Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes (8 page)

Just like him.

He wanted to tell her to return home to her family, who undoubtedly loved her; he could just tell from the way she spoke of them in that teasing but loving way. And yet she was his ticket to finding that feeling of home and belonging for himself. If he could just marry her he could both atone for the mistakes of his past and secure the future he longed for.

T
he show at Astley’s had been everything her dog-eared guidebook said and more. Amelia had witnessed gravity-defying feats, charming little dancing dogs (oh, how she wanted one!), and the juggling of flaming swords. To say nothing of the dramatic feats performed atop horseback and all the other activities in which the performer risked his or her neck for everyone’s entertainment.

But it was the tightrope walker who had Amelia holding her breath. Because even with her feet firmly on the ground, she felt as if she were performing high in the air, with an audience watching, and everyone waiting for her to fall.

Just one misstep could ruin her.

The only thing to do was keep moving forward, to take one step and then another.

If she paused, she would fall.

If she hesitated, she would fall.

Today, she vowed not to hesitate.

With an extra spring in her step and sparkle in
her eye, she linked her arm with Mr. Finlay-Jones as they strolled along the Thames.

“I feel my life would be complete if I only had one of those dancing dogs.” Amelia sighed. She felt Alistair stiffen beside her. Had she said something wrong?

“I’ll see what I can do,” he murmured.

She noticed that he spoke, if however vaguely, of a future encounter. He couldn’t be so terrible if he planned for them to meet again, right? Thus far, he had been a perfect gentleman—as far as she knew. It mattered; Amelia wanted him to be good, a gentleman, because she liked him. His company was enjoyable and he seemed more than happy to indulge her whims to see the city. He wasn’t like any of the other stuffy, boorish gents the duchess had introduced her to with the absurd hope that Amelia would want to marry one of them.

That reminded of her of what awaited her at home—the duchess, the pressure to marry, the horrible suggestions of future husbands.

“Where shall we go next?” Amelia asked. “Vauxhall?”

“Wherever the lady wishes,” he said, which were words any lady loved to hear. “Or you might wish to return home.” Which were words she was less thrilled to hear.

Of course she would go home. Eventually. Naturally she should go home immediately. But
the sky was blue, the air was warm, the man with her was quite handsome and said they could do whatever she wished. He was not giving her grief for, say, being discovered at a ball free of her footwear.

“Not quite yet . . .”

She thought of the tightrope walkers, halfway between one ledge and another. Turning around and going back was an impossibility. One had to simply keep moving forward. Somehow, it seemed the same for her.

“Your family must be worried.”

Oh, Lud. Amelia glanced up at Mr. Finlay-Jones. He seemed genuinely concerned. She found herself imagining a dramatic scene involving her worried family in the drawing room:

“I should have never insisted she wear shoes,” the duchess wailed, clutching a perfectly starched linen-and-lace handkerchief to her dry eyes, because duchesses do not do anything so human as cry.

“And I should have taken her to the British Museum instead of my horridly dull lecture at the Mathematical Society,” Claire lamented. “I almost bored my sister to death and now she might be actually dead.”

“Don’t say such a thing,” Bridget cried. “Although then I would have something else to write about in my diary besides Darcy and Rupert.”

“When she returns,” her dear brother James said in her imagination, “I vow to buy her another horse and allow her to ride astride whenever she wishes.”

“What is a little scandal compared to Lady Amelia’s happiness?” the duchess asked. Indeed.

“Yes, they are probably worried. I ought to send word that I’m alive. But I am not yet ready to return.”

“You do know how lucky you are to have a family that cares about you?”

Gah. He had turned serious. And sentimental. And it made her nervous.

“Of course,” she replied flippantly. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“No.” He said this so darkly. She paused.

“Your uncle doesn’t care for you?”

“No.” Darker still.

“Why is that?”

She saw him shrug as if there was really nothing to say, and certainly nothing deeply emotional. It was an evasive maneuver, one she’d seen James employ a time or two or ten. Amelia found it at once amusing and exasperating that these men thought a casual shrug signified, oh, nothing to see here. When in fact the opposite was true. It signified to her, a person who wanted to know everything, that she ought to dig deeper.

So she said, “Ah, I see.”

“What do you see?”

Mr. Finlay-Jones sounded nervous, which meant she was right. And she would have to explain.

