Anne Barbour (16 page)

“Er,” said Amanda. “Yes. My father—”

“Yes,” interposed Miss Bonner. “I have heard of him. Jeremiah Bridge.” She sniffed. “He is a wool merchant, is he not?”

Amanda knew a spurt of irritation at such blatant snobbery, but she answered calmly. “Yes, among other things. My mother—”

“Yes, I remember Serena Blythe. Such a to-do when she married your father.”

“So I understand,” replied Amanda through clenched teeth. Good grief, if Lianne considered her aunt to be “the dearest old thing,” what must Grandmama Ashindon be like?

After another fifteen minutes or so of conversation, during which Miss Bonner oozed genteel venom all over Lianne’s parlor, Amanda made her escape. With expressions of pleasure at the opportunity to converse with the countess and to meet her delightful aunt, and a declaration that she would be counting the days until the dinner party at the home of the dowager countess, Amanda fled the house and flung herself into the haven of the Bridge town carriage.

On the way home, she contemplated all that she had learned in her conversation with the widowed countess. It was obvious that Lianne and Ash were still deeply in love. Silently, she renewed her determination not to continue in her empty betrothal to Ash. She still could not understand how Ash could deny his love for Lianne merely to seek an advantageous marriage for himself. He simply did not seem the type. Ah well, she thought wisely, if a bit dispiritedly, the call of the almighty dollar—or in this case, pound—was often loud enough to drown out the sound of a man’s conscience.

She looked out the carriage window and saw, to her relief, that she had arrived home. Odd, she was having less and less difficulty in referring thus to the house in Upper Brook Street. She could never think of Jeremiah and Serena Bridge as her parents, but she felt, somewhat to her dismay, that she was beginning to put down roots here among the alien corn.

Chapter Eleven

Amanda entered the house to discover Ash standing in the entrance hall. Jeremiah had evidently come out of his study to greet him. “Ah, Amanda, we have a visitor.” He rubbed his hands briskly. “What can I do for you, my lord? Have you come to discuss the marriage settlements?”

Ash’s face stiffened for a moment before his lips curved into a pleasant smile. “Actually,” he said, “I have come to instruct your daughter in the performance of one or two country dances.”

Jeremiah’s jaw dropped open unbecomingly.

“I have quite forgotten how to do them, Papa,” said Amanda hastily. “My—unfortunate accident, you know.”

Jeremiah glowered suspiciously but was seemingly unable either to find a reason for Amanda’s lying about such a thing, or to fault her proposal to spend an unexceptionable hour with her betrothed in a genteel pastime under her papa’s roof. Throwing his hands over his head, he stamped out of the room.

“Perhaps we ought to start with a reel,” said Ash a few minutes later as they entered the music room. “This is going to be somewhat difficult,” he continued, “without the presence of several more dancers, but we will make do. Can you hum?”

Amanda searched his face, but there was nothing there that spoke of a kiss shared in a scented garden. She suppressed a stab of disappointment. “Hmmmmmm—mm-mmm—hmmm,” she thrummed uncertainly, phasing after a moment into the only reel song she could think of,
The Irish Washerwoman.

“Ah,” said Ash. “Very good. Now, take your place opposite me at the head of these two lines of dancers.” Raising his arm, he swept an arc toward an imaginary grouping. “We are now the first couple. Now, come toward me—no, don’t stop humming—move in a hop, and we change places, thus.” He advanced on her in a step that she remembered from elementary school gym classes. “And move past me, and—change places. All the other couples in the lines will have done the same thing. Now, we repeat the process, only instead of changing places we will meet in the middle, cross hands, and promenade down the line of dancers. We will separate and circle around the last couple in each line and promenade back to our original places. Ready? Don’t forget to step in time.”

Amanda almost giggled aloud, for the words struck her as bizarrely humorous. That’s what she had been doing for the past two weeks—stepping in a time that was not her own, to a rhythm that was unfamiliar and frightening. She hadn’t done too badly, though, and if she could only remember to keep stepping in time, she might eventually adjust to this new rhythm. She laughed inwardly at her absurd philosophizing.

