peer into her soul and know exactly what sort of trouble Amelia had gotten into and with whom. But no, that was impossible. Right?
“Another fortune hunter . . .” Bridget sighed. “I had thought we’d met them all by now.”
“I’m tempted to give everyone’s dowries away to charity if only so we ceased being plagued by them,” James said wearily.
“You are the duke. No one would stop you,” Claire pointed out. “I wouldn’t mind being spared the attentions of such obsequious gentlemen.”
They would be spared such attentions if they wed people whom they actually cared for. Which they would not be able to do if Amelia’s Escape ruined their prospects. This unfortunate truth was not lost on Amelia.
“Show him in,” Amelia said. Everyone turned to look at her in shock. And then everyone turned to the doorway to gawk at Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones.
He arrived with a posy of violets, which he presented to Amelia.
Her stupid heart skipped a beat.
For a second, everyone was speechless.
Just one merciful second.
Then everyone had something to say about this handsome gentleman with the most unimpressive bouquet of flowers any of them had been presented with.
“An interesting choice of flowers,” Bridget mused, eyeing the small violet and white bouquet Amelia now held in her hands.
“It is certainly not ostentatious, which suggests that you are probably not exceedingly wealthy,” Claire remarked. She was so logical. And not subtle.
“Which then calls into question your motives toward my sister,” James said, adding the Menacing Glare, which he had perfected since coming to England.
Amelia eyed Alistair, watching to see how he handled her siblings, all of them, at once. He didn’t say a word; then again they all spoke so quickly that he didn’t exactly have a chance to reply to comments about his finances or motives or any other appallingly personal topics that People of Quality did not mention within moments of making a new acquaintance.
She was content to let him fend for himself.
“But it might also suggest a certain confidence; he doesn’t need lavish displays of hothouse flowers and such to woo a woman,” Claire said thoughtfully. “He just has to strut in here with a modest bouquet—”
“Did I strut?” Alistair interrupted. “I don’t think I strut.”
“Or is it more of a swagger?” Bridget mused.
Amelia scowled; now they were just teasing him to make her squirm uncomfortably. God, he had broken her heart and could destroy them all and they were teasing him about whether he strut or swaggered.
Honestly, it was more of a saunter. Not that anyone asked her. Not that she would continue this conversation.
“It is a lovely bouquet, with a beautiful meaning,” Miss Green said quietly. “The violet symbolizes modesty. The blue violets are said to signify faithfulness and the white ones suggest taking a chance on happiness.”
&nb
sp; “Which you would all know if you attended to lessons,” the duchess said, pointedly. The three Cavendish sisters groaned. Lessons on the secret meaning and symbolism of flowers was exactly the sort of thing Amelia had ran away from.
“Or they are simply flowers,” Amelia said crossly, attempting to diffuse speculation about anything between her and Alistair. She failed, magnificently.
“Ah,” Bridget said, eyes wide with comprehension.
“I see,” Claire murmured, smiling.
Amelia wanted to throw a pillow at them both.
“Interesting,” James said, grinning as he looked from Amelia to Alistair and back again. He settled into his chair, comfortably. “Do join us, Mr. Finlay-Jones. I think I speak for all my siblings when I say that we are delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Not all of us,” Amelia muttered.
“Is that because you have already made his acquaintance?” Claire inquired in a decidedly put-on oh-so-innocent voice.
“We know she has,” Bridget said. “They waltzed at the ball.”
“And she was, to quote the papers, shooting daggers at him with her eyes,” James added. “One doesn’t engage in such ocular violence with a mere stranger.”
“Does any self-respecting man really quote the gossip columns?” Amelia grumbled.
“Living with you lot of females has ruined me,” James said.
“Never mind the state of James’s masculinity,” Claire said and Miss Green blushed. “Bridget, if you would stop mooning about Darcy for one second and think . . .” Claire said pointedly.
Lord save her from exceedingly smart sisters.
“I’m not mooning about—” Bridget retorted. And then, “Ooooh.”
Comprehension had dawned.
As far as anyone knew, Amelia had only met him last night, they’d had an unremarkable conversation, then waltzed, and then she was seen “shooting daggers at him with her eyes” and now he was here with violets.
It was all a bit much for a simple conversation of introduction at a ball full of introductions and simple conversations. Combined with the fact that Amelia had been missing . . . Claire was very good at putting two and two together.
Amelia wanted to fling the posy of violets at her.
“Do give our guest a chance to speak,” the duchess cut in. “What brings you here with that little posy of violets, Mr. Finlay-Jones?”
Alistair didn’t shrink from the duchess’s stare. Amelia had to admit, privately, that it was impressive.
“Lady Amelia.”
His voice was low and seductive. His gaze was focused and intense.
Longing flared within her. Warred with feelings of betrayal.
Her sisters sighed.
“Oh don’t fall for this romantic nonsense,” Amelia said, exasperated. And, as much as a reminder for her as the rest of them: “He is only here at the wishes of his uncle.”
“Our sister has never been known for her subtlety,” James said to Alistair.
“Subtlety is overrated.” Amelia and Alistair said this at the exact same moment. Eyebrows arched all around the room.
“I heard you have been traveling, Mr. Finlay-Jones,” Josephine said, changing the subject. “Where have you been causing trouble?”
“The usual haunts: France, Italy. India.”
“What took you to India?” Josephine asked. “Most gentlemen find enough entertainment closer to home.”
“I wanted to see where my parents had met and where I had been born.”
