A Lady at Last

by Brenda Joyce

  “Amanda.”

  She panicked, turning wildly, looking for the beautiful lady, but the ballroom remained empty.

  Where was the lady, she wondered desperately, for she realized the woman had to be her mother.

  And suddenly Cliff was there.

  She didn’t see him, she sensed him, and her terrible anxiety eased.

  And in that instant, Amanda was awake, her dreams forgotten. She blinked.

  She had fallen asleep with the lights on, as she had been reading, and the fire was crackling in the hearth. Cliff stood on the threshold of the room, staring at her as she slept.

  She sat up, tossing hair from her face. “Cliff.” She smiled, still half-asleep. He was the man of her dreams and she had never been happier to see anyone.

  His gaze slid over her. “It’s early. I didn’t realize you were asleep,” he said stiffly. “We’ll speak tomorrow.”

  Amanda was wearing the beautiful lace nightgown, the one that gave her the appearance of an elegant lady. He thought so, too; she could see it in his eyes. She leaped from the bed, racing to him before he could turn and step through the doorway. “I was reading and I fell asleep. Don’t go, please!” She smiled coaxingly at him.

  His gaze fell to her bodice and then jerked up. “You must be exhausted. I heard you crying out. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I was having strange dreams.” She hugged herself, thinking about calling on her mother as soon as she had the appropriate attire. “Will a seamstress be here tomorrow?”

  His eyes flickered. “Yes. Do you have a robe?”

  “Your sister brought me some of her things,” Amanda said, wondering at his request.

  “Why don’t you put a robe or a shawl on?” He sent her a tight smile and faced the fireplace.

  Amanda stared at him before she went to an old rosewood armoire with paneled doors. Eleanor was a good six inches taller than she was, but she slipped on the cotton wrapper she had been given, one trimmed with pink ribbons and lace. Cliff was uncomfortable and she knew why. His male nature was taking over again and she was acutely aware of it. She could feel it there in the room with them, the hot desire, the huge tension.

  But there was more than that. He seemed grim and even upset. “Are you all right?” she asked, approaching.

  He turned, glanced at the wrapper, now belted, and nodded. “Of course I am. Come, let’s sit down. There’s something I wish to discuss.”

  Amanda was instantly wary. She sat down on the small sofa before the fireplace, and so did he. “What has happened?”

  He forced a smile. “Amanda, I have been doing a great deal of thinking. And I don’t want you to worry about anything. I said I would secure your future, and I meant it. You do trust me, don’t you?”

  “You are beating around the bush,” she cried, very alarmed now. “I know that is what you said, but I am going to be living with Mama, and in the end she is going to be the one to force me into marriage with some stranger.”

  His odd smile remained. “By the time you wed, it won’t be to a stranger. I am sure you will be very excited about your husband. All brides are in love on their wedding day.”

  She gave him a look. “You are really worrying me. We both know many brides are terrified of the brutes they are being tossed to.”

  His smiled became even more fixed. “You are never going to be thrown to any brute, as you have just put it. Amanda, how would you feel about staying here at Harmon House?”

  She jerked. “What?”

  “How would you feel about it?”

  Her mind raced inanely. “What about Mama?”

  His smile faltered. He took her hand, tightly. “You have nothing to worry about. You have a place to stay here and I will look after you—as will Rex, my mother, my sister, the entire family, in fact.”

  Amanda felt cold. She shot to her feet. “What happened?” she heard herself ask, but she somehow knew. He had seen Mama—or Mama was dead.

  She began to tremble, but the clawing fear was so awful that she refused to feel it. Mama couldn’t be dead, because Papa was dead, and that meant she was alone in the world, except for de Warenne, who was going to sail away sooner rather than later.

  But it was as if he had read her mind. “You have me, remember? I swore I would not abandon you, and I won’t.”

  “Is Mama dead?” she managed, fear choking her. She forced it as far away as possible.

  “No. But I saw her earlier.”

  Amanda looked at his handsome face and saw that he was terribly distressed. She had never seen him really upset before, and she understood.

