Little White Lies

by Sara Ackerman

  Table of Contents

  Ecerpt

  Praise for Sara Ackerman

  Little White Lies

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  She swayed toward him, ensnared by his provocative words and enticing nearness.

  He seemed to hesitate a moment, perhaps tempted by what he saw written on her face. Shaking his head, he turned to leave, but stopped and faced her again. “Then run away with me, Amelia.”

  “Wh-what?” she stuttered, backing away from Tavis. She didn’t know which of them was more shocked. “We hardly know each other!”

  “Many marriages begin on less,” Tavis persuaded, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “I don’t even know who you are. You could be anybody!”

  She turned her head to the side and closed her eyes, more tempted by his offer than she was willing to admit to herself. He was giving her a chance to leave behind the solitude and misery her curse had imposed on her from the age of eight. She could leave and start a new life away from London and the gossips of the ton. She could finally have a normal life. A husband. A home. A family of her own. She would no longer be the awkward spinster sister of the lovely Beatrice or the bane of her mother’s existence. She could be free…

  What he is saying is crazy! Respectable gentlemen don’t go around offering marriage to near strangers.

  Proper young women did not accept offers of marriage from near strangers, either. But, oh, how she was tempted nonetheless to accept and live a life where nobody knew about her curse.

  “I could be anybody, ’tis true, lass.” Tavis grabbed her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look at him. “But I also could be somebody, Amelia. Somebody you could care for. Somebody you could marry.”

  Praise for Sara Ackerman

  “Ackerman whisks readers to a magical time and place where lust, betrayal, and a gypsy’s curse enchant each page. Readers will want to travel back in time and make Tavis their own.”

  ~Ava Black, Crimespree Magazine

  ~*~

  SILENCE IS GOLDEN

  and

  SILVER-TONGUED TEMPTRESS

  follow LITTLE WHITE LIES

  in The Westby Sisters Series

  available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Little White Lies

  by

  Sara Ackerman

  The Westby Sisters, Book One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Little White Lies

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Sara Ackerman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2016

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0651-3

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0652-0

  The Westby Sisters, Book One

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To R.

  Sorry I almost stabbed you with a fork

  on our first date.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1810

  “It is a lovely evening tonight, my lord.”

  Amelia Westby smiled and fluttered her lashes, a coy attempt at sincerity, but she received no response. Holding back a frustrated sigh, she took a deep breath and counted to ten before checking her progress once more. Nothing happened.

  Drat! I’ll have to try again.

  “I do like to dance.” Amelia waited and grew anxious when she didn’t sense a twinge or a tic or even a gurgle. Never had it taken more than these two simple phrases to achieve her desired results.

  The ticking clock in the room competed with the worried voice in her head, both reminding her of the limited time she had before being caught. Soon her mother or her sister would barge in and end her attempt to sabotage the evening.

  For this to work, she needed a convincing lie, not one which could be confused with the normal pleasantries exchanged between acquaintances of the ton.

  Think, Amelia! What do you hate more than anything?

  In a flash, it came to her, and Amelia braced herself for what was to come. With a toss of her copper curls and a saucy smile, she said, “Yes, my lord, I love attending balls, especially when you are here.”

  There it was. A large pang rippled across her stomach causing Amelia to wince in pain. She looked into her vanity mirror. Despite the agony she was in, her sparkling green eyes reflected only happiness at her success. But she wasn’t done yet. It wasn’t over until she cast her accounts on her vanity or she passed out on her bedroom floor. Either would work for her purposes this evening.

  Pushing past the bile rising in her throat, Amelia bared her teeth at her reflection, knowing what she needed to say to end this madness. “Of course, my lord, I’d love to—”

  “Yoo-hoo, Amelia! I’ve come to rescue you!”

  Huffing out an impatient breath, Amelia tried to ignore the cheery intrusion of her longtime friend, Lady Clarisse Thornston, and to concentrate on the agony her lie generated. But it was gone, leaving not even a dull ache. The familiar nausea receded, and her stomach was fine. Lady Amelia Westby was well and truly stuck.

  “Clarisse, you do have the worst timing!” Amelia turned away from the mirror to gift her friend with a baleful glare. “I almost had it this time.”

  With a swish of pink skirts, Clarisse was by her side, giving her a rather unsympathetic pat on the shoulder. “As your mother thought, so she sent me up.”

  Amelia wanted to scold her friend for colluding with the enemy, but the kind brown eyes staring into her own stopped Amelia short. Clarisse did not deserve her anger, no matter if she did agree to help her mother drag her to the ball. She contented herself by mumbling, “Traitor,” like a petulant child instead.

  “You may call me any name you please, Miss Amelia, but I’m not sorry I did it. I happen to agree with your mother on this.”

