The man looked up, and his face broke into a delighted smile. “Foxy! There you are!” He gestured to the glass on the table. “I took the liberty and helped myself to some of your brandy. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Perplexed, Fox started tugging at his tight gloves and walked to the other armchair. “But what are you doing here? And where’s Hobbes?” The gloves fell onto the table and he sank down into the comfortable leather seat.
Drew shrugged. “I sent him off to bed. Figured the old chap could need some sleep.”
Fox scowled. “And who’s going to see after my clothes tonight?” he asked ungraciously.
“Lawk, Foxy!” His friend rolled his eyes. “A strapping big lad like you should be able to see after his clothes himself for once!” He leaned forward to add in a mocking murmur, “It seems that your cosseted upbringing has made you a bit soft, Mr. Stapleton.”
“Not at all, Mr. Fermont.” With deft fingers, Fox opened the buttons of his jacket. “If you remember, I nearly gave you a lovely facer at Gentleman Jackson’s last week.”
“While I nearly ran you through with my epée at Maestro Angelo’s at the beginning of this week.” Drew grinned. He leaned back and crossed his legs. “But do tell: How did you like Lady Worthington’s musicale?”
“Surprisingly entertaining.” Fox shrugged out of his jacket and flung it aside.
Drew looked surprised. “
Entertaining
?” he echoed, as if he could hardly believe his ears. “You do shock me, Foxy. Didn’t I hear you speak of musical purgatory only this morning?”
Fox reached up to loosen his neck cloth. “Ah well, it is all a question of circumstances, is it not?”
“Circumstances?” If possible, Drew’s brows climbed even higher. “I gather you enjoyed the company, then? How deliciously unexpected!” His eyes twinkled. “I had got the impression the company of Miss Bourne left you somewhat…bored.”
“
Bored
!” With the indignant outburst, the snowy folds of Fox’s cravat fell open. “Who could ever be bored in Miss Bourne’s company?” Memories of the evening rose in front of his inner eye and brought a smile to his face. “Miss Bourne is surely one of the most charming ladies of my acquaintance. An utterly delightful creature, I should say. In fact”—with a blissful sigh, Fox leaned his head back and closed his eyes—“in fact, she is the woman I’m going to marry.”
Chapter Four
The ton dubbed it a whirlwind romance. After Lady Worthington’s musicale, the Honorable Mr. Stapleton was a daily visitor of the Benthams, or more specifically, of their young ward, Miss Amelia Bourne. He was captivated by her beauty, her charm and wit. At night he dreamt of her sweet, dear face, of the gentle swell of her breasts, of the delicious shadow in between—which he longed to explore, to caress with fingers and lips. It might be exceedingly improper to harbor such thoughts about a gently bred young lady, but what man could help his dreams? And so he dreamt of her small but appealingly lush figure at night, and during the day despaired that heavy winter dresses did not grant him a glimpse of her legs. Surely that would have been heaven, to glimpse the outline of her legs. They would be firm but beautifully rounded. And short.
Fox smiled. Everything about her was short, petite. It made him want to tug her under his arm, shelter her from the world so no harm would ever come to her. He lived for a smile from her, which would set her blue eyes sparkling. Pansy blue, summer-sky blue, as wide as the ocean. He yearned for the day he could touch her bare hand and link their fingers, skin to skin. And for the day—oh, the day!—when he could press his lips to hers, when they would open under his and he would be granted his first taste of her. It would be sweeter than honey, for sure.
For now he accompanied Miss Bourne and Miss Bentham on their outings in the park, met the whole family at soirees or at the theater. And afterward he couldn’t wait to hear Miss Bourne’s opinion on the play they had seen.
The days raced by and he lived only for the precious moments he spent in her company. His spirits soared when he walked beside her, and his heart thudded in his chest whenever her laughter trilled in his ears.
His friends declared him mad. “You, my dear boy,” Cyril said, “act like a man possessed.”
Possessed?
If he were, it was a sweet possession indeed, a madness he didn’t want to be cured of. Amelia Bourne was bewitching and beautiful; she was all he had ever dreamt of. Now that he had found her, he wouldn’t be able to bear it should he lose her again. Her regard seemed to him the most precious gift. The mere thought that he might forfeit it because of his birth made him break into cold sweat. But he wouldn’t: if he never told her, he would never lose her and thus she would be with him forever.
