Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes

by Maya Rodale

  Chapter 26

  Strolling through Mayfair singing bawdy songs was far less embarrassing when one did it in a state of intoxication at a late hour. This Alistair learned later that afternoon as he strolled through Mayfair singing a certain bawdy song.

  By “strolling through Mayfair” it should be noted that he really was pacing outside one particular house. Singing.

  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 . . .

  People passing by looked at him oddly. This was not typical behavior for a gentleman of the ton, which usually involved dressing up to stand around and complain about being bored. Alistair was done trying to fit in. He had a gentleman’s education, gentlemen friends, and a gentleman’s sense of honor. They would accept him or they would not, for reasons beyond his control. Only one woman’s opinion mattered.

  He looked up at all the windows of Durham House and wondered which was hers. Singing outside a woman’s window may have been crazy, but it was also a standard course of action for a man in love.

  Amelia pushed open the window and leaned out, wanting a spot of fresh air before the night ahead. She was supposed to be resting before the ball tonight—one which was sure to be a doozy after the events of the afternoon.

  She heard singing. A man’s low baritone.

  She shivered. Memories.

  Amelia leaned out, straining to hear more. She gasped and smiled when she heard the words. They were horribly inappropriate but held a certain significance.

  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 . . .

  A flash of memory: his voice, a warm summer night, leaning out the window, wanting. Feeling lured by his siren’s song, calling out to her.

  She didn’t think twice about dashing down the corridor—another memory came back to her. Down the servants’ stairs. Yes, it was coming back to her now. Outside, into the garden. Another memory.

  He turned when he heard her approach. Seeing his face, seeing her—that was a memory to treasure forever. It was love and hope and everything she was feeling in her heart.

  “Amelia.”

  “Alistair.”

  “I have come to ask you a question,” he said.

  “And I have a question for you,” she replied, a slight smile. “Ladies first.”

  “Anything,” he whispered.

  “Why?” She waved her hand at the world at large. “Why did you travel so long? I know why you returned, but why did you even agree to try to wed a girl, sight unseen? Why did you still try to woo me after our day together? And why did you leave me on the dance floor that evening?”

  “This is the part where I tell you about my secret pain,” he said, with a half smile. “I was planning on this.”

  Amelia put her hand in his.

  “Amelia, I am half English, half Indian. I am an orphan, raised by a man who never wanted me in his life. As such I have never felt like I quite belonged anywhere—not here, not India, not any of the places I visited on the continent.”

  “That is a feeling I can relate to,” she said softly.

  “I came to England at the age of eight. Wrotham’s ward. I had a cousin, Elliot, who was the brother I never had and the strangely kind, generous, intelligent spawn of Wrotham. He died in a carriage accident. A race that I had challenged him to.”

  “Oh, Alistair . . .”

  “Because we were bored, Amelia.”

  She thought of all the silly, stupid, foolish things she had done because she was bored. The list was long. She bored easily. But nothing had ever really come of it. No one had ever died.

  For a moment, she imagined it. Felt it. Her heart ached for him.

  “I left for the Continent shortly thereafter. There was nothing for me here. No one for me here.”

  “Oh Alistair,” she sighed, full of empathy and heartache. How lonely he must have been. She squeezed his hand to let him know that she was still holding on to him.

  “I felt I owed Wrotham anything. Everything. And if all he asked was that I court a pretty girl whom I quite liked . . .” He shrugged. “I couldn’t say no. I was too desperate to belong, too desperate to earn his approval. But what kind of man did that make me? One who didn’t deserve you. I love you, Amelia. I want you to be happy. And if it so happens that I do not deserve you, I want it to be your choice.”

  What was plain to see: he had conquered these demons for her. There was no greater romantic gesture than standing in the garden, speaking honestly, of what it took for him to arrive at this moment.

  She held on to his hand, a little gesture that she hope conveyed everything in her heart: I love you. I am with you. I am yours.

  It was so simple. So bloody simple to explain himself now that he knew. It only took some brutal honesty from friends, some reflection, some forgiveness.

  Hours in quiet reflection.

  Excruciating minutes in conversation with Wrotham, saying hard things that had needed to be said.

  For this moment: Alistair could tell these truths to Amelia as an important formality to moving forward happily. It was no longer a painful wrenching of the truth from his soul. That had already happened.

  He had suffered through it and persevered so at this moment, he could explain himself to the woman he loved, so that they had more moments after this one.

  Now he was free to just love.

  “I am now Wrotham’s heir, a state of things he despises, which is completely understandable.”

  That was the thing: Alistair did understand. He couldn’t paint his uncle as a villain and dismiss him. The man had suffered unimaginable pain. Though Wrotham would never admit it, he was a man with feelings.

  “He is lucky to have you,” Amelia said.

  And that was why he loved her. Anyone else would see someone of questionable heritage, someone lacking the education to run an estate, the connections to make his way in society, and the money to make everyone forget all that.

  And she thought Wrotham was lucky to have him.

  He would be lucky to be with her.

