The Ardent Lady Amelia

by Laura Matthews

  “He didn’t complain of any pain.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t, would he? It’s for you to be aware of when he has tired, and suggest a brief respite.”

  “Oh, I gave him quite a long… respite,” Amelia assured her, experiencing a most unnerving wave of remembered heat through her body. This might be the best time to inform her aunt that there was no longer any possibility of a marriage between her and Verwood, she decided stubbornly. “Aunt Trudy, I think I must tell you—”

  A loud knock at the front door electrified the phlegmatic Trudy into action. “We’ll speak later, my dear,” she said, tripping down the stairs. “That will be Mr. Upham come to call on me.” And she disappeared around the bend in the steps before Amelia could utter another word.

  All to the good, Amelia decided as she made her way to her room. Trudy would have nothing but disapproval for her rejection of Verwood’s offer, and wasn’t likely to understand the reason for it, since she was convinced that Amelia held an affection for the viscount. And that was indisputably true. Amelia had been almost too impatient, waiting for Verwood to join her in the Summer Parlor, to open her friend’s letter at first. But as the time lengthened, she used it as a distraction, assuming her brother was delaying the viscount with his good wishes. She had been unable to believe her eyes when she came upon the incriminating sentence, and read it over and over until it was engraved on her mind.

  Her room felt stuffy from the heat and she crossed to throw open a window, letting the cool breeze waft against her now-flushed cheeks. From feeling drained and cold, she noticed she had become slightly feverish. How could he have so callously lied to her, allowed her to base her trust in him on an acknowledged untruth? She had wanted so badly to believe him, had prayed he would make the right answer. Her relief had been like a weight lifted from her heart.

  A sham, all of it. Oh, he probably was Lord Verwood, Amelia couldn’t seem to think straight enough to decide if this was unlikely. She crossed the room to pour water from the pitcher into the basin and dipped her handkerchief in it and bathed her wrists. Then she lay down on her bed and put the cloth on her forehead, which had started to ache abominably. This brought very little comfort, though, since she was unable to stop the thoughts that raged through her mind. Eventually, out of sheer exhaustion from the emotional swings of the day, she fell asleep.

  It was late afternoon by the time she woke. Cooler air was creeping through the open window, chilling her where she lay uncovered on the bed. Her stomach was also rumbling in protest against not being fed for so long, and she grimaced as she sat up and the clammy handkerchief dropped into her lap. The case clock on her mantel indicated it was still an hour until dinner, but she decided to dress now and go down to the drawing room ahead of time. Bridget came immediately when she rang, looking concerned.

  “They sent me to look in on you when you didn’t come for luncheon,” she said. “We were all that worried. But you were sleeping peaceful as a babe. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Fine. I’ll dress now for dinner. When we’re finished, have the kitchen send a bowl of fruit to the drawing room, please.” As Bridget helped her out of her walking dress, Amelia tried not to think of Verwood’s hands ranging over her bosom that morning. She was reminded, however, that she’d lost quite a few hours, which might have been important ones. “Has anyone left or come?” she asked.

  “Mr. Upham called. That’s all I know of.”

  “No one came for Lord Verwood? A servant, perhaps?” Bridget shrugged her gaunt shoulders. “If one did, I never heard of it.”

  “Did his lordship go out riding?”

  “Mercy, Lady Amelia, I can’t be watching what all the guests do. If you’d told me you wanted me to, I’d have made it my business, of course. Far as I know, he stayed in the house all afternoon, but he could just as easy have gone out. I was mending with Mrs. Lawson in the sewing room, and pressing your dress for this evening. Shall I ask round?”

  “Heavens, no! It was just idle curiosity. Ordinarily I would have seen to his entertainment. That will be fine, Bridget. If you’d just see to the bowl of fruit…”

  Amelia walked rather nervously into the drawing room a few minutes later, assuming (hoping) that Verwood would not yet be there, or that if he were, there would also be someone else. Again she was out in her luck. He was there, alone, and he looked as though he’d been waiting for her. He was already in evening dress, his black locks still damp, either from a bath or from an attempt to coax them into some manageable style. His hair looked ridiculous to her, she was so used to its endearing disarray. If it had been any other time, she might have teased him about it.

