by Brenda Joyce
Her home was gone, taken away from Papa by the authorities. She didn’t want to go back to the island, where she would have to lie and steal and beg in order to survive. She didn’t want to be that wild child again.
Amanda wiped her eyes.
Of course de Warenne didn’t want to marry her; she had never expected him to want her as a wife. She had been stupid enough to fall in love with him and she had yearned to be his lover, even for a while. But he was a man of honor, the kind of man she hadn’t really believed existed until she had met him. He was being noble now. He had chosen to become her protector on the island, and now he had chosen to be her guardian, when he owed her nothing at all. He could cast her out; instead, he was providing her with a generous dowry so she could marry well.
It hurt, but she was also grateful. The image she had been entertaining recently filled her mind, somewhat altered. Now, clad in a beautiful dress, she saw herself polished and proper, sitting with Cliff de Warenne in a rose garden, and he was smiling fondly at her. But they were only good friends—because she was someone else’s wife.
“Look at this ivory and coral,” Eleanor was saying, holding up a sprigged pattern. The coral was a faint vein in the sprigs. “With your hair and eyes, this will be lovely on you.”
Amanda realized the other woman was regarding her with sympathy and concern. She started, for swatches of fabric were piling up on the bed. She blinked. She had never seen so much silk, satin, chiffon and cotton. Cliff had taken her into his home, he was giving her a dowry and he was providing her with a wardrobe fit for a princess. “Surely, these fabrics aren’t for me?”
“You will have any and all that you like,” Eleanor announced with a smile. “Cliff is well off and we should take him for every penny that we can. He can be such an insensitive lout!”
“He is a great man,” Amanda whispered, somehow meeting Eleanor’s eyes.
Eleanor handed the ivory and coral sample to the couturier, touching Amanda’s hand. “You are terribly in love with him, aren’t you?”
Amanda jerked out of her reverie, flushing. “Of course not! I am so grateful to him for all he has done, for allowing me to stay here in your home, for giving me so much opportunity to better myself.” She meant it. She couldn’t go back now. Even if it meant becoming his ward, marrying someone else and settling for his friendship, she wanted to become a lady, at least in appearances, if she somehow could.
“My brother,” Eleanor said slowly, “has a bit of a reputation. He is not the marrying kind—”
“I know!” Amanda managed a wide, bright smile. “I have seen him on the deck of his ships for years, or on the deck of a prize he has taken. I have seen him strolling on the streets of Kingston, and I have watched real ladies making fools of themselves in the hopes of attracting his attention. Everyone in the islands knows Cliff de Warenne.” Even as she spoke, she began to realize that she was not the first woman to fall in love with Cliff de Warenne and find herself rejected. He had probably left a trail of broken hearts all around the world. Now, she would have to ignore her own protesting and wayward heart, as well.
“He is very handsome, very charming and very wealthy. I can imagine how easily a woman could fall for him. But do you know, I have never seen him quite so attentive. His affairs are usually very brief and he has never brought a woman home.”
Amanda hugged herself. She wasn’t certain she wanted to have such an intimate discussion with Eleanor O’Neill. “I am not dimwitted enough to be thinking of marriage to your brother, Mrs. O’Neill. In fact, he is right to be arranging a marriage for me. The other choice would be for me to return to the islands, and while I love the sea and I love sailing, I can’t go back.”
Eleanor plucked her hand. “You are being so brave!”
They were on safer ground now. “Brave? I am not brave. Bravery is being alone for months on end, uncertain where your next meal is coming from. Bravery is watching your ship come in—and not knowing who is alive and who is dead.”
Eleanor’s eyes were huge and Amanda turned away, wishing she hadn’t spoken so openly. But it was true. More often than not, Papa’s cruises had gone on far longer than planned, and now she could face the truth: he hadn’t provided very well for her. In those last months before his death, she had had to fish in the cove, gather mangoes and beg and steal to survive. Once, he had been imprisoned in Cyprus, and he had been gone for over a year. She had been thirteen years old at the time. She had been alone, lonely and afraid. And every time the sloop had crept into the harbor, she had been terrified that Papa would not be on her decks.