  It was as she had thought. Mama didn’t want her.

  “Your mother is married to Lord Belford, Amanda. Her name is Dulcea Belford now.”

  Amanda jerked with surprise. This she couldn’t understand; this she hadn’t expected. “She knew Papa died?” But how had she received word so swiftly?

  He took her arm. “She married Belford long ago. They have two children.”

  Mama was married to Belford? And had been married to him for years? “But that’s impossible—she was married to Papa,” she gasped in utter confusion. Her heart raced in wild alarm.

  He put his arm around her. “I know this is a shock, but she was never married to Carre.”

  Amanda pulled away, panicking. “You are babbling! I don’t understand! Of course they were married, Papa told me so.”

  He was looking at her so sadly that, in her shrieking heart, she realized he was telling her the truth.

  “This doesn’t change the brave, beautiful woman that you are,” Cliff said softly.

  Amanda stared at him, incapable of thinking or feeling. It was too dangerous to do either. He stared back, wetting his lips, but he did not speak again.

  She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, what was happening, but it was better not to really know, not to understand. “So I am staying here.”

  He took her hand again. “With me.” His smile was awful, a parody, strained.

  Oddly, she couldn’t care that she would stay with him. She pulled her hand away and stood there, no longer breathing, her heart no longer beating, feeling as frozen as an iceberg. She had never been so cold.

  But the whispers began in the back of her mind, no matter how she tried to deafen them, to ignore them.

  Papa lied.

  They were never married.

  I’m a bastard.

  Mama is Lady Belford.

  “Amanda, come sit with me. Let’s talk calmly about this. Life can be unfair sometimes—we have all suffered, in one way or another—but there is a bright side. I can launch you far better than she ever could. And we can go sailing,” he said, smiling. “Anytime you like.”

  Amanda didn’t hear him now.

  Papa had lied to her for her entire life. They had never married. Had he even stolen her from Mama’s arms?

  Had Mama ever loved her?

  Mama didn’t want her.

  Her heart was beating again. It was bursting through her frozen self-restraint, beating in furious protest against her chest, slam, bam, slam.

  He put his arm around her. “You’re in shock.”

  She jerked savagely free and the ice melted, whoosh. “She doesn’t want me.”

  “I didn’t say that,” he said very carefully.

  But she saw the truth in his eyes. “I’m a bastard.”

  He inhaled. “Many children are born out of wedlock,” he began. “Like Alexi and Ariella.”

  “Good!” she cried, her vision blurring now. “I’m glad, because bastards aren’t ladies. And now—” she tore the wrapper off and flung it at him “—now I can be exactly what I want to be!”

  He seized her hand. “I’m going to get you a drink,” he said.

  “And that is not a goddamned lady!” She jerked free, gripping her bodice furiously, wanting to tear the offending garment off. “I want my breeches,” she cried, but the material refused to rip.

  “Amanda, stop!” Cliff tr
ied, sounding desperate, grasping her hands.

  But she was in a profound rage. She was never going to prance about, pretending to be a lady, again! She shoved him away, vaguely aware that his face was white with shock, but it was hard to see now, her vision was so blurred. She hated them both. She hated Papa, the biggest liar on the face of the earth, and she hated Mama, who was a whore, not a lady—who didn’t love or want her bastard daughter. She whirled, finding her dagger in her boot. She heard Cliff cry out in alarm, but she had never been more determined. She slashed through the beautiful nightgown, one long perfect line, cutting it in two. She hated it now. She would never wear it again or anything else that any lady might want.

  “Don’t! You’ll hurt yourself!” she thought he said, and he seized her wrist. She screamed, whirling on him and he leaped away, blood dripping from his hand. But she couldn’t care, because nothing was real, everything was a lie, and she tore the tattered gown from her body and sliced savagely at the cotton and lace again. She would destroy the gown, her new life, everything.

