by Sophia James
Her wig had been snagged at some point and was sitting at an angle on her head, the right side dragging the left down and giving her an appearance of someone out of sorts with the world.
With care she readjusted the hairpiece. Had this just happened or had Lord Montcliffe seen it as well? The whole evening had been tumultuous; her father’s strange malady counterbalanced against the Earl of Montcliffe’s unexpected kiss.
Wiping her forefinger along the lines of her lips, she then held it still, the impression of flesh sending small shards of want into a sense that had long been dormant.
She was known for her composure and her unruffled calm. She seldom let things bother her and always managed people with acumen and honesty.
Unflappable Amethyst. Until Lord Daniel Wylde.
He made her think of possibilities that would not come to pass. She was ruined goods and she was plain. Without the Montcliffe financial problems and the collection by her father of the extensive Goldsmith debts, he would never have given her a second glance.
She could not allow herself to be one of those pathetic women who didn’t see the truth of their loveless marriages and held on for year after year for something that was impossible.
Two years was what she could give him. Two years in which her father would not be sad or worried or unhappy. If he even lived that long, which was doubtful.
The Earl of Montcliffe would not love her and she would not let herself love him. But together they could manage. The kiss had thrown her, that was all, an unexpected chink in the armour she had long pulled about her.
Liar. Liar. Liar. The words ran together as a refrain as she hurried back to her father.
* * *
Lucien Howard, Earl of Ross, sat beside Daniel in the card room of White’s an hour later. Smoke swirled around in curls and the smell of strong liquor filled any space left as some patrons won a little and others lost a lot.
‘I hear you bought those remarkable Arabian greys at Tattersall’s?’ There was a good measure of curiosity in his friend’s query.
‘You know enough about my present circumstances, Luce, to know I could never afford them.’
‘Then why are they in your care?’
‘Have you heard of the trader, Mr Robert Cameron?’
‘No. Who is he?’
‘A man who sells timber to the world.’
‘Lucrative, then?’
‘Very. He wants me to marry his daughter.’
Brandy slopped against the side of the glass as Lucien lurched forward. ‘You agreed?’
‘The matching pair of greys came as a sweetener. Montcliffe Manor is bankrupt and it will only be a matter of months before the rest of the world knows the fact.’ He raised his glass and then swallowed a good part of the contents of the bottle he had ordered. ‘If I do nothing, it will all be gone.’
Lucien was quiet for a moment, but then he smiled. ‘What does the daughter look like?’
‘Passable.’
‘Your bastard of a father must be laughing in the afterlife then. At least he was a man of his word. I remember him insisting that you wouldn’t inherit a farthing of his fortune and he meant it.’
‘The curse of the Wyldes?’ Daniel’s thoughts fell into words.
‘How long do you have left, do you think, if you sat it out and did nothing?’
‘It will only be a matter of weeks before the first creditors arrive.’ Leaning back against soft leather, he ran his hands through his hair. ‘I have had word that they are already circling.’
‘I’d lend you money if I had any, but my situation is about as dire as your own.’
‘Your grandfather wants to disinherit your side of the family again? I heard about it from Francis before he left for Bath.’
‘Where he has gone to try to sort out his own financial woes, no doubt. Seems he has a cousin a few times removed there causing him some trouble.’
Daniel smiled. ‘The three of us have our problems then, though mine could be solved before the month is up.’
‘You will go through with it? This betrothal?’
‘Marriage or bankruptcy? I have little choice.’
‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were all going to travel to the Far East and make our fortunes, remember? God, that sort of innocence seems so long ago.’
‘The naivety of youth.’
‘Or the hope of it. Marriage is a big step, Daniel. Is this bride-to-be at least intelligent?’
‘Undeniably.’
‘Does she simper?’
‘No.’
‘An heiress who has brains and is not prone to whining? Perhaps you have made more of a match than you imagine. What colour is her hair?’
‘A dull mouse.’
Lucien began to laugh. ‘And her eyes?’
‘Brown.’
‘Is she fat?’
‘Thin.’
‘Short?’
‘No.’
‘Mama was always certain you would marry the moody but beautiful Charlotte Hughes. She is back, you know, from Scotland and without the husband.’
‘Spenser Mackay died by all accounts.’
‘But in doing so he left her a fortune which she probably needs about as much as you do. The ton likes to think you were heartbroken when she left, Daniel.’
‘A good tale is often more interesting than a truthful one.’
‘Have you told the Countess about your upcoming nuptials?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘But you will?’
‘No. The wedding is in a few weeks’ time. Mother would need at least a month to get ready for it and even that might not be enough. Would you be the best man, Luce?’
‘I would be honoured to.’
‘Francis will be the usher, I hope. I sent a message to Bath yesterday telling him of the plans. The announcement will be in The Times next week.’
‘A few more hours of peace, then. When can I meet your intended?’
‘I’m calling on her on Monday. Perhaps you might accompany me?’
A furore at the other end of the room caught their attention and Lord Gabriel Hughes, the fourth Earl of Wesley, strode in, a tall stranger hanging on his shoulder and pushed off with a nonchalance that was surprising.
