London's Wicked Affair

by Anabelle Bryant

  A jarring warning shook him from the inside out and he nailed his temper down hard. He would not react; despite Matthew stood there, oblivious to his agony, anxious and cheerful with his blithe news. Perhaps this visit served as a measure of revenge in exception of the amiable greeting. Lunden would escort him to the door and resume his ambition to become as lost and forgotten as an unmarked grave.

  The silence stretched into the loudest noise imaginable until Bittles arrived with a refreshment tray. Matthew made to leave before the butler poured tea.

  “Oh, I can’t stay. Too many details beg attention, but after all that transpired I could never allow this moment to pass. Considering our history . . .” Matthew paused as if unsure of his words. “I didn’t like the way we parted and a wedding seemed the smartest idea to bring us all together again. You’ll always have my friendship, Lunden. No matter the past, the present, or the future before us.”

  He extended his hand in a bid for truce and Lunden accepted with a hearty shake. “She’s happy?”

  “More than I can express, but then who would disagree? The gentleman is a stellar choice.”

  Honest delight tinged the words, and for the umpteenth time Lunden bit back the question burning his tongue. Who is the lucky gentleman? But no, the less information, the more sanity to be found. “Very well then, extend my felicitations to your family.” Their hands dropped and time stood still. Then Matthew tapped his cane against his boot and pivoted, leaving Lunden to stare after him as he exited the room.

  * * *

  Lunden forestalled a reaction for nearly an hour until his heart will out and he demanded his horse made ready for a long ride. Faster than the path of his thoughts, he kicked Hades harder, gathering speed like a secret let loose as he rode toward the city with the singular intent to see Amelia one last time before she became another man’s wife. Accomplished at keeping his feelings hidden, she’d managed to lay his heart bare. If he could have this one final glimpse at her face, he would relinquish his ill-begotten emotions once and for all and fade into the countryside.

  As he neared Regent Street he contemplated his foolish reaction. In spite of everything, he wanted her. It was as honest a confession as he’d allow himself, no matter she would never be his. Or could she be? He scoffed at the question. Bloody fool, she’s promised to another.

  True to the word, a Whittingham coach sat parked on Regent Street. He tethered his horse with haste, unwilling to let better sense impede his progress. He sought only a glimpse of her smile, nothing more, but as his boots brought him to the shop window, he wondered at the depth of his lie.

  Frilly bonnets, ornate slippers, and a gown of russet silk obstructed any random passersby from eyeing the ladies inside. He swore with impatience and removed his leather gloves. Entering the shop committed him to consequences. He would see the joy reflected in her eyes as she spoke of her betrothed.

  But didn’t he wish her happiness? His heart encouraged him to turn the brass knob while his brain labeled him a fool.

  “May I help you?”

  The tinkle of a brass bell above the shop doorway alerted the shopkeeper to a new arrival. Heads swiveled in his direction, one full of black satin curls, barely contained by a lovely green ribbon.

  “Lunden. You’ve come.”

  She glanced up.

  He had no words.

  She looked delighted to see him.

  He could never understand.

  Still, happiness hit him like a runaway carriage.

  Amelia, breathtakingly beautiful, swathed in diaphanous white lace from head to toe, her eyes like emeralds, her smile more radiant than the sun.

  “Your brother told me where to find you.” His words, spoken gently, contradicted the thunderous pound of his heart.

  “Of course he did, although the groom is never to see the bride before the wedding day. Some believe it to be bad luck.”

  He swung his head from left to right with reluctant urgency, anxious to finally identify the groom and equally loathed to create the memory.

  Mary chuckled, the maid seemingly amused by his indecision.

  “Forgive me, Amelia. I don’t understand.” He sounded more himself with the admission.

  This time it was Amelia who laughed, her lovely hands waving with impatience at the seamstress and assistants occupying the room. There was little she could do concerning the audience of women watching from the dressmaker’s pattern table, and Lunden eyed the small crowd with skepticism as a knot of dread formed in his chest. He took a deep breath before returning his eyes to hers.

