by Maya Rodale
Chapter 20
In which our hero resorts to bribery.
This time, when he called on the Cavendish family, Alistair was ready. It had become clear to him that in order to win Amelia’s heart, he would have to gain the approval of her family.
Having grown up without much family to speak of, he longed to join the ranks of the Cavendish clan, and yet they terrified him all the same. James said little but missed nothing. Claire was reputed to be more intelligent than half the ton. Bridget was known to speak her mind freely. And Amelia was unpredictable. And then there was the duchess of Durham, who had been terrifying the haute ton for decades.
Not being above bribery, Alistair arrived with gifts for the ladies.
For Lady Bridget, he brought a fine pen, saying, “Lady Amelia tells me that you love to write.”
Reading her sister’s diary was one of those things Amelia had chattered away about as they walked through the gardens at Vauxhall.
But Bridget’s brows arched up high. “Does she now?”
Amelia just laughed; her sister clearly did not share her amusement.
For Lady Claire, he brought a new book on mathematics.
“I hope you haven’t read it already. I also hope it isn’t too simple. I had a look at it and was completely confounded, but that isn’t saying much.”
“No. This is wonderful, thank you,” Lady Claire said. If he wasn’t mistaken she seemed genuinely touched. He wondered if, as a lady, perhaps she wasn’t encouraged in such pursuits?
For the duchess, he brought flowers: elegant hothouse blooms that had cost a small fortune, which he’d won off Lord Burbrooke in a card game at White’s.
“Aren’t you a charmer, Mr. Finlay-Jones,” she murmured. “I am appreciative of the gesture but not at all fooled.”
“It’s really just bribery,” he said honestly.
For Amelia, he brought one orange. He grinned as he tossed it to her. She caught it easily and smiled.
“I don’t suppose that has some significance,” Claire said. “Some secret, romantic significance known only to the two of you.”
“I don’t suppose I would tell you if it did,” Amelia replied.
“I don’t suppose that I would read about it in your diary,” Bridget said. “Oh wait, you are too busy reading mine to write your own.”
“Dear Diary, Lord Darcy and I—”
“Amelia!”
Alistair watched the back and forth—teasing comments, sly grins, a spark of amusement to reveal that it was really all in good fun and there was no love lost.
“Hush, you two,” Claire chided her sisters. “We have a guest. A gentleman guest whom I’m guessing Amelia does not wish to be embarrassed in front of.”
“It is actually heartwarming to see such familiar banter,” he said. “It wasn’t something I had much experience with growing up.”
“Wrotham isn’t known for being lighthearted, kind, or humorous,” the duchess said.
Alistair did not correct her. But it felt wrong to completely malign the man.
“He has his faults. But he has also done right by me. Wrotham took me in when I had nowhere else to go.”
Even though Wrotham had made it clear it was only some notion of duty and appearances, not because he actually wished to do so.
“How good of him,” Claire said. Then, grinning, she added, “We were just speaking the other night about leaving Amelia behind because she is such trouble.”
“Claire!”
“He should know what he is getting into with you,” Claire said with a loving smile.
“I already have an idea,” Alistair added.
“Is that so?” the duchess arched one brow. Shit. He should not have said that. He glanced at the duke, who was not pleased.
“And yet here you are,” Bridget said, eyeing him.
Aye, he knew about Amelia, for better or for worse, and here he was trying to bribe and charm and court his way into her heart.
“And here I am, listening to the lot of you talk about me as if I weren’t here,” Amelia said crossly.
“What did I tell you about ladies being seen and not heard?” the duchess said flatly . . . though . . . was that a glimmer in her eye? Was she teasing?
“I have no idea, Josie,” Amelia replied flippantly. “I’m sure I wasn’t paying attention that day.”
By some miracle, they found themselves alone in the foyer as he was taking his leave. The tension, the something between them was real. He could feel it. The look in her eyes said she could too.
With no one looking, he tugged her close for a kiss. Lips colliding, a sharp intake of breath, the soft murmur of surrendering. The quick, passionate sort that is not nearly enough but everything all at once.
Alistair stopped, reluctantly.
His heart was pounding.
Amelia pressed her fingertips to her lips and smiled.
A short while later, Alistair left Durham House feeling . . . happy. Like he’d found the place in the world where he wanted to belong and where he had a chance of doing so. He felt happy, like he’d found love. Like everything might work out after all.
This, of course, foretold doom.
Later that afternoon
Amelia had been on her way to her bedchamber to change her dress again in preparation for their evening out when Bridget cornered her. She was still tingly and daydreaming from that all-too-quick kiss from Alistair and was not exactly thrilled with an interruption from her sister about an orange.
“He brought you an orange,” she said, stating the obvious.
“Yes. It looked delicious, did it not?” Amelia eyed it, appraising it. “I can assure you that it was.”
“It must have some significance,” Bridget pressed.
“It does,” Amelia said gravely. Just to vex her sister more. Sometimes there was nothing more enjoyable than that. Except, maybe, making love to Alistair, which is something she tried not to think about.
She thought about it frequently. Her cheeks were often pink.