  “Are you well?” he asked, not moving toward her.

  “Quite well,” she said, though actually she did continue to feel a little weak and feverish.

  “And are you still determined against me?”

  The pain in his expression she found unbearable. But he had caused her a great deal of pain, too. The best she could manage, in all fairness, was, “I haven’t found any reason to change my mind.”

  Bighton entered the drawing room bearing an enormous silver bowl filled with fruit, which he set on the spider-leg table nearest her. “I trust you’re feeling better, Lady Amelia,” he said.

  “Yes, thank you, Bighton. Starved, though. I appreciate your bringing the fruit.” She helped herself to an apple as he left. When the door had closed again, she turned to Verwood. “Has your man returned from following Chartier?”

  “Not yet.” He raked fingers through his hair until it looked quite normal again. “I thought about what you said, Amelia, and I can understand your disappointment and annoyance, your feeling of betrayal. And I realize it’s asking a great deal of you to put your trust in me again, but I wish you could. Isn’t there some way I can persuade you?”

  Amelia was silent for what seemed a long time. When she finally spoke, it was to ask, “When your man returns and tells you where Chartier is, what do you intend to do?”

  Verwood sighed, frustrated that she wouldn’t respond to him. “If he’s back in this area, I suppose I will go to him, try to catch him in the act of climbing into a boat. That would be evidence enough to press him for some explanation. Perhaps Peter could bring a little pressure to bear on Mlle. Chartier.”

  “Would you let me come with you?” It was not an idle question, nor one to which she expected an immediate negative. This was her answer to his question “Isn’t there some way I can persuade you?” She made this perfectly clear by the steady way she returned his gaze, the defiant tilt to her chin.

  “Dammit, Amelia, it could be dangerous. If he’s planning to use one of the smuggling boats to get to France, there are going to be men there who don’t want to be seen by someone like me... or you. You can’t really expect me to take the woman I love into a situation like that! It will be dark in all likelihood and we’ll have to be careful to catch them off guard. Be reasonable.”

  Amelia was not feeling much like being reasonable. She took a hard bite out of the apple, chewed it thoughtfully and said, “I want to come with you.”

  “I can’t allow it.” He made a helpless gesture with one long hand. “Not even to earn your trust. Can’t you see that? What kind of man would I be to endanger your life just so I could win you? It’s not a reasonable request. How would I ever forgive myself if something happened to you?”

  “That would be your problem, of course, for I should be dead,” she rejoined callously. “If I weren’t dead, I would marry you. Otherwise I shan’t.”

  He muttered something that sounded very much like “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” and wandered off to the cold hearth. “I’ll have to think about it,” he said aloud, stalling. “After all, Amelia, you’ve told me you’re not really all that brave. I can’t think you would like to be in much danger.”

  Which was perfectly true. But she wasn’t going to see him go into a hazardous situation himself without her by his side. The possibility that he coul
d fend better for himself if she wasn’t there never occurred to her. She had already put herself to a great deal of trouble to find out if Chartier was a French spy, and she wanted to be there when the solution was finally reached. It was Chartier who had blabbed to Verwood about her in the first place. Not that that had proved entirely without its positive side, of course, but the Frenchman certainly hadn’t intended it to.

  Amelia frowned at him. “I can be as brave as the next one. If you don’t take me with you, I shall find a way of getting there myself.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Chapter 20

  Mr. Upham had joined them for dinner again. Amelia had felt decidedly suspicious with the extraordinary amount of time the men took over their brandy and port. It seemed likely to her that during that period Verwood’s man had come and the viscount had set about making arrangements for catching Chartier in the act of setting sail for France. But no one said anything throughout the excruciating length of an evening spent at cards. Not one of them seemed to cast furtive glances at the clock, or at his pocket watch. If there was an air of expectancy about their waiting, Amelia was at a loss to discover it. They seemed, if anything, in amazingly high spirits, and any little thing was a cause for amusement, which was not an uncommon aftereffect of having drunk more than was quite good for them.