  * * *

  Amelia struggled to keep her joy contained. Lord, he cut a sharp profile, dark and intriguing, as entrancing as that very first evening. Much like Matthew had promised, Lunden’s heart had won the battle. A few carefully positioned comments and he appeared as planned. Joy broke loose and flooded her heart. Now to convince him he was the bridegroom. That might take a bit more doing.

  She stepped from the raised platform where her dress had been measured and closed the distance between them to less than one stride. Then in front of Mary and the shoppers, and to the blatant surprise of the most handsome Duke of Scarsdale, she placed both hands atop his and smiled. “I’m yours for the asking, Lunden. I’ve never been more ready to become your wife.”

  The humor of the situation was not lost and she watched as a twinkle sparked in his warm whisky-brown eyes. “What mischief are you creating now, Troublemaker?”

  Then he laughed and the sound was pure delight to her ears, until he smiled, a true smile, and her heart threatened to burst.

  “No mischief, whatsoever. Can you see my smile?”

  “Even when you’re not with me.”

  “Then say yes, Lunden. Say yes to the rest of your life. This is our happily ever after.” The very idea stole her breath.

  “I love you, Amelia, every troublesome, reckless inch.” He traced a black curl against her cheek before he cupped her face in a reverent caress. “I’ve lived life without you and much prefer when you’re in it.”

  He smiled again and the intensity of his love settled deep in her heart.

  It didn’t matter who watched as their future unfurled. A murmur rode out over the crowd but Amelia was accustomed to causing great scenes. And it didn’t matter what they had experienced to reach this moment. Lunden had been through hell and back. She wished to offer him only heaven.

  In the end, what mattered most was that they’d found each other, that she’d found Lunden, a man who believed life held only darkness until the magic of their love emblazed a wondrous future. Perhaps it was the city’s fault all along, banishing her soon-to-be groom and caging his soon-to-be bride within its social dictates. In truth, it was London’s biggest mistake, but Amelia let the thought dissolve as her betrothed kissed her with all the love in his heart.

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  LONDON’S BEST KEPT SECRET

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  “A kitten?” Charlotte Lockhart, Lady Dearing, withdrew until her shoulders brushed the embroidered tableau detailed across the upholstered settee in her formal sitting room. “Whatsoever are you thinking, Amelia?” Her voice raised an octave and she forced a calm breath as her friend reached into the basket on the rug and revealed a lively ball of black fur despite the livid objection.

  “There we are.” Amelia Beckford, Duchess of Scarsdale, grinned with delight as she foisted the impatient feline forward. “Pandora produced a brilliant litter and I’m determined to find each kitten a loving home. It’s only natural I choose the sweetest of the lot for my dearest friend.”

  With reluctance, Charlotte accepted the tiny animal and settled the soft bundle in her skirt. Her posture immediately relaxed. “Lord Dearing will never allow—”

  “I don�
��t understand why not. Every woman wants for a little companionship when her husband is inaccessible.” Amelia’s eyes flared to punctuate her reply. “In your case, that matter can’t be understated.”

  “But a kitten . . .” Charlotte found a secret smile though she dashed it away just as quickly. “Lord Dearing and I have discussed this subject before and I—”

  “I won’t accept no for an answer. Besides, I’ve chosen the most docile kit of the five.” As if aware of their critical inspection, the kitten emitted a perfectly timed mew and blinked its pale blue eyes. “If the discussion with your husband progressed in the same fashion you’ve previously described, I suspect it was confined to one syllable. No.”

  Impatient and adventurous, the kitten attempted a daring leap and became tangled in the folds of Charlotte’s skirt, its claws snagging the fine woven muslin.

  “She’s climbing already.”

  “Well, of course she is. She’s a cat, not a bootjack.” Amelia tapped the toe of her slipper against the imported Aubusson carpet in dismissal of Charlotte’s concern. “Now let’s consider a proper name for her.”