‘London is not as it was, my lords. Nordmeyer insists that I insulted his sister and wants to call me out for it.’
‘And did you insult her?’
‘She sent me a note arranging a meeting and he found it. I hardly think that was my fault.’
‘But you would have met her if the letter had arrived?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
Laughter was as good a medicine as any, Daniel thought as Gabe ordered a drink. A few years ago he and Gabriel Hughes had been good friends, but he hadn’t seen much of him lately. Charlotte’s influence, perhaps. The women in the family had always been surprisingly persuasive.
‘I hear you were the one who bought the pair of greys showing at Tattersall’s a few weeks back, Montcliffe. Richard Tattersall had designs to procure them himself, but it seems you beat him to it with an irrefusable offer.’
Daniel wondered where this story had originated. Robert Cameron, perhaps, for the man was as wily as he was rich.
‘The Montcliffe coffers must be in good shape, then, for they would have not come cheap,’ Gabriel remarked. An undercurrent of question lay in the words. ‘And speaking of good shape, my sister is home again and had hoped that you might call upon her?’
‘I saw her today. In Regent Street.’
‘How did she appear to you?’ The heavy frown on Gabriel’s forehead was worrying.
‘In good health. Your mother was with her.’
‘She seldom allows Charlotte out of h
er sight. I think she is worried that grief might get the better of her.’
‘Grief for the death of her husband?’
The short bark of laughter was disconcerting. ‘She realised that Spenser Mackay was a mistake before she had even come within a cooee of the Borderlands.’
‘Another man, then?’ Lucien joined in the conversation now.
But as if realising he had said too much, Gabriel Hughes gestured to the waiter and ordered another drink.
‘I propose a toast to our bachelorhood, gentlemen, and long may it last.’ As Lucien lifted his glass Daniel caught his eyes and the deep humour obvious in the blue depths was disconcerting.
Chapter Five
Daniel Wylde and she were in bed at Dunstan House, candlelight covering their bodies and her hair to the waist.
‘Love me for ever, my beautiful Amethyst,’ he said as he brought his lips down upon her own, hard and slanted, desire moulding her body into his, asking for all that she knew he would give her. His fingers framed her face, tilting her into the caress, building the connection. ‘Love me as I love you, my darling, never let us be apart.’
And then she was awake in her own chamber at Grosvenor Square, the moon high outside. Alone. The dream of Lord Montcliffe dissolved into a formless want and the need that she had no hope in wishing for dissipated. He would not love her like that, he could not.
Pushing back the covers, she stood and lit a candle before crossing to the bookshelves on one side of the room.
Here behind a row of burgundy leather tomes she found what she had hidden. Her diary. A narrative of Gerald Whitely and their time together, every emotion she had felt for him penned in black and white. And in red, too, her blood smeared across one page mixed in troth with his. A small cut below the nail of her thumb. Sometimes she felt it with the pad of her opposing finger. He had laughed at the time and told her she was being melodramatic. Then he had stopped laughing altogether. The small book fell open at one of the pages.
I hate him. I hate everything about him. I hate his drunkenness and his anger. I hate it that I was stupid enough to become his wife. I think Papa suspects that there is something wrong between us and I hate that, too.
As she riffled through to the end of the book, there seemed to be a myriad of variations on that theme and she remembered again exactly what hopelessness felt like.
After his death she had not trusted anyone except for her father. After Gerald the world of possibility and expectation had shrunk into a formless mist, her big mistake relegated to that part of her mind which refused to be hurt again, but even thirteen months later the horror had left an indelible mark.
The business of making money had been healing, saving her from the ignominy of venturing back into the pursuit of another mate. Oh, she had gone to Gerald’s funeral and attended his grave, placing flowers and small offerings because it was expected. She had also worn her mourning garb for the obligatory year because she could have not borne the questions that might have occurred otherwise. Even in death she had not betrayed him.
A single tear dropped upon the sheet below, blurring the careful writing.
A blemished bride. Then and now. Granted, she came to this next union with a dowry that was substantial and with the means to save a family on the brink of devastation. It must count for something.
But the kiss Daniel Wylde and she had shared was worrying because in it were the seeds of her own destruction.
Not like Gerald Whitely. Not like him at all.
The voyeur inside her who had been watching others for years was threatened, the safe distance she had fostered shattered by a hope she had never known, for when Lord Montcliffe had taken her hand and then her lips something in her had risen and his gold-green eyes had known it had.
Looking back, she could not understand just what had led her into the mistake of marrying Whitely in the first place. Loneliness, perhaps, or the fact that the years were rushing by. Certainly it had not been a blinding love or even a distilled version of affection. No, she had married Gerald because no one else had ever given her a second look and she was starting to feel as if spinsterhood was just around a very close corner.
Her father’s respect for his business acumen might have also made a difference. Amythest wanted to marry a man whom Robert would regard with fondness and Gerald had arrived at the warehouse with glowing references and a comforting confidence. A man who at first brought her flowers and pretty handkerchiefs and professed that he had never in his whole life seen anyone as beautiful as she was.
