A gasp right above him caught his attention. He looked up.
Amaryllis!
“Matthew,” she whispered, hardly able to believe her eyes. His dark gaze and flushed face seemed to mirror her own thoughts. Beyond them, a kaleidoscope of humanity twirled past, oblivious to the quiet tableau in their midst.
She stretched out her hand, attempting to help him up. He took it and slowly rose. Leaning against her, he staggered out into the hall, where he collapsed onto a bench and struggled to catch his breath.
“I fear this wound will not heal completely,” he said in a low voice. “I feel like a doddering old man!”
“I’m sure you just need more time, my lord, and … and I shall offer my prayers on your behalf.” Amaryllis twisted her hands together, knowing her face was scarlet. The real issue was not Matthew’s leg but what he must think of her after her declaration. His steady gaze gave her no answers.
“Who was that man I danced with earlier?” she ventured as he remained silent. “He said he was you.”
Matthew looked away and shook his head. “It’s too late,” he said in a choked voice. “I can barely walk right now.”
She stared at him, frowning. “What’s too late? Why would that man say he was you? I don’t understand.”
“Make haste, man!” Perry Haddon appeared, as out of breath as his friend. “I just heard that Snell insulted Lord McAlister in the card room.”
Suddenly, the fog cleared in her brain. Bertie! The plot! Amaryllis turned and dashed toward the card room, ignoring the oaths that followed her as she rudely shoved past the bodies congregating around the card tables.
The man in Renaissance garb struck a man in a red silk domino, Lord McAlister. “Name your seconds!”
Amaryllis felt faint as she understood Bertie’s intention of masquerading as Matthew in order to get him killed in a duel. McAlister would expect Matthew, not Bertie, to meet him on the field of honor—and when Matthew didn’t show up, the man would be even more incensed and challenge him personally. Even if Matthew survived, his reputation would forever be in ruins. She struggled to formulate a plan, knowing she had to do something.
“Stop!”
Her clear voice rang out. Everyone turned toward her. Several men eyed her and made lewd comments about her appearance in a man’s domain. Amaryllis suddenly wished for the anonymity of the mask but didn’t have time to put it back on.
“It is a trick!” she continued, struggling to get air into her starved lungs amid the cloud of tobacco. “That is not Lord Leighton whom you have challenged, but his cousin Bertie Snell!”
The man in the red domino bridled like a horse. “What’s this, Leighton, some kind of schoolboy prank? Remove your mask!”
Bertie impaled Amaryllis with a hate-filled gaze before spinning and bursting through the crowd surrounding him.
“Get him!” someone yelled.
Suddenly all the languid, drawling London bucks acted as one man and went after the escaping imposter. Shouts of Halloa Halloa! rent the air, as though it were a fox hunt.
Amaryllis gripped hold of a drape as they rushed past, needing something to keep her anchored. She closed her eyes, striving to regain her composure. Please, Lord, let Bertie be discovered and Matthew kept safe!
Finally, when all was quiet in the card room, she opened her eyes and walked out to the hall on trembling legs. The noise inside the ballroom took on a fevered pitch when Bertie was caught. She heard her name, along with the viscount’s and his cousin’s, among the babble of excited voices.
It worked! Thank You, Lord.
Amaryllis turned and saw Matthew where he sat on the bench in the deserted hall, his head in his hands. He looked up at her approach, his eyes dark and unreadable. She paused, unable to think beyond the thundering of her heart. A tenuous thread of emotion seemed to hover between them.
Matthew put out his hand. Amaryllis quickly closed the space between them and took it. He pulled her down next to him.
Her mouth dry, she took a deep breath. “I think Bertie has been exposed.”
Matthew gripped her hand. “Miss Sinclair … Amaryllis,” he said in a low voice, “what you said, was that true?”
She knew he wasn’t referring to his cousin or the foiled plot. She gazed down at their clasped hands, her heart swelling with a suffocating longing for him to return her feelings—and with fear that he might be readying to make a mockery of her.
