Authors: Amanda Weaver
Well, that wasn’t true. He’d been stirred up like a typhoon on the open ocean moments ago, but Amelia was decidedly off-limits to him, no matter how alluring. She might be the only girl in the room who lit so much as a flicker of desire in him, but he’d have to forget it. What he wanted didn’t matter here. There was only what he needed, and what he needed was Julia Harrow.
Chapter Two
Sleep eluded Amelia all night. Long after she’d arrived home, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, but only seeing Natty, those long-lost sea green eyes, the chilly, distant expression on his handsome face. The encounter had started so joyous, and ended so bitterly, she was still reeling from it, still smarting from his careless dismissal of her and all they’d shared.
When morning finally came, she lingered in bed, ignoring her lady’s maid coming in and puttering about, ripping open the drapes and rattling the jars on her dressing table. Fantine was from France and considered herself too sophisticated to wait on a mere daughter of an arms manufacturer, no matter the fat salary her father had used to bribe her. She and Amelia nursed a deep mutual dislike. Eventually Fantine gave up trying to raise her and stomped from the room, muttering obscenities in French. She had long ago assumed Amelia was too uncouth to speak French and Amelia had chosen not to disabuse her of that notion.
She pulled back the bed drapes and stared sullenly at the room, awash with late morning sun. The day stretched out before her as one tedious task after another, no different than any of the days that had come before or any that would come after. Nothing but boring visits and calling cards and cups of tea and a thousand conversations about the weather and the opera and the current shapes of sleeves. It was enough to drive her mad.
Sliding out of bed, she crossed the room to her dressing table. In the corner, looking out of place surrounded by silk ribbons and glass bottles, dwarfed by her large, lovely rosewood jewelry box, was a little metal box, dented and tarnished. It was the last artifact of her childhood in Portsmouth. No, that wasn’t quite accurate. Inside, she found the very last remnant—Natty’s green sea glass, its surface worn smooth and satiny, first from his fingers, then from hers.
He’d promised to come back, and he hadn’t. A month had stretched into two as she’d walked the length of the docks every day, peering into every sailor’s face as they disembarked, that wretched piece of glass clutched in her fingers.
She hadn’t kept her promise to look after his family, either, because in the third month of his absence, she’d come home to find the servants in a flurry, filling wooden crates with their belongings. All her protests, all her tears, had been in vain. They were leaving Portsmouth forever. Tearfully, she’d said goodbye to his mother and siblings and left her address in London. Surely he’d come to visit once he returned. He never came.
Seeing him last night, it was no wonder. When he’d sailed away, he’d sailed into his future and left his past completely behind, including her. He’d promised to come home her equal, and he had, but he’d also come home a stranger. It was silly, really, to mourn the loss. They’d just been children, and as he’d told her once, long ago, everyone grew up.
And oh, how Natty had grown up. How could a face be at once so familiar to her and still so astonishingly new? The boy she knew was there, but transformed into a man. A man who had the power to make her heart race and her body come alive. Lord, what a reaction she’d had to him, when they’d stood close together, her nosegay still tangled in his waistcoat button. His tall, solid body had made her fingers clumsy. And his face...
Once, on a filthy beach in Portsmouth, she’d looked at this bit of glass and up at him and noted it matched his eyes. She traced the irregular edge, the smooth curve of the glass, with a fingertip. It still did. Everything about Natty had changed, but those sea green eyes were just the same.
Those days were gone, as Natty had so pointedly reminded her last night. She dropped the glass back into its box and banished it to its corner of her dressing table, once again an artifact of a life she’d left behind, along with the boy who’d given it to her.
* * *
After dressing, before descending the stairs to find a late breakfast, she paid a visit to her mother’s room. Amelia tapped on the door and heard her mother’s soft call to enter.
Her childhood memories of her mother bore little resemblance to the woman she was today. Before her illness crippled her, she’d been so beautiful, so high-spirited, despite her fragile constitution. Now she lay in bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, hands limp against the coverlet. Her hair, once a fine, golden blond, now streaked with silver, was in a braid over her shoulder. The doctors said the stress of giving birth to Amelia had damaged her congenitally weak heart and, as the years passed, she only continued to diminish. At this point, it had been years since she’d felt strong enough to leave the house for a social call. Weeks passed when she didn’t manage to make it downstairs at all.
“How are you feeling, Mother?”
“A little better, I think. What are you up to today, dearest?”
“I think I might write to Grace about last night’s ball. She could use some cheering up, no doubt.”
“Ah, Grace. What a lovely girl she is. Such a shame about her circumstances.”
