Anne Barbour (6 page)

Good Lord, thought Amanda, experiencing an urge to rush from the room, what a perfectly ghastly female. She studiously avoided the earl’s glance. The next moment she swallowed a chuckle. What earthly difference did any of it make to her? All these people were but figments of her imagination and after a good night’s sleep would be no more than an amusing memory.

She turned to face the window. As fascinating as this whole hallucination thing had been, it was more than time to quit it. It had become surprisingly difficult during the course of the day to remember that the Bridges did not exist, nor did the Earl of Ashindon, nor even the little maid, Hutchings. She had found herself caught up in their doings. In fact, during her conversation with Ashindon in the park, she had not once thought of her real life in Chicago, which now seemed as far away as though it were on Mars. For a couple of hours she had become Amanda Bridge, and the earl had been a disturbingly real presence.

She returned to the present with a start, realizing that Serena was still burbling on about the ball. Amanda chastised herself. How absurd she was being—as though these people had a life outside her imagination. She turned to face the group that gazed at her so expectantly. “Do I what?” she asked, realizing that Serena had repeated the same question several times, in growing exasperation.

“Do you think we should invite Charlotte Twining and her mother? I know you and she have been bosom bows, but since your quarrel with her—”

Amanda almost blurted. “What the hell difference does it make who you invite? What difference does any of it make? Tomorrow morning you all will be nothing but shadows echoing in the corners of my mind.” Something held her back, however, and she clamped her lips together tightly.

“Have you forgotten, Mama?” she asked instead. “I have no memory of either Charlotte Twining or her mother.”

Serena shrugged her shoulders uncomfortably. “Oh, that. Surely you will have recovered your senses by then.”

Amanda almost laughed aloud. The woman spoke as though her daughter had broken out at an inconvenient moment with hives. Looking up, she encountered a glance from Lord Ashindon that contained, if she was not mistaken, a hint of pity. He looked away and addressed Serena.

“I shall take my leave now, Mrs. Bridge. I know you have much to discuss.”

“Oh, but what about a date, my lord? Did you and my husband—?”

Amanda observed the distaste that rose in him as Serena’s plump fingers dug into his arm. “No, Mrs. Bridge, Mr. Bridge felt that the date of the wedding should be left up to Miss Bridge—and yourself, of course.”

“How thoughtful,” gushed Serena. “I should like to send an announcement to
The Morning Post
right away, but I suppose we should wait until after the ball.”

“As you please,” replied the earl, a discernable hint of desperation in his voice. Amanda marveled at his smooth courtesy in removing Serena from his sleeve. “I have an appointment elsewhere in a few moments, so I shall leave you ladies to your plans.” To Amanda, he said, “I believe you planned to attend the Marchford ball next week, as do I.  I shall be pleased to accompany you there, if you would allow me.”

“Oh, but you must go, Amanda,” interposed Serena. “All the world will be there.”

“We’ll see,” said Amanda noncommittally, forbearing to inform the older woman that by tomorrow night there would be no more Bridges, no more earl, and no more marriage plans.

“You must join us for dinner that night,” said Serena hastily as Ashindon turned to leave the room. Thanking her with grave courtesy, the earl made his departure. Amanda accompanied him to the door and glanced up at him from beneath her luxuriant new eyelashes.

“Earlier, you asked me if I was sure I wished to accept your proposal of marriage, my lord. Now, I ask you, are you still willing to go through with it?”

The earl turned to look at her, a startled expression crossing his harsh features.

“Your mother’s, er, emotional response to the betrothal of their oldest daughter is quite what might be expected,” he said coldly. “It is my earnest desire, of course, that I shall measure up to her expectations.”

“Of course,” murmured Amanda.

“Until next week, then, Miss Bridge.” The earl bowed and descended to his waiting curricle. Amanda watched him for several seconds before turning in to the house.

* * * *

An hour or so later, Ash lowered himself gratefully into a chair at White’s. Near him sat James Wincanon, good friend and former comrade-in-arms, who gazed at him intently.

“It’s done then?”

“Oh, yes, old friend. Behold me betrothed.” He took a long pull at the brandy that rested on the table by his side.

“You needn’t sound as though you’d just been convicted of murder.”

Ash laughed shortly. “Sentenced without parole, more like.”