Deciding to unmask the burgeoning truth of her heart regardless of the consequences, she looked up at him and nodded. “It is true that I have fallen in love with you, my lord—”
“What’s this I hear about you interfering with a duel, Amaryllis?”
They turned to see Lady Dreggins stumping into the room, her features crumpled and sour. “I told you it’s unpardonable—that a man will never forgive such an insult even if it’s a case of false identities. Ain’t that right, Leighton?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a wave of her cane.
“I suppose you’ll be calling on the morrow to break the engagement. Well, for once, I can understand. What Amaryllis has done is beyond the pale, and should you cry off, it would be rightly so. Imagine such widgeon-like behavior, after all I’ve done for you, Amaryllis—”
Matthew cleared his throat. “If I might interrupt, Lady Dreggins.”
He looked down at Amaryllis. The sweetness of his smile took her breath away, and the glimmering emotion in his eyes surely echoed the sentiment in her own heart.
Drawing her hand to his lips, his gaze caressing, he murmured, “Alas, I have fallen in love with your charge, my lady, and the engagement most certainly stands.”
A TREASURE WORTH KEEPING
by Kelly Eileen Hake
Dedication
For my fellow library lovers!
Chapter 1
England, 1827
We had a deal!” Stephen Montebourn, Earl of Pemberton, turned from the window to glare at Emma. Grown military men blanched under the force of his gaze, but not his younger sister.
Far from cowering, she met his gaze steadily. Only the telltale red of a blush betrayed her guilt.
“How many are there?” No sense wasting time on anger. For now, he needed a plan to avoid the approaching danger.
“Nine.”
“Specific threats?”
Her hesitant pause underscored the gravity of the situation. “Four,” Emma confessed apologetically.
“Modus operandi?” Stephen regretted the curt way he ground out the words, but information was vital—the enemy was closing in. As well versed in military strategy as his captaincy had left him, he still found his mother, who’d waged many a campaign on the home front, a formidable opponent. The countess’s current mission: to see her only son leg-shackled as quickly as possible. From the moment Stephen arrived home after his father’s death, his mother had begun foisting “marriageable” females on him at every opportunity. It constantly ruined his plans.
“You know, the usual.” Emma paced over to the window. “Although there are some unknown quantities—”
Their mother sailed into the room, effectively cutting Emma off.
“Stephen, it’s time. We need to be ready for them!” His mother’s expression could have been hewn from granite as she set herself for battle. She knew very well that the expert he’d hired to organize and restore the once-magnificent library of Pemberton Manor would be arriving tomorrow.
Stephen collected rare and valuable tomes during his travels and had anticipated the coming month. Finally, after a year of tending to the various properties his father had left him and evading simpering misses with frills and gewgaws—not to mention their determined mamas—he would be able to devote time to his books.
He’d thought he’d survived the worst of her marital campaigns. Early on he’d enlisted his sister, Emma, as an ally and sort of spy in the feminine camp. Unfortunately, Mother had apparently discovered the arrangement and, in a brilliant last
-ditch effort, sprung a house party full of eligible females upon them without either of her children knowing until it was too late.
“Mother, I would have been ready for them, had you informed me they were expected.”
The countess skewered him with a steely gaze. “I know. That’s precisely why I didn’t. For this to be a success, you can’t be miles away!”
Too true. The impossibility of a dignified retreat loomed before him. As the occupants of the first coach emerged, he eyed them with despair, then blinked. Twins? Did his mother really think that mirror images would increase the odds he would choose one as his wife? These young girls couldn’t be his mother’s candidates—surely there must be an older sister … but no. The carriage door shut behind a woman whom he assumed was their grandmother. He bristled. He wanted no schoolroom miss whose head was full of giggles and gowns. When he decided to marry, he would choose a woman to share his life—his heart, his home, his family.