“Ah. I see,” the duchess said. But Amelia didn’t see. She only had more questions. Who was this man, really? Who was this man who had some sort of Secret Pain and little family to speak of, who had spent years traveling and yet had come back from such adventure simply because his uncle wished him to make her acquaintance?
She thought she knew him and it seemed she didn’t at all. Now she had a million questions for him, which was in direct conflict with her determination to avoid him forevermore and to Banish Him From Her Heart. Damn.
“You have been gone for some time,” the duchess said. “I haven’t seen you since the funeral.”
“Yes.”
It was as if a cloud passed over. His expression darkened. His demeanor changed and Amelia’s curiosity flared once more. What funeral? Who had died? And why did Alistair look as if it’d only happened yesterday?
“It is good of you to return, finally, and good of you to call upon us.” The duchess’s dismissal was clear. Alistair took his leave—but not without one long, heated, lingering look at Amelia. If she were interpreting it correctly, he said, with just his eyes, I have seen you naked and I want to see you naked again.
Her body’s reaction—the spark of wanting, the slow burn of longing—was another betrayal.
The doors had scarcely shut behind him when everyone turned their attentions to the duchess.
“What funeral?” Amelia asked. She didn’t even try to sound like she wasn’t that interested. Because she was. Oh, she was. “Who died?”
“It sounds so dramatic and ominous,” Bridget said, dramatically and ominously.
“If you wish to know his private, personal business then I suggest that you ask him yourself,” Josephine replied and Amelia scowled mightily in frustration.
“I was about to but then you practically pushed him out the door,” Amelia said. “And now I cannot because it conflicts with my plan to never speak to him again.”
“Why don’t you wish to speak to him again?” Bridget asked. Amelia ignored her.
“But now you are keen to see him again, aren’t you?” The duchess smiled devilishly. There was no other way to describe it. All Amelia could think was, Touché. She was no match for her own curiosity.
An hour or so later, Amelia strolled into the duchess’s bedchamber for the first time, unannounced and uninvited to boot. But Amelia had questions and her curiosity demanded satisfaction. She would much rather risk Josephine’s ire with a personal visit than swallow her pride and speak to Alistair.
The duchess was sitting at a small writing table, tending to her correspondence. Miss Green sat nearby, assisting.
“You are devious,” Amelia declared.
“Thank you.” The duchess did not miss a beat in her reply. She did not even look up from her correspondence.
“I’m not certain I meant it as a compliment.”
“I am certain that you did.”
“Josie, now I cannot stop thinking about him!” Amelia heaved a mighty sigh and took the liberty of collapsing on the duchess’s bed in a fit of despair and frustration.
It was true; she could not stop thinking about him. Not since their parting at the theater, not since she saw him at the ball, not since he came to call this very afternoon. The duchess had to go and intimate that there were dark secrets. Amelia wanted to understand him.
Because then she would know whether he was a worthless scoundrel. Yes, that was a perfectly logical reason for wanting to understand him. It had nothing to do with wanting to know him.
Amelia sat up and asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because I am not accustomed to young girls entering my chamber unannounced and flinging themselves on my bed in a fit of lovesick despair.”
“I’m not lovesick.”
“Of course not.”
“I merely find my thoughts occupied by a particular gentleman.”
“You are the only one of your siblings to be so vexed by his call this afternoon. And you are the only one to storm in here and have a fit about it.”
“This is not a fit. You have seen me have a fit.”
“Touché. The less said about that, the better,” the duchess remarked. “At any rate, it’s not that interesting. It was merely the death of his beloved cousin in a tragic accident. I daresay it shaped the young man’s life and character irrevocably.”
Amelia wanted to scream into a pillow.
“What circumstances? What tragedy? I cannot bear not knowing
.”
The duchess just smiled—that devilish smile again—and said, “You will have to ask him.”
Of course this was not the answer Amelia was looking for. She would be content with nothing less than the whole story, preferably delivered by someone other than Alistair. She feared if she were to speak with him, or be near him, she would lose her resolve to keep him at a polite distance until her siblings were happily married and unruinable by scandal. But she would probably perish from curiosity first.
Amelia scowled at the duchess and quit the room, leaving the door open behind her.
“I daresay you played that girl like a harp,” Miss Green remarked.
Amelia shouted back: “I heard that!”
Chapter 19
In which our heroine is determined to behave and our hero is determined to cause trouble.
Yet another ball
Tonight, Lady Amelia Cavendish was determined to behave. There had been a snippet in The London Weekly’s gossip column that morning that was rather unnerving.
A melee involving Bow Street Runners, innocent bystanders and a young couple was reported at Vauxhall earlier this week. Lady B— thought she recognized the female half of the dashing away duo.
The duchess had gasped when she read it at the breakfast table. James had raised one eyebrow and given her The Look. Claire and Amelia had exchanged nervous glances. Amelia found herself without an appetite.
They didn’t know it was her. But they had their suspicions and Amelia didn’t have it in her to lie and dissuade them.
The newspaper item wasn’t mentioned again, but Amelia knew it was on everyone’s minds, along with a dozen other vexing questions: Had she been recognized? Who else had seen her? What other trouble had she gotten into?
The best course of action, Amelia decided, was to be on her best behavior. She would do her very best to communicate to one and all that she was an innocent angel who couldn’t possibly be embroiled in a scandal.
It was necessary. The more she thought about her situation with Alistair—and she spent far more time than she cared to admit engaged in such thoughts—the more it became clear to her that her reputation in society was too precarious to weather such a scandal. Ditto for her siblings. Much as she hated to admit it, her best behavior was essential (or someone else’s best behavior). She might also think of marrying well. Very well. Better than Alistair well.