  “The other thing I have learned—confirmed, concluded, what have you—is that I love you, Amelia. Amy. Whatever your name is, I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Alistair pulled her close, savoring the sweetness of her lips, the warmth of her body against his, the sensation of her in his arms. He never wanted to let go.

  “I love you,” he had to say it again. “You are home to me. I want to be your husband and have adventures with you. I want to have a family with you. I want—”

  “That might happen sooner than you think,” Amelia whispered.

  It took a long moment before he fully understood. She was expecting. They were expecting.

  The other day he had almost walked away from her, and their child, and his family because of his old fears, his old pain. The realization was chilling.

  But then Amelia was warm in his arms, with their baby in her belly, and he wasn’t too late after all. Then he laughed, a sound of joy. Because he had found love, earned love, and would treasure this love forever.

  Then he pulled her close and held her tight. He felt her melt into him, so he wrapped his arms around her and held her close and whispered the words he’d wanted to say since the day they’d met: “I want to be with you, Amelia. Forever. Will you be with me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered happily. “Always. Forever.”

  Epilogue

  White’s

  St. James’s Street, London

  A few years later

  Of all the things that Alistair Finlay-Jones never expected, this was high atop the list: a conversation about which carriages best accommodated a growing brood of brats, with his friend and brother-in-law,
James Cavendish, otherwise known as the Duke of Durham.

  “Your curricle days are over, my friend,” James said.

  “I am glad of it,” Alistair said.

  “Shh. We are not supposed to admit to such aloud. Our manhood will be called into question.”

  “Well, speaking of my—” Alistair began, just to taunt him.

  “Say no more,” James said, holding up a hand. He was still an overprotective older brother.

  Also, they were interrupted, by a not-unwelcome guest who stepped close cautiously and interrupted the conversation nervously.

  “Alistair, hello.”

  He turned. “Hello, Wrotham.”

  “I was wondering if you received my missive.”

  “Yes. I just haven’t had a chance to reply.” Amelia kept him busy, along with their twins, who absolutely took after their mother, given their propensity to cause trouble. “But I am looking into the matter. Of course, I will have to confer with Lady Amelia.”

  “Right.”

  The three gentlemen exchanged an uneasy look, harkening back to the unconventional terms of the marriage contract. To put it simply: Amelia was to have a say in the spending of her dowry, right down to every last farthing. Wrotham didn’t have the complete, unfettered access he had anticipated when he hatched his matchmaking scheme. But the Wrotham estate wasn’t in a state beyond repair, either.

  “The baroness has been badgering me about it,” the baron said. He almost sounded proud to be badgered by his baroness. Quite a turn of events.

  “Congratulations, again,” Alistair said, meaning it completely. He’d been as happy as anyone when the baroness was safely delivered of a baby.

  “It was just a girl . . .” Wrotham said, but there was no hiding his pride and joy. She wasn’t his new heir, but she was his child and his chance to begin anew. “But make no mistake, the baroness assured me she has a strong kick. And you wouldn’t believe the lungs on the girl. And . . .” The baron coughed. “She has Elliot’s eyes.”

  Elliot, who was now a portrait. A memory. A link. And the name of Alistair’s own son. He wasn’t a ghost or a shadow, as he used to be.

  “We will come visit soon,” he promised.

  “Please do,” Wrotham said, clearly meaning it. Then he tipped his hat and nodded good day. They would speak later, and dine together regularly, and they would join the Cavendishes on the holidays, and Alistair would have more family than he had ever imagined.

  “Now, what was I saying?” James asked. “Oh right, Mackle’s new landau design is quite good. It can comfortably accommodate more than a few people.”

  “Ah, there you are, Finlay-Jones. Have you heard? Your wife . . .”

  There was always a long pause after the words your wife. It was typically a long pause, owing to the person struggling to find the words to convey just what trouble Amelia was engaged in now.

  “What has she done?” Alistair asked.

  The man mumbled something about unconventional attire whilst riding at quite a clip in Hyde Park at an unfashionable hour. Alistair pushed his fingers through his hair. This was not news exactly. She had mentioned something about it this morning, but he had been preoccupied by the way her dressing gown kept slipping down her shoulder and then she had been preoccupied by him for the better part of a very pleasurable hour.

  Alistair sipped the drink, thanked the man for telling him, and turned back to James, who just gave him a look.

  “She’s your responsibility now . . .”

  She was his and she practically leapt into his arms when he arrived home a short while later.

  “Alistair! You’ll never guess what!”

  “You wore breeches while riding hell-for-leather in Hyde Park at an unfashionable hour.”

  “How did you know?” She was disappointed not to be the first tell him.

  “I heard a rumor . . .”

  “I swore no one saw me . . .” She pursed her lips. “I shall have to practice the tricks we saw at Astley’s during a weekend in the country then.”

  “You are hard not to notice, lady wife.”

  “Oh hush,” she treated him to a quick flash of a smile and a spark in her brown eyes. “Do you know who is hard not to notice?”

  “One or both of our children?”

  “Yes. Both. They are such trouble. They must get it from you . . .”

  “No, you . . .”

  “This argument again?”