  And she gasped, a stabbing pain trying to cut into her heart the way she had cut into so much cotton. Mama didn’t want her. Papa had lied. She let go of the dagger. It clattered onto the floor.

  Amanda closed her eyes, fighting her comprehension and the pain, but the ugly refrain had become a haunting melody in her mind.

  And then, finally, she realized she was not alone.

  She looked up at de Warenne.

  Tears streaked his beautiful face.

  She shook her head, rebelling. “Don’t cry,” she whispered. Because she was fine. She hated Mama anyway. And she hated Papa now, too. And as she looked at him she felt a terrible desperation, because she was truly adrift, lost and adrift, with nowhere to go, no destination and no beacon to guide her.

  “Come here,” he whispered. He went to her, touching her arms. Amanda did not hesitate and he pulled her against his body, wrapping her firmly in his embrace. For one instant, she stood there, in the safest and securest place possible, a harbor that felt like home. For that one instant, she clung. He was her lifeline.

  And then she realized she was nude, and that his body was hard, powerful and strong, molded to hers. She realized how much she loved him and how much she needed him. There was so much desire. The cold vanished; heat flared. Amanda looked up, shocked by the throbbing hunger in her. He stiffened with surprise and comprehension, but she didn’t care. She felt the hardness coming instantly between them. “Cliff,” she whispered, touching his face.

  And his eyes turned to flames. He pulled her impossibly closer, springing harder and fuller against her, his mouth covering hers. Amanda gasped, the pain in her chest warring with the heated pleasure throbbing inside her, and then she kissed him back, more desperately and more frantically than he was doing. He gasped, his hands closing on both of her buttocks, molding her to his pulsing loins and carrying her that way to the bed. He pushed her onto the mattress, coming down on top of her, his hard thighs pinning her legs wide. Amanda gasped as his massive manhood pulsed against her sex.

  He began licking her lips while rocking against her, and his hand stroked one perfect motion over her breast, down her rib cage, past her navel and into the hot wetness of her delta.

  She loved him so. Amanda cried out as the pure pleasure begin, a wonderful spiral promising to send her so far away she would never want to come back.

  He knew. His thighs pushed hers even wider. He reached between them, grunting, and she felt his phallus spring free. Amanda could not stand it and when he rocked against her, slick, hot and hard, so that she rode his entire length, she wept, exploding into a million pieces.

  “Amanda,” he gasped against her ear, pushing restlessly against her.

  She didn’t hear and began to float back into his arms. But then she thought, Mama, in so much anguish and so much despair, and the pain that wracked through her was beyond excruciation.

  He froze. “Amanda?” Holding her in his arms, he shifted his erection against her thigh.

  Oh God. Papa had lied, Mama didn’t want her…. She turned toward de Warenne and the pain engulfing her. She wept against his chest.

  Cliff pulled her closer, holding her tightly, but it was a long time before her sobs were spent.

  AMANDA STARED out of the window of her bedroom as the sun crept upward into the sky, a melody of birdsong filling the damp morning, a cool breeze on her cheek.

  She turned to look at the bed, leaving the window open. Cliff was gone, but he had stayed there until dawn, because every time she had awoken, he had held her and stroked her until her tears had subsided. Now, the grief was gone. Papa had betrayed her and she would never think of him again. As for Mama, well, it had been exactly what she had thought. Mama was a snooty lady with airs and she didn’t want her pirate’s daughter. Amanda didn’t care.

  But she cared about Cliff de Warenne. And it wasn’t de Warenne anymore, it was Cliff. She began to smile.

  She hugged herself, standing there naked by the window.

  He had made love to her last night. He had shown her so much passion and given her so much pleasure, chasing away the pain. He might not have taken her virginity, because her grief had come between them, but he would, and soon. Everything was going to be different now. They were lovers. There was no going back.

  And if they were lovers, didn’t that mean she could sail the world with him on his ship? There was no need now to enter society. She had never been more relieved, and she was almost happy.

  Amanda began to get dressed.