Forever.
Surely nothing could be any sweeter than that.
~*~
An empty glass in his hand, Bentham sat in an armchair at his club and stared into space. Brooding. These days his acquaintances gave him a wide berth, yet he hardly noticed. A vise constricted his chest, squeezed his lungs, and he felt trapped, so horribly trapped. Hell, he felt as if he had sold his soul to Beelzebub himself.
Sweet heavens, what had he gotten himself into? If only he had never taken Lady Margaret’s cursed money! True, at the time—was it ten years now?—he had had no other options; the moneylenders, the greedy bastards, had started to regard him with suspicion. Therefore, when he had heard about the mysterious Lady Margaret it had seemed a godsend.
I will give you the money, and you will pay it back when you can.
An unusual arrangement, to be sure, yet it had seemed so simple, so astonishingly easy.
Pay it back when you can.
Something he had always put off, until it slowly but surely slipped his mind. The right time for paying his debts had never come; he always needed more money—and more—and more—and more. Truly, he had tried to stop for a while, but how could he withstand the lure of the cards? The thrill? The excitement?
And now…
He shuddered, and a snap of his fingers produced a footman, who poured him more brandy. With a trembling hand he raised the glass to his mouth and downed its contents. Liquid fire burned down his gullet and into his stomach. Closing his eyes, Bentham waited for the explosion of heat that would relax his tense muscles.
“Ah, Mr. Bentham.”
His eyes snapped open. Disbelieving, he ogled the stranger who slipped into the empty armchair facing him.
“So, our Sicilian Dragon has been successful, I’ve heard.” His voice smooth and pleasant, the man crossed his legs.
“How the devil did you get in here?” Bentham snapped, while the alcohol rolled sickeningly through his stomach.
One dark blond eyebrow arched. “I get admission everywhere, my dear Mr. Bentham. I thought you would have guessed by now.”
And what was that supposed to mean?
Sweat trickled down Bentham’s temple as, with apparent interest, the other man looked around the room. “Such a nice, cultivated place, a gentleman’s club. Prestigious, you might call it. Does it not just ooze wealth and distinction?” He turned back to Bentham, his lips curved. “What a lucky man to belong to such an institution. You have been … successful?”
At the man’s sneer, Bentham felt his insides quake. He felt like a rabbit at first sight of a snake. “Yes.” He fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “Yes. I have … they have … drunk…”
“And now they are violently in love. Beautiful, is it not? I have no doubt he will ask for her hand in marriage, soon. You will consent, of course.”
“Of course,” Bentham muttered, twisting the handkerchief between his hands. In a way, wasn’t this what his old friend Bourne had asked him to do? Help his niece find a husband? And so he had, Bentham thought defiantly. So he had. Surely Bourne would understand his predicament—indeed, he had been a deucedly good friend back in their days at university, hadn’t he? Of course, Bentham had never told him about the gambling and the debts he had run up even back then. A gentleman didn’t talk about such base things as money. Besides, Bourne had always been such a stickler to the highest moral ground; he probably wouldn’t have understood.
Sweat dampened his temples as Bentham realized that in all likelihood Bourne wouldn’t see the reason for Bentham’s present actions, either. How could he? He lived in the country, far away from the pressures of Town. No, it was better if Bourne didn’t know, didn’t know
anything
.
“Very good. I see we understand each other.” The stranger regarded Bentham indulgently, as one would a favorite lapdog. “With the festive season approaching, Stapleton will want to go and visit his family soon. Rather disgustingly dependable, the Stapletons are in that respect. Yet thanks to our little intervention, he won’t be able to stand even the
thought
of being apart from the object of his lovesickness for too long. So, naturally…” He paused, as if wanting to draw out the moment and prolong the tension.
Bentham gripped his handkerchief so tightly that his knuckles shone white against the skin. God, how he hated this bastard with his smooth voice! But no, no, he was trapped by his debts, by his obligation to his family. It could not be helped.
“Naturally, he will want to take her with him. You should make sure your daughter accompanies them.”
Isabella? The thought was a painful stab to his heart that made the breath catch in his throat. “My daughter?” he echoed.
