The Ardent Lady Amelia

by Laura Matthews

  When the two had ridden beyond her line of vision, she sat down to write a note to Clarissa Shipton in London, since she couldn’t think of another thing to do with herself that might not advertise the fact that she was being excluded from her own house party. Not that she had invited any of these tiresome guests, but they were, after all, at Margrave, and she lived here, for heaven’s sake. The thought of paying another call on the Carsons was not at all appealing.

  By mid-afternoon she’d exhausted all the possibilities of directing Mrs. Lawson at her housekeeping duties, had given up on the book she’d tried to read, and had wandered out-of-doors with a basket purposefully slung over her arm and a pair of flower-cutting shears in her hand.

  Amelia was not particularly good at flower-arranging, but the task gave her something to do, and she thought she might catch Mlle. Chartier and Verwood on their return from their ride. It was her duty as hostess, she assured herself, to find something for the French girl to do which would keep her out of Verwood’s clutches for the rest of the afternoon, or until Peter returned.

  But the pair didn’t pass her and she began to wonder just what they were doing out there on their horses for this lengthy period of time. Mlle. Chartier had said (Amelia had overheard her) that she was a little afraid of horses. Was Verwood using his nonexistent charm to convince her of the joys of equestrianism? Or was something entirely different happening? Really, it was too bad of Verwood to try to steal Peter’s inamorata right out from under his nose at his own house!

  She was bending over to cut her third tulip (her thoughts had decidedly slowed the speed of her activity), when she noticed a pair of top boots, with feet in them, directly beside her own feet. Startled, she straightened up to find herself staring into the viscount’s amazing black eyes. “How did you get here?” she gasped.

  “I walked,” he explained. “My knee is hardly troubling me at all today. But I would have crawled if necessary.”

  Amelia was not going to let this sort of negligent flattery deter her from impressing on her mind that the man was incredibly light on his feet. Or he had an aversion to walking on the gravel path she herself had trod, which crunched under one’s shoes. “Well, you can crawl back to the house,” she informed him. “I would be greatly diverted by the sight.”

  “Undoubtedly.” He lifted the basket from her arm, which he tucked under his own, without a by-your-leave. “I thought we might stroll around the grounds a bit.”

  “Did you?” Amelia left her arm where it was, but didn’t move. “I’m rather busy just now.”

  “Your Aunt Trudy gave me to understand it would be expected of us.” Verwood smiled at her, a quizzing, hateful sort of smile.

  “My Aunt Trudy doesn’t know what she’s talking about sometimes.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said agreeably, urging her forward.

  There didn’t seem any choice but to move with him. Amelia could have protested the need to cut more flowers, but she didn’t think of it. With her arm tucked under his they moved toward the gate into a small orchard. It was a secluded spot, verdant now with new leaves and springy grass. Verwood did not relinquish her arm as he pushed open the short gate, nor did he speak as they strolled along beneath the trees.

  “Did you have a nice ride?” she asked at last.

  “Very pleasant.”

  “How does Mlle. Chartier ride?”

  “Not so well as you, but adequately.”

  They continued to walk through the trees, getting farther and farther from the gate and the house. There was no one about, just birds singing in the trees and the rustle of the wind through the leaves. Their own footfalls made no sound on the soft earth. Verwood stopped abruptly under an old apple tree, releasing her arm and setting the basket on the ground before leaning back against the bark. “I’m surprised you don’t wear a bonnet of some sort out-of-doors, Lady Amelia. I thought all young women were fearful of getting too much sun.”

  “It’s hardly the middle of summer,” she protested, nervously toying with a lock of hair under his interested gaze. “I don’t have fair skin, so I don’t burn in the sun.”

  “Your skin has a marvelous golden tone. You would tan well, I imagine. I’ve never particularly liked pale skin on a woman.”

  Mlle. Chartier had a fashionably fair complexion, the sort most prized by the few magazine articles Amelia had read on the subject. She had repeatedly rejected Trudy’s efforts to have her bathe her face with lemon juice or any of the other bleaching concoctions her aunt was fond of suggesting. There was an appreciative light in the viscount’s eyes now that made her slightly nervous. Amelia moistened her lips and said, “Most men are supposed to prefer a fair skin.”