Amelia sighed. “I miss her. And Victoria. This Season has been abysmal without them.”
Beatrice winced. “It’s not right that you’ve been left to manage these things without me. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you, Amelia.”
Amelia reached for her hand, squeezing it. “Oh, Mother, don’t be silly. I’m quite well, only a little bored.”
“At least we were able to be here in London to launch you properly into Society, as I was.”
To hear it told by her parents, Beatrice had been quite the sensation during her first Season in London, with hordes of suitors vying for her hand. Then she’d shocked everyone by falling in love with Papa, handsome and dashing, but socially unacceptable for a viscount’s daughter. Mama’s family hadn’t been merely disapproving—they’d disowned her outright. Amelia had never met her grandfather, now several years dead, or her aunt, still very much alive.
Her mother’s banishment hadn’t seemed to matter so much when Amelia was little. Their life in Portsmouth had been happy, and Mama was always cheerful, despite her illness. But then came the accident at the armory, when Amelia was only five and they weren’t nearly as wealthy as they were now. It was only a small explosion, injuring Papa, not fatally, although he still had a limp. In the chaos, he’d been missing for several hours—hours in which Mama had imagined the worst: herself as a widow with a young daughter, a modest fortune and deteriorating health. She’d never been quite the same.
Once their fortune allowed for it, Mama had insisted on the move to London, so Amelia could be launched into the Society she’d been cast out of. Her need to secure a titled husband for Amelia had taken root, borne out of her helpless fear for her future. A title would restore her to the notice of her aunt, now the viscountess, Lady Leath. There would always be a family for Amelia, whatever became of her mother and father.
“Now tell me about the ball. Did you dance with many young men?”
Telling her mother the truth about her evening might distress her unnecessarily, but she did hate lying to her.
“Oh, a few. Percy Cholmondeley asked me to dance. And Mr. Lawrence Peterman, who was quite pleasant. And Lord Sturridge, and—”
“Lord Sturridge asked you to dance? Oh, how promising.”
Amelia tried to control her grimace and failed. “He’s awful, Mama.”
“He comes from a very respectable old family.”
“Old is right. He could be my grandfather.
And
he could only make conversation with my bosom, when he spoke to me at all.”
“Well, perhaps not him, but I want to see you well married.” Amelia opened her mouth to protest but her mother cut her off. “Darling, I’m not getting any better. Every day I get a little worse.”
“Mama, don’t become maudlin. You’re tired, that’s all.”
“It’s more than fatigue this time, dearest.”
A chill swept through her. She sounded different. This wasn’t Mama fretting herself into a state, as usual. “What are you saying?”
“Oh, I won’t vanish tomorrow, but the doctor said my heart is likely giving out at last. We knew it couldn’t last forever, didn’t we?” She attempted a brave smile for Amelia’s benefit.
“But Mama...”
Beatrice looked down at her hands, her eyes watery. “It’s time for me to make sure things are in order. And my first order of business is your future. I want to be there for your wedding, darling. It’s my fondest wish. And when I’m gone, I want to know there’s a family looking out for you.”
“I’ll be fine, Mama. Please, don’t worry about it now.”
“It’s all I worry about. Amelia, fortunes come and go. Your father is proof of that. We’re quite rich now, but you know very well we weren’t always. And the money could disappear as quickly as it came. If your father had died in that explosion—”
“He didn’t.”
“But he could have. And then where would you be?”
“I do wish you wouldn’t worry so much about me. I can take care of myself.”
Beatrice smiled fondly at her. “Oh, don’t I know it? Always such a brave child. You could look after yourself as well as any man.”
Amelia smiled. “See?”
“But you shouldn’t
have
to. As your parents, it’s our duty to see that someone looks out for you.”
Taken care of like a feeble child. Amelia wanted no part of a marriage involving such care, but saying so would only upset her mother, who was becoming agitated enough with all this marriage talk.
“A fine, old, established family is forever, Amelia. If I could see you comfortably settled, I could rest easy. With your fortune, pretty face and lively temperament, a man of quality is sure to offer for you soon.”
“But what if I don’t love him? Or even like him? Sturridge is a horror, Mama.”
“You don’t have to marry someone you despise. But if you
like
a man...if you find his company tolerable... Please, for me... I want to know you’re taken care of.”
As long as she’d been with Genevieve Grantham being trained for such a marriage, for all the talk about it and the expectations attending her, somehow, in the back of her mind, she thought in the end something would contrive to save her. Her eternal optimism refused to accept that she’d be forced to make such a heartless choice. Surely she’d meet a man who made her heart race, too? But she hadn’t. Not once. Only an endless string of broke noblemen who had eyes for her fortune and contempt for her.
