The Magic of You (7 page)

He laughed. “So what was your question?”

“Where you disappeared to. We thought you might have ridden clear to Haverston yourself to collect Connie.”

“I sent Artie, though come to think of it, it’ll take some luck for that old seadog to find his way overland to Connie’s farmstead. It’ll be George’s fault if he gets lost in the country. If she’d just have waited until next week to have the baby, like she was supposed to, Connie would have been here. He’d planned to return to London for the birthing.”

“What’s he doing out in the country anyway?”

“Seeing if there’s anything to salvage of the small bit of property he owns near Haverston.
He’s been away from it for so many years, he figures it’s pro’bly gone to weed and ruin. ’Course, he’s got money and time enough to bring it ’round now, since he won’t be sailing anymore either.”

“Are
you
going to miss that, Jeremy, going to sea with your father?”

“What’s to miss? I was never on the
Maiden Anne
long enough to get used to it. The first sea battle I got wounded in, and my father and Connie went to roost in the West Indies. Besides,” he added with a decidedly wicked chuckle, “I’m having too bloody much fun these days to miss anything.”

“Too much fun I don’t doubt, considering how often you get sent down from school.”

“Hell’s bells, you ain’t going to start sounding like George now, are you? She blisters my ears enough with her scoldings, and that ain’t nothing compared to how Connie and my father lay into me. You’d think they don’t remember what it was like to be eighteen.”

She smiled at his grumbling tone. “I’m sure your father does, since it was around that age that he conceived you, though he didn’t know it until years later. And I’ve heard what they say about him when he was on his way to being the most notorious rake in London, that he used to have a different girl, morning, noon, and night, and that was every day. Is that the kind of fun you’re talking about?”

“Blister it, Amy,” he snapped. “You ain’t supposed to mention stuff like that—and where the devil did you hear about it?”

She laughed, because he was actually blushing. “Reggie, of course. You know how she loves to brag about her two favorite uncles. ’Course, Uncle Jason and my father never had any high adventures to brag about, though I do know a thing or two about Uncle Jason that no one else does.”

“And what’s that?”

“I can’t tell.”

“Come now, Amy, you know I’ll pry it out of you eventually, so you might as well fess up.”

“Not this, you won’t. I promised.”

“Well, I like that,” he huffed. “Here I tell you all
my
secrets—”

The rude sound she made cut him off. “You don’t tell me even half of them. But what you’ve done,
again
, is manage not to say why you went off last night. Don’t you think your father would have appreciated your presence at such a time? He
was
a bit outnumbered, you know.”

“Tony was there,” Jeremy scoffed. “And I’ve heard your father can throw a mean punch if he has to.”

“He can?” she said in surprise. “Where the deuce did you hear that?”

“Never mind,” he replied, getting back at her for keeping her secret about Jason. “And
you’re forgetting that my father’s already taken on George’s brothers, by himself, no less, and he would have won that fight if they’d kept it fair instead of ganging up on him.”

“Why are we talking about fighting? That’s not what I meant when I said he was outnumbered.”

“Because I know him. He was aching to light into someone, and I’ve always been a convenient scapegoat. Didn’t care to catch the brunt of his anxiety when I was so bloody happy for him. So I left.”

“He held up very well, actually,” she said. “Though it was close.”

“You don’t know how close. Ain’t seen him look like that since he was out for Nicholas Eden’s blood.”

Amy had never heard that entire story, just bits and pieces of it. “Were they really such mortal enemies?”

Jeremy grinned. “No. My father just wanted to bash him around some. But Nicholas up and married our cousin in the meantime. Don’t think my father will ever forgive him for doing that.”

Since Amy had heard a number of verbal skirmishes