“You really aren’t going to tell me, your dearest beloved sister?” Bridget smiled and put her arm around her.
Amelia took a moment to pretend to consider it. Then she grinned. “Annoying you with a secret is just so much more fun for me.”
“But you don’t deny that I am your dearest beloved sister,” Bridget pointed out.
“You are one of them,” Amelia called out as she walked away. “Top two, certainly.”
First the posy of violets and then the orange did indeed have significance. Both were reminders of their one special day when she could just be Miss Amy Dish, finishing-school escapee, and he could just be Mr. Finlay-Jones, man about town with a pretty girl. Before she knew that he had been assigned to follow her, woo her, wed her. Before her guard had gone up (though perhaps it ought to have gone up sooner).
Either way, here she was with an orange and a posy of violets pressed between her tattered copy of Burton’s Guide to London. Perhaps, most important of all, Alistair had been here as well, courting her properly and charming her family. He kissed her and stopped before anyone could catch them and demand a wedding.
Her grudge began to falter.
In which everything goes wrong.
A few days later
Everything was going so well. His efforts to woo Amelia were being met with some success—there was that waltz, that kiss, the way they couldn’t help but banter.
And he was falling for her more and more.
There was that waltz when he was all too aware of her and was reminded of what it felt like to make love to her. There was that kiss; it took all of his self-restraint to end it. There was the way they laughed and teased and she always said what she was thinking. The way he could not stop thinking about her.
When he saw her at the Marleton ball, Alistair knew he had to marry her. It was no longer about orders or wants, but an aching need to have her in his bed, in his life, as his wife.
The entire Cavendish c
lan greeted him warmly. He was not certain if it was because they genuinely liked him or because they genuinely liked teasing Amelia about him. Probably a bit of both.
But he was especially glad of the kind reception; he started thinking about speaking to the duke of his intentions to wed Amelia.
He had some notion of doing so without giving away their secret. Alistair dared to hope that perhaps he could have his cake and eat it too—a love match with Lady Amelia and earning the baron’s approval and forgiveness. He could save the Wrotham estate and make love to Amelia. It was almost too good to be true.
That should have been his first clue.
His second clue was Wrotham. The baron was also in attendance this evening. Alistair waited until Wrotham was engaged in conversation with someone before he went over to say hello—one must keep up appearances by conversing at public functions. But one might also choose a moment when an acquaintance was present to prevent overly familiar conversation.
Wrotham gave Alistair a snide smile. Alistair felt a knot of despair. They were family. And yet, they were not. Not like Cavendishes were family—Alistair glanced over and saw them standing in a pack, chattering and laughing happily amongst themselves. He promised a waltz to Lady Amelia and couldn’t wait for it to begin.
But first, familial duty.
He exchanged pleasantries with Wrotham, who then introduced him to one Lord Shrewsbury, who was a tall, gray-haired dandy. He had a monocle.
“This is Mr. Finlay-Jones. My”—the baron coughed as he said—“heir.”
“Ah, the nephew who has been traveling,” Shrewsbury said, surprising Alistair. He couldn’t imagine that he had any knowledge of Alistair’s existence, let alone interest in his activities. And yet: “And where have you traveled, young man?”
“Paris, Vienna, Rome. India.” Alistair rattled off places.
“Ah. I see.” Lord Shrewsbury peered at him through the monocle. Alistair was not quite sure what he saw, but had the distinct impression it was not good.”
“But he’s back now, ready to resume his place in society,” Wrotham said.
“Ah. I see,” Lord Shrewsbury said again. “You have been courting one of the Cavendish sisters, have you not? There has been gossip.”
And now it was Alistair’s turn to see: this Lord Shrewsbury was the rare breed of male gossip who trucked in the goings-on of all and anybody but himself.
“It was my idea,” Wrotham said.
Alistair hated that his romantic status was being discussed so casually, as if a mere tidbit of information to be traded. As if it wasn’t his future happiness. More than that, Alistair hated that that was true. The courtship had been Wrotham’s idea. And Alistair couldn’t lie and say that potentially earning the baron’s approval by wedding a woman Alistair happened to love wasn’t a fact.
“Given all the gossip about the Cavendish family, I daresay those girls will need to make splendid matches. Yes, their brother is a duke, but . . .”
Lord Shrewsbury did not need to finish his sentence to make himself understood. Not even a lofty title could make one forget that James Cavendish spent most of his life mucking around in horseshit. Hardly dignified.
Alistair was tremendously relieved when he heard the orchestra start to play a new song, providing him an excellent excuse to quit this conversation.
“Excuse me. I promised this waltz to Lady Amelia.”
“And she’s the most scandalous one of them all,” Shrewsbury murmured.
Something happened as Alistair crossed the ballroom. Something terrible and tragic. Something called logic and reason took hold of his brain.
Truth: The Cavendishes were scandalous.
Truth: Alistair was hardly good ton.
Truth: Together they would only drag each other down socially.
When Alistair thought of Amelia’s kiss, or the way she always seemed to be smiling, her enthusiasm, the way her body felt against his, then there was no choice—he had to marry her. It was a driving need.
But when he considered the truth of their situation, he realized that in spite of her kiss, or her sense of humor and delight in the world and the way her body felt against his, they might never be truly happy.
He wanted her to be truly happy.
Alistair looked back over his shoulder at Wrotham; that was a mistake.
The baron was smiling. Like he’d already won.
Another truth hit Alistair between the ribs.
If he married Amelia now, it would be so he could settle his debts with Wrotham. Hell, he would be forever settling debts. The baron would press upon Alistair the need for some of her dowry. A repair here, a tradesmen’s debt there. Repayment for years of schooling, etc. Would the baron lord it over them that their match had been his idea? He was the kind of man who would expect their eternal gratitude and their firstborn son named in his honor. What snide and stupid remarks would the baron make at family suppers that would forever cause strife between husband and wife?
All because of Elliot’s death, which had been Alistair’s fault.
In an effort to repay one debt, would Alistair then incur another, to Amelia for saving him with her hand in marriage and fat dowry? Would he owe her, too?
She deserved better than all that, better than him. He loved her, yes, but how could he move forward to his future when his past had such a tight grip around his present? Could a social outcast like himself make a woman on the edge of scandal happy?
“Alistair, there you are!”
He took her hand. He shouldn’t take her hand.
They started toward the space allotted for dancing.
He glanced around. It seemed everyone was staring and whispering. It would always be like this, would it not? She was prone to scandal and he would never have the clout to make everyone overlook it. They would be miserable outcasts.
He could not do that to her. Alistair would not ruin the rest of her life. Instead, he would ruin her evening.
“I’m sorry, Amelia, I cannot. I must go.”
Alistair was accosted by Darcy on his way out.
“Alistair—” Darcy’s voice echoed in the foyer. Darcy also happened to have the voice that one physically could not disobey.
He turned around, even though he was anxious to loosen his cravat and get the hell out of this ballroom, this house, the high society that he did not belong in.
“What was hell was that?” Darcy asked.
“Nothing.”
Darcy disregarded that.
“You abandoned Lady Amelia before a dance. You left her stranded in the middle of the ballroom. It is not the done thing. I’m given to understand that women do not care for it.”
“I have to go. I don’t belong here, Darcy.”
“Alistair—”
But he had already turned on his heel and stepped out into the night.
Chapter 21
In which our hero finally understands.
There was a letter from the baron the next morning. It was, predictably, another sparsely worded note demanding Alistair dropped everything and come pay a visit for what would certainly be a setdown after what had happened last night.
Even though he was a grown man.
One who ditched women in crowded ballrooms and fled from parties.
No, he was a grown man who recognized the truth of the situation and placed long-term happiness over short-term satisfaction. For once.
The truth, as he saw it, was that he didn’t deserve her. He couldn’t ruin her life by marrying her and bringing along an insufficient social status to allow her to be herself, and an uncle who would sponge off them until the day he died.
This was for the best.
Even if it felt like the worst.
But it was about to get worse, he thought, knocking on the door at number seventeen Curzon Street. Then staring into the butler’s blank expression. Then demanding an audience with Wrotham.
When the butler disappeared to check with the baron, Alistair cooled his heels i
n the foyer. It was there that he encountered the baroness as she descended the stairs. There was no hiding the fact that she had been crying.
When she saw him, she said, “If he hated you less, this might be easier for me.”
“What do you mean?”
He honestly didn’t know.
“Never mind,” she said dismissively. Alistair eyed her, perplexed, as she took a deep breath and forced a smile.
“Calling hours,” she explained. And with that, a footman opened the doors to the drawing room and she swooped in, ready or rather “ready” to receive visitors. What had just happened? What was she about?
The butler returned then, leading Alistair to the baron’s study. He grew up visiting this house and knew the way by heart. He would one day be lord and master of this house. And yet, he was still treated like a guest.
No wonder he never settled anywhere, or knew what home truly felt like.
Knowing that the baron, seated behind the desk, would not acknowledge him—not where there were missives to peruse and opportunities to make Alistair feel small and insignificant, Alistair spoke first.
“Your wife seems upset.”
Not that Alistair was one to speak about upset females. He had left Amelia standing alone in the ballroom. He had walked away without a word. And why?
“She has failed me again,” the baron said witheringly. He turned his attentions back to the paper in his hand. A second later he crumpled it in his fist and slammed it down on the desk. “An heir. All I need is an heir! She has one task. One task. And every month she fails me again.”
Ah. And now Alistair understood the tears in the foyer.
“It might not be her fault.”
“Well it certainly isn’t mine.”
Of course it wasn’t. How dare Alistair make such a suggestion. But while he was making unwelcome observations, he made one more.
“You have an heir, Wrotham.”
Look at me. See me. Be family to me. Love me. Hell, just try to like me.
The baron laughed. “I have you.” He laughed again. “A half-breed wastrel who does nothing but gallivant around the continent. You’re useless. You don’t fit into society. You don’t know anything about managing an estate. You can’t even make a match with the laughingstock of London society. You can’t even get through a waltz with the girl.”