  Verwood nodded knowledgeably, and said nothing.

  His eyes never left her face, and seemed to concentrate now on her wet lips. Amelia turned away from him, trying to dredge up some semblance of conversation, with her insides feeling very peculiar indeed. He had the most astonishing effect on her insides. And it was hard to think when the blood was throbbing in her temples. Not at all like the headache, in conjunction as it was with a delicate flutter in her breast and a pervasive warmth in her body. She thought that if she were to try to hold her hand steady in front of her face she would find it trembling.

  “Do you know how long Peter intends to stay here?” she asked.

  “Oh, as long as you would like him to, I suppose.” He was wearing a faint smile.

  “It doesn’t matter any longer,” she sighed. If Peter left, Mlle. Chartier would leave... and Verwood. Perhaps she could stay at Margrave with Trudy, just to settle herself down a little. This heady sensation, for instance, couldn’t be good for a woman over a protracted period of time.

  “Did you...?” she began, and paused to clear her throat. “Did you see your friend in town?”

  “My friend? Which friend?” He asked it languidly, appearing too distracted by her to pay much attention to the question.

  Amelia was instantly alerted, however. She found it difficult to believe his lordship had all that many friends, and this one in particular it was very important that he had seen, or at least been seen by. For his benefit she assumed a superbly casual air as she said dismissively, “Oh, the one from the army.”

  He regarded her, unblinking, for what seemed a very long time. “Lovell, you mean?” he asked finally.

  “Yes, that was his name.” She could feel herself stiffen for what he would say next, her face hopefully a polite blank.

  “Yes, I saw him briefly.”

  “And were you pleased with his new assignment?”

  “Very. He’ll do well with Moore.”

  Amelia let herself relax at last, and smiled at him. “He seems a pleasant gentleman.”

  Verwood had moved away from the tree to stand too close beside her. He took hold of each of her hands, which had been clenched at her sides, and massaged them with his strong fingers, as though she had told him they were aching. When she looked up to read what this meant from the expression on his face, he bent and touched his lips to hers. Perhaps it was the relief of finding that he really was what he said he was. Perhaps it was that she’d wanted him to kiss her again since that night on the balcony. In any case, she responded to that welcome pressure on her lips, returning it with an eagerness that surprised her. His kiss was long, firm, exciting, and she nestled closer into the circle of his arms, leaning against his chest for necessary support. Her knees felt trembly and her face flushed.

  Verwood whispered something close to her ear, stirring the honey-colored tresses slightly with his breath. “Do you believe me now?”

  Amelia drew back from his arms and met the softened black gaze. “Yes, I believe you.”

  “Good. No more trying to trap me with your questions?”

  She shook her head.

  His smile held a hint of amusement with her, but this was offset by the way his fingers traced the line of her determined chin and came to rest gently against her lips. “I think I’d better
get you back to the house now,” he said softly, and tucked her arm through his, forgetting the basket under the tree.

  Amelia didn’t notice it there, with its few bright red flowers, but hurried to keep up with his long-legged stride.

  Chapter 14

  Gertrude Harting, for reasons known only to herself, invited a neighbor to join their gathering that evening. The only thing that gave Michael Upham respectability was his ancestry, and there was some question about that. He was known to have had Jacobite leanings in his youth, and in his more mature years to have consorted with smugglers. Trudy explained to her surprised relatives that as Michael was an old friend of her dead brother’s, and a neighbor, he was a perfectly logical choice to add to their company after dinner. Her logic escaped the rest of the household.

  Mr. Upham was a rather distinguished-looking gentleman, with grizzled gray hair and a moustache, but his green eyes had a subtly wicked gleam to them and he had a habit of staring at whomever he addressed. He was on the short side, a bit round, though not portly. Trudy knew his age to the day, and it was just over forty years.