Then again, he reconsidered as his mother glared determinedly at him, we could take a continental tour…. But all of that would be very far into the future. For now, he had to deal with the present ordeal of actually welcoming young women into his home with the pretense that they would be welcome company. In truth, he felt they were all assassins with one target: his bachelorhood.
Paige Turner leaned back against the squabs of the well-sprung hired coach. Papa, despite his protests against the cost of such luxury, snored softly in the opposite seat. Usually, Paige bowed to her father’s wishes, but in this she’d stood firm. When they’d used a less expensive conveyance to visit Lord Linbrooke a scant two months ago, her father’s rheumatism flared with a vengeance. He never complained, but she could always tell when the pain grew. This time, Papa himself decided it was she who needed the extra comfort. She didn’t bother to disabuse him of the notion so long as it would spare his pride and his joints.
Standing five feet, seven inches tall, Paige knew no one else shared her doting papa’s view that she embodied the phrase “delicate blossom of womanhood.” At the advanced age of four-and-twenty, she accepted her status as a spinster, though her father seemed determined to ignore social convention in this regard.
Ever since Mama had died three years ago, Papa had immersed himself in the quest to find a suitable helpmate for his only daughter. Unfortunately, his requirements reflected an elevated estimation of her matrimonial worth. Her father’s determination to see her espoused to one of the gentry sprang from the roots of his own marriage.
When Papa first met Mama, she’d come in to have an old copy of Canterbury Tales rebound. Four months later, their whirlwind, forbidden romance culminated in a quick trip to Gretna Green. Once Mama’s family became aware she had eloped with a commoner, they relinquished her dowry and washed their hands of her forever.
Father determined Paige would receive all the luxury he hadn’t quite been able to give his beloved wife. The only solution was for Paige to “take her place” in society, although she protested her place remained alongside him with the books and work she’d learned to love, not among the callous aristocracy whose cruelty to her mother cut deeply. He stubbornly closed their rare books and bookbinding shop to travel the country, renovating run-down manor libraries in hopes of finding Paige her husband.
“I know what you’re thinking, daughter.” Her father lazily opened one eye to peer at her. “You place too low a value on yourself.”
“Oh, Papa.” She shook her head. “When will you believe me when I tell you that I’m happy? Besides, you’re the only one who doesn’t think I’m on the shelf!”
Her father gave a derogatory snort. “You’re an intelligent young minx with a sense of humor, and I am not the only one to notice. What of Lord Linbrooke? You two got along rather well. It’s a pity there was nothing more I could do….”
Paige’s eyes narrowed at the cryptic comment. “For his library, or to push us together?”
“Both.” His wide grin faded somewhat as he looked at her speculatively. “It’s a pity you won’t wear something other than gray, Paige … blue or green does you much better.”
“Gray doesn’t show the dust, Papa. It’s very serviceable.”
“Makes you look like a maid.”
She hadn’t weathered this same conversation dozens of times only to lose now. She craved no wardrobe crammed with fashionable garments practically impossible to put on without assistance and just as difficult to move around in. She didn’t need to waste time carefully packing, washing, pressing, and repairing expensive, colorful fabrics.
“Look on the bright side, Papa. At least everything I own matches!” Even my eyes. Occasionally, she had to stifle a pang of remorse when she read a book where the heroine had eyes of gorgeous green, sparkling hazel, deep blue, or even intriguing brown. Still, it wasn’t as though she’d never had an offer.
James Tuttle, the baker; Otis Boggs, the blacksmith; and even Lyle Jessup signaled interest at one time or another. Perhaps she was just too exacting. So what if the baker thought bringing a bag of flour every bit as romantic as a bouquet of flowers, or the blacksmith’s idea of a bride price was his earnest offer to shoe her father’s horse free of charge for life, or that the cobbler’s apprentice insisted on taking her for long walks in the new shoes he’d made for her—two sizes too small. They’d all make fine husbands—for someone else.
