Jane Goodger (26 page)

“I love you,” she whispered, and continued to whisper in time to his thrusts, until he threw back his head in ecstasy, until he lay beside her completely spent.

“God, I’m tired,” he said against her neck. “But I’m even more hungry. Come on.” He threw his shirt at her and she pulled it on, loving that it smelled like him, of outdoors and Boone. He pulled on his pants and held out his hand to her, bringing her back down the stairs that only a few moments ago, they’d run up.

They ate cold chicken, standing barefoot in their kitchen, while Amelia heated up a crock of rich vegetable soup Cook had included. Afterward, they dressed and walked the beach, returning to make love again, this time more slowly, appreciating each other’s bodies until they were both extremely knowledgeable about what made the other happy.

As the sun went down, they lay together in their bed, so completely exhausted they could hardly move. Boone lightly stroked Amelia’s hair, and every once in a while gathered the strength to move his head and kiss her smooth shoulder. “I should get up,” he said.

“No. Stay a bit longer.” Amelia pulled him against her, resting her head on his shoulder, one arm draped across his torso. “Just a bit. You’re so warm,” she said sleepily.

“Mmm.” It was all he could muster. She was so soft, so warm, and he was so very, very happy, that he drifted off to sleep before he could think about getting up, before he could feel that panic in his gut that he might hurt her.

Boone awoke to the strange sensation of a woman softly sighing next to him, to the sun just coming up and making the water on the Irish Sea glow a soft rose, to birds chirping in the oak tree outside their window. As he watched Amelia, her eyes drifted sleepily open, so brilliantly blue, his breath caught in his chest.

“Good morning,” she said, and snuggled closer.

“Mornin’,” he said, sounding gruff compared to her quiet greeting.

She moved her head just enough so she could give him a kiss, soft, soft lips against his, and he felt as if his heart was going to explode, it was so full. He was sleeping with his wife, the women he loved, who apparently loved him. It was a miracle, that’s what it was. And he’d slept through the night without a single dream that he could remember.

Boone realized, lying there, that he’d never felt quite so rested in his life. He wanted to run ten miles, swim in that cold, cold sea until his lungs burst. He wanted to make love to his wife until she screamed in pleasure. He wanted to yell from every rooftop in England that he was in love.

That he was loved.

Instead, he kissed his wife on her downy cheek, closed his eyes, and drifted back to sleep.

Amelia snuggled into her overstuffed chair in her favorite room of her brother’s Hanover Square town house, a copy of the
Illustrated London News
on her lap, happily reading Anthony Hope’s short story in the Christmas supplement that came with the
News
each year. She adored the Christmas season, and had decided that she was not going to let something as silly as Boone’s stubbornness about attending the Rotherham Christmas Ball ruin it.

“Isn’t it time you got dressed for the play?” Maggie called from the door. She was wearing a lovely dress of rich blue satin, with dark blue velvet trim accenting the deep neckline. It was embroidered with an intricate vine of delicate leaves made from gold and pearl beading that trailed from her trim waist to the gown’s hem.

Amelia glanced at the clock and jumped up. “Goodness, I had no idea it was so late,” she said. “Where is Boone?”

“Getting a last fitting at Edward’s tailor, poor man. They should be home any minute and ready to go. I’m so looking forward to seeing
A Christmas Carol
on stage. I never have, you know.”

“I haven’t either, except if you count a production I did with the children two years ago,” Amelia said. “I was all three ghosts and Aunt Matilda’s oldest was Scrooge. I’m afraid it was highly unrecognizable, but we had a grand time.”

Amelia picked up her skirts and ran to the door. “I’ll never be ready in time. Look at my hair,” she said, running down the hall to her rooms. Fortunately when she arrived, her maid was already there with her dress laid out, looking completely relaxed.

“Do your best,” Amelia said, turning her back so that the maid could begin unhooking her dress. Within minutes, she was in her gown and sitting as her maid efficiently put up her hair into a simple but elegant style.

“All done now,” the woman said, securing one last strand of seed pearls into her hair.

“My goodness, Mary, how you did this in such a short time, I’ll never know,” Amelia said, gazing at her reflection. She was a vision; even Amelia knew it. Her gown was an emerald green silk with a gently rounded neckline trimmed in tiny beads that matched a row of pearls along the hem. A rich, embroidered swirling pattern on the skirt gave the creation a festive look that matched the evening’s event. She’d gotten used to a far more ordinary girl looking back at herself, one who wore dresses that buttoned up the front, and did her hair in a hastily pinned bun. She’d never complain about not having servants, but could fully appreciate their worth. She adored her simple life, but it was wonderful, once in a while, to enter the tonier world of her brother.

“Honestly, Amelia, no matter how good I think I look, you always have to look better,” Maggie said from the doorway with a mock frown.

“And no doubt Her Grace will outshine us both,” Amelia said, referring to the Duchess of Bellingham, Maggie’s best friend.

“Of course,” Maggie said without rancor. “I do have to tell you that I’m a bit worried. The men haven’t returned home yet, and we should be leaving soon if we are to make the curtain.”