  “Please.” Charlotte gathered the kitten in her palms although she stalled midway through the task when the feline licked her fingertips. The rough caress of the kitten’s tongue tickled in the nicest way. “Just because Dearing and I have yet to find our way to marital bliss, doesn’t mean we won’t. I wouldn’t want to cause a disagreement. You don’t understand.”

  “I understand more than you realize and that’s why I’ve decided upon this gift.”

  “I can’t keep her.” Charlotte gave a woeful shake of her head.

  “I didn’t travel all the way to London with the darling to have you refuse. Secret her away to your bedchambers. Dearing will never be wiser.” A brief excruciating silence ensued. “You’re still practicing that ridiculous sleeping arrangement and retiring to separate rooms, aren’t you? Good heavens, I can’t imagine waking up anywhere than beside Lunden.” A grin of delight danced around her mouth before she continued. “But never mind about that. My recent marriage and wedding trip temporarily derailed my efforts to see you happily settled, but I’ve returned now with renewed effort.”

  Accustomed to Amelia’s enthusiastic conversational skills, Charlotte sighed and her exhale whispered over the kitten’s fur to elicit a soft purr of pleasure. The kitten was a pretty little thing. And how divine it would be to have a confidant who listened rather than strove to contribute or worse, correct all the ills of her relationship.

  True to Amelia’s assessment, Charlotte had entered into marriage as a stranger to her husband and thereby encountered a unique set of circumstances. She’d returned home from a tea party one afternoon to be informed by her father she would be married within a fortnight. Indeed, Lord Dearing had rescued her family from financial ruin and exemplified several times over he was the epitome of a respected gentleman. Still, ten months proved too long to wait for a first kiss, fond embrace, or dare she imagine, passion-filled evening. Their expedient two-week courtship had overflowed with the planning and preparation most brides accomplished over months and therefore hadn’t spared adequate time to promote a sense of comfortability.

  “Every time I see that look of longing on your face it pains me.” Amelia reached across the oval occasional table and stroked the kitten between the ears. “Even if Dearing discovers your new companion, at least it will begin a discussion.”

  “Discussion?” Charlotte scoffed. “This rascal will cause an argument.”

  “All the better.” Amelia bit her bottom lip as if fighting to hold another grin at bay.

  “In what manner?” Charlotte knew her friend well.

  “An argument is exactly what the two of you need. All your polite etiquette has gotten you nowhere. But a confrontation, composed of heated words and reckless sentiment, will lead to unrivaled passion. I daresay all that emotion needs to be funneled out somehow. Dearing is a hot-blooded male. He doesn’t fool me for a moment. I see the way he looks at you when he believes no one is watching.”

  Charlotte narrowed her eyes as skepticism overrode hope. “It’s not as if we’ve never kissed.” The weak assertion garnered a snort of disbelief from her friend.

  “Those chaste pecks on the cheek? That’s no more a kiss than a caper is a banquet. I wonder if there’s something we haven’t noticed. Do you think he has an injury or other ailment preventing him from—”

  “Amelia.” It was Charlotte’s turn to interrupt.

  “I’m only considering the possibility.”

  “Yes, I know. I can hear you.”

  “It would explain quite a bit, wouldn’t it? Perhaps I should speak to the gardener at Beckford Hall. He’s a gypsy from Romania or somewhere far away. He could prepare a healing powder if Dearing—”

  “Amelia!” Charlotte all but shouted, and the kitten reacted, sinking her claws into Charlotte’s thigh. Thank heavens the multitude of layers beneath her day gown protected from the pain.

  “You really shouldn’t doubt me.” Amelia stood with a firm shake of her skirts and prepared to leave.

  “Perhaps he won’t notice.” Charlotte gathered the kitten closer to her heart. “Except for meals and the rare cordial exchange, Dearing is usually locked away in his study.”

  “Locked away? Find the key. Open the door.” Each well-meant directive brought Amelia closer to the hall, her heels tapping out the words to underscore their intent. “And one last instruction.”