Amanda found she was able to complete the steps indicated with little difficulty, and again she reveled in the sureness and facility of her legs. As she had in the waltz at the ball, she became exhilarated with the sense of motion and her joy in her own body. She hummed faster and fairly threw herself into the rhythm of the dance until Ash called a laughing halt.

“How was that?” asked Amanda breathlessly. “Did I do well enough to dance in public, should anyone ask me to join in a reel?”

“My dear young woman,” he said with mock severity, “if you persist in tossing your skirts up in such a disgraceful manner, you will certainly not lack for partners.”

She giggled, and an unexpected wave of tenderness swept over Ash. With her golden hair tumbling about her face, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling like sunlight on the sea, he felt that the very spirit of the music was smiling up at him.

He took her hand, wanting very badly to pull her toward him so that he could bury his face in that scented tangle of curls. He shook himself. Lord, had he learned nothing from that scene in the Marchford garden? What had possessed him to kiss Amanda Bridge in that fashion—or in any fashion at all? He had been, he realized, intent on punishing her for her impudence in prying into his affairs. And punishing himself, if he was to be truthful, for his continuing illicit feelings for Lianne. The moment his lips tasted Amanda’s, however, all coherent thought had fled, and he found himself lost in her warmth and softness. Her pliant body seemed made to fit against him and in that instant he wanted so much more from her than a kiss. It had taken everything in him to draw away from her and to lead her back to the house.

Dazedly, he returned to the present, and with a conscious act of will detailed in a cool voice the instructions for the quadrille.

“Yes, that’s it,” he said finally, after a half an hour of intensive instruction. “Just remember to point your toe, thus, on
jeté
and keep in mind that you must lift your arms, so, when you
chasse.”

“Good grief!” exclaimed Amanda. sinking down on the piano bench. “I always wondered how Regency heroines managed to keep their shapes with the amount of food they were confronted with every day. Now I know. Country dancing beats aerobics all hollow.”

“Aerobics? Is that yet another new dance craze? One can hardly keep up with them. Last week, I was severely chastised by a young woman because I could not perform the figures of something called the mazurka, which seems to me to be nothing more than a glorified quadrille.”

Amanda smiled but did not respond, turning instead to face the keyboard. She lifted her hands and began the slow strains of the Brahms Waltz in A major. Ash seated himself next to her and Amanda was immediately conscious of the slight pressure of his thigh and hip against her.

Good grief! she thought irritably, she was being absolutely ridiculous. She came from a time when men and women found themselves in close proximity in even the most innocent of social situations—sports, riding in elevators and crowded trains, cocktail parties. Yet she had never experienced the jolt of sensation that swept over her every time this cold, saturnine aristocrat so much as bowed over her hand. Even Derek’s touch had brought no more than a lovely warmth and a sense of belonging.

“That’s beautiful,” said Ash, his voice husky. “What is it?”

“It—it’s by Brahms.” Oh, no, Amanda thought, dismayed. Johannes Brahms had not even been born. “He’s not very well known as yet.”

“Ah. Well, I predict an illustrious future for him. I had no idea,” he continued, lightly brushing her fingers with his own, “that you were so accomplished on the piano.”

Amanda shivered. “Not as much as I’d like to be. You’d think I’d be a regular virtuoso after—” She stopped abruptly. She had almost said “after fifteen years of lessons.” She took a deep breath. “After practicing so industriously as a child,” she finished, instead.

“Play something else,” commanded Ash. “Something with a little more élan.”

Without giving herself a chance to think, Amanda launched into “The Entertainer” and continued with excerpts from a few more Scott Joplin rags. She noticed that the earl’s foot tapped vigorously in time to the rollicking music.

“That was—extraordinary,” he said when she had finished.

“Did you like it?”

“I—I don’t know. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Nor will you ever again, thought Amanda, at least, not in this life.

“Where did you learn it?” continued Ash.

“I—I must have heard the tune from a street musician,” Amanda replied hastily. Ash bent a strange look on her, but said nothing.

Amanda let her hands drift over the keys in a nameless melody, and for a while a comfortable silence fell in the music room. Coming to a decision, she dropped her hands suddenly and turned to face Ash. This movement brought her face into such close proximity with the earl’s that she rose quickly.