There was no decision to make. She desperately wanted the life Cliff was offering her. Maybe the estate he was buying would have a rose garden; if not, she could plant one herself. And while she remained afraid of society, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. After all, Cliff’s family was of the highest rank and look at how they had received her. No one had looked down on her, at least, not yet. Maybe the London ton wasn’t as bad as the island society. Besides, this was going to be different from wandering Kingston’s streets. She hadn’t really grasped that until now. She was going to be launched on Cliff’s arm while in the midst of his elegant and powerful family.
I can do this, Amanda thought. I have to do this!
“No wonder,” Eleanor said softly, “Cliff looks at you the way he does.”
Amanda didn’t hear her. She walked over to the bed, Eleanor following. “I only need one dress,” she said slowly. But she took the coral and ivory silk from the bed and held it to her bosom, trembling. It was so pretty, so feminine. Suddenly she wanted it the way she had wanted the nightgown which she had destroyed last night. “Do you think I will be pretty in this?” she asked slowly.
“You will be the most beautiful woman in the room, and Cliff will have trouble controlling his desires, indeed,” Eleanor said with a gleam in her eyes. “And you need a dozen gowns, Amanda. One will never do.”
Amanda could barely believe she would need so many dresses, just as she could barely believe the turn her life was taking. Maybe this was better than becoming Cliff de Warenne’s lover. After all, she had never had a secure and safe home of her own. They had struggled to make ends meet at Belle Mer, and there had always been the threat of selling it to pay off their debts.
Papa had lied to her, but he would be so happy for her now. He would want this life for her.
As for Mama, one day they would meet. Amanda would make it so, and when they did, Mama would see an elegant lady with a handsome husband and an estate of her own, not a pirate’s daughter, and she would never guess at the hurt and pain she had caused. Because Amanda would hold her head high and smile as graciously as the countess would.
And as for Cliff? They would be friends, maybe even dear friends, and while she might love him forever, it would be from afar, the way she had admired him from a distance on the island. Eventually, she hoped, it would not hurt so much.
Eleanor was holding up a pink-striped ivory. Amanda looked at her. “Tell me what you think I should choose.”
LADY HARRINGTON, sole heiress to the huge Harrington fortune, was in her drawing room in Greenwich, their spacious London home, with two callers, her old and dear friends, Lady Bess Waverly and Lady Felicia Capshaw. She sat on a gold velvet settee, a small, dignified woman of twenty-five with porcelain skin and striking blue-green eyes. Her pale, nearly platinum-blond hair was pulled tightly back into an unfashionable chignon, but it was the no-nonsense style she preferred. Although she was very wealthy, her dark blue gown was almost severe, and she wore but two small diamond earbobs and one diamond ring with no other jewelry, as she did not like to flaunt her wealth. Her friends, however, wore frilled and flounced gowns. Bess was sporting a huge ruby necklace, the gift from her most recent lover, a visiting Russian count, while Felicia wore more emeralds than any young widow should ever wear. But her recently deceased husband had left her a small fortune and she was flashing it as she could, desperately hoping to attract her thir
d husband.
And it seemed that she had a viable candidate in mind. Felicia had spent the past hour telling her about an elderly earl, also twice widowed, who had called four times in this past week. “What do you think, my dear?” Felicia asked eagerly. She was a voluptuous brunette.
Blanche smiled quietly at her friend. “Do you want me to tell you what you wish to hear, or what I really do think of all of this?”
Felicia sat up straighter.
Bess laughed. “She wants your approval, Blanche. God, if only we could be as indifferent to life’s foibles as you!”
Blanche carefully smiled, not offended but not about to share the truth with either friend. If only she could care about life’s vagaries. She sighed. When she was six years old, she had witnessed her mother’s brutal murder in a rioting mob. She could not remember that event or any day prior to it, and ever since, she had calmly accepted every twist and turn life offered.
“You do not care for Lord Robert,” Felicia pouted.
Blanche patted her hand. “I care for you, my dear. Do you really need to jump into wedlock again, so quickly? Can you not carefully choose your third husband?”
Felicia appeared annoyed. “I am not like you, Blanche, with ice in my veins. It is either Lord Robert or a lover, for like Bess, I dearly miss the passion of the marriage bed.”
