by Diane Gaston
As they walked through the park, he heard faint sounds of lovemaking coming from behind the shrubbery. Surely she had noticed, too. Surely she could hear the sounds.
‘I have a suspicion that your Captain Fowler might have asked for liberties,’ he tried to explain. It did not excuse Fowler’s abandoning her, but maybe it would help explain his behaviour toward her. ‘Men often want a woman before battle.’
She stopped. ‘You think he propositioned me?’
Now he was not so certain. ‘That was my guess, yes.’
* * *
Amelie kept walking. He really could not be more wrong. Fowler had not propositioned her. But he had left her.
‘He put you in danger by leaving you,’ the lieutenant went on. ‘That was unforgivable.’
Could he not talk of something else? Anything else?
Was it possible to grow older in an instant? Because that was how it felt to Amelie. One moment she was young and in love; the next...
‘Unforgivable,’ she repeated. But his leaving was only part of his unforgivable behaviour.
Not that it mattered to Fowler.
They continued across the park, heading to the gate on the other side. As they reached it, another couple entered, a plainly dressed young woman and a tall, red-coated infantryman.
The young woman halted. ‘Miss Glenville?’
Amelie stared at her. ‘Sally?’ She glanced back to Edmund. ‘My maid,’ she explained.
‘Oh, miss!’ the maid cried. ‘Are you back from the ball? There is to be a battle, and your father wants to leave early in the morning for Antwerp. I have packed for you. Must I come to you now? I—I hoped for a little while longer.’ Her words came out in a rush.
Next to Sally a young infantryman stood at attention, eyeing Amelie and Edmund warily. But when he gazed at Sally his countenance turned soft and worshipful. Amelie envied her so acutely the pain was physical.
She glanced from the maid to the infantryman and back. ‘Of course, you must have as long as you like, Sally. In fact, I do not need you at all tonight. I will manage quite well without you.’
The maid grasped Miss Glenville’s hand in both of hers. ‘Oh, thank you, miss! Thank you so much.’
The maid pulled on the infantryman’s arm. The young man bowed quickly to Edmund, and the couple disappeared into the park.
‘He is, I believe, an old friend of Sally’s,’ she said, as if she owed Edmund an explanation. ‘Amazing that they met here in Brussels with all the soldiers here, but, then, your sister and I met my brother in this park the first hour we arrived. And a friend of yours with him, as I recall. And a friend from London, as well.’ Now she was babbling.
‘Such lucky happenstance,’ he remarked.
Not as lucky as she had been that Edmund had happened to be across the street when that horrible creature attacked her. She could still feel the man’s hands gripping her, smell his unwashed skin—
She buried her nose in Edmund’s red coat. Its scent—his scent—banished the memory.
‘You were very kind to your maid,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘How could I refuse her? It was her one chance, perhaps.’
It was a chance she would never have. When Fowler first paid her court, she had woven joyous dreams of living happily ever after in her very own fairy story, but she learned that real life was not a fairy tale. It was more often filled with lies, deception, painful words and grave disappointments.
At least Sally might be able to capture a few moments of joy. Amelie hoped the girl would have many such happy moments.
Amelie would not.
‘I commend your liberal attitude,’ Edmund said.
She was startled. She’d been lost in her own miseries.
He grinned.
She blinked and really looked at him for the first time this night.
He was taller than Fowler. More muscular, easy to see now that he was without his coat. The hair beneath his shako was as dark as night, his thick brows the same hue. His lips were finely formed as if some master sculptor had created them; his chin, strong and shadowed by what was probably a day’s growth of beard that made him appear more like the rake he claimed to be. His smile robbed her of breath.
When she’d met him two days ago, she’d immediately felt taken with him. He’d appeared so handsome in his regimentals, the bright sunlight from the windows making his red coat even more vibrant, his smile even more dazzling. He’d looked then like a fine man, a strong soldier, a brother Tess could be proud of. Even with her head full of Captain Fowler as it had been, she’d thought how nice it would be to know Edmund Summerfield better and how sad it was that his birth made him even less acceptable to society than her own family.
What did birth matter, though? Fowler’s was as respectable as one could be, but he’d behaved abominably, walking away without a second glance, leaving her utterly alone just because—
Edmund’s smile faded. ‘Your Captain Fowler must not have appreciated you.’
Tears stung her eyes. ‘No, he did not. Not at all.’
To her surprise, he put his arms around her. She knew he meant only to be comforting, but, his strong arms wrapped around her, his muscular body flush with hers, other emotions were stirred. It gave her a hint as to what she so desired, what she could never have. She knew that now.
She did not pull away from him. This might be the only time a man’s arms held her.
Edmund released her and they resumed walking.
‘So what was it that caused the words between you and Captain Fowler?’ he persisted. ‘If it was not him propositioning you.’
‘I do not wish to say,’ she responded. ‘Not to you.’
She felt him bristle. ‘I forgot. One must not confide in a bastard.’