“Some Tragedy Hath Befallen, leaving you
both estranged. You are both broken-hearted but too proud and angry to admit to grief.”

Mr. Finlay-Jones stared at her in mute horror. It wasn’t the best look for him; she far preferred when he gave her that charming smile. And then she thought it was very troubling that it was only early afternoon and she had already catalogued his expressions and developed preferences. And that they involved charming smiles that, if she were a lesser woman, would make her weak in the knees.

“I see that I am right,” she said. “You needn’t tell me about it now. I have all day.”

And then she shut up. It pained her to remain silent, but she persevered. She had learned, as the youngest sibling, how to manage others and cajole them into providing information they rather wouldn’t.

A moment later, when she had been admiring the blue of the sky and marveling at the grossness of Thames water, and wondering if
grossness
was a word, Mr. Finlay-Jones finally got his tongue back from the cat.

“There’s nothing to tell,” he insisted.

“Right.”

“My uncle and I simply don’t get along.”

“Of course.”

“It doesn’t really signify.”

“I would never presume that it would.”

“We haven’t even spoken for years, except for this morning.”

“I missed that.”

“You were asleep.”

“So while I was sleeping, you were meeting with your estranged uncle for the first time in years about nothing in particular.”

He didn’t answer, except to say, “Why do I feel the need to prove myself to you?”

It wasn’t entirely clear if the question was addressed to her, to himself, or to the universe at large. Amelia, being Amelia, answered without thinking.

“Because you might be falling for me.”

He laughed. Oh God, he
laughed.
Was that friendly laughter? Awkward laughter? Was he laughing at her? Since when did she care if anyone laughed at her? She hadn’t cared when she was twelve and fell out of a tree and exposed her unmentionables to her entire class at school, and she hadn’t cared last night when she’d been caught shoeless and dignity-less in front of the entire haute ton.

“Is that so?” he asked, laughing. Still.

She glanced over at the Thames and considered launching herself into its gross waters. But no, that is something Bridget would do.

Amelia was fearless and didn’t care one whit what anyone thought or felt about her.

Except . . .

Oh dear Lord, she seemed to care what Mr. Finlay-Jones thought. No, felt.
What did that mean?
Best not to think about it now.

She would not be one of those girls who mooned over what a boy thought and she would not believe herself unlikeable. But now she desperately wished to know if he was falling for her. Or not.

“Well, what other reason do you have for eschewing all your work and responsibilities to spend the day with me?” she pointed out. “You either must like me. Or,” here she paused dramatically and dropped her voice as low as it would go, “you have an ulterior motive.”

“An ulterior motive?” He quirked his brow, teasing her. “That sounds dastardly.”

“Doesn’t it?” Then she stopped and turned to face him. Mr. Finlay-Jones’s face was becoming familiar to her now. But that didn’t mean that she knew him. It was entirely possible that he had ulterior motives. According to the duchess, most men did. Her heart started to thud a little harder at the thought. How did she come to be in his company, anyway? “But the question is, Mr. Finlay-Jones: Do you have an ulterior motive?”

Their eyes locked. His were a warm shade of brown and fringed in black lashes. And she thought about all those silly stories where the characters could read The Truth and Deep Emotion simply by gazing into someone’s eyes. For the first time she thought perhaps it wasn’t completely ridiculous.

They stood like this, gazing like idiots at each other, for a long moment. One in which she became aware of her heartbeat and that she was holding her breath. The truth was, she didn’t
want
Mr. Finlay-Jones to have an ulterior motive regarding her. He was the first man in England she had
liked
and it would be such a pity to lose him to an ulterior motive.

“And what if I do have an ulterior motive?” he asked.

“I shall be devastated and will hold a grudge. You might wish to know that I am a champion grudge holder.”

“I believe you,” he murmured.

There was another long moment. It felt like an eternity.

Finally he broke into a grin—that grin—that she couldn’t resist mimicking

“Why wouldn’t a man want to spend the day with a pretty, charming girl?”

Really, why wouldn’t he? It was only logical.

“And what of your responsibilities?”

“Honestly, I haven’t any.”

“You said you returned to England to help your uncle who hates you with his business affairs.”

“It’s complicated. Which is why I’m eager to avoid it.”