Blanche was not flustered. Her friends knew she was a virgin. They could not understand why she refused to marry and even if she remained unwed, why she hadn’t taken a lover. She had given up trying to explain that men held no interest for her. Her life was safe and secure at Harrington Hall, taking care of her father, and she did not need anything more. No man had ever made her heart race. She wasn’t inclined toward women, not at all; she was merely dead in her body, as she was dead in her soul. “I suggest you take a lover, dear, for a while, but be discreet. And choose more wisely this time.” Her second husband had been an impetuous, if handsome, young man who had been killed jumping his Thoroughbred over a dangerously high fence.
As Blanche turned toward Bess, who was deliriously in love with her Russian despite Lord Waverly and their two children, her butler appeared, carrying a silver tray. “My lady?”
Gracefully Blanche rose to her feet to take the proffered card. She was delighted to see that the woman who had almost become her mother-in-law was calling. Once, she had been betrothed to Tyrell de Warenne, but neither one of them had wanted to go forward with the union. He had been enamored of his mistress, whom he had subsequently married. Her father had not insisted upon another betrothal, finally realizing that his daughter wished to remain a spinster, much to Blanche’s relief. She was warmly inclined toward the countess of Adare, and knew that Mary de Warenne liked her, as well.
“Who is it?” Bess asked, standing. “I am late. Nicholas is waiting for me at the Beverly Hotel.”
Blanche was about to tell her when she saw the countess approaching in the hall outside of the salon, a dark gentleman with her. Her heart skipped a beat, surprising her.
“Oh!” Bess cried, grinning. She jabbed Felicia and lowered her voice. “It is the countess Adare and her dashing, albeit brooding, and very unwed son, Sir Rex of Land’s End. There’s the perfect lover for you, Felicia—I have heard he has great stamina in bed, never mind his missing leg.”
Felicia flushed. “He never smiles.”
“The serious ones make the best lovers, darling. I must be off!” Bess kissed Blanche’s cheek, greeted the countess and Rex, and hurried out.
Blanche made sure she was smiling as she went forward to greet the countess, trying not to look at Rex de Warenne and refusing to heed Bess’s words. She knew him, of course. They had exchanged a dozen words in the course of her brief engagement to his brother. It had always been awkward and forced. In fact, he had made her vaguely uncomfortable, which was odd, as no one really had the ability to cause her any tension. “Countess, what a delightful surprise.” She curtsied, deferring to the other woman’s superior rank.
Then she glanced at Rex, her smile feeling quite fixed. As she greeted him she avoided his eyes. “Sir Rex, I am so pleased you have called.” It was impossible to avoid him entirely, as he was such a big, solid man. From the corner of her eyes, she glimpsed a muscular thigh. “Do you recall my dear friend, Lady Capshaw? She joined me all those years ago at Adare, but she was Lady Greene then.”
Introductions were made all around, while Blanche signaled to her butler for refreshments. Organizing the call made her recover the composure she had briefly lost. The countess’s visit was not really a surprise, but she was caught off guard that her son had escorted her.
He was never in town. She doubted she had seen him in two years, if not more. Did he spend all of his time at his Cornish estate, she wondered. He had been awarded the estate and his title for his heroism in the war. He had not changed. He remained too big, too dark, with the shadow of some terrible burden in his eyes. But even she could admit her friends were right—he was very handsome, if one preferred the dark, brooding type.
“Sir Rex, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Felicia was saying coyly. “I certainly recall our introduction in Ireland.”
He nodded at her, unsmiling. “I take it you are well.” His dark gaze slid to Blanche and then away again.
Blanche realized Felicia was going to try to get into his bed. She reminded herself that she did not care and quickly turned to the countess. “How long have you been in town?” she asked, smiling.
“A mere two days,” the countess said. “Can we stroll on the terrace, dear?”
Blanche realized the countess had a matter she wished to discuss with her privately. Felicia was now asking Rex how long he had been in town, and although answering, he seemed impatient and annoyed. She caught him glancing at her friend’s overexposed and lush bosom, but then, all men seemed inclined toward her two very socially active friends.