Paige enjoyed the freedom she’d gained as a spinster, and besides, her father needed her. If she ever married, she wanted a man strong in the Lord, who would love his family and could carry on an intelligent conversation. Papa would also prefer him to be rich, titled, and handsome. Only a complete dunderhead could think matchmaking mamas any worse than a plotting papa!
Matchmaking mamas are a blight. Stephen stepped into the library for a brief respite as the guests prepared for dinner. For the most part, their daughters were just pawns. And to think, he’d actually been looking forward to the next few weeks! Freddy Linbrooke spoke so highly of Samuel Turner and his assistant, Stephen couldn’t wait until they arrived to begin the categorization and renovation of his library. During his military travels, Stephen had greatly enlarged his collection of rare and ancient manuscripts.
There was something about books, especially older books, that appealed to him. He could hardly explain it even to himself. All he knew was that each volume contained not only the knowledge of its author, but also the skill and love of those who translated, scribed, printed, and bound it. Every tome represented the transmission of thoughts, beliefs, and ideas that connected mankind from one end of the continent to the other.
If only men could live up to the ideals found on treasured pages, there would be no war or murder or any of the unspeakable things human beings do to one another. Stephen had long ago made peace with it all, giving his anger and disappointment to God, but he still found himself longing for a world where people weren’t so self-involved. To his way of thinking, these books were tangible evidence that man could look at himself and society critically and attempt reformation.
But one couldn’t live in books forever, and for now, he had a situation to deal with. How could he avoid the trap of marriage to a woman he didn’t, and possibly couldn’t, love?
He brightened as Emma strode into the room. She was already nearing nineteen, years past the age when most debutantes made their coming out. Stephen privately agreed with their mother that young girls fresh from the schoolroom were not ready for marriage, but his sister had long passed that stage. Perhaps this house party would provide her an opportunity to hobnob with some of the people she’d meet in London.
He and his sister had formed a sort of partnership since his return. She’d warn him when Mother planned to throw an eligible female in his path, and in return, he’d arrange for her season. He couldn’t really blame her that Mama had figured out their partnership and made this last ploy to entangle him in matrimony. Father’s death had made Mama aware of her own age, and she was very determined to see her grandchildren.
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“You’ve already met most of the guests, so your first impressions are probably accurate.” Emma got to the point.
“Still, I’d like your opinion. The twins?”
“The Misses Pertelote are seventeen years of age, accompanied by their grandmother, Lady Pertelote. To be honest, none of them seems overly heavy in the brain-box, Stephen. I don’t think you have a lot to worry about there. They’re not mean-spirited or fortune hunters, and they made their come-out a year ago. The only trouble will be telling who is who, since they dress identically, and you don’t want to insult them.”
Stephen took a moment to think it over. Well, it could be worse….
“Miss Abercombe, accompanied by her cousins, Mr. Flitwit and Mr. Ruthbert, is nearing her majority and rather independent. Most think her past her prime, but I believe Mother invited her because she has the reputation of a bluestocking, so she might share your interest in books.”
Why a woman in her early twenties merited the status of unmarriageable was beyond Stephen. Older women were more mature, confident, and interesting. He might enjoy the company of the bluestocking, but he’d take pains to make sure his attention wasn’t misconstrued. He relaxed a bit. He could handle a pair of young twins and an intellectual.
“Why have only two parties arrived?”
“Mother arranged for a rather intimate party in the hopes that the fewer females, the more time you’d have to spend with each of them. She knew Lord Freddy would be coming a bit later after the Turner party arrived for the library, so she didn’t invite many gentlemen.”
“So she only invited three girls and their entourages?” Emma wasn’t meeting his gaze any longer, and Stephen sensed she was avoiding something. “That’s a bit odd.”
“Well …” Emma faltered, cleared her throat, and pushed on. “There is another party.”
Something clunked into place in the back of Stephen’s mind. “She didn’t. She wouldn’t. Not …” His heart plummeted at the misery etched on Emma’s face.
British Brides Collection Page 20
