The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  The clothing had already begun to arrive, and what fun Nerissa and Juliet had had going through it! There were ten new chemises, including this one of soft white linen, its triple tiers of exquisite French lace dripping from the elbow like angel's wings. There were several new corsets, twenty pairs of silk stockings, ribboned garters and even a rather wicked little night-shift trimmed with scarlet ribbon; a nightcap, three hats, four caps, hooped petticoats, and several underpetticoats, two made of cambric, one of dimity, and, the other, for colder weather, of quilted cotton lined with silk.

  And that was just the underwear!

  There were also handkerchiefs, slippers, gowns for dress, gowns for undress, shawls, fans, cloaks, several pairs of long, butter-soft gloves, silk aprons, and an ermine muff for her hands. Nerissa couldn't wait until Lucien's plan came to fruition and he had a legitimate excuse to give Amy these things he intended as a bridal gift . . .

  These things that were, for the moment, hidden away.

  "How's that, m'lady?" asked Hannah, stepping back and looking to Nerissa for approval.

  "Perfect."

  "I can't breathe!" gasped Amy, putting a hand to her chest, which now swelled to admirable, nearly scandalous proportions above the corset. "I'm so tightly trussed that my shoulder blades must surely be touching!"

  "Good," said Nerissa.

  "Good?"

  "That's the way a lady of leisure and breeding is supposed to be laced. But don't look so concerned, Amy. Why, if you swoon for lack of air, then some gallant gentleman will be obliged to carry you outside to revive you!"

  "Yes, perhaps even with a kiss," added Juliet.

  Nerissa noted the sudden wistfulness on Amy's face, and knew what she was thinking. The only gallant gentleman Amy wanted was Charles, though she probably thought she could never have him.

  We're going to make sure you have him!, Nerissa thought gleefully.

  Moments later, Amy was in her hoops, and Hannah and Nerissa were lifting the shimmering, peacock-colored gown from the bed.

  "Raise yer arms, miss," said Hannah, holding the gown up and then letting the magnificent creation whisper down over Amy's slim body in a rippling fall of silk. Hannah smoothed it over the hooped petticoats and stood back, beaming, while everyone in the room sucked in their breaths in awe.

  "Oh, my," said Nerissa, when she could speak.

  Juliet, smiling, murmured, "Would you just look at her."

  "I don't think we can help but look at her," murmured an urbane voice, and gasping, all three women turned to see Lucien standing in the doorway, arms crossed and his black eyes gleaming in the candlelight.

  He lifted his hand. "Turn around, my dear," he said, giving a negligent little wave. Her eyes huge, Amy slowly did as he asked, staring down at herself in awe and disbelief. The gown, an open-robed saque of watered silk, shimmered with every movement, a vibrant purplish-blue in this light, a vivid emerald-green in that. Its robed bodice open to show a stomacher of bright yellow satin worked with turquoise and green embroidery, it had tight sleeves ending in treble flounces just behind the elbow, which, combined with the chemise's triple tiers of lace, made Amy feel as though she had wings. She smoothed her palms over the flounced and scalloped petticoats of royal blue silk, and then, with impulsive delight, threw back her head on a little laugh, extended her arms and spun on her toe, making gauzy sleeves, shining hair, and yards upon yards of shimmering fabric float in the air around her.

  Hannah, who did not think such behavior was quite appropriate, especially in front of a duke, frowned, but Lucien was trying hard to contain his amusement. He couldn't remember the last time he'd made anyone so happy, and it touched something deep inside him that he'd long thought dead. He exchanged a look of furtive triumph with Nerissa.

  "Oh! Is it really me?" Amy breathed, reverently touching her sleeve and then raising wide, suddenly misty eyes to her small audience.

  "It is really you," Juliet said, smiling.

  "Only someone with your coloring could wear such bold shades and make them work for instead of against you," said Nerissa, coming forward to tie a black ribbon around Amy's neck. "Lud, if I tried to wear those colors, I daresay they would overwhelm me!"