‘It is not because you are a bastard,’ she shot back. ‘It is because you are a man.’
He nodded, and an amused look came into his eyes for a moment but vanished as quickly. He lowered his voice. ‘That is precisely why you should talk to me. I am a man. I may be able to explain the actions of another man, perhaps explain the actions of both of the men who hurt you tonight. It may ease your mind.’
She felt the tears threaten again. ‘Nothing will ease my mind.’
They reached the entrance of the hotel just as a throng of Belgians, obviously full of drink, filled the pavement, blocking their way. One of the men seized Amelie’s arm, jabbering in French, and tried to pull her away from Edmund. His uniform coat fell off her shoulders and her heart raced in fright.
It was happening again.
But Edmund grabbed the man’s clothing and shook him. The man lost his grip on Amelie. Edmund lifted him off the ground and thrust him into the crowd, knocking several other men down. They jumped back to their feet and came after Edmund, who took hold of Amelie, picked up his coat and charged into the hotel in one swift movement.
The men did not follow them into the hotel.
‘There,’ he said. ‘You’ll be safe in here.’
She was beginning to wonder if she would ever feel safe again. Napoleon could be knocking at the door by morning. Men in the street seemed to feel entitled to do as they pleased, and even men who had once professed love could speak words that wounded more grievously than a sword.
‘Will—will you escort me to my room?’ she asked.
He put an arm around her, but, again, it was meant only in sympathy. ‘Directly to your room, and I will see you safe inside.’
Chapter Two
Under ordinary circumstances it would be scandalous for Edmund to walk a young, unmarried woman up hotel stairs in the wee hours of the morning, but this night no one would pay them any heed. Even if someone noticed them, it would not change what he must do. He must escort her all the way to her room. She’d ha
d two brushes with danger and that was quite enough. He would see her to safety or be damned.
‘Do you object to me calling you Edmund?’ she asked as they climbed the stairs. ‘It is how Tess refers to you, so I think of you as Edmund.’
To hear her speak his name felt intimate to him. They’d spent mere minutes together, not more than an hour, certainly, but, somehow, it seemed right that she call him by his Christian name.
Besides, all this hour he’d been thinking of her as Amelie.
He smiled again. ‘I do not object, but that means I must call you Amelie, you know.’
‘Would that be so hard to do?’ she countered, somewhat uncertainly, he thought.
He pretended to need to think about it. ‘I suppose I could manage it. We are somewhat related, one could say. By marriage.’
They reached the upper floor where her hotel room was located.
‘Since we are now so familiar, Amelie,’ he emphasised Amelie, ‘there is no reason not to tell me why you and Captain Fowler quarrelled.’
‘Would you stop pressing me on the subject?’ she snapped. ‘I have no intention of telling you. It is very private.’
‘But we are somewhat related.’ He added, ‘Amelie.’
She lifted a finger to her lips, and he fell silent. They were near her parents’ rooms, where he’d breakfasted with her two days before.
She knocked softly. ‘Maman, Papa, I am back.’
Footsteps could be heard from behind the door. She gestured for him to stay out of sight.
Her mother opened the door a crack. ‘Dieu merci! I was worried.’
‘No need to have worried, Maman,’ she said.
Of course, she’d only been abandoned once and nearly abducted twice!
‘We are leaving Brussels,’ her mother said. ‘Your father has arranged for carriages to take us to Antwerp very early. Your maid will wake you at five.’
‘I will be ready.’ The door opened wider, and she leaned in for her mother to kiss her on the cheek. She kissed her back. ‘Try to sleep, Maman.’
She waited a moment after the door closed, then indicated to Edmund to follow her again.
When they reached her hotel-room door, he extended his hand for her to give him the key. He unlocked the door, opened it and stepped aside for her to enter.
She hesitated, though. ‘Will you check the room for me?’ she asked in a nervous voice. ‘I am a little afraid to enter it alone.’
He crossed the doorjamb. A fire was lit in the fireplace, but the room was dark and full of shadows. He found a taper on the mantel and used it to light the lamps. The room brightened a bit.
He carried one of the lamps with him throughout the room, not believing there was anyone hidden and ready to jump out and attack her, but wanting to reassure her of that fact.
‘There is nothing to fear here,’ he told her. He placed the lamp on a table and placed the key into her hand. ‘Lock the door after I leave.’
She took the key and stared at it for a moment before looking back up at him. ‘Must you go to your regiment immediately?’
It would be a two-hour ride, at least. ‘I have time,’ he said.
Her shoulders relaxed in relief. ‘May I offer refreshment?’
‘Do not go to any trouble.’
‘It is no trouble.’ She pulled off her gloves, and he noticed her hands shook. ‘I think Sally hides a bottle of sherry in here. Shall I pour you some?’
He’d prefer brandy. ‘Sherry? Why not?’
She found the bottle and two glasses. ‘Please sit, Edmund.’ She poured his glass and one for herself, a large one, which she gulped down.