  “Yes?” Charlotte carefully removed the wriggling bundle from her gown and hurried to follow.

  “You must adore your new kitten as I do you.” Amelia flashed a wide smile before she hurried across the threshold and into the foyer.

  “Oh, no worry of that.” Charlotte found a similar expression and placed a gentle kiss to the kitten’s nose. “I already do.”

  * * *

  “Faxman.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  On alert, the wiry secretary rose from his chair and Jeremy Lockhart, Viscount Dearing, silently commended the servant’s attentiveness, assured he’d hired an intelligent, intuitive man to execute his business dealings. Where would he be without Faxman? Now there was a question deserving of examination. The secretary’s business acumen paralleled his own.

  Faxman had served in the position for five years and proved a cheerful fellow who knew when to speak and when not. He also possessed a sharp mind and refrained from complaint of Dearing’s rigorous schedule, which often kept them both into late hours. Thus, Faxman was trusted with all financial transactions, shrewd fiscal contracts, investment maneuvers, and monetary exchanges.

  All except one.

  Dearing settled his eyes on the corner of his mahogany bureau plat desk where a black leather box rested beside the inkwell, an ivory letter opener, and precise stack of portfolios. The locked box remained a constant reminder of unfinished business. And too, some secrets were best hidden in full view. He returned his attention to his secretary. “Have you completed the documents for the Harrison stock and consols purchase?”

  “I’ve just sanded the page, milord.” Faxman angled his head to indicate the foolscap atop his workstation. “Shall we continue our discourse from yesterday concerning the Tasinger and Oliver merger? Or would you prefer to examine the Benson proposal?”

  The first notes of the pianoforte, faint and ephemeral, chased Faxman’s inquiries and Dearing shifted his eyes to the elegant regulator clock above the hearth.

  He’d worked straight through luncheon and beyond, the hour later than he’d realized. At the very least, Faxman deserved time to eat and rest. Otherwise Dearing courted the risk of running the secretary into the ground and he couldn’t have that.

  “Never mind. Look at the time. You may go for now. Thank you.” Dearing didn’t say more and waited for Faxman to leave, but instead of gathering his belongings with haste as the servant was apt to do daily, the younger man stalled, his brows drawn low over inquisitive eyes.

&nbs
p; “Mozart, isn’t it?”

  “Haydn’s Sonata No. 59 in E-flat major.” Dearing drummed his fingertips against his thigh, all at once impatient for Faxman to be gone. This particular piece was his favorite and he didn’t wish to spoil it with dialogue.

  “Lady Dearing’s accomplished skill draws attention in the best method. My father preferred the instrument and oft said music has a way of expressing what otherwise cannot be stated with words. At the risk of speaking beyond my position, when I hear Lady Dearing’s poignant offerings, I recall my father’s memory with fondness.”

  Dearing remained quiet another beat. “That will be all then, Faxman.” Somehow the secretary’s uncanny ability to voice provoking observations unnerved him. It was almost as if the man meant to advise, but that isolated observation posed a ridiculous notion.

  “I will return at half eight, tomorrow morning.” Faxman collected his satchel and coat from the hook near the door. “Good day, milord.”

  Dearing watched as Faxman exited though his ears remained attuned to the ariose melody in surrender to Charlotte’s clever skill. How would she react were he to enter the music room and become her audience? Was she aware how deeply he favored her masterful ability?

  With a deep exhale, he lamented his wife remained a mystery. Ten months past, ten months wasted. They spoke little more than niceties and cordial conversation, and he accepted the blame for the stagnant, awkward tension that grew more pervasive each day. Meanwhile, his body yearned to breach the chasm between them.

  He stepped backward, a feeble attempt to detach from the incongruity as much as distance himself from the enchanting summons of her music, each note and chord a beckon. Instead, his legs met the edge of the desk. He thrust his hand out and caught the corner of the leather box. With care, he laid his palm flat atop the surface and closed his eyes to the truth within.