Amelia stood and looked out the window at the gaslit street below. “A carriage just arrived. It must be them.” A moment later, two men disembarked. “They’re here. Shall we meet them and stun them with our beauty?”

“I think we shall,” Maggie said, holding out her arm. The two women marched down the hall toward the entrance arm-in-arm, only to have Boone blast by them.

“Boone. Hello,” Amelia said, watching as he climbed up the stairs two at a time. It wasn’t until he reached the landing that she saw the blood. “Boone. What happened?”

She started to follow him up the stairs but her brother stopped her. “There was an accident.” At Amelia’s expression, he quickly added, “He’s not injured. He saved a man who was, though. It was remarkable.” Edward shook his head and almost seemed in a mild state of shock. Maggie grabbed his arm. “Edward, what happened?”

He looked at each woman, a strange smile on his face. “You both know Lord Wallace.” The women nodded. “He was struck by a carriage, then another ran over his arm. We didn’t see it happen, but Boone heard him screaming and jumped down from our carriage. It hadn’t even stopped yet. He ran to the scene, pushed everyone aside, and proceeded to stem the bleeding.” He swallowed, suddenly looking slightly ill. “The blood was…copious. It was a miracle, really, that we came upon him in time. His own physician is caring for him now but he credited Boone with saving his life.”

Amelia turned and ran up the stairs to find her husband stripping out of his brand new blood-soaked frock coat. “You’re all right?”

“Of course,” he said, looking down at his ruined shirt. “But I’m afraid I’ve nothing suitable to wear to the theater tonight.”

Edward’s valet entered the room and let out a small sound of despair at the sight of his clothing, then immediately left the room. “Squeamish?” Boone called out, and Amelia shushed him.

“Not everyone can bathe in someone’s blood without fainting,” Amelia said, laughing. She sobered, gazing at her adored husband. “Edward told us what happened. Apparently I’m married to a hero.”

Boone shook his head. “I did what I was trained to do, that’s all. Edward said you know the man? Lord Wallace?”

“Yes, he’s quite an important political figure. He’s a viscount. Do you think he’ll live?”

“Most probably. His physician seemed competent enough. But his injury was bad and there’s always a chance of infection.” He pulled off his stained shirt. “You look beautiful. Maybe no one will notice I’m not dressed.”

“Surely you’re going to wear more than that,” Amelia said, giving his body a long and longing look.

“Sir. I have a solution,” Cunningham said, entering the room. In his hands he held a fine, newly pressed suit. “You and Lord Hollings are of a similar build, and I have obtained his permission to use this. I’m afraid I cannot replace your frock coat,” he said, looking over at the fur-collared coat mournfully, “but the weather is unusually warm tonight so perhaps you do not need it.”

“Oh, Cunningham, you have saved the night.” Amelia gave her husband a quick kiss on his cheek and departed the room.

Word of heroic deeds spread just as quickly as misdeeds in the ton, and it wasn’t long before everyone knew that Lord Hollings’s personal physician and brother-in-law had heroically saved the life of Lord Wallace. By the time they got to the Lyceum, the first act had begun, but everyone forgave their late arrival. Their appearance in the private box drew what seemed to be undue attention, raised opera glasses, and whispered murmurs. Suddenly, just as old man Scrooge was listing the failings of the poor, a man in a box across from them stood and began clapping. Loudly. And staring directly at Boone.

Another man joined, and then another, until it seemed the entire place was standing and applauding, and the poor actors were left on stage to wonder what on earth was happening.

“Stand and acknowledge them, Dr. Kitteridge,” Edward said.

Face red, Boone stood and gave a slight self-conscious bow, an action that brought forth a rousing cheer. Even those who no doubt didn’t have a clue what was happening, raised their voices. And when Boone sat, it all died down, and the play continued as if nothing had happened.

Boone was equally moved and horrified by the acknowledgement. He leaned over to Amelia and said, “Good thing Cunningham found me a nice suit to wear.”

Amelia stifled a giggle, and grasped Boone’s hand. She didn’t let go until intermission.

At intermission, Boone was surrounded by the highest members of the ton, all of whom couldn’t wait to thank him for saving Lord Wallace’s life. Details of the accident had lost a few facts along the way, but no one would hear of Boone humbly saying he’d only done what any doctor would. Amelia stood by him, beaming up at the man that the entire world now knew was special. Spying Emily Eldridge in the crowd, Amelia pulled away and went over to the young woman.

“Oh, it’s so exciting, isn’t it? I heard Lord Wallace’s arm had nearly been taken completely off and Dr. Kitteridge sewed it back on,” she gushed. “It’s so thrilling.”

“I don’t think it was quite that dramatic,” Amelia said with a laugh, “but I am quite proud of him. He came home covered in blood. It was positively gruesome. I do hope Lord Wallace is doing well.”

Amelia looked over at Boone, fearing he’d be uncomfortable with the attention. He stood, inches taller than the rest, looking solemn and handsome, a calm presence amidst the clamor. How different he was from Carson, whose smile and flamboyant mannerisms now seemed so superficial. He’d welcomed the hero-worship, encouraged it even, when he’d done nothing to deserve the accolades showered upon him. And there was Boone, a true hero, looking rather uncomfortable to be the recipient of such adulation. What a silly, stupid girl she’d been a year ago, she thought.