Blanche didn’t really care to leave them together, but she looped her arm in Mary’s and they strolled outside. “How considerate of Sir Rex to escort you today,” she heard herself say. One of her eyes seemed to be permanently trained on the couple inside her salon. Felicia was being amusing, because Rex was smiling, finally, albeit reluctantly.
“I was very surprised,” Mary admitted. “Of all my sons, he can be such a recluse. He is never in town, so I must make the most of it. As you surely know, he avoids society at all cost but he insists he is very occupied at Land’s End. How are you, Blanche? And how is Lord Harrington?”
“Papa is well. He is in Stockholm, taking care of some business affairs. I do miss him when he travels,” she said truthfully. In fact, she had been terribly lonely until Bess and Felicia had called. Then she amended her thought. She had callers every single day and she was too gracious to refuse anyone, but no amount of conversation could ease the sense of being so utterly alone. With the passage of time, her sense of isolation was becoming worse. Sometimes she would look across her salon at the merry crowd and feel as if she stood outside of herself, watching everyone and knowing no one, not even herself. Even when Harrington returned, as happy as she would be to see him, it didn’t change that feeling of being an island unto herself.
But hadn’t she wanted her life to be that way? She had only to say the word and her father would arrange a marriage for her. Blanche shivered. She could think of nothing worse than having to wed a total stranger and spending a lifetime with him in pretense.
“I am glad he is well,” the countess said. “Have you heard the news? My son Cliff is in town, and he has a ward.”
Blanche started. “Cliff has a ward? How did this happen?” He was too handsome and too much of a rake to have a ward, although she would never say so.
“He knew her father, a gentleman planter in the islands, who has recently passed on. Amanda’s mother died at birth and he brought her here, hoping to reunite her with her mother’s family, but there is no one to reunite her with, it seems.”
“Oh, how terrible!” Blanche said
, meaning it. “How can I help?”
Mary clasped her arm. “You are such a dear. We were hoping you might receive us. It will be Amanda’s first call.”
Blanche did not understand.
“We are hoping to bring her out at the Carrington ball, but her father was more ruffian than gentleman, and she was raised in a very unorthodox manner. She is a sweet, beautiful young lady, but her social education has been somewhat lacking.”
Instantly Blanche comprehended. “Mary, I should love for you to bring Amanda to my home and I will make certain all goes well, no matter what. I will help launch her, too, if you would like my help.”
“Thank you,” Mary said fervently. “This is very important to Cliff, and to Miss Carre, of course. We so appreciate your help.”
“It is my pleasure,” Blanche said. She glanced into the salon again and she was surprised to see Rex standing stiffly by himself, watching them through the window. Felicia sat on the settee by herself, looking bored. Apparently Rex de Warenne was not interested in her friend as a paramour.
It wasn’t her affair, yet she was somehow relieved.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CLIFF CONTROLLED HIMSELF, when what he wished to do was pace. The entire family was assembled in the salon, prior to going into supper, except for Amanda and his sister. He could not imagine what was keeping them, but knowing Eleanor—and Amanda—he began to worry over such a bold pairing. He had been haunted by their earlier conversation all day, and he still felt ill, deep in his chest.
I think I hate you now. I wish we had never met.
He did not know what he would do if Amanda really despised him. He couldn’t stand the notion that she wished they had never met. She had become so important to him. But she hadn’t meant her words, had she? She had been speaking in hurt and anger, and he didn’t blame her.
The children were with them, having already taken their meals in the nursery and preparing for a quiet evening upstairs. Michael, who was Sean’s stepson from a previous marriage, and Ned, Lizzie and Tyrell’s eldest child, were at the terrace doors with Alexi, having a very serious and excited discussion. As Alexi was holding a slingshot, Cliff knew they needed supervision, but Anahid was nowhere to be seen. Ariella sat on the floor, reading aloud to Eleanor’s son Rogan, a year-old boy with bright blond hair and the O’Neill gray eyes. Lizzie’s redheaded daughter, Margery, now four, was with them. Both children were rapt, as the tale was one of dragons. Lizzie was seated with them on the floor, as casually as a housemaid, smiling happily at the group, her cheeks flushed from a day spent playing nanny to her three children. As she was with child again, she had never been prettier.