But how could she refuse her mother? Her poor mother, who’d sacrificed her health to bring her into this world, and who’d despaired over her ever since. She’d been disappointed by every filthy hem, ripped sleeve, or uncouth outburst. Amelia had never been any good at being the darling little daughter her mother had hoped for. But there was this
one thing
she could get right. She could do this one thing to make her mother happy and proud. There would be no more stalling on the subject of marriage. It was the only thing her mother wanted and she was running out of time to give it to her.
Amelia smiled and nodded, even as something inside her began to shrivel up and die. “I’ll try my best, Mama.”
Beatrice sagged into the pillows. “Thank you, dearest. I’ll be at peace if I know you’ll be well settled when I’m gone.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Mama. Please don’t talk that way.”
“Maybe not right away. We’ll see. But all the same, make a good marriage for me and set my mind at ease.”
Even though everything in her rebelled at the idea, she nodded. “I will, Mama. I promise.”
Chapter Three
A tremendous crush of carriages attempted to reach the front steps of the Longvilles’ town house on one of the more fashionable streets in Mayfair. It had taken them nearly half an hour to travel half a block. Amelia would have been happy to get out and walk the last fifty feet to the door, but such a thing was never done. One never arrived on foot, like some common peasant. One alighted from one’s carriage like an angel, handed down by liveried footmen. Her embroidered silk slippers would scarcely be allowed to touch the sullied street before she was whisked inside like some precious, fragile, night-blooming flower.
“Listen to me, Amelia.”
Amelia turned away from the carriage window and looked at her father, doing her best to seem obedient and respectful. He’d come a long way from the Portsmouth factory where he’d gotten his start. Tonight he looked every inch the gentleman in his finely tailored black evening suit and crisp white waistcoat. His knee injury had slowed him down and led to a thickening of his midsection, but with his thick black hair and sharp dark eyes, it was easy to picture the handsome young man who’d captured Mama’s heart.
“I expect proper behavior from you tonight,” he said as the carriage lurched forward through the crush.
“Of course, Father.”
Her tone was conciliatory but he narrowed his eyes at her, as if he could see her rolling her eyes at him in her mind. Amelia squirmed under his scrutiny, because she had been.
“No threats of violence. No accosting strange men—”
“Natty wasn’t a stranger,” she protested. And Kitty had deserved it.
“Whatever he might have been to you as a child, you are now an adult, as is he. You will conduct yourself accordingly. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Despite the interest shown in you by several gentlemen for the past three years, you’ve managed to remain unmarried.”
“They were all so—”
“They were all perfectly acceptable.”
“To you, perhaps,” Amelia couldn’t resist muttering under her breath.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing, Father.”
“You are not to rebuff the attentions of eligible men of rank. Do you understand? You know how important this is to your mother.”
In an instant, tears threatened, and Amelia blinked to keep them at bay. “I understand.” Her father could bluster and rail all he wanted and Amelia could ignore it, but when he dragged her mother into it... She’d made her promise to her mother and now she’d do her best to see it through. Natty was right all those years ago in Portsmouth. Eventually everyone grew up. Now it was her turn.
“We’re here. You’re a lady now. Do your best to remember it, for once.”
A liveried servant opened the carriage door, putting an end to his diatribe. Lady Longville’s town house was lit up, every window glowing with yellow gaslight. Guests streamed past her toward the door, a sea of men in black wool tail suits and women in a rainbow of satin and chiffon evening dresses. Diamonds and gemstones glinted from every wrist and neck. Amelia watched them move past her. A far cry from the damp, smelly cobblestones of Portsmouth. She clenched her fists, encased in white kid gloves so fine and thin they wouldn’t last the night. What a fraud she was. Under her fine gown, another masterpiece from the House of Worth, and beneath her perfect coiffure and the gloves and the pearls and the orchids pinned to her bodice, she was still just a tatty little brawler from the Portsmouth docks. Everyone in London Society knew it. Only her parents persisted in believing she’d left all that behind.
Inside the Longville ballroom, three musicians were positioned at one end of the room, tuning their instruments. A few guests were already sitting in the chairs arranged for the musical performance by a famous soprano, but most mingled and gossiped. Mr. Wheeler was immediately pulled into conversation with a group of gentlemen he knew from the stock exchange, leaving Amelia to pay their respects to their hostess.
Halfway across the room, she saw the only face that could possibly brighten her prospects for the evening.