“My lord,” she began. “That is, Ash ...”

“Yes?” he said encouragingly.

“Ash, I have come
to the conclusion that our betrothal is a colossal mistake.”

“What?” Ash’s brows snapped together and the warmth that had been in his expression was replaced by an arctic fury.

“You’re a very nice man, I suppose—No,” Amanda said hastily. “What I mean is, you don’t love me and I don’t love you.”

He stood to tower over her. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, Miss Bridge, but I believe that love formed no part of our agreement. Are you reneging?”

“No, of course not. Well, yes I am—in a manner of speaking. The thing is, when I entered into our bargain, I did not realize you were in love with someone else.”

A dark flush stained the earl’s carved cheeks. “I don’t
know what you’re talking about.” He spoke the words in such a low growl that she could barely distinguish them.

“Please, Ash, if nothing else, let us be honest with one another. It is obvious to me that you are in love with Lianne—that you and she have loved each other for years. Please, believe me,” said Amanda, lifting her hand as Ash’s mouth opened in protest, “I find your situation touching and very sad, and I am certainly not going to come between two people who belong with each other.”

Ash rose from the piano bench and faced her directly. She had never seen a human being look so angry. His black eyes fairly spat venom and the power controlled in his rigid stance was almost frightening. Almost, hell. She was quaking in the absurd silk creations that passed for her shoes.

His voice, when he spoke, was quiet and menacing.

“My personal life is of no concern to you, Miss Bridge. My offer for your hand did not include permission to delve into the most intimate details of my existence. My feelings for the Countess of Ashindon are not for your intrusive scrutiny.”

His gaze pierced her until she felt like a moth pinned to a board. “Please,” she gasped. “I did not mean—I didn’t think—”

“Of course, you did not think,” he said contemptuously. “You were merely amusing yourself with a tale of love lost and hearts sundered. When, in your short, pampered life, have you ever truly considered the distress of another? If you had, you would not make a mockery of it in your mindless efforts to insert yourself into a situation that has nothing to do with you. Now, listen to me carefully. I have offered for you, and I have shaken hands with your father. The arrangements have been agreed upon. I am going to marry you and you are going to marry me, no matter what our feelings are on the subject. I am marrying you for your money, Miss Bridge,” he said cruelly, “or, had you forgotten that you gave your girlish promise to a fortune hunter?”

Amanda stared at him, wide-eyed. A number of scathing retorts sprang to her lips, but the anguish that had prompted his outburst was too genuine and too near the surface for her to dispute just now the injustice of his words. Instead, she drew a deep breath and said coolly, “Well, I seem to have hit a nerve, haven’t I?”

“What!” he said again in a voice like thunder, and Amanda watched as surprise, outrage, and indignation battled across his features.

“Please, just hear me out, Ash. I truly do not wish to pry into your private affairs, but you must admit that your being in love with another woman sort of impinges on my private affairs, too. I am merely saying that perhaps, if we mull things over, we might come up with another solution.”

All the while she was talking, she was uncomfortably aware of the twinge skittering through her at the thought of Ash’s devotion to someone else, and with some annoyance she thrust the idea to the back of her mind.

Ash was still visibly simmering. “Do you think,” he asked, his tone bristling with sarcasm, “that I did not spare a thought or two to other options before I offered for you?”

“Yes, but as you pointed out, I am rich and you are not. If I could somehow provide you with funds on my own, perhaps—”

“Oh, my God! Spare me your simpering expressions of charity. Do you think I can repair the Park on your pin money? Do you plan to give my sister her Season and my brother his law education on your winnings at silver loo?”

Amanda simply gaped at him. “Is
that
what you want the money for?” she asked in stupefaction.

Caught off stride, Ash returned her stare. “Of course it is. What did you think I was planning to do with it?”

“Uh—I guess I thought you wanted some ready cash for all the usual Regency rake stuff—gambling, wining and dining, women...”

To her surprise, Ash’s answering laughter was genuine. “You really are the most extraordinary female,” he said at last. “Have you no idea of the requirements of my position?”