He was more complicated than she had originally thought. Earlier this morning, Amelia had
taken one look at his him and thought him handsome. In conversation, she found him charming. Quick witted. In possession of a sense of humor. But not complicated.

She had him pegged as the sort of man who spent time wagering on horse races and games of chance, the sort of man whose main activities were lounging about, being roguish, and flirting with women of questionable morals.

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t that. Just that he might be more. He had a Secret Pain and a Tortured Past. He could have an ulterior motive. It was entirely possible—nay, even likely—that he had an ulterior motive.

She started to fret.

Would he blackmail her into marriage? Kidnap her and hold her ransom—dear God, what if he’d already sent a ransom request to the duchess?

But then again, how would he even know who she truly was? She’d given him a fake name and a fake story and he seemed to believe it. But then again, how did she come to be in his flat?

But for all he presented himself as a carefree rogue enjoying a beautiful day with a pretty girl, Amelia detected that there was something
more.
She was desperate to know what it was. There was no way she could discover it whilst locked in her bedroom at Durham house.

“Let us go to Vauxhall. I have been in London
for weeks now and have yet to go. This might be my only chance.”

“That can’t be true.”

“After I return home, I doubt I shall be ever allowed out ever again. If I am destined to be a spinster, held captive against my will until my dying day, it’s imperative that I see Vauxhall today. With you.”

In which our hero and heroine explore the pleasure gardens.

3:36 in the afternoon

V
auxhall was best seen at night, when thousands of lanterns hanging from the trees illuminated such attractions as the famous rotunda, concerts, hot-air balloon rides, and the infamous dark walks where young ladies, chaperones, and their virtue were often lost. It was best to approach Vauxhall by the boat that ferried people across the Thames; the other entrance for those walking was far less magnificent.

But the lady had insisted on Vauxhall today, this very afternoon, and they were already on the south side of the river, having walked through St. James’s Park and over a bridge to Astley’s.

Alistair purchased two tickets for their admission, which left him with very little. Which made him nervous. It was one thing to steal his own money out of the pocket of his own companion; he didn’t have it in him to steal from a stranger.

“We ought to have come tonight,” Alistair said as they strolled through the gates. They were not the only ones who had decided to come out and enjoy the lovely afternoon at the gardens. “There are concerts and fireworks.”

“And those dark walkways where romance happens. Or so I’ve heard.”

“That is one way of putting it. I thought young ladies aren’t supposed to know about such things. What are they teaching you at school?”

“Oh, nothing interesting. Nothing that compares to this!”

They set off down a well-worn garden path, one he trod many times before—usually at night, usually whilst in his cups, probably with female company on his arm. It was just something one did while in London and he never thought of it while abroad.

But this time was different. Amelia delighted in seeing Vauxhall for the first time—every statue, water fountain, flower garden, or what have you. He viewed those things through her eyes now. Her delight was contagious, even to a seen-it-all, done-it-all, wrecked-it-all scoundrel like himself.

Alistair was also seeing
her.
Her expressions were so animated that her features were never quite still. She was constantly looking around and thinking and feeling, and not trying to hide any of it.

He caught her delicately biting her lip while in thought.

Or she pursed her lips in annoyance when someone walked slowly in front of her.

She kept reaching up to feel her hair, running her fingers through the cropped mop of curls, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d done, that it was all gone. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair . . . and pull her close and lower his mouth to hers and . . .

No. Not today.

Yes, he intended to marry her. And yes, today he had to make her fall at least at little bit in love with him. That was the whole point of this day—if he were to have a fighting chance for her hand in marriage, he’d need to stand out from all the other fortune hunters vying for her attentions.

But he was not supposed to fall in love with her. He could not let love and lust addle his brain when he was so close to achieving his life’s purpose of making amends with the baron and atoning for Elliot’s death.

Besides, she was a
lady.
And he was not a completely unscrupulous scoundrel. Alistair was determined not to ruin her any more than he—or
she—already had, simply by being together.

There would be no kissing, no claiming of mouths, or any of that. Not today.

3:47 in the afternoon

T
hey wandered through the garden paths. Overhead, the sky was blue, though gray clouds in the distance were ominously—and quickly—moving in. Alistair did not believe in signs, but damn if those clouds didn’t make him think he shouldn’t be outside, brazenly strolling through a park with a proper young lady.

