by Anne Barton
“That’s kind of you,” Amelia said, meaning it. She’d always wished she had a sister, but never more so than now. Even though she didn’t know Rose and Olivia very well, she trusted them. Not enough to tell them that she was hiding a gentleman upstairs. But surely enough to admit the reason behind her aversion to balls. “The truth is, I don’t like going out in society. The bad experience I had at Greystone Park put me off balls.” There was no need for Amelia to elaborate on “bad experience.” Though her cousins hadn’t been at Greystone to witness it, her figurative and literal fall was the stuff of legends.
Rose frowned. “I’d quite forgotten. That must have been awful.”
“But it was years ago,” Olivia exclaimed. “Get back on the horse, and all that.”
Amelia sighed. “What would be the point?”
Olivia was incredulous. “To dance, for one.”
“Dancing.” Amelia groaned. “It’s so awkward, is it not? Standing about, hoping a gentleman will take notice of you, and then hoping that the gentleman who does take notice of you won’t have horrid breath or let his hands wander where they shouldn’t? No. No, thank you.”
“But if you never go to balls or parties, how will you meet a gentleman?” Olivia asked.
Well, sometimes they showed up on one’s doorstep. But Amelia couldn’t say that, of course.
“I’ve no intention of marrying.” The words rushed out of her before she’d realized she was going to say them, but she was glad she had. It was liberating.
Olivia and Rose gasped.
“The idea of marriage holds no appeal for me.” Amelia rose and wandered to a cabinet that displayed a bronze tripod sculpture. The feet were lion’s paws, and above them, three nude men carrying swords charged into battle. The physiques were quite impressive and… detailed. She’d always wondered—
But curiosity about the male form was hardly a reason to marry.
“Maybe if you found the right gentleman,” Rose suggested.
“No. I prefer to be single,” Amelia said firmly. “There are many advantages to remaining so.”
Olivia looked skeptical. “Such as?”
Amelia tried to recall the many diary entries she’d written on the subject. “A single woman can pursue her own interests without seeking permission from a demanding or jealous husband.”
Olivia inclined her head, conceding the point.
“You’ve given this serious thought,” Rose said.
“Indeed. Also, an unmarried woman doesn’t have to endure the heartbreak that often occurs when a husband’s affections stray.”
With a snort, Olivia said, “My husband—assuming I eventually have one—had better not let his affections stray. But we’re not trying to find you a husband. We simply want you to come to the ball with us. Put on a pretty dress. Dance a waltz or two.” She stood, pulled Amelia to her feet, and twirled her once around. “Think of it as a chance to snub your nose at those who scorned you. You’ve emerged stronger and more beautiful than ever.”
“That’s so sweet of you to say.” Amelia shook her head. “But I don’t feel strong. Or beautiful.”
“Believe us. You are,” Rose said, standing. “We don’t want to pressure you if you’re not ready, but think about it. If you change your mind, send word tomorrow morning.”
Amelia pulled her and then Olivia into an embrace. When at last the cousins said their good-byes, she let out a long, slow breath. She wasn’t sure why she’d fretted so. It wasn’t as though Rose and Olivia were likely to sense Stephen’s presence in the house.
To Amelia, however, her house seemed very different indeed. Just the thought of the handsome man upstairs sent a delicious shiver through her.
“Am I late for tea?”
Amelia whirled around to face the door and saw him. Stephen. Standing in her garish drawing room, wearing her late father’s old dressing gown over his trousers, with a pair of slippers from Lord knew where.
By all rights, he should have looked ridiculous.
He did not.
Two days’ worth of stubble darkened his chin, covering the worst of the bruises. His eye was still a sickly shade of purple, but was no longer grotesquely swollen. Patches of thick, dark hair sprouted up like grass between the bandages crisscrossing his head. And his shoulders… well, they filled out the robe like it was a finely tailored dinner jacket. The whole effect was rather knee-weakening.
He shot her a rakish grin as he hobbled to the settee and took the last scone off the dish. “What did I miss?”
Chapter 6
Lord B. cut a dashing figure, pairing buckskin breeches with a borrowed robe. This Author expects the combination to become all the rage.
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
“What are you doing down here?” Amelia hissed.
Stephen had been eavesdropping, but thought it best not to mention that fact. “I couldn’t bear to stay in that room another minute. It’s a perfectly nice room,” he hastened to add, “but I thought I’d go exploring.”
“Exploring?” Her color rose in the most delightful way. “If my cousins had seen you, it would have been disastrous.”
He finished the last bite of scone, hoisted himself off the settee, and walked toward her. Placing his hands lightly on her shoulders, he said, “Don’t worry. I stayed out of sight until after they’d gone. I’d never do anything to jeopardize your reputation.” Not knowingly, anyway. But his very presence here put her at risk. He needed to leave—soon.
She turned her face up to his, her brown eyes flashing. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
“I like that you fuss over me, but I’m hardly worth it.”
She blinked. “Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because I’m trouble. Haven’t you read all the rumors about me?”