He waited for her to sit first. She lowered herself into a chair and poured herself another glass.
She was still distressed from the night’s events, he thought, and Edmund wondered how he’d be able to leave her until she was comfortable again. Why he should feel this responsibility foxed him. She was once merely a pretty face—a beautiful face—to him. Now, perhaps because he’d rescued her, she’d become someone whose welfare mattered to him.
He watched her gulp down the second glass of sherry. ‘You should talk about what happened to you tonight.’ He spoke in a low voice. ‘The sherry won’t be enough.’
She quickly put down the glass. ‘I suspect there is not enough time. You must leave for your regiment.’
His brows rose. ‘A moment ago you were anxious for me to stay; now you want me to leave? Which is it, Amelie?’
Her glance darted to the door before focusing on her lap. ‘I do not want to be alone right now.’
‘Then talk to me,’ he persisted.
She looked up at him and snapped, ‘Why are you so sure talking will help me?’
‘I have three sisters.’
The challenge left her eyes, so that must have been explanation enough.
‘The—the attacks from those horrid men.’ The distaste showed on her face. ‘It was frightening, but what more can I say except that?’
‘Then talk about what is most unsettling you,’ he said.
‘I am certain you do not have enough time for that!’ She huffed.
He raised his brows and spoke with humour. ‘Is it so long of a story?’
Her glance darted back to him. She smiled.
He pinched the stem of his glass.
By Jove, she was temptation itself when she smiled.
* * *
Was it possible that talking could calm her? Amelie doubted it very strongly, but, if he left, she would be alone—and likely alone for the rest of her life. Why not tell him?
Courage was necessary. Her trust in men had been shredded this night, and Edmund Summerfield was certainly a man.
‘You will not tell anyone? No matter what?’ she asked.
He looked directly into her eyes, his expression serious. ‘Upon my honour.’
His words resonated inside her. From her brother she knew men did not say such words lightly. At least, honourable men did not.
Edmund delayed his duty to his regiment to bring her safely off the streets of Brussels. There was honour in that.
She was stalling and he was waiting patiently, no longer pressuring her to speak, no longer using humour to cajole her.
But to speak it aloud meant facing it, did it not? Facing what she had done. Facing the truth she had learned in return. Opening her bleak future to herself.
He sipped his sherry.
She tossed him a defiant look and poured herself a third glass, but this time she did not gulp it down.
She took a breath and took the risk. ‘You know, of course, that Captain Fowler and I had just become betrothed—’
He nodded.
She could not sit still and speak of this. She stood and paced in front of him. ‘My brother procured invitations to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, you know, my first ball given by a duchess. I was in raptures about it. Captain Fowler was my escort. I thought nothing could be better, especially when Wellington himself arrived! Wellington! At the same ball.’
Even though Amelie’s father was a viscount, it did not mean they were invited everywhere. Because of her mother. Not only was her mother French, her mother was also a commoner and, after the Revolution, her family had become active in the Terror, beheading friends and relatives of the British aristocrats.
Consequently Amelie and her parents were barely tolerated by the ton. It was only because of Edmund’s sister, the one who’d married an elderly earl, that she’d been invited anywhere last Season. That was how she met Captain Fowler. She thought he had not minded about her scandalous family. At least he’d told her so.
Edmund broke into her reverie. ‘The ball ended early, I heard.’
She collected herself. ‘Yes. I was much affec
ted when Wellington announced that Napoleon was marching towards Brussels. I—I knew it meant Captain Fowler would ride into battle. I knew it meant I might never see him again. I begged my parents to allow him to walk me back to the hotel instead of riding in their carriage. I wanted to be alone with him.’
She glanced at Edmund, who continued to watch her from his chair with eyes that merely waited for more but showed nothing of what he thought.
She turned away from his gaze. ‘You thought he propositioned me. You thought he might have taken advantage, saying, give me something to remember you by, or something like that.’
‘Men think about last chances when they know they will go into battle,’ he said in a quiet voice.
She swung back to him. ‘Not only men! I thought of last chances, too! I begged the captain to come to this room and make love to me.’
His brows rose.
‘Are you shocked?’ she asked.
‘Surprised. Not shocked.’ He lifted his glass to his lips.
Her voice turned shrill. ‘Does that make me wanton? Does that bring shame on me, on my family? Is it so very bad that I spoke those words to him? That—that I wanted...the lovemaking?’
He placed his glass on the side table and rose, coming to her and holding her by the shoulders. ‘This is what the quarrel was about?’
She nodded.
He guided her back to her chair and sat her down.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. ‘He said that no respectable woman would ever think such a thing. That I was wanton. Shameful. That I was no better than Haymarket ware. That I must have more of my mother’s common French blood in me than he had supposed.’
She burned with anger all over again. True, her mother was the daughter of French merchants who had worked to guillotine aristocrats, but her mother had no part in that. Her mother was the dearest creature in creation. Amelie tried to slap Fowler across the face for speaking of her so.