  HE HADN’T SLEPT ALL night. And when Amanda had finally fallen asleep in his arms, he had chosen to stay with her. Although he knew it would be her ruin if a maid found them in bed together, he was even more afraid that she would wake up and suffer in heartache again alone, with no one to comfort her. He had held her until he was satisfied she was so exhausted and emotionally spent that she would sleep until the morning. A few hours before dawn, he had slipped from her room.

  He had not gone to his own bed. He was haunted by the sight of Amanda slicing her nightgown into ribbons; by the pain he had witnessed. He could damn her father and mother from now until eternity, but that would not ease her anguish. How much could one small woman bear, he wondered.

  Last night, he had lost all reason and he had been about to make love to her. Dulcea Belford didn’t want her, but he did. He had been fueled by a fierce and consuming need to make her his own. In the light of day, he was shaken, and he could not comprehend such possessive feelings. If she had not begun to weep, he would have taken her innocence, and then what?

  He would have added to her sorrow.

  He knew what he had to do. He must keep a firm distance from her. There would be no more visits to her bedroom. He would avoid being alone with her at all costs.

  Now, he sat alone in the breakfast room, pretending to read the London Times, when he could not focus on a single word. The entire house rose early—Lizzie and Eleanor were up with their children, in spite of the nurses they employed, and the countess enjoyed a walk in her gardens just after sunrise. As Cliff stared at the paper, Rex came inside, followed by Eleanor. He saw them exchange looks.

  “What happened to you last night?” Eleanor asked, taking a seat. “Did you go on a bender?” She reached for a pastry.

  “When the countess arrives, I have an announcement that I wish to make.”

  Rex also sat. “Is this in reference to what we discussed last night?”

  Cliff toyed with his cup of cold coffee. “Yes.” As he spoke, the countess came in, her cheeks flushed from her morning walk.

  “Good morning,” Mary de Warenne said brightly. She went right to Cliff and kissed his cheek. “We never had a chance to greet each other yesterday. Rather, we passed one another like two ships in the night.” Her smile faded as he looked up. “I am so happy you have come home, but now I am worried. What is wrong? Why do you look so grim?”

  “I am fine, but Amanda is not.” He stoo
d up. “You have yet to meet her, but I take it Rex and Eleanor have filled you in?”

  The countess studied him. “Eleanor said she is your guest and that you have brought her to London so she might meet her only living family. Rex has inferred that you are her champion?”

  Cliff managed a smile. “Actually, there is more.” When he had their attention, he said, “I saw her father before he died. His last dying wish was that I become Amanda’s guardian.”

  Expressions of surprise and disbelief greeted him. Before anyone could object and point out that he had a notorious reputation, one that made him unfit to be the guardian of any young woman, he said, “I was reluctant to agree. No more. It is official and I will have any necessary papers drawn up. As of this moment, Amanda Carre is my ward.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ITWAS ELEANOR WHO began to laugh. Everyone else seemed very surprised. “How can you guard the virtue of any woman?” she said. “I saw you in her room yesterday afternoon. Does she still have her virtue?”

  “Eleanor!” the countess protested.

  Cliff stood up, his chair scraping back. “We had some matters to discuss, Eleanor, not that it is your concern. And I suggest you think twice about accusing me of stealing Amanda’s virtue.” But last night, he had almost done just that—and not for the first time. His sister was infamous for her snooping ways. It was fortunate she had not walked in on them last night.

  Eleanor was wide-eyed and taken aback. “You must be smitten! You are so touchy! The brother I know is absolutely indifferent to such accusations. Besides, you have never tried to hide an affair.”

  “We are not having an affair. She is seventeen years old—she is my ward!” he cried. He felt himself flush as he turned his back to her, facing the countess. “I had hoped that her mother would have the honor of a guardianship, but as it turns out, she wants nothing to do with her own daughter. Do you know Lady Belford?”

  “I do. That is terrible,” Mary cried. “But I understand her predicament. She must be afraid of ruin. Still, to reject one’s own daughter is inexcusable! Cliff, have you told Miss Carre?”