  The party broke up at just going on eleven, with Trudy announcing that she was for her bed. Amelia suspected that one of the gentlemen had induced her to make this move, but she hadn’t been able to catch one of them at it. Trudy shepherded Veronique Chartier and Amelia off with her, waving a cheerful good night to the men, who remained standing about the drawing room as though they had nothing more significant to do than chat about the price of corn.

  Amelia was loath to go but decided that if Verwood hadn’t taken the opportunity to draw her aside and confide in her, she would have to make plans of her own. And the first thing she needed to do was to get out of her evening dress and into something more suitable for a ride to the coast. She allowed Bridget to undress her and slip her nightdress on before dismissing the girl.

  Every riding costume she owned looked unusually cumbersome as she made her way down a row of them in her wardrobe. She had just decided on the emerald-green one when a knock came at her door. For a moment she froze, and then she tiptoed over to the door and whispered, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Alexander, love.”

  Well, really, it was a startlingly frank way for him to introduce himself at such a time. Nonetheless, Amelia opened the door to him. (It was a flannel nightdress she wore, singularly unrevealing, more was the pity.) The riding habit was slung carelessly over her arm and as he entered he said, “You won’t want that. I’ve brought you a pair of pantaloons and a shirt.”

  “You’re going to let me come with you?” she squeaked.

  “Obviously I had no choice,” he said with a sigh, setting the clothing down on the bed. “I couldn’t very well let you go off by yourself, could I?”

  Recovered from her initial shock, she said sternly, “I should hope not.” She regarded the gray pantaloons and white shirt somewhat skeptically. “Is that all men wear?”

  “Well, we wear drawers, of course, but I didn’t think any of mine would fit you.” He continued perfectly seriously, “We can roll the legs up on the pantaloons and tie a string round your waist to hold them up. And it doesn’t matter if the shirt is too large. You’ll have riding boots of your own, and I thought you could simply wear your cloak to cover it all.”

  “I suppose so,” she said doubtfully. “Aren’t you going to leave while I dress?”

  “If you want me to.”

  “Well, of course I want you to,” she said, blushing. “I mean, since you’re letting me go, I suppose I shall have to marry you, but I haven’t anything on under the nightdress, and... Well, something should be saved for when we’re wed.”

  “Do you think so?” His eyes were wide with innocence. “You may need help with the pantaloons.”

  “I’ll manage. You wait in the hall.”

  Verwood did as he was instructed.

  In the end, Amelia decided to leave the nightdress on and put the other garments over it. Otherwise one could rather see through the shirt and that didn’t strike her as particularly desirable. The waist on the pantaloons was far too large and she pulled the door open a few inches to ask, “Did you bring string?”

  He dug in his pocket and produced a ball of twine, which he handed her without a word.

  When she had accomplished her dressing to her own satisfaction, she opened the door again and waved him in. “How do I look?”

  His eyes trailed from her flushed face to her booted feet. “Splendid. There was a tinker who used to come through the village in Derbyshire who looked remarkably like that. Baggy breeches, and a shirt stuffed with cloths to keep him warm.

  “It’s my nightdress,” she explained. “I kept it on.”

  “Very appropriate.”

  His eyes were sparkling with laughter, though he tried very hard to keep his lips from straying into a grin. Amelia chose to ignore this inappropriate lightheartedness. They had serious business ahead of them. “What’s happening with Chartier?” she demanded, breathless with excitement.

