by Anne Barton
Tonight, however, would require less embellishment than usual.
She tickled the underside of her chin with her quill as she debated how best to capture the excitement of the evening. And then she began to write.
The devastatingly attractive Lord B. finally landed himself in a predicament that he could neither charm nor fight his way out of. This Author thinks it a shame that the rogue’s injuries—however justly deserved they may be—have marred the countenance that every debutante, married lady, widow, and matron once thought to be sheer perfection.
But that is not the whole story, dear Readers, not at all! Playing nursemaid to the notorious rogue is someone you would never suspect. Not Miss P., or Lady S., or even Mrs. D. It is the never-before-mentioned and completely forgettable Miss W., whose greatest accomplishment prior to this incident was being jilted by Lord V. at a house party.
What can the newly svelte Miss W. be thinking? Has she forgotten the perils of loving a rake? This Author does not believe Miss W. is so dense that she is oblivious to the danger that Lord B.’s considerable charms present to her. But then, perhaps she is a willing victim.
Amelia shook her head. Her dear cousins, Olivia and Rose, were undoubtedly right—she really ought to spend less time reading the gossip rags.
And perhaps venture out of the house now and then.
* * *
Stephen much preferred Amelia’s bedside manner to Dr. Wescott’s. The doctor insisted on checking every damned bone and dressing every tiny cut. As though the routine ass-kicking Stephen had received would be the end of him.
Admittedly, this was worse than his usual ass-kickings.
Which wasn’t to say it was undeserved. He counted himself lucky, in fact, that he still had all his teeth. This was what happened when one borrowed money from the wrong people and didn’t pay it back in a timely manner.
“Broken ribs… some nasty gashes to the head… bruising around the eye,” the doctor was saying. As if Stephen didn’t already know. “I’ll give you some laudanum to help you sleep. Stay in bed for a couple of days, if you can manage it.”
Stephen couldn’t impose on Amelia for that long, but his head pounded too much to argue with the sour-faced doctor. “I’ll try.”
The doctor sighed as though he could already see that his painstaking stitches and bandaging would be for naught. He thrust a glass of foul-smelling stuff at Stephen, who choked it down. After swiping the back of a hand across his mouth, he used his good eye to give the doctor a pointed look. “Do not mention my injuries to anyone. My mother suffers from a weak heart. If she were to find out… well, I fear for her health.”
“Her health? Or your own skin?” the doctor accused.
If Stephen’s head wasn’t pounding like the worst hangover of his life, he might have arched a brow and countered with a biting remark. Instead, he replied honestly. “Both.”
“Look, I can patch up garden-variety cuts and broken bones, but next time?” The doctor snapped his bag shut with more force than was necessary. “You could bleed to death in the street.”
“There won’t be a next time.” Stephen knew this in his bones. Gambling had lost its thrill long before tonight. He was done.
“Right.” The doctor didn’t even try to hide his skepticism as he quit the room.
Stephen’s eyelids grew heavy. He didn’t want to be lectured. He just wanted to sleep. Although he wouldn’t mind if Amelia kept him company. She was the same, sweet young woman he remembered Sam courting, only now she was more… sensual.
He liked the rogue curls that had sprung free from her bun and the way they floated about her neck when she moved. He liked the way she smelled—like raspberry jam and fresh laundry. But mostly he liked the way she’d touched him—with a seductive combination of curiosity and genuine appreciation.
He’d wanted to reach out and loosen the tie of her silky robe till the front gaped open. Of course, a proper miss like her probably wore a modest night rail beneath, but he preferred to imagine her naked, all lush curves and soft skin, begging for his touch. If he had his way, he’d pull her down on top of him, broken ribs be damned, and they would explore and enjoy each other until morning.
Even in his groggy state, he knew that would never, ever happen, but he saw no harm in dreaming of it. Dreaming of Amelia.