“Genevieve!”
Genevieve Grantham glided through the crowd toward Amelia, a striking vision with her elegant black evening dress and ageless face. Despite the story Genevieve presented to the world, Amelia, Grace and Victoria had always suspected there was more to her. But she was a woman who kept her secrets—and the secrets of London Society—close to her chest. Her sophisticated, Continental polish made up for the mystery of her past, and wealthy working-class titans like Amelia’s father lined up to place their daughters under her care.
“Amelia, darling!” Genevieve kissed her cheek when they met. “Your dress is divine.”
“Thank you. It’s new. Good evening, Hazel.” Amelia was three years past her time for finishing with Genevieve, but Gen was still hard at work on Hazel, the daughter of an American railroad tycoon, smoothing her rough edges and making sure she met every eligible nobleman in Europe.
“Good evening, Miss Wheeler,” Hazel said carefully. A bit wooden, but her manners were much better than when Amelia had first come to Gen. The girl would do all right.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Amelia said. “Tonight was shaping up to be a dreadful bore.”
“I’m afraid it might still be. We only stopped in briefly, as we promised to attend Lady Fitzgibbon’s card party. Count Santini will be there and I’m determined to introduce him to Hazel.”
Amelia raised her eyebrow at Hazel. “An Italian, hmm?”
Hazel shrugged. “A title is a title, whether Italian or English.” Just as heartless as Gen had trained the three of them to be. Love was not destined to be their fate.
“I suppose I’ll have to manage without you. Please tell me you haven’t seen Lord Sturridge tonight. He was ghastly at the Miltons’ ball last week and I can’t bear the thought of running from him for the whole night.”
“Not Sturridge,” Genevieve said. “But you might want to avoid the far side of the room. Lady Leath is in attendance tonight.”
Good heavens, her mysterious aunt had surfaced again. “Lord, I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“She hasn’t been out much these past few years. Will you be all right if you’re forced to encounter her?”
“Believe me, Gen, she’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. I don’t exist in her eyes, remember?”
Even though she told herself not to, Amelia couldn’t help but scan the room over Gen’s shoulder for a glimpse of the elusive Lady Leath. She spotted her on the far side of the room, on the arm of her husband, the tall, forbidding Lord Leath. Like her sister, Lady Leath was thin with pale blond hair. But unlike Beatrice, she was still in good health, with a flush to her cheeks and only a hint of age showing around her eyes. She looked a bit cold and unsmiling. No surprise there. It would take a hard woman indeed to cast off her only sister and ignore the existence of her niece, all because of a marriage she didn’t approve of.
“Well, do try not to come to blows this evening, Amelia.”
“Oh, you know me, Gen. I promise nothing.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. You get into such trouble when you’re bored and Madame Fortunato’s singing is nothing if not boring.”
“I’ll do my best, just for you. I’m turning over a new leaf. I’ve got a husband to catch and the Season’s nearly over.”
Gen’s gaze turned speculative. “Well, if you’re serious...”
“Deadly serious. Who have you got for me?”
Gen gestured discreetly across the room. Lady Longville, their hostess, stood near the fireplace speaking to a gentleman she didn’t know. “Lord Radwill.”
“Who?”
“Lord Radwill. His father is the Earl of Epworth. He holds a courtesy title of viscount. He’s been in Switzerland for ages, but he’s recently returned home, still unmarried. Surely you remember him.”
“Genevieve, I’ve never met him.”
“Of course you have. Two years ago at Lady Bishop’s picnic.”
Amelia squinted at the man. “Did I? Oh, yes. I might remember him.” She did, but only barely.
“I encourage you to consider him carefully. He’s in need of funds, but not quite desperate. You might have to exert yourself to land him.”
“Do I
want
to land him?”
Gen shrugged. “You could do far worse. Remember, Sturridge is waiting in the wings.”
“Right. Lord Radwill. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll come round for tea tomorrow and you can tell me how you got on.”
Amelia kissed both Genevieve and Hazel goodbye and assessed Lord Radwill for another moment. He was perhaps thirty, older than her but not ancient. He wasn’t handsome, but not unpleasant to look at either. He had a collection of unremarkable features hidden behind glasses and a neatly trimmed moustache, with brown hair beginning to creep back at the temples. Of a middling height and average build, everything about him seemed in decent working order. A certain pervasive ordinariness, a lack of anything noteworthy or intriguing, seemed to be his only failing. But uninspiring looks shouldn’t be a cause for dismissal, right? As she went back over her scant memories of him, he seemed polite. Agreeable enough. Not stupid or boorish. He seemed, in all ways, utterly unexceptional. Perhaps there was something there to work with.