  To M. Chartier, Trudy explained, “I’ve known Mr. Upham my whole life. He lives just this side of Winchelsea and he and Rob, my older brother, were the best of friends. There are those who believe he’s involved in the smuggling of brandy, but that’s gossip, of course. He does, it’s true, have access to the most incredible selection of French fabrics and French costumes. I’ve often been allowed my choice at wonderfully reasonable prices. Don’t ask me how he manages to find them, for I don’t know and I’m sure I don’t wish to know!”

  The gentleman in question sported a magnificent blue superfine coat and embroidered knee breeches, in addition to a pearl-gray cravat whose folds were a wonder to gaze upon. The gold buttons on his coat winked cheerfully in the candlelight. Trudy took the opportunity, in an aside to Amelia, to explain that she’d long had a tendre for Michael Upham. Amelia regarded her with astonishment. “You’ve never even mentioned him,” she protested.

  “Well,” Trudy replied, affronted, “I’m sure I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve.”

  “Then why are you telling me now?”

  Trudy chose to ignore this question, turning to Mlle. Chartier to say, “Ah, my dear, I thought we would just get out some music for you. The gentlemen will wish to hear you play.” The gentlemen sat patiently through her rather lackluster performance, and through Amelia’s more inspired, if less technically perfect, one. But the evening was too fine to be spent entirely indoors and Michael Upham’s suggestion that they stroll in the gardens was met with general approval.

  The earl offered his arm to Mlle. Chartier (who seemed in the past few hours to have become “Veronique”), while Amelia found herself flanked by Verwood and Chartier, with Trudy trotting along beside Mr. Upham. This arrangement didn’t last long, however, when Peter’s two collies came racing up to the group, bounding with enthusiasm and a desire to play.

  Somehow the group changed in the process of tossing sticks for the dogs. Amelia noted that Michael Upham and M. Chartier wandered off a bit from the group, talking earnestly but in low voices. Her own gaze hastily sought out Verwood’s to assure herself that he too had noted this instant and suspicious meeting of the two. Verwood merely smiled enigmatically at her and assisted Mlle. Chartier in her attempt to get one of the collies to release the stick in its mouth. Trudy was explaining to the earl that Mr. Upham was really a reformed man, a worthy in the neighborhood, having given over his more youthful peccadilloes.

  Peter looked skeptical but said, “I’m sure I have no objection to your having any of your friends here, my dear Aunt Trudy. He wasn’t, I believe, a great favorite of my father’s, or I would have seen him around more when I was younger. Do you remember him, Amelia?” he asked, turning to her.

  “Vaguely,” she admitted. “Wasn’t he married to one of the Broadwells? I seem to remember she died some years ago.”

  “Yes, very tragic it was,” Trudy said. “A simple cough that developed into consumption. She was never a strong woman, of course. Everyone was surprised when he married a fragile lady, himself such a robust fellow. But that’s the way men are. They like to think they can protect the weaker sex.”

  Involuntarily they all turned to look at Veronique Chartier, who was by far the most delicate among them. She was laughing as Verwood showed her how to get distance on an underhanded pitch, the delicious sound of her laughter bright on the balmy evening air. Peter smiled fondly and went to join them, just as one of the collies, in his excitement, accidentally tangled himself in Verwood’s legs. The viscount’s weak knee gave way and he fell forward onto the ground, despite Peter’s attempt to catch him.

  Amelia heard the thump of his body hitting the earth and his muffled grunt with a sick feeling in her stomach. Before she could reach him, Peter and Veronique were there, assisting him once again to his feet. The Frenchwoman’s eyes were huge with concern and her fingers seemed to fly everywhere in her agitation, brushing the dirt from his cheek and his sleeve and the side of his breeches, all the while begging to know if he was all right. Amelia, unable to be of any assistance to him, grabbed the two dogs by their collars and dragged them out of the way.

  “I’m quite all right,” Verwood insisted, easing himself away from his benefactors. His face looked pinched in the pale evening light, but he offered a rueful smile. “My knee isn’t up to much strain yet. It wasn’t the dog’s fault. He merely brushed against me when I wasn’t expecting it.”

  It was apparent to all of them that he couldn’t put his full weight on the leg, though he tried to stand normally.