  "Speaking of overwhelmed . . ." Amy turned to face the man who still lounged negligently in the doorway, his fingers trying, quite unsuccessfully, to rub away the little smile that tugged at his mouth. "Your Grace, I don't know how to thank you," she whispered, dabbing away one tear, then another. "No one has ever done anything like this for me before and I . . . I feel like a princess."

  "My dear girl. Don't you know?" His smile deepened and she saw what was almost a cunning gleam come into his enigmatic black eyes. "You are a princess. Now dry those tears and if you must thank me, do so by enjoying yourself tonight."

  "I will, Your Grace."

  "Yes," he said, on a note of finality. "You will."

  And then, with a bow, he continued on his way.

  Amy's tears finally spilled over. "I . . . I just don't know what to say," she managed. "His Grace is the kindest man in England to do this for me . . . to give me this one night of magic, to buy me such a generous gift, to make me feel like Cinderella at the ball. What my sisters would say if they could see me now! How happy my Mama, God rest her soul, would be for me . . . Oh, Nerissa, how can anyone think your brother is cunning and devious and manipulative?"

  Juliet coughed.

  Nerissa flushed and cleared her throat. "Well, um, yes," she said, turning away. But her own heart was pounding with glee, for if all went according to plan, Amy would soon know exactly how cunning and devious and manipulative Lucien could be.

  And, she thought with a grin, his little sister as well.

  Chapter 28

  The guests began to arrive shortly thereafter. A long line of elegant carriages stood out in the drive, waiting to discharge their equally elegant passengers. The king and queen were the last to arrive, and as soon as they had been announced, Lucien, the duke of Blackheath, officially opened the ball.

  All across the vast and crowded ballroom, fans were fluttering, people staring, whispers flying.

  "Who is she?"

  "I don't know."

  "I heard that she's some Indian princess from America with a vast fortune."

  "An Indian princess?! Why, where did you hear that?"

  "From the duke of Blackheath himself," said the dowager countess of Brookhampton, who was Blackheath's closest neighbor. She tugged at her sleeve, preening with all the smugness of one privileged to know such information. "Apparently her people wish to help us defeat the Americans in that silly war, and she's here to speak with the king himself about it."

  "You don't say!"

  "I hope she's not looking for a husband . . . my Chloe is going to have a difficult enough Season . . ."

  Completely satisfied by the rapid spread of the rumor he'd started, Lucien, resplendent in dark velvet and an embroidered waistcoat of Italian silk, moved amongst the guests, making polite conversation here, complimenting a lady on her appearance there, and always keeping a discreet eye on his young charge, who, equally overseen by Nerissa, seemed to be holding her own quite nicely. He was very pleased with the past that he had fabricated for the girl; when she finally did marry Charles, at least she would be accepted as an exotic foreigner and forgiven any little social faux pas she might make. Now, she was being swung through a dance with Perry, Lord Brookhampton, who was the dowager countess's son, Gareth's best friend, and the current leader of the Den of Debauchery.

  Good. Perry was following instructions, too.

  Not that he needed any encouragement, given the sensation the girl was causing. For all the good it was doing! Charles had disappeared before Amy had made her appearance.

  Lucien was quietly furious. And now the king was approaching him, his face flushed with pleasure. "Fine show you put on, Blackheath, fine show indeed," he said, saluting his host with a glass of sherry. "Been far too long since you've had any excitement out
here and I'm damned pleased you finally have a good excuse to throw a party, what? Not every day you get a brother back from the dead!" He watched the dancers swirling about the ball room. "Where is the guest of honor, eh? Haven't seen him since you opened the ball . . ."

  Lucien did not know where Charles was, though he had sent two servants to investigate that very question. He inclined his head. "I daresay he must be with his brother Andrew, Your Majesty, preparing his flying machine for its impending demonstration."

  "Yes, yes, I am looking forward to seeing history made tonight, Blackheath!"

  But Charles, at that very moment, was roving the house in search of Amy. He had stayed at the ball only long enough to claim the first dance with his sister; then, when the dancing was in full swing, he'd melted into the crush, strode through the doors leading back to the main part of the castle, and gone looking for Amy.