Amelia averted her gaze, thereby answering his question. “I like to form my own opinions about people.”
“And are you a good judge of character?”
“Not particularly.” She stepped back, breaking their contact, and returned to the settee, where she sank into a pile of crimson pillows.
Sitting beside her, he said, “Well, I am. And I think you’re courageous, intelligent, and kind.” He looked deep into her eyes, took her hand in his, and pressed his lips to the back of it. Waited for her to melt.
But as she pulled her hand back into her lap, she looked less smitten than… amused.
“You flatter me. And if you are feeling well enough to flirt—”
Was that what he’d been doing?
“—you should be well enough to answer my questions.”
The skin between his shoulder blades prickled, but he leaned back and propped his arms on the back of the settee. “Fair enough. Ask me anything you like.”
“It didn’t seem proper to interrogate you while you were battered and bedridden, but now I must satisfy my curiosity.” She moistened her lips, inclined her head. “Who did this to you? What happened the night you came here?”
Stephen let out a long, slow breath. Silence stretched out as he considered how best to answer. She watched him expectantly and serenely, as though she had all the time in the world. As though she wouldn’t settle for anything but the truth.
His brother didn’t know the trouble he was in, nor did his closest friends. It was no secret he played deep, but everyone assumed he had the blunt in his coffers to cover his losses. He’d worked damned hard to cultivate his carefree, reckless reputation, and for what? It didn’t seem to impress Amelia.
He could concoct a story about a young lady’s jealous beau seeking revenge over a stolen kiss. It would be easiest. But somehow he knew Amelia would be disappointed—not with his supposed rakish behavior, but with his dishonesty.
Promise you won’t pretend with me.
He was tired of pretending. It would be a relief to tell someone, and yet it didn’t seem right to share this burden with her.
Raking a hand through his hair, he sa
id, “The truth is rather ugly. You might not like me very much after I tell you.”
“I will think well of you for telling the truth,” she said simply. Just as he’d suspected.
A huge knot in his throat held back the words at first, but he swallowed and pressed on, his decision made. “I borrowed money that I couldn’t pay back.”
“I see.”
But he could tell by her puzzled frown that she didn’t. “My creditor”—it seemed such a civilized word for the coarse owner of the gaming hell on King Street—“grew impatient. He sent out a few of his employees to ‘remind’ me to pay my debt.”
“But that’s… awful. No one deserves to be beaten like that. And for something so trivial as a late payment? They could have killed you.” Her cheeks pinkened with indignation on his behalf, warming something long frozen inside him.
“My creditor isn’t exactly a shopkeeper on Bond Street, Amelia. I knew the risk I was taking.”
“Have you no means to pay it back? Surely your brother would—”
“No. I turned to him once before. If he has some small scrap of faith in me still, I cannot jeopardize it.”
“I understand, but what will you do if… when the men come back?”
With confidence he didn’t feel, he said, “I have two weeks. I’ll think of something.”
“How much do you owe?”
He knew Amelia was something of a recluse, but even she must know that no one discussed money. It was entirely off-limits in polite conversation. Next she’d be sipping tea, asking about his favorite sexual position, or how many times a week he pleasured himself. Good God.
“A lot of money—let’s leave it at that.”
“Why? We promised to be honest with each other. You’re sitting here wearing my father’s robe, for goodness’ sake. And while we’re on the subject, where did you get those slippers?”
“From your butler. He had a spare pair.”
“Which only proves my point. We needn’t stand on ceremony.”
True. He supposed that if he didn’t mind wearing Giles’s cast off slippers, he could endure a crass conversation about money. “Two hundred fifty pounds, initially. Now, it’s one thousand.”
“One thousand pounds.” Amelia repeated. “Four hundred percent interest is steep.”
He shrugged. “As I said, I knew the risks. I’ll deal with the consequences.”
“The consequences are all over your face and body.” Amelia rose and began to pace in front of the settee. “There is an easy solution to your dilemma.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
She stopped walking and looked at him with those bottomless brown eyes. “I will pay off your debt.”
What? “Absolutely not.” He’d invite Savage’s henchmen to dinner before he accepted a half penny from her.
“Why not?”
“I know it may not seem like it right now”—he smoothed the collar of the robe self-consciously over his chest—“but I do have some pride. I appreciate your extremely generous offer, but please understand—this problem is of my own making, and I must handle it on my own.”
“On your own.”
“Yes.”
“Would that involve trying to gamble your way out of debt?”
“Of course not,” he spat—a little too vehemently. Because the thought had crossed his mind.
“I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that…” Her voice caught and she turned away.
Swiftly, he stood and touched her shoulder. His chest felt oddly tight. “What’s troubling you?”
Her chin trembled. “I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt again. Or worse.”
The realization that she cared both stunned and warmed him. “Nothing else will happen to me. The men who roughed me up just wanted to send a message. I’ll settle with my creditor, and all will be well. Trust me.”
“I do. Trust you,” she added.