  “He kept his carriage as far as Tunbridge, where he took a room at an inn for the night. Terwick saw him send off a messenger shortly afterwards and this morning the messenger returned. Then Chartier left the carriage there and returned here on horseback. He took a room at that unsavory inn southeast of Winchelsea right near the water and made an excursion up the beach about a mile on foot. Then he returned to the inn and has been there ever since. Terwick came just after dinner to tell me.”

  “Aha!”

  Verwood shook his head at her, unable to resist smiling this time. “Amelia, you really are too much. Don’t you think you’d be just as happy if you crawled between your sheets and had a good night’s sleep? I promise I’ll tell you everything that happened in the morning.”

  “Never!” she declared, inspecting herself one last time in the glass. “Should we go now?”

  He was reluctant to leave. “Perhaps, considering the danger of the expedition, you would just give me a kiss before we do. I’ve never been kissed by a lady wearing pantaloons before.”

  “Aren’t we in a hurry?” Amelia wanted to kiss him, needed to kiss him, but was anxious about the possibility of missing out on all the adventure.

  “They’re saddling the horses. You’ll be on Cleo but I’ve had them put a regular saddle on her. They aren’t to know at the stables that it’s you going out at this hour of the night.”

  “I see.” She considered this a minute. “Well, I shall pull the hood of my cloak forward so they won’t see my face.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Peter’s bringing the horses round to the side of the house.”

  “Peter’s going with us? And he agreed that I could go?”

  “I explained the situation to him. He wasn’t very happy with you, Amy, but he was forced to admit it was better than seeing you wander off on your own.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t just lock me in my room.”

  “He considered it; then he decided it was safer to take you than chance your breaking a leg trying to climb down on sheets or something.”

  Amelia wondered if she’d even have thought of doing such a thing, but she didn’t tell Verwood so. Really, it was quite unbelievable that they’d decided to let her come. She felt a little uncomfortable with the power she’d wielded, and more than a little frightened of being out on the beach with dangerous smugglers and a French spy. What if they thought the revenuers were after them? Surely they would turn into thugs, or worse. She crept closer to Verwood and turned her face up to him for a kiss.

  Obligingly he closed her in his arms and pressed her firmly against him. His kiss was almost nostalgic, sweet and tender, as though it might be their last. Amelia shuddered against him.

  “Why do
n’t you stay here and wait for me?” he whispered against her hair.

  Actually, there was nothing, at the moment, Amelia would have preferred doing, but she pulled away from him with a show of indignation. “You won’t fob me off, Alexander. If you go, I go.”

  “I shouldn’t let Peter go alone. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  As though he would ever seriously consider staying with her, she thought, outraged. He was just trying to make her feel guilt-ridden. “We’ll all go.”

  He gazed deep into her eyes for long moments. “Very well,” he said at last, resigned. “We’ll all go.”

  Margrave was uncannily dark and Amelia was relieved that he held on to her hand as they descended the stairs. She found her cloak in the closet without any difficulty and he gallantly wrapped it about her, taking this last opportunity to hug her. They went out the side door into the brisk, moonless night. There were three horses on the riding path, one of them already with its rider mounted.

  Amelia was a little nervous of her brother’s reception, but he merely nodded to her as Verwood helped her onto Cleo. She had never ridden anything but sidesaddle, and straddling the horse felt unfamiliar. Cleo sidestepped a few paces, as unaccustomed as her rider to this unusual arrangement, but Amelia easily brought her under control, maneuvering the mare between Verwood’s horse and her brother’s. They walked the animals until they were out of hearing distance of the house, and then broke into a canter.

  It was exhilarating to ride astride, to be a real part of the gentlemen’s enterprise—or so Amelia told herself. Certain aspects of it made her rather dubious: the ominous roar of the ocean getting closer and closer, her inability to see exactly where they were going, the grave silence that came from each of the men, the fear of what lay ahead. If she hadn’t been so wretchedly stubborn, she’d be in her own bed right now, dreaming of the viscount, no doubt, and feeling a whole lot warmer and more cheerful.