Chapter 3
Lord B. had the audacity to appear in mixed company without a cravat—
or jacket… or waistcoat… or shirt…
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
Amelia tumbled into bed and slept for a few hours. When the sun peeked through her curtains she rose, slipped into a yellow morning gown, and scurried down the hall to check on Lord Brookes. She gingerly opened the door to his room, strangely nervous.
Would she find him tossing with fever? Would he have kicked the bed linens to the floor and be sprawled on the bed, naked? Her heart galloped as she peered inside.
She was greatly relieved to find him resting comfortably. And only slightly disappointed to find the coverlet in place.
The morning light revealed that his face was more swollen and bruised than it had been the night before, but when she took a few steps toward the bed, she heard his breathing, soft and even. Thank heaven.
She hurried downstairs to see Samuel. He’d refused to sleep in one of the bedchambers, insisting he’d be perfectly comfortable in a wingback chair in the drawing room.
When she entered, she found him barely awake, simultaneously yawning and pawing at a stubborn cowlick on the top of his head, to no avail.
“Good morning,” she said. “I just checked on Lord Brookes. He seems fine.”
Samuel shot her a weary smile. “Thank you again for your help last night. I’m going to let a room and take Brookes there later today. I’ll stay in town till he’s sufficiently recovered to go home.”
Some logical corner of Amelia’s brain knew this was the most appropriate solution, but she didn’t want to be sensible—not if it meant that tomorrow life would return to its normal, humdrum course. “The physician instructed that he not be moved for a few days,” she said firmly. “You need to get home to your wife so that you’ll be there when your beautiful baby is born. Lord Brookes will stay here.”
Samuel wiped a hand down his face, and she knew he was torn. “As much as I appreciate your offer, Brookes has the devil’s own reputation, and he shouldn’t stay in the house of any lady, let alone a young, unmarried girl.”
Amelia shrugged. “I don’t care about his reputation. He showed me kindness after… well, when I needed it.”
Samuel had the good manners to blush. “I know there’s much more to Brookes than his reputation, but most people don’t. They’d assume the worst.”
“No one will know. Mama’s gone for several more days. I rarely go about in society, so it’s not as though anyone would miss me. You can tell Lady Greystone that her son is going out of town on a hunting trip or some such thing, and after he recuperates here for a few days, he can return home.”
Amelia could see that Samuel was still skeptical, so she prattled on. “We’ll leave it to him to explain away the scars and bruises, but I suspect he’ll opt for something classic, such as a ‘riding accident.’ Do not worry,” she urged. “The staff is extremely discreet. They’re all deathly afraid of Mama.”
“Your mother is a formidable woman.” Samuel hoisted himself out of the chair and rubbed the small of his back. “Winnie is anxious about the birth, and I know she would feel better if I were home.”
“It’s settled then,” Amelia said brightly.
“If you’re sure.” He reached out and took one of her hands in his. “You are a much better friend than I deserve.”
She warmed at the compliment. “Nonsense. I’ll take good care of Lord Brookes and keep you informed of his condition.”
As Samuel walked to the front door and took his hat and coat, Amelia folded her hands and assumed a serene look. The moment the door s
hut behind him, however, she scrambled up the steps and down the hall toward Lord Brookes’s bedchamber.
He was still sleeping. His thick, dark lashes fanned out above his swollen cheeks and his slightly long, dark brown hair hung predictably over one bandaged brow. He shifted his long legs beneath the blankets and moaned softly in his sleep. Was he in pain, or merely recalling the trauma of his beating? Either way, the evidence of his suffering made her blood bubble with rage.
How dare someone do this to him? She tried to imagine what she would do or say to the culprits if she ever met them, but could think of nothing even remotely satisfying. No one deserved to be beaten as brutally as Lord Brookes, regardless of his sins.
And she was quite certain he had sinned. He could seduce women with very little effort and cast them off with even less.
The gossip rags painted a titillating picture of Lord Brookes’s escapades. Last summer, for example, a silk stocking had turned up in his opera box one evening after he attended a performance with a beautiful countess. Amelia marveled at how the woman had managed to misplace such a personal item in a public venue. Another paper this autumn reported he was spotted leaving the house of a young widow late at night. Whispers of scandal and rumors of high stakes gambling followed wherever he went. As did women.