As he pulled her into his arms—carefully, in deference to her tender sensibilities and his tender ribs—he realized the truth of his own words. No matter that he’d spoken them only to comfort her, all would be well. He had changed. Not just because of the beating, but because of Amelia. Against all reason, she saw a glimmer of good in him.
For the first time, he was starting to see it too.
But that was enough talk about his problems.
Amelia had her own problem to face. And he wanted to be the one to help her.
Chapter 7
Lord B. thinks it’s bad form to borrow money from a woman.
Miss W. thinks she will never understand male pride.
—from the make-believe gossip papers of Miss Amelia Wimple
Amelia didn’t know where to put her arms.
Stephen had his around her, enveloping her in warmth and pulling her close. When her breasts pressed lightly against the hard wall of his chest, her nipples tingled deliciously and her breath hitched in her throat. She liked the way his neck smelled clean and musky at the same time and how the stubble on his chin lightly abraded the skin at her temple. Everything about his embrace served to remind her—as if she needed reminding—that he was pure male.
Of course, this wasn’t a seduction. He was merely expressing gratitude, and maybe relief at having someone to talk with.
Still, she felt she should do something with her arms. She would just ease them around his back, like so, and—
Accidentally fondle his buttocks. Firm, hard buttocks. Good heavens.
“What are you doing?” His tone was not accusatory—more… amused.
She stepped back, quickly pinning her wrists to her hips. “I beg your pardon. I meant to reciprocate. Not that you were…”
“Would you like me to? I’d be happy—”
“No.” Her heart thumped so hard, surely he must hear it. She knew he was only having a bit of fun—teasing her—and yet her body responded to his wicked words. Her knees went wobbly and her belly fluttered. The thought of his hands, large and warm, skimming over her bottom, up her sides, cupping her breasts—
“Did you have a nice visit with your friends?” he asked politely, thus making the wayward direction of her thoughts seem all the more licentious. She really ought to limit her daily consumption of gossip rags.
“I did,” she said, surprised that she spoke the truth. “They’ve visited twice since Mama left, and it’s made me realize how much I’ve missed them.”
She walked back to the settee and sank into the silky pillows; Stephen sat beside her—a bit closer than before. Only a few inches separated his knee from hers. And yet, it was all quite respectable, if one discounted the fact that they had no chaperone. And that he wore a robe.
“Maybe you should call on them from time to time.”
“Their brother is the Duke of Huntford. He’s rather imposing. And Mama would insist on joining me. We’d only succeed in embarrassing ourselves.”
“So, you’d rather spend your life behind these walls than risk humiliation.”
Correct. That summed the matter up rather nicely. She swept an arm around the sumptuous, if garish, room. “This isn’t exactly Newgate. I have plenty to amuse me.”
A slow, sultry smile spread across his face. “Indeed. Just moments ago, you were amusing yourself with my—”
“Shall I ring for more tea?” It had been much easier to converse with Stephen when he was flat on his back and relatively defenseless.
“Not for me. But I would like to ask you something.”
The air around them went still, and Amelia knew the teasing was over. “Please, do.”
“Why won’t you go to the Norrington ball with Lady Olivia and Lady Rose?”
Her hackles rose. “Were your listening to our conversation?”
“I overheard some of it. I should have retreated to my room the moment I realized you still had company, but I confess my curiosity won out. You’re such a puzzle, Amelia.”
She was? “How so?”
He frowned slightly. “I don’t u
nderstand why a woman as lovely as you would sit at home sipping ratafia when you could be at a ball, dancing and breaking the heart of every young buck in London.”
She looked deep into his blue eyes and found not a trace of mockery. If he really thought her capable of breaking hearts, the blows to his head must have been serious indeed. And yet, it was possibly the best compliment she’d ever received. “I’ve already explained. My mother—”
“Is out of town.”
Blast. “True. But I’m not in the market for a husband”—he raised a dark brow at that—“so what would be the point of going?”
He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers. Her palm sizzled. “The point of going to ball is to enjoy oneself, to have fun—firsthand. Rather than reading someone’s account of the festivities three days from now, you could be living it.”
“I do appreciate your concern. But boring as my existence may seem, I’m perfectly happy with it.” She smiled, perhaps a little too brightly.
“That’s because you don’t know what you’re missing.” He stroked his thumb over her wrist in tantalizing little circles, making her pleasantly light-headed.
“What, precisely, do you think I’m missing? Blisters from stiff slippers? Scintillating discussions about the weather?”
“You really have no idea, do you?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but he was already standing, pulling her to her feet.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m showing you what you’re missing.”
He held her hand tightly, like she belonged to him. It was a disconcerting notion—and not entirely unpleasant.
They stopped in an open space behind a pair of wingback chairs. Stephen turned her so that they faced each other and cupped her cheeks, gently encouraging her to meet his gaze. Then he held her hands.
“You must use your imagination,” he began.
“Very well.” She could play this game. “What shall I imagine?”
“I am wearing not a robe, but a perfectly cut long-tailed dark coat with a white waistcoat.”
“You look most dashing, my lord.”