“But the Bridge chit is a beauty, and even if her father is a Cit—well, you hear of more and more marriages in the
ton
that—”

“I realize that I should count myself fortunate. Miss Bridge is, indeed, a diamond of the first water, and a perfectly decent young woman, I daresay, when one comes to know her. However, I have always hoped that I would someday choose my own bride.”

“But, Ash,” said his friend plaintively, “you’re forgetting your exalted status. A man in your position don’t choose his own bride.”

Ash smiled sourly. “My exalted position? I’ve hardly a farthing to my name!”

“Ah, but the title—goes back to the Conqueror, doesn’t it? You’ve had advisors to kings in your family, to say nothing of warriors of the realm and all that.”

“That was a long time ago.”

James glanced at him shrewdly. “But, the pride remains, doesn’t it, my boy? I’ve always said you had enough of that commodity to outfit two or three fellows. Do take care you don’t choke on it.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. I—”

“To return to my main thread, the glory remains. And there’s the Park, don’t forget. One of the great houses of the kingdom— once it’s restored. Reason enough why many a maiden of the
ton
would gladly aspire to be Lady Ashindon. Unfortunately, there aren’t any around at the moment with enough brass to compensate for your own lack thereof.”

“Too true, Jamie.” Ash contemplated his long legs, stretched before him. “But would it make any difference? Marrying a maiden of the
ton,
I mean.”

“As in ‘All cats are the same color in the dark’?”

Ash grimaced. “Something like that.”

“Perhaps you’re right—but—there’s cats and then there’s cats. The Bridge kitten is, you must admit, an extraordinarily attractive example of the species. Being leg-shackled might not be such a wretched fate, after all. I’m not suggesting a love match,” he added hastily, “but you might grow fond of her, don’t you think?”

“Love?” Ash snorted. “Merely a rosy fantasy promulgated by the writers of bad novels. The most one can expect from marriage is an amicable arrangement between a man and a woman that will let each go his or her own way in reasonable harmony. As for growing fond of her ...”

He trailed off. Her strange behavior today notwithstanding, he supposed he must admit he beheld the fulfillment of his dreams in Miss Bridge. Her lovely face would decorate his home and her lovely money would keep that home from the auction block. The next moment, his thoughts drifted unwillingly to Amanda’s enticing form
and the golden curls that tumbled carelessly above mysterious, bottomless blue eyes.

“You may be right, Jamie,” he murmured thoughtfully. “You may be right.”

James took another pull at his drink and fiddled with his quizzing glass for a few minutes. “By the by,” he said finally, “I heard this morning that Lady Ashindon is in town.”

Ash jerked upright. “La—you mean Lianne? Good God, I had heard nothing of this.”

“Thought you might not have. She’s staying at her parents’ town house.”

For a long moment. Ash sat in rigid silence. Since Grant’s death, his cousin’s beautiful widow had remained in virtual seclusion on the estate belonging to her father. The estate that marched with Ashindon Park. The thought brought a tightening in the pit of his stomach, and memories of the laughing girl with whom he’d grown up filled his mind. No! His hands clenched into fists. It had taken him three years to rid himself of those memories—and she was as unattainable now as she had been the day she had married Grant in the manor chapel at the Park. He turned once more to his friend.

“Ah. Well, I expect I shall be called to wait upon her sometime soon.”

“Yes, I expect so.” James eyed his friend apprehensively before addressing himself once more to his brandy.

* * * *

Dinner at the Bridge home that night was, as might be expected, a fairly festive affair. Contributing to the lighthearted atmosphere, thought Amanda, was the absence of Jeremiah, who was again dining elsewhere. At the foot of the table, Serena babbled happily about The Wedding, which, so far, was taking second place to The Announcement Ball.

“I saw a gown in
La Belle Assemblée
last week that will be perfect, Amanda,” she said. “It features a slip of royal blue satin with a tunic of silver net. You will look magnificent!”

“Well!” said Amanda, for want of anything more intelligent. She sat back in her chair, reflecting again on the complexity of the dream she had concocted. First, the seeming authenticity of early nineteenth century Mayfair, and then a family whose members might have stepped from a TV soap opera.

Silence reigned in the dining parlor for several moments before Serena, her sunny mood continuing, swung to another subject of importance. The Trousseau.

“I suppose his lordship did not make any suggestions as to where you might go on your wedding trip?” she asked brightly. “No, I suppose not,” she said, answering her own question with an airy wave of her hand. “Much too early for that. But be assured, dearest. Papa will stand the ready for a trip to Rome or some such. We must begin planning. We shall start with your underclothing, for those garments will remain the same in almost any climate.”

Amanda passed the rest of the interminable evening with teeth clenched. The sky outside had barely darkened when she pled a headache as excuse for an early night.

“Of course, pet,” said Serena with a soothing smile. “I shall instruct Hutchings to bring you up a posset. I’m sure that by tomorrow you will be very much more the thing.”

Amanda rather thought so, too, and she sought the tester bed with a sigh of relief. Silently, she allowed Hutchings to assist her into another nightgown, this one of pleated lawn, embroidered with small birds and flowers. Thank God this whole nightmare would be over soon. A good night’s sleep would surely restore her to sanity. She would accomplish some serious knitting of the raveled sleeve of care, and in the morning—or whenever, she would be back in twentieth century London, and the persons she had encountered today would become merely the remnants of a fast-fading dream.

One face, she rather thought, would linger for a longer time than the others, but she purposefully shelved this notion and settled into the downy pillows heaped under her head. She had anticipated some difficulty in getting to sleep, given the bizarre occurrences of the day, but whether from exhaustion, or the ingredients in Hutchings’ posset, she soon fell into a dreamless slumber, from which she was wakened some hours later by the sound of birdsong and a cacophony of voices raised in indistinguishable but loud supplication.

Cautiously, she opened one eye and was met immediately by the appalling sight of pink silk hangings catching the glow of the morning sun from where they hung in graceful festoons over her tester bed.

Chapter Five

Amanda sat bolt upright, gazing wildly about the room. The dressing table, the wardrobe, and the little desk were all right where she had seen them for the first time yesterday.

“No!” she screamed silently. This couldn’t be happening! Had she truly gone mad? Was she to be trapped here in this pink silk cocoon for the rest of her days? Throwing aside the coverlet, she ran to the window and flung it open. Outside, an army of street vendors made their way along the cobblestoned pavement, each calling out his or her wares. A knife grinder jostled a milkmaid, causing her to spill a few drops of her wares from the buckets that hung from her shoulders. A man balancing a stack of rush baskets sidestepped another man, bent almost double from the weight of the tools he carried in leather bags on his back and tied to his waist. A seller of hot cakes swatted angrily at a crowd of young boys who were obviously attempting to help themselves to some freebies.

The noise was deafening. Good Lord, how did anyone get any sleep in London past sunrise? she thought distractedly. She raced to the dressing table and in a futile gesture traced the outline, reflected in the mirror, of young Amanda Bridge’s flawless cheeks. The hallucination remained complete. Dear God, what was she to do now?

She made her way back to bed and sank against the nest of pillows. Her thoughts scrabbled frantically, like rabbits pursued by hounds, trying without success to find a thread of logic in her predicament. Was there some other explanation that she was overlooking? Was it realistic to hope that whatever the aberration she was suffering from, she might still find her way back to her proper milieu? Perhaps her disordered brain merely needed more time in which to heal itself. Or…. She sat up with a jerk. Perhaps she herself needed to provide the push that would restore her to normalcy.

The chapel, she thought desperately. She must return to—what was it?—Grosvenor Chapel. She would sit there by herself, in the quiet and the dark, and concentrate herself back to where she belonged. She had no reason to hope this plan would produce the desired results, but she strove to take comfort in the fact that she had decided on a course of action, however tenuous.

She snuggled into the pillows and, closing her eyes, gave her thoughts over to the inhabitants of her dream. That was another curious thing. Why had she peopled her fantasy with such an odd assortment of characters as the Bridges? And Lord Ashindon. If she were to be brutally honest with herself, she might admit that his lordship might be the fulfillment of some sort of deeply buried wish fulfillment, though he was not the sort that usually appealed to her. She was not given to adolescent fantasies, but if she were, they would probably center on the Mel Gibson type. His lordship definitely did not fit the requirements, being a few inches too tall and several degrees too arrogant. To say nothing of the nose.