  Hopping up from her chair, Amelia stood over Clarisse and plunked her balled fists on her hips. “You’re supposed to have my best interests at heart, Clarisse, not hers!” Amelia gestured to the door where her mother most likely lurked listening to everything the two women said. “You know how I dread going to dances!” Amelia turned away and wrapped her arms around herself, all her anger and resentment from years of being barely tolerated by society returning to tear apart her self-confidence.

  Since her co
me-out three years ago, Amelia could count on one hand the number of times a gentleman had asked her to dance. In her first season she had alienated most of the eligible bachelors with her blunt honesty. It wasn’t her fault her partners insisted on asking inane questions. Nor was it her fault she was required to give a completely honest answer—or suffer the consequences. Soon it was rumored Lady Amelia was odd, rude even, and the number of gentlemen who asked her to dance dwindled until she no longer had any partners at all.

  Nowadays, her father had to bribe men to dance with her. Except for one. Jeremy Michelson continued to seek her company in spite of her oddities. It didn’t help that he lived in her home, either. When Jeremy’s father was lost at sea, Lord Westby had invited his old friend’s son to live at Westby house, where he was forever underfoot and in her business. Had he a pleasant disposition, she might have grown to admire him. She did not. Jeremy was a foul-mouthed, ill-tempered bully who enjoyed tormenting her and her sisters. She despised him almost as much as she despised going to balls.

  Thanks to Clarisse’s untimely interference, she was going to her sister Evie’s debut ball, which meant there was no way to avoid dancing with Jeremy. Amelia shivered, remembering the last time they had danced and his pursuit of her down a distant, empty hallway. If Beatrice hadn’t happened along… Amelia jerked her mind away from those dark remembrances and willed her pounding heart to calm.

  Tears welled in her eyes, and Amelia wiped at them hoping Clarisse didn’t see. Amelia did not want to talk about what had happened all those weeks ago, and she certainly did not want Clarisse to convince her to leave her room.

  This really has been a most disappointing evening. She sniffled quietly and wanted to stamp her foot in frustration when she felt Clarisse move to her side.

  She had not been quiet enough.

  Pulling Amelia down onto the vanity chair, Clarisse placed a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Now what has you scowling so?”

  Amelia knew she couldn’t lie, nor could she avoid answering honestly. It was an annoying problem to have, especially when well-intentioned friends asked questions she didn’t want to answer.

  At this point, Amelia didn’t even contemplate lying to make herself sick. Knowing Clarisse, she’d slap some powder on her face and lug Amelia below stairs regardless of her state of consciousness. Better to save her the trouble and answer with the truth.

  “Jeremy Michelson.”

  “Yuck!” Clarisse wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I thought he had taken his own residence after returning from the Continent. I haven’t seen him skulking about in ages.”

  “No. He’s here all the time, Clarisse.” Amelia had her own theory about why her father had given Jeremy an invitation to live with them, and after the events following her last dance with him, Amelia suspected she was right. “I think Father wants us to make a match, Clarisse, and I’m worried he will force my hand if I refuse.”

  Clarisse wrapped her arms about Amelia’s shoulder, comforting Amelia with her embrace. “I won’t allow it,” Clarisse said with her usual pragmatic calm.

  With a watery laugh, Amelia straightened and saw the light of determination in her friend’s eyes. “What? You can’t be serious.”

  “Sure I am. We’ll run away together, you and I, and…and travel to the Americas.”

  “The Americas? Isn’t it a little rustic over there? Perhaps we might go to Italy or France. Of course, there’s a war, so France might not be the best option, but surely Italy is a far better choice than the Americas.”

  “No, no. Forget refinement and luxury. We want to get as far away as possible. It has to be America.” Clarisse’s brown eyes had a mischievous gleam in them as she warmed up to her idea of life in the New World. “Think of it, Mimi, the adventures we’ll have. We’ll learn to survive off the land by picking nuts and berries. And…and in the winter we’ll hunt wild chickens!”

  Amelia giggled, imagining the two of them in their finery—Clarisse in her pink dress and voluminous skirts and Amelia in her blue—traipsing through the forests of America hunting chickens. “We don’t know the first thing about hunting, Clarisse, and I’m not entirely sure chickens are wild.”

  “Details, details. Now, the first thing to do is…”

  Embracing her friend in a tight hug, Amelia silenced Clarisse’s wild imaginings with her gratitude. “Thank you, Clarisse,” she whispered into her ear.

  “So we’re staying tonight?” Clarisse asked, holding Amelia at arm’s length, her dear face ever encouraging and hopeful.

  Amelia nodded. “I think it’s best if we do.”

  “And we’re going down to the ball?” Clarisse emphasized, giving Amelia a significant look.

  “Yes, Clarisse. I will go to the ball.”

  Clarisse squealed and clapped her hands. “We’re going to have such fun!”

  Amelia gulped and turned to face her vanity before plopping her chin on her fists. “I’m doomed.”