Next to her, Emily sighed. “He is the most handsome man, Mrs. Kitteridge. You are the luckiest of women.”

“And he’s very devoted,” Amelia said, pointedly.

Emily gave Amelia a mock pout, then grinned as if she couldn’t even pretend to be grumpy. But her frown turned genuine when her older sister Beatrice joined them, acting as if she hadn’t insulted Amelia to the core the last time they’d met. “You must tell me all about it,” she said, smiling coolly just as the lights flickered, announcing the beginning of the second act of the play.

Amelia gave a rueful look, as if she were sorry she wouldn’t have the chance to speak to Beatrice about the incident. “Perhaps we can talk tomorrow at the Rotherham Ball,” Amelia said, thinking to herself that she would avoid such a conversation if at all possible. She was not one to easily forgive.

“Oh,” Beatrice said, flushing slightly. “We’ve decided not to attend.”

“Because we weren’t invited,” Emily put in. Beatrice flashed her sister a look that would have frightened a meek girl, but Emily simply smiled.

“I suppose you were right, Beatrice,” Amelia said.

“Right?” the other woman asked, confused.

“We
are
moving in different circles now. Perhaps I can visit you when we return.”

Beatrice suddenly looked as if she’d eaten a lemon. “Yes. That would be lovely.”

Emily gave Amelia an impish look, then left with her sister. Whoever said revenge wasn’t gratifying apparently hadn’t met Beatrice Turner.

The Rotherhams had outdone themselves, creating a ballroom so filled with Christmas cheer it appeared a veritable forest of holly, mistletoe, and green boughs. Hanging from the ceiling were crystal snowflakes that glittered in the gaslight, sending tiny bits of light throughout the room, making it almost appear as if it were snowing.

Entering the ballroom on Boone’s arm, Amelia looked up and felt a sharp melancholy tug in her heart.

“Julia,” Boone said, softly.

“I was thinking the same thing. It is lovely, though, isn’t it?”

As they walked into the room, they were greeted warmly by some of the ton’s highest-ranking members, and Amelia knew it was because of Boone’s newfound popularity. All her fears that he would not be accepted were obviously unwarranted.

“My goodness, what a crush already,” Amelia said, craning her head to see if she could spot anyone she knew. Her brother and sister-in-law had gotten swept away in the moving mass of ball-goers, and now she could not find them. She did spy the Duke and Duchess of Bellingham in one corner, looking incredibly regal standing together. The duchess looked as if she’d been born in the world of the aristocracy, even though she was an American. And Amelia had to admit, Boone, with his fine black formal suit and quiet confidence, could easily have been mistaken for a member of the ton.

The tradition of putting up a Christmas tree only on Christmas Eve had been ignored. Each corner of the room was filled with a freshly cut tree, and the pine scent mingling with expensive perfumes and cologne was nearly overpowering.

“Oh, look, Boone, we’ve got four berries,” Amelia said, looking down at the sprig of mistletoe each married couple had been given as they entered the ballroom. With each sprig came instructions that they should only give one kiss per berry. As each kiss was made, a berry was removed.

Amelia was looking down at the little sprig smiling, and when she looked up, Boone gave her a quick kiss.

“Boone, you’ve wasted a berry,” Amelia said, laughing.

“I don’t think sneaking a kiss from my wife is a waste,” he said, and tried for another.

Giggling, Amelia turned, only to run into her brother.

“How many berries do you have?” she asked Edward.

“We had two, but they’re gone already,” Maggie said with exasperation. “I’m sending Edward for another.”

“I’m afraid that’s cheating, and I’ll have to report you to Lady Rotherham,” Amelia said with mock sternness.

Just then, the orchestra struck up the “Grand March,” and en masse, the ballroom floor cleared, revealing the Rotherhams’ stunning starburst mosaic medallion in the center of the floor.

“We didn’t have this at our ball,” Amelia whispered to Boone, who watched, puzzled, as couples promenaded around the ballroom floor. “As guests of honor, we would have been first in line.”

“I’m forever grateful,” he said, using a rather bad English accent. Amelia giggled and lost another berry when he kissed her cheek. “I just can’t help myself. You’re so beautiful tonight.”

Amelia blushed. She adored the dress she was wearing, a deep red velvet that revealed creamy shoulders and dipped low enough to show a hint of her breasts. It was the simplest of designs, but the most elegant of anything she owned.

“Now we only have two left and hours and hours to go before the ball is over.”

After the “Grand March,” the crowd applauded, their claps muffled by the gloves each wore. If there was one thing Boone detested about formal wear it was these silly white gloves he was forced to wear. When he’d complained to Amelia, she explained that his sweaty, manly hands would ruin the ladies’ gowns, so it was better to sweat inside his gloves.

“But my hands wouldn’t be sweating if I didn’t have the dang things on,” he’d pointed out logically.