  But she was not in her rooms. She was not in the dining room, the library, or wandering the halls. It wasn't until he strode into the Gold Parlor and found Juliet — who would not, of course, be attending the ball in her advanced condition — quietly working on a piece of embroidery, that Charles got the first clue to her whereabouts.

  He bowed to his sister-in-law, who looked up at him in some surprise.

  "Why, hello, Charles. What are you doing out here? You look most annoyed."

  "Amy. I can't find her anywhere, haven't seen her all day and I'm sick to death of everyone monopolizing her time. You haven't seen her, have you?"

  Juliet looked at him peculiarly, then lowered her needlework, a little smile touching her lips. "Actually, I have. You might try checking the ballroom."

  "She wouldn't be in there."

  Juliet's eyes sparkled with mirth. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure."

  At that moment Gareth, who was dividing his time between his wife and the ball, entered the room, fashionably splendid in raspberry silk, tight breeches, and shoes sporting huge Artois buckles. In his hand were two glasses, one of sherry, the other of cider, the latter of which he handed to his wife. He had caught the tail end of the conversation.

  "Yes, you really should check the ballroom, Charles," he said, his own blue eyes twinkling.

  Was there some damned conspiracy going on here? Thanking them, Charles strode out of the parlour. He should have just stayed in that hot and stifling ballroom then, and searched her out in the maid's area where common sense told him she would have been all along. He headed toward the great double doors, which were respectfully opened by a bowing servant, stormed into the ballroom —

  And stopped in his tracks.

  No. Yes. Good grief. It couldn't be . . .

  "Amy?" he breathed.

  Two dancers, caught up in the dance, didn't see him standing there and collided with him, nearly knocking him down.

  "Lord Charles! I beg your pardon!"

  But he never heard them. He never saw them. He had eyes only for the stunning beauty who was being swept around the dance floor by Gareth's friend Perry. She was a ravishing young woman in shimmering peacock and royal blue whose beauty commanded the eye, the attention, the heart — and made every other woman in the room pale to insignificance.

  Charles's mouth went dry. His heartbeat cracked his chest and he forgot to breathe.

  Another set of dancers collided with him, knocking him to his senses. Angrily, he stared into the amused eyes of Gareth's friend Neil Chilcot, another Den of Debauchery member who was partnering a grinning Nerissa. "Gorgeous young woman, isn't she?" quipped Chilcot, sweeping Nerissa past. "You should've stuck around to see her announced, Charles. Not that you'll ever have a chance of claiming a dance with her now, what with all the young bucks before you already waiting . . ."

  Charles had heard enough. But as he stalked across the dance floor, he heard even more.

  "Well, His Grace told me she's an heiress . . ."

  "Not just an heiress, but a princess from some vast Indian nation in America . . ."

  ". . . came here to offer her tribe's help in the war against the Americans . . ."

  Charles clenched his fists. Lucien. No one else could have, would have, started and circulated such a preposterously crazy rumor! What the hell was his brother trying to do, get Amy married off to some handsome young swain and out of Charles's life forever? This was no training for a lady's maid, that was for damned sure!

  His jaw tight, he stormed across the dance floor toward Amy. He saw her hooped petticoats swirling about her legs and exposing a tantalizing bit of ankle with every step she took, the laughter in her face even though she kept glancing over Perry's shoulder in search of someone, the studied grace in her movements that, a week ago, he would've sworn she didn't have.

  She had not seen him yet, and as Perry, a handsome man who had something of a reputation with the ladies, led her through the steps, Charles felt a surge of jealousy so fierce, so violent, that it made him think of doing something totally irrational.

  Such as calling Perry out for dancing with his woman.

  Such as killing Lucien for whatever little game he was playing.

  Such as making a spectacle of himself and claiming her for his own.

  For once in his life, Charles didn't care what anyone thought of his behavior. He marched straight up to Perry, tapped him on the shoulder, and jerked his thumb to indicate that Perry had better relinquish Amy to him.

  Now.