  “No, Mimi,” Clarisse said as she grabbed Amelia’s hairbrush and started brushing through the tangled mass of thick, red curls. “Not doomed. Only cursed.”

  Chapter 2

  After another half hour in her room, during which time Clarisse repaired Amelia’s hair and helped her to finish dressing, Amelia was ready to endure another one of her mother’s soirées. She had just stepped off the last stair when a small whirlwind with pale blonde hair and snapping blue eyes stopped her in her tracks.

  It was Evie, Amelia’s younger sister. “Where have you been?” she hissed. “Papa is going to announce my betrothal any minute. He’s been waiting until you arrived.”

  Unruffled by Evie’s outburst, Amelia did her best to appear indifferent to her lateness, knowing how it irritated Evie. “As you see, I am here.”

  “It’s about time,” Evie huffed, her impatience at Amelia’s tardiness evident in every taut line of her small body. She was aquiver with nervous excitement, and Amelia bit back a retort at her sister’s insensitivity. Evie was young, and it was a special night for her. It was not her fault Amelia hated balls.

  Evie grabbed onto Amelia’s hands and squeezed, smiling into her sister’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re here, Amelia.” Amelia softened and returned her sister’s smile, reminding herself of Evie’s good qualities. She was a loyal sister, and Amelia cared for her. Most of the time.

  “I want this evening to be perfect, and now you’re here.”

  Some of Amelia’s anxiety melted at the sincerity of her sister’s words, shaming Amelia for her selfish actions earlier this evening. She had opened her mouth to apologize for her lateness when Evie said, “It’s perfect timing, really. Now I can remind you to be on your best behavior.” Waving a stern finger at Amelia, she said, “No more missteps tonight, Amelia. This is my night, so try not to offend anyone.” Having delivered her final warning, Evie sashayed away, her head held high and her white gown shimmering with every step she took.

  “I…what…” Amelia spluttered. “What happened, Clarisse?”

  “My poor dear,” Clarisse giggled, mirth illuminating her eyes and lightening her face. “How Evie can insult a person to his face while making him feel grateful for the experience is beyond me! Even if I were as beautiful as Evie, I don’t think I could get away with it. She has a flair for getting under a person’s skin.”

  Amelia’s confusion past, the full sting of Evie’s insult penetrated her usual cloud of nervousness. She lunged after Evie, wanting nothing more than to make her younger sister feel the bite her words had caused.

  Clarisse stopped her with a firm hand to her shoulder and shook her head. “Count to ten, Mimi, and let her go.”

  Gritting her teeth, Amelia took the advice. After all, it wouldn’t do for the debutante to arrive at her betrothal announcement with a torn gown and chunks of hair missing, so she started counting. As she got to twenty, some of the anger had receded. By the time she reached fifty, she had cooled off, and all thoughts of revenge on the petite hellion who called herself
sister were gone. “Remind me again why I came?”

  “Even though she didn’t say it in as many words, your presence tonight is important to your sister.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes. Clarisse, ever the diplomat. She’d spent most of her acquaintance with Amelia soothing the ruffled feathers of the Westby sisters. Amelia often thought Clarisse should join Parliament. She’d have those men in agreement within a matter of days, and they’d think it was their idea in the process. Though Clarisse almost always spoke sense, Amelia wasn’t ready to roll over and let Clarisse sweet talk her out of her bad mood yet.

  Leave it to Evie to take a perfectly rotten evening and make it even worse. “Evie’s a spoiled brat.” Amelia crossed her arms and sulked.

  “She’s your sister.”

  “Which does not negate the fact she is spoiled rotten.”

  “It’s not her fault she was cursed, poor lamb. She was so young when it all happened.”

  “Are you forgetting something, Clarisse? I was right there getting cursed by the old gypsy hag, too! Where’s my ‘poor lamb?’ ”

  “And mine?” a distant voice called.

  Both women turned and watched as Lady Beatrice Westby, Amelia’s elder sister, sauntered the length of the hallway. “I want a ‘poor lamb,’ too, Clarisse. Mine is the worst of all!” Bea clutched Amelia’s shoulder and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in true dramatic fashion.

  “Oh, you two!” Clarisse scolded. “You know very well Evie took the worst of it. Why, to be mute must be horrid!”

  “Mostly mute,” Amelia clarified. “You forget Evie can speak to family, if not acquaintances or strangers.”

  “Why are we speaking of our curse anyway? It’s old news.” Bea pretended to look bored while she smoothed invisible wrinkles from her dress. It was a gorgeous creation of silky gold, falling in a graceful stream from her cinched bosom to the tops of her matching satin slippers. A single ivory ribbon adorned her swan-like neck, its tail fluttering onto the smooth expanse of her open back. In her golden locks, her maid had woven strands of pearls through the intricate loops of her hair. The overall effect was stunning.