They paused before a statue of a Greek or Roman god who had declined to fully clothe himself, revealing a body that would make a mere mortal keenly aware of his lesser status.

“In Rome and Athens, statues such as these are everywhere. The place is riddled with ancient ruins. And in India they are even more . . . indecent.”

He thought of the statues he’d seen of gods with dozens of arms and goddesses with breasts bared, and other gods and goddesses engaged in romantic, copulatory acts. He imagined legions of English ladies swooning at the sight.

“How romantic and exotic,” she said, though he thought of them as just hunks of rock someone had hacked away at. “I so wish I could see them.”

“Perhaps when you marry, your husband will bring you to Rome on your honeymoon.”

“I will never marry,” she said darkly. Flatly. With a note of finality.

That gave him pause. Her determination not to wed certainly conflicted with his plans to atone for his sins and secure his future happiness.

He stood there, still, not quite hearing her as she chattered away. He wouldn’t just have to convince her to marry him, but to marry
at all
. Bloody hell.

He forced himself to focus on what she was saying.

“I know, I’m supposed to want nothing more than to be chosen by a man and to have a passel of brats. But that doesn’t excite me.”

As if that was all that marriage was. That was the thing with sheltered women and virgins. They just didn’t know about . . . the rest of it. The lust, the longing, the pounding heart, the taste of a kiss, the luxury of early-morning lovemaking. But then again, no one ever told them.

He wasn’t about to start.

“And a pile of old rocks and stone does make your heart beat faster?” Alistair asked skeptically, with a dismissive wave at the statue before them.

“Well . . .”

“Do you really long to see what this man looks like without his fig leaf?” He asked. She blushed.
For all her bravado, she blushed. Then she recovered.

“The thought does keep me up at night,” she said, looking him in the eye.

“I can just imagine you lying in bed, swathed in moonlight, thinking wicked thoughts about a statue’s . . . secrets,” he murmured, wanting to see her blush again.

But she didn’t blush. She gave him a teasing smile and said, “Wide awake and wondering if perhaps a real man wouldn’t be more revealing.”

Alistair coughed.

“I wonder . . . Would his skin be as cool to the touch?” She reached out and rested her palm on the statue’s chest, right above the heart. “And would a real man be as hard?”

He stifled a groan. This was wrong. It made him want to do wicked things that he swore he wouldn’t do, less than an hour ago.

“We should go see the rotunda,” he said. “It is famous.”

“Well if it’s famous . . .”

And off they went, away from the secluded paths where anything might happen and into the dark, cool, and most important,
populated
interior of the rotunda.

E
verything echoed. Their steps, their voices, the voices of people a few feet away. It was a terrible time and place to have a conversation, especially
one of a personal nature. But he couldn’t imagine a woman not wanting to marry. And he feared what it meant for his future plans, which involved wedding her. She did mention sisters . . . but now that he thought about it, he wanted
her
.

Her plump little mouth, her mop of curls, her enthusiasm for everything and the way she didn’t seem to care at all about the things he obsessed over, like fitting in. He. Liked. Her.

His heart started to beat a little harder at the thought—damn, what a warning that he was getting in over his head now. It was just marriage, just to a girl. He had to do it for Elliot’s death and the Baron’s need for funds and the aching loneliness he’d always lived with.

But Amy . . . or Amelia . . . or whoever this girl was had started to work her way under his skin and was heading swiftly in the direction of his heart.

“You really don’t wish to marry?” Alistair asked.

“Not particularly, no,” she replied with a shrug. “I would miss my family.”

“The family who you are running away from?”

She pursed her lips. So he had hit a nerve. Alistair watched her closely.

“I’m running away from finishing school,” she said finally.

“Right, sorry,” he said.

“Marriage is a terrible bargain for a woman. We give up what little rights and freedom we have. I shouldn’t want to be owned by anyone or beholden to anyone.”

She had a point. But it wasn’t like that if there was love, right?

He thought it too early in the day to begin speaking of love to her.

“I’m curious, Mr. Finlay-Jones, why it matters to you whether I wish to marry or not?” There was nothing coy about the way she asked or her manner of asking. Such a forthright question asked for a forthright answer.

I owe a debt to someone I can probably never repay but your hand in marriage would be a start.

Also, he had started to fancy her. It was hard not to.