  Amelia watched him gauge the distance to the house before reluctantly turning to Peter. “I'm afraid I’ll need your support to my room.”

  “Well, of course.” The earl put an arm around Verwood’s waist and the two men began moving off slowly.

  “What will you need to put on it?” Amelia called, her voice sounding overly loud to her own ears.

  Verwood paused to look around at her. “Boiled towels,” he said with a grimace.

  “I’ll have Mrs. Lawson send them right up to you.” She kept hold of the dogs’ collars until the men were inside the house, then released them and hurried off toward the rear entrance, which led into the servants’ quarters. The housekeeper’s room still had a light shining under the door, and Amelia knocked lightly.

  Mrs. Lawson appeared in her usual black bombazine, her hair still neatly gathered in a bun at the back of her head. “Lady Amelia,” she said, surprised. “Is there something amiss?”

  “One of the collies jumped on Lord Verwood, who has a bad knee. He needs boiled towels. Lord Verwood does, not the collie.” Amelia felt she was doing less than justice to the situation. “His lordship suffers from a bullet wound in his knee, from when he was in Egypt with the army. He has a limp, and any strain seems to cause him a great deal of pain. Perhaps you would have some brandy sent up, as well.”

  “Of course, my lady.” She studied Amelia closely for a moment. “I think you might have a sip yourself. You look a little peaked.”

  Amelia waved aside the suggestion. “No, no. I don’t need a thing. Thank you, Mrs. Lawson.” She had already turned to go, but stopped to confess, “I haven’t always believed him about the knee. You’ll see that he has everything he needs, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Lawson followed her out into the hall but turned toward the kitchen when Amelia headed back for the gardens.

  What she wanted to do was go directly to Verwood’s room. She wanted to apologize for not always believing him, and to lay a cool hand on his possibly fevered brow. It made her furious to think that it had been Veronique Chartier who had brushed off his bruised cheek and discharged the dust from his coat and breeches. She should have been the one. Perhaps she was even strong enough to have had him lean on her as he hobbled to the house and up the wide stone staircase. But of course it was only reasonable that Peter should have done that. She couldn
’t very well help him out of his breeches and place hot towels on his naked leg.

  She’d have liked to, though.

  There were still several people in the garden. Trudy was chatting with Veronique, and Michael Upham and M. Chartier remained in close conversation. Amelia pushed back straggling strands of her hair and joined her aunt. “Mrs. Lawson will see that he has everything he needs,” she said.

  “The poor man!” Veronique exclaimed. “Your aunt was just telling me that he sustained his wound in the war, Lady Amelia. How frightful for him. I had noticed his limp but I had no idea the knee continued to trouble him. Miss Harting says you have yourself sent him home from an entertainment to which he escorted you when you could see he was in pain. How terribly kind of you! I’m not positively sure I would even notice.”

  Amelia frowned at her aunt, but merely nodded absently to the younger woman. “Shall we retire now? I dare say none of us feel much like further merriment when Lord Verwood is so discomforted.”

  “Certainly not!” Veronique agreed, twisting about to call musically to her brother. “Henri! We are going in now. Are you coming?”

  Chartier bowed politely in their direction, smiled, and said, “Not quite yet, my dear, if you don’t mind.”

  An exciting idea occurred to Amelia as she followed the other two women into the house. There was nothing to stop her from pretending to go to her room, then escaping back into the garden to eavesdrop on what the two men were discussing with such obvious interest. It might tell her something very important about Chartier, something she could share with Verwood when he was better. And there was no risk in it. She knew the grounds around Margrave as well in the dark as in the daylight.

  There was every need to hurry, however, for when Peter returned the two men would doubtless join him for a glass of brandy before Mr. Upham left for his own home. Amelia separated from her aunt and Veronique at the top of the staircase. When they were out of sight and their voices had dimmed to a faint murmur, she tiptoed back down, detouring to the closet under the stairs to wrap a dark cloak over her jonquil evening dress. She had rather hoped Verwood would especially notice her gown, as it was one she hadn’t worn in London. But he hadn’t seemed to pay any particular attention. A pity. She was convinced it was the most flattering dress she owned.