She slowly walked around the massive four-poster where he lay, letting her fingertips trail lightly across the smooth silk of the counterpane. She observed Lord Brookes from every angle, searching for insight into this man who had cultivated such a horrid reputation.
The ton knew him as a privileged, unfeeling scoundrel interested only in his own pleasure. But Amelia knew he was more than that. In fact, she didn’t believe him capable of half the things reported in the gossip rags. He had shown her compassion when she’d needed it most, and she would always remember the events of those days.
* * *
On that fateful evening almost two years ago, the ballroom at Greystone Park had been sweltering. The ball was the culminating event in a fortnight of festivities at a house party hosted by Lady Greystone, Stephen’s mother.
Amelia envied the girls who somehow looked fresh and lovely, while she was perspiring in a ghastly white gown two sizes too small. She stood next to a potted palm and fanned herself. Though her feet ached, she did not sit because doing so made breathing quite impossible.
Mama scanned the crowded ballroom and blinked furiously, an idiosyncrasy that surfaced whenever she was extremely nervous. One would think it was her mother who was about to be engaged. Still, she hated to see Mama fret so, and Amelia attempted to soothe her.
“Do not worry. Samuel still has a quarter of an hour. Perhaps he intends to make a grand entrance.”
Amelia couldn’t wait to see the expressions on the faces of all the guests when their engagement was announced. Some had treated her shabbily, while others believed she—the daughter of a mere brass mill owner—was completely beneath their notice. After tonight, however, she would be the fiancée of Lord Verrington, and she would be impossible to ignore. Marriage to Samuel would give her respect and independence. Maybe even happiness.
As the minutes ticked away, she told herself that Samuel would not let her down. He would march through the huge French doors, command the attention of the astonished guests, make a romantic toast in which he would proclaim his devotion to her, and move her to tears with heartfelt declarations of love. She tried to convince herself what she had with Samuel was real and true. But the knots in her belly suggested otherwise.
A tap on the back of Amelia’s shoulder made her whirl around, expectantly. But it was her maid, not Samuel, and she held out a folded paper. “I was straightening your guest chamber and found this in front of your door, like someone slipped it under. I thought you should have it right away.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Mama sputtered, “she’s about to become engaged. Don’t distract her with trifling matters.”
“Pardon, my lady,” Cicely said. “I’ll just leave it upstairs on the escritoire then.”
“No.” Amelia reached for the paper with a trembling hand. It appeared to be a perfectly innocent note, and yet the sight of it filled her with dread. “It could be from Samuel.”
“That will be all, Cicely,” Mama said curtly. The maid managed a curtsey even as she hurried to leave the ballroom. Mama snorted indelicately, and to Amelia, said, “Read it aloud.”
“Perhaps we should retire to the library first—”
“Lord Verrington could arrive any moment. I’ll not have him searching the estate for you. Read the bloody thing.”
Amelia unfolded the letter and scanned it. Samuel’s signature wobbled across the bottom. My dearest Amelia—
“Aloud!” shrilled Mama.
Amelia closed her eyes, inhaled through her nose, and blew out softly through her lips. Why did Mama have to make everything so difficult? And loud?
“My dearest Amelia,” she read, “I have come to a startling but clear realization: I cannot propose to you. I deeply regret any pain this may cause you.”
“What?” Mama slapped a hand to her mountainous bosom.
Blood pounded in Amelia’s ears as she read the rest of the letter to herself. Every heartbreaking, horrifying word. “There won’t be an engagement, Mama.”
“The bastard!” Mama’s scream effectively drew the attention of every guest in the ballroom.
A gaggle of matrons cried out in dismay at Mama’s indelicate language, while the rest of the onlookers surged toward Amelia. They formed a circle around her and Mama, gaping like a crowd eager for a good, old-fashioned beheading.