When the nasty side of him had surfaced a month or so before their marriage she should have cut her losses and run. Her father would have understood and there was no one else whose opinion she cared much about. Yet still she had persisted in believing that she could calm Gerald’s anger and gently soothe all the problems he seemed to have with others.
Marriage had changed that. The admonishments had been verbal at first, just small criticisms of her dress and her hair. Then he had used his fists.
Fear had held her rigid and distant, the shame and the anger at her stupidity buried under a carefully constructed outer mask. She could not believe that she had been so gullible and foolish as to imagine a wonderful life with a man she had barely known. When he had died sixteen months later Amethyst had not seen him for a good handful of weeks before that and her heartfelt relief added to the guilt of everything.
* * *
Four mornings after the kiss she had shared with Lord Montcliffe she felt full of anxiety. Her intended was waiting downstairs in the Blue Salon and he had brought a friend with him. To see what trap the Earl had tumbled into, she supposed, the sour taste of trade balanced by a wife who was at least wealthy enough to save Montcliffe.
After nights of poor sleep and lurid dreams Amethyst felt exposed; pinned to a board like a butterfly in some scientific laboratory, wings outstretched and colours fading into dust. No possible defences. No protection against the disdain he surely must be feeling.
At least the wig felt like armour and the dark purple bombazine in her gown was sturdy enough to withstand any amount of derision. As she opened the door of the salon they had been directed to, the smile on her face was tight.
‘My lord.’ She did not allow Daniel Wylde to take her fingers or to touch her as she inclined her head.
‘Miss Cameron.’ There was a slight hesitation in his greeting. ‘I hope your father has had a few comfortable nights and is feeling better after his fall.’
‘He is, my lord, thank you, though he is under strict instructions to stay in bed for a few more days yet. Your doctor was most insistent about that. Perhaps I should have informed you,’ she added as an afterthought, suddenly uncertain of the rules around being unchaperoned even in her own house.
‘We will not stay long. May I introduce my good friend to you? Lucien Howard, Earl of Ross, this is Miss Amethyst Amelia Cameron, my intended.’
The man who stood by the mantelpiece watched her carefully. With hair as pale as Daniel Wylde’s was dark, he held the same sort of stillness and menace. She also thought she saw a hitch of puzzlement in his eyes.
‘Montcliffe has told me all about you, Miss Cameron.’
‘I should not think there would be much to say, my lord.’
Unexpectedly Lord Ross laughed. ‘Actually, I am more surprised by all he didn’t.’
Glancing over at Daniel, Amethyst wondered how much honesty he would allow. She decided to test him.
‘It is a truism that great wealth holds a loud persuasion. As a good friend of Montcliffe’s you must realise this.’
The stance of relaxed grace did not change a whit, but Lord Montcliffe had moved closer and Amethyst felt that same sharp jolt of shock with an ache. She did not look her best today, she knew it. The wig itched unremittingly and the red around her eyes from poor sleep did her
no favours whatsoever. She had tried to assuage the damage with some powder she had asked her maid to fetch from the pharmacist yesterday, but the application was difficult and she wondered if instead of hiding the problem she had accentuated it. She wished now that she had simply wiped the powder off before entering the room.
‘Miss Cameron runs the books for the Cameron timber company, Luce. According to her father she is irreplaceable in her knowledge of the trade.’
Was the Earl criticising her? His words did not seem slanted with distaste so mayhap this was another example of her not comprehending the ways of the ton. His friend’s face was carefully schooled to show as little emotion as Montcliffe’s did, allowing her no way of understanding the truth.
‘I have heard it said that you have a knowledge of horseflesh too, Miss Cameron? Your father’s pair of greys were the talk of the town a few weeks back and, when I went in to look them over, Tattersall mentioned your name on the ownership deeds.’
‘Papa and I generally consult on new purchases, my lord. That particular pair was procured on a trip we made to Spain together three years ago.’ She stopped, thinking perhaps she sounded boastful.
‘I see. Montcliffe raised horses when we were younger too. Before the war took us into Spain and they were lost to him.’
‘You were in the army, as well?’
‘It is the curse of an estate of great title, but little in the way to support it, Miss Cameron. ’Twas either that or the church and the stipend in religion is miserable.’
As he said the words Lucien Howard turned and the light from the window directly behind him fell across a large swathe of scarring at his neck. Averting her eyes, Amethyst hoped he had not seen just where her interest lay, though when she glanced over at Daniel she knew a momentary consternation. The easy-going lord of the realm seemed replaced by another, hard distance coating his every feature, memory overlaid by anger.
War wounds. She had seen the soldiers from the Peninsular Campaign as they had stumbled up the quayside of all the ports between Falmouth and Dover the previous year in the final days of January. She had been in the south with her father, checking on a new timber delivery, and the filthy, ill and skeletal men had been a shocking sight. Thirty-five thousand men had crossed the Spanish frontier to march against Napoleon and eight thousand had not returned. Lord Montcliffe and his friend Lord Ross had no doubt been amongst those on the crowded transports in the Bay of Biscay storms. She could barely imagine what nightmares such a journey would have brought.