Of course he didn’t breathe a word about any of that.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he said with a shrug. “It’s just . . . curious. I seem to have misunderstood women.”

“Or a woman,” Amelia corrected. “We are not all the same. Like snowflakes, each one is different if you care to look. And you should know by now that I’m not just any other stupid, simpering English girl.”

“I knew that from the moment I met you,” he said softly.

“Pity I can’t remember it.”

4:03 in the afternoon

H
aving observed the rotunda—it was round—they exited and recommenced their strolls through the gardens. In this moment, everything was perfect. She was out-of-doors instead of in some stuffy drawing room. She had the company of a man with whom she could be herself, and who had a strange effect on the direction of her thoughts.

She had just become so aware of his mouth. The full lips so often stretching into a charming smile. She had never before given so much thought to a man’s mouth, wondering what it would feel like, or taste like, to press her lips to his.

His dark hair had the stubborn habit of falling forward into his eyes and she constantly wished to push it aside, run her fingers through his hair, perhaps caress his cheek. Perhaps pull him close to her for a kiss.

She’d never entertained such thoughts before—certainly not home, in America, when the boys she knew were . . . just boys. In London, most of the men the duchess had introduced her to inspired revulsion or, at best, boredom. Never this tingly curiosity to touch, to taste, to feel, to know.

She’d never experienced such awareness of a man—the heat of him when she got close, the
muscles of his arm when they were linked, the sound of his laughter and the constant wondering of what it would be like to kiss him.

Amelia wasn’t sure what to do with these thoughts and feelings.

Did he feel the same? She wasn’t sure. Once again, her gaze darted at him, quickly. She leaned slightly against him, savoring the feel of him. But he didn’t seem to notice or respond, and she was at a loss.

So she tried to focus on the moment. This glorious, wonderful, liberating moment.

But her thoughts did stray to her family at Durham House. She was sorry her siblings were probably worried—though they knew her habit of running away and returning—and she wouldn’t have entirely minded their company. They were a fun bunch when they didn’t have the duchess trying to make them diamonds of the first water or whatever nonsense.

Well, no, actually. She
would
mind having company. She tightened her grip on the arm of Mr. Finlay-Jones. She did not wish to share him.

“I was walking through Mayfair,” he said, apropos of nothing and distracting her from her thoughts. “It was late, and I was, I confess, a bit drunk.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The moment we met.”
Silly.
He shook his head and half smiled. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Not one bit. You’ll have to remind me.”

“I was singing.”

“Oh, let me hear you sing!”

She watched with glee as Alistair seemed to consider it.
That
was why she was falling for him. Anyone else would say it wasn’t seemly and give her a dismissive look for even making
the request.
Amelia, gentlemen are not in the habit of singing aloud when the mood strikes them.
But no,
Mr. Finlay-Jones looked around to ascertain that there were not many people about who would mind terribly if a gentleman broke into song.

And then he sang. His voice was a lovely, rich baritone. She smiled dreamily and closed her eyes as snatches of memories came back to her: leaning out the window, the cool night air on her face, hearing a man’s voice in song, faintly. She remembered the longing to feel as free as she did in this moment.

And then she paid attention to the words. They were tremendously impolite.

A country John in a village of late,

Courted young Dorothy, Bridget, and Kate,

He went up to London to pick up a lass,

To show what a wriggle he had in his a . . .

Amelia laughed and shushed him when people started looking their way and frowning in disapproval. Lord, perhaps the duchess was rubbing off on her after all.

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “That was the song I was singing the night I met you.”

“I am horrified.”

“No you’re not. It is exactly the sort of song you would expect a drunken young wastrel to sing whilst walking down the street at a late hour. You wished you knew the words so you could join in. Now repeat after me:

“O when he got there it was late in the night
Two pretty young damsels appeared in his sight.”

She laughed again, nervously now, and sang along with him. They gazed into each other’s eyes. It would have been a romantic, swoon-worthy moment if the lyrics weren’t so absolutely filthy and if he hadn’t stopped to ask, “Has anyone ever told you what a terrible singing voice you have?”

She swatted his arm playfully, then grudgingly admitted yes.

So much for the romantic moment. But then again, whoever said love and romance were proper and polite all the time?

“I think I remember your voice,” Amelia said. “I think I remember leaning out my bedroom window and listening to you sing.”