The drama proved too much for Mama, and the champagne glass fell from her gloved hand as she swayed. Amelia knew the beginning of a swoon when she saw one and had no choice but to sacrifice her own crystal glass in order to save Mama from thudding to the floor. Well, that was the plan anyway.
But her mother was not a small woman, and Amelia had a very limited range of motion due to the viselike stays of her gown, so both women toppled to the parquet, which was covered with tiny, sparkling shards of glass and spilled champagne. The commotion drew gasps from the ring of guests, and Amelia felt their pity and disdain bearing down on her just as surely as she felt her mother’s bum squashing her stomach.
Lord Brookes’s deep, smooth baritone was the last voice she wanted to hear at that moment. “Ladies, are you all right?”
Had she been able to breathe, she might have responded in the affirmative.
He gingerly but quickly lifted Mama off her as though she were a mere feather, then enlisted the help of two other gentlemen, who rather unceremoniously dragged Mama to a nearby bench and attempted to revive her.
Amelia was relieved to be able to fill her lungs but mortified to find her silk skirts were hoisted halfway up her plump legs. One of her slippers had landed several yards away. Lord Brookes gallantly lifted her to her feet and fetched her slipper. He even bent on one knee as he held her ankle in his large hand and tenderly replaced her shoe with the other. Then he handed her the note, now soggy with champagne. She awkwardly crumpled it in her hand as though doing so could erase it from existence.
“You took quite a tumble,” he said as he elegantly raised himself to his full height. “Are you injured?”
“No, but Mama…”
“Is fine. She is sitting up and someone has already fetched a glass of water for her.”
“I am sorry about the mess and the, ah…”
“Mayhem?” he offered.
She nodded and said a cursory thank you before turning to go to her mother.
“Miss Wimple.” Lord Brookes’s voice from behind her was at once commanding and concerned.
She whirled around and found he was much closer than she expected. She had to lift her chin in order to meet his eyes. Eyes so blue they fairly took her breath away.
“You are bleeding.” At her confused expression, he grasped her elbow and tenderly probed the back of her arm, above her gloves, where so
me of the broken glass had cut her skin.
“It’s just a small scrape. It doesn’t hurt a bit.” Not compared to the pain in her heart anyway. She was perilously close to tears and did not want to create more of a scene than she already had. “I’m just going to collect Mama and go to our rooms. This has been quite an ordeal—for her,” she added quickly.
“Of course.” Lord Brookes bowed smoothly, making her feel even more gauche, if that were possible.
Once they were ensconced in the privacy of her mother’s guest bedchamber, Mama’s ire bubbled over. “Lord Verrington will answer for his actions. How dare he embarrass me like that? I shudder to think how your precious gossip rags will recount the events of tonight. Imagine the titillating headline: Miss Wimple Went to the Ball, and There She Had a Great Fall.”
“Oh, Mama,” Amelia pleaded, “I wish we could go back to town right now. I never want to face these people again.” The tears finally started, streaking down her cheeks.
Her mother looked at her with disgust. Mama had never had any tolerance for self-pity. Unless it was her own. “We are not the ones who should be running away with our tails between our legs. We have nothing be ashamed of.”
Amelia could think of a few things that they might be ashamed of. In any case, Mama never had the opportunity to give Samuel the tongue-lashing she so eagerly anticipated because he was not at Greystone the next day. Amelia felt as though she had been left in limbo. She wasn’t celebrating an engagement, that much was certain, but neither was she able to mourn the demise of their relationship. She couldn’t imagine why Samuel had changed his mind.
Late on the evening following the ball, Lord Brookes found her sitting alone in one of the unnaturally manicured gardens that surrounded his family’s estate. When she first spied him from a distance, she thought he might be Samuel, but the figure approaching her was taller, darker, and more arrogant. She knew, somehow, that Lord Brookes had drawn the short straw and been stuck with the dreaded duty of imparting some awful news to her. She had a sudden and strong impulse to run from him, to flee into the cool shade of the woods and hide, but she willed herself to remain there on the marble bench and listen to whatever he had to say.