  Perry, grinning, bowed and backed off. At the same time, Amy turned her head and saw Charles, her face breaking into such an expression of joy that he was nearly undone. "Charles!" she cried, and he knew then that if they weren't in the middle of a crowded ballroom, with everyone staring at them, she would've thrown herself straight into his arms. As it was, she stumbled such that he had to catch her and set her on her feet, a move that he managed to carry off such that she barely missed a step. "Oh, Charles, I've been waiting all evening for you to arrive! Where have you been?"

  "Looking for you." He stared at her. "Amy, you look . . . ravishing," he said, and it was all he could do not to claim those smiling, carmine-rouged lips and kiss her senseless.

  "For once in my life, I actually feel ravishing! Oh, Charles — will you look at all these powdered heads, the jewels and silks and satins, everyone having such a good time! Isn't it just wonderful? Isn't this just the most magical place on earth?"

  He swung her through the steps. "Amy, I do not wish to spoil your enjoyment, but exactly what are you doing?"

  "I'm dancing!" she said, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling as he led her through the steps. "Oh, Charles, this is such fun! Your brother was so kind to give me this night . . . I feel like Cinderella!"

  "What?"

  "Lucien! He was so grateful for what I did for you back in America that he gave me this night, this gown, a new identity, and . . . and, even these diamonds at my ears! Well, he didn't actually give them to me, I understand that they belonged to your grandmother but he said that only someone with my coloring would be able to carry them off. . . ." She blushed. "Charles, you don't think everyone's staring at me because I'm the only one here with unpowdered hair, do you? Lucien said that I really should leave it natural, and —"

  "No, Amy," he said tightly, realizing that everyone was staring at her, and it had nothing to do with her hair.

  It was because she was the most strikingly beautiful woman in the room and one couldn't help but stare at her.

  "Charles, are you angry?"

  "Yes, Amy, I am angry, quietly furious, in fact, but not with you."

  "Then with who? Certainly, not Perry I hope, because he's now dancing with your sister — she has a tendre for him, you know."

  "And where did you learn that word, Amy?"

  "Oh, Nerissa taught it to me. I understand it is quite the thing to know some French. Oh, Charles, please don't be angry with Perry, he did nothing wrong —"

  "It's not Perry I'm angry with, it's Lucien." The dance ended. "And by God, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind."

>   His gloved hand capturing hers, he all but dragged her back through the crush, uncaring that everyone in the room was staring at them, the men elbowing each other, the women's fans fluttering wildly. He saw Andrew and the king, accompanied by three of his entourage, going out the double doors, no doubt heading upstairs for a private viewing of the flying contraption before the big event. And there was Lucien, elegant in darkest-blue velvet, standing near the refreshment tables and conversing with his barrister friend Sir Roger Foxcote. Slowly, as though he'd been expecting it all along, he turned his head to regard Charles's approach — and in that enigmatic black gaze, Charles saw a swift blaze of triumph before it was quickly veiled.

  "Why, Charles. How good of you to finally rejoin us," his brother drawled, taking a sip of sherry and watching Charles from above the rim of his crystal goblet. "Everyone was wondering about you, you know. Damned rude of you to hide from your own ball, no?"

  Charles, bristling with anger, responded instantly to the challenge. "I wasn't hiding, and I'll thank you to stop interfering in people's lives, especially Amy's! How dare you lift her up only to throw her down, how dare you give her a taste of something she can never have again, only to toss her back into obscurity! I don't know what you're up to, but I won't stand for you hurting her so, Lucien, by God I will not!"

  Around them, people hushed.

  Amy, standing in confusion beside Charles, went very still.

  And Lucien raised his brows and pretended to straighten the ruffles at his sleeve. But he could not hide the faint smirk that touched one corner of his mouth, and Charles suddenly understood how Gareth must have felt, all those times that Lucien had goaded and taunted and insulted him into wanting to pull back and place his fist in it. Lucien was enjoying this.

  And enjoying it immensely.

  "My dear Charles," he murmured, placing his empty glass on the tray of a passing servant and turning a benign, infuriating little smile on his brother. "Given the fact that you no longer possess even the courage to jump your horse over a hedgerow, I really don't think you should challenge me so. It could be rather . . . hazardous to your health."