She made her way through the crowd toward Lady Longville and greeted her hostess.
“Miss Wheeler. How nice of you to come. Have you been introduced to Lord Radwill? Lord Radwill, may I present Miss Wheeler? Miss Wheeler, Lord Radwill.”
She made her curtsy to Lord Radwill as he bowed slightly and smiled at her.
“Oh, but I believe we have met before, Miss Wheeler. It was at Lady Bishop’s picnic two Seasons ago.”
“Of course. How could I forget?” Even though she very nearly had. But he remembered her. A promising start.
“You were rather parched after a tennis game with your friend, Miss Godwyn, and I fetched you both some lemonade.”
“Oh, yes, I remember. But I haven’t seen you in quite some time. Have you been away?”
“I was spending some time with my mother’s family in Switzerland. I’ve only recently returned to England.”
“And at the tail end of the Season. How unfortunate for us all.”
Radwill leaned in and gave her a small, conspiratorial smile. “I confess, it was intentional.”
She widened her eyes and plastered on her best flirtatious smile. “You meant to deprive London of your presence intentionally?”
“No, I only meant I much prefer the country to the hubbub of London during the Season. I won’t be sorry to be at home at our country estate soon. The quiet of the countryside suits me much better.”
So he was a stodgy homebody. A girl couldn’t have everything. He was a viscount and he wasn’t old enough to be her grandfather. She’d work with what she had.
“Ah, now I understand you perfectly. And where is your estate?”
“Lincolnshire. Are you at all familiar with that part of the country, Miss Wheeler?”
“Not at all, although I’m told it’s exceedingly lovely there.”
Radwill’s expression brightened, as if someone had finally hit on a subject close to his heart, but Lady Longville interrupted before he could expound on Lincolnshire’s charms.
“If you’ll excuse me, Radwill, I see Mr. Partridge has come in and I promised to introduce you to him.”
“Of course. Miss Wheeler, if you’ll excuse us?”
“By all means.”
“I hope you enjoy the concert this evening.”
“I’m sure I will,” Amelia said without conviction.
Well, that was about as dull as she’d expected it to be. If she applied herself, could she uncover something in Radwill to make him interesting? Watching him from across the room, it seemed doubtful.
“You look as if you’re plotting an invasion.”
Natty’s voice was much lower and richer than it had been in childhood, but every nerve in her body recognized it at once. A glance at him over her shoulder confirmed he was as perfectly turned out and as breathtakingly handsome as the last time she’d seen him. After making such a close study of Lord Radwill’s unexceptional appearance, looking at Natty was like plunging into icy cold water—a massive shock to the system. Almost nothing about him could be described as unexceptional, not from his height, several inches taller than the tallest man in the room, to his build, broad-shouldered, but lean and muscular from head to toe, not a spare inch of wasted flesh. His face was a little “too” in every respect. Slightly too narrow, slightly too long. His nose slightly too large, his mouth slightly too wide. And his eyes...too observant, and entirely too lovely. Their bright blue-green color seemed lurid compared to the rest of him, so hard and masculine. But somehow all of his many pronounced features seemed to come together to form something more than the parts. There was some magic in the way the sharp angle of his cheek met his jaw. Magic in the way his gold eyebrows met that narrow nose. And definitely magic in the eyes looking down at her.
He smiled, lopsided and sarcastic, and his eyes sparkled as if with some sort of shared secret. For a moment, her pulse leaped. She wanted to smile back, to join in whatever secret they were keeping from the world. But then she remembered his impersonal farewell the last time she’d seen him and her smile died before he could see it.
“Not quite an invasion. More of an infiltration,” she said crisply.
“Has Lord Radwill offended you in some way? Is that why you’re looking at him as if you mean to dismember him?”
Amelia glanced up at him and away to Lord Radwill again. Looking at Natty was too unsettling. She couldn’t do it for long without losing track of her thoughts. “Actually, I’m debating his merits as a potential spouse.”
She didn’t look back to see how he took her words. He was silent for a moment before he asked, all traces of humor gone from his voice, “He’s proposed to you?”
“Oh, no. We’ve only met once. He fetched me some lemonade two years ago, or so he says.”
Natty chuckled. “Are you going to propose to
him
, then?”
Amelia considered it for a moment. That would certainly set people talking, and it wasn’t an unappealing idea, if the man was anyone other than Radwill. “If he’s broke enough, I won’t have to. Otherwise, what’s the point of all my money?”