  And so they teased and sparred on their way up the stairs to see their children in the nursery. But not without a little detour on the way, in which Alistair pulled Amelia in for a kiss; the kind he knew would leave her breathless and a little bit dizzy. Or maybe that was him. All he knew was that this was happiness: a kiss on the stairs, regardless of who might see. One stolen moment of many.

  

  Keep reading for an exclusive sneak peek at the third enchanting tale in

  USA Today bestselling author

  Maya Rodale’s

  Keeping Up with the Cavendishes series,

  LADY CLAIRE IS ALL THAT

  In which the mighty hath fallen

  Lord and Lady Chesham’s ballroom

  London, 1824

  It was a truth universally acknowledged that Maximilian Frederick DeVere, Lord Fox, was God’s gift to the ladies of London. He was taller and brawnier than his peers, and in possession of the sort of dark and chiseled good looks that were more often found in works of classical art.

  Everything about him induced sighs.

  Fox strolled through the Chelsham’s ballroom as if he owned it. He nodded at friends and acquaintances—Ashbrooke, with whom he fenced, and Fitzwalter, who he had soundly thrashed at boxing last week, and Willoughby, who was always game for a curricle race.

  Fox flashed his famous grin as he heard the ladies comment when he strolled past.

  “I think he just smiled at me.”

  “I think I’m going to swoon.”

  “God, Arabella Vaughn is one lucky woman.”

  “Was,” someone corrected.

  Fox’s grin faltered.

  That was when his friends Mr. Rupert Wright and Mr. Hugh Mowbray found him.

  “We heard the news, Fox,” Rupert said grimly, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

  “I daresay everyone has heard the news,” Fox replied dryly.

  It didn’t escape his notice that the guests nearby had fallen silent. They were watching him to see how he would react, what he would say.

  “Who would have thought we’d see this day?” Hugh mused. “Miss Arabella Vaughn, darling of the haute ton, running off with an actor.”

  “That alone would be scandalous,” Rupert said, adding, “Never mind that she has ditched Fox. Who is, apparently, considered a catch. What with his lofty title, wealth, and not hideous face.”

  Fox’s Male Pride bristled. It’d been bristling and seething and enraged ever since the news broke that his beautiful, popular betrothed had eloped with some plebian actor. To lose a woman to any other man was insupportable—and until recently, not something that ever happened to him—but to lose her to someone who made his living prancing around on stage in tights? It was intolerable.

  “Just who does she think she is?” Fox wondered aloud.

  “She’s Arabella Vaughn. Beautiful. Popular. Enviable. Every young lady here aspires to be her. Every man here would like a shot with her,” Rupert answered.

  “She’s you, but in petticoats,” Hugh said, laughing.

  It was true. He and Arabella were perfect together.

  Like most men, he’d fallen for her at first sight, catching a glimpse of her tall figure and golden hair from across a crowded ballroom. His breath had caught in this throat.

  Fox remembered his heart racing—nerves!—when he proposed. He remembered the pride he felt as they strolled through a ballroom arm in arm and the feeling of everyone’s eyes on them as they waltzed so elegantly. They were great together. They belonged together.

  Fox also
remembered the more private moments—stolen kisses, the intimacy of gently pushing aside a wayward strand of her golden hair, promises for their future as man and wife.

  And she had eloped. With an actor.

  It burned, that. Ever since he’d heard the news, Fox had stormed around in a high dudgeon.

  “Take away her flattering gowns and face paint and she’s just like any other woman here,” Fox said, wanting it to be true. “Look at her, for example.”

  Rupert and Hugh both glanced at the woman he pointed out—a short, frumpy young lady nervously sipping lemonade. She spilled some down the front of her bodice when she caught three men staring at her.

  “If one were to offer her guidance on supportive undergarments and current fashions and get a maid to properly style her coiffure, why, she could be the reigning queen of the haute ton,” Fox pointed out.

  Both men stared at him, slack jawed.

  “You’ve never been known for being the sharpest tool in the shed, Fox, but now I think you’re really cracked,” Hugh said. “You cannot just give a girl a new dress and make her popular.”

  “Well, Hugh, maybe you couldn’t. But I could.”

  “Gentlemen . . .” Rupert cut in. “I don’t care for the direction of this conversation.”

  “You honestly think you can do it,” Hugh said, awed.

  Fox’s Male Pride and competitive spirit flared. He turned to face Hugh and drew himself up to his full height.

  “I know I can,” Fox said with the confidence of a man who won pretty much everything he put his mind to—as long as it involved sport, or women. Arabella had been his first, his only loss.

  “Well, that calls for a wager,” Hugh said.

  The two gentlemen stood eye to eye, the tension thick. Rupert groaned.

  “Name your terms.”

  “I pick the girl.”

  “Fine.”

  “This is a terrible idea,” Rupert said. He was probably right, but he was definitely ignored.

  “Let me see . . . who shall I pick?” Hugh made a dramatic show of looking around the ballroom at all the women nearby. There were at least a dozen, of varying degrees of pretty and pretty hopeless.