Those blond brows rose mockingly. “Indeed, your daughter. Surely that won’t be a problem?” Light blue eyes bored into his.
Bentham dabbed at the sweat on his upper lip. “No.”
“Very good. For just think how unfortunate it would be should our alliance no longer work.”
Bentham swallowed, hard. “That won’t happen,” he assured the man tightly.
“That’s what I assumed.” Another hateful lift of lips. “Her presence at Rawdon Park is crucial, for she will be given little …
presents
for the family.” The fingertips of his hands pressed together, the stranger leaned back, sultry satisfaction saturating his voice. “And then we shall make our Sicilian Dragon breathe fire.”
Bentham looked at him blandly. “Dragon?” he asked.
The man looked him up and down. “Not a player of chess then.” His thin lip curled. “Well, I would have been surprised if you were.”
~*~
Amy put on her bonnet and eyed herself critically in the mirror. She turned her head a little to the left, then a little to the right. “Not bad,” she murmured. She had spent last afternoon trimming the bonnet so she would have lovely new headwear for the outing today. It now perfectly suited her dark blue pelisse—a color that always made her eyes seem to sparkle with extra intensity.
Not that her eyes would have needed any more sparkle.
Amy smiled at her image in the mirror as she tied her bonnet under her chin. Did not the eyes of those in love sparkle like the stars in the night sky?
In love.
She pressed her hands against her chest. Yes,
yes
—she was in love, passionately and completely. In a few short weeks Mr. Stapleton had become more precious to her than the air she breathed, had become her endless joy, her reason for being. She could spend hours studying the patterns of the cinnamon marks on his face. She wanted to memorize each and every one of them, starting with the sweetest of them all, the one on his earlobe. With a blissful sigh, she closed her eyes.
In the next moment, a sharp knock at the door interrupted her reverie. “Will you come downstairs?” Slightly muffled, Isabella’s voice reached her through the door. “The carriage is already waiting.”
“Oh.” Amy’s eyes snapped open. “Oh!” All at once, her heart thudded in her chest; her cheeks heated. Soon, soon she would… She snatched her gloves from the table and hurried out of the room. Wriggling her fingers into them, she followed Isabella downstairs. And there,
there
he was.
Her breath caught. At the small sound, he looked up and their gazes locked. Surely she must have flown down the remaining steps, for the next moment she was at his side, gazing up at him.
The corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile. “Miss Bourne.” He inclined his head.
“Mr. Stapleton.” Breathless, she curtsied.
“So very lovely to see you again,” he murmured, his voice softer than velvet.
Amy felt her cheeks flame with mingled pleasure and shyness, and lowered her gaze. “And you,” she breathed. It seemed to her they were enveloped by a rosy glow, sealing them together, making their hearts beat as one, and—
“Surely we must be on our way.” Isabella’s sharp voice dimmed the glow considerably. “I don’t suppose they will wait for us at the museum.”
Amy sighed. When she looked up, she caught Stapleton’s rueful expression. Wordless, but with a small smile hovering around his lips, he took her hand and placed it on his arm to escort her out into the street.
Soon they were all bundled into Lord Munthorpe’s landau, its hood pulled down so they could bask in the rays of the golden October sun. The sun sparkled on the windows of the houses they passed and made the trees in the squares and parks glitter like flitter-gold. They joined the flow of carriages in Oxford Street, most of them no doubt traveling toward Hyde Park. Lord Munthorpe’s landau, however, turned east toward Tottenham Court Road. They passed the old School of Arms and the once-proud Pantheon, now deserted and stripped of its fittings. On they drove, past the boundary stone and into Bloomsbury.
It was not too long before Lord Munthorpe, sounding extraordinarily pleased with himself, said, “Here we are,” just as the landau rumbled through an open gate into a wide forecourt, where a few other carriages had already been parked.
The landau halted in front of the stairs leading up to the entrance of the museum. Munthorpe opened the door, stepped out, and turned to help Isabella and Amy down. Mr. Stapleton was the last to alight from the carriage. The sunlight made his hair glint like molten copper—a sight that distracted Amy from admiring the stately building. She just couldn’t help smiling at him. Oh, he was so dear to her!
His lips curving, he came and offered her his arm. Amy slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and shivered a little when her arm brushed his side. “What a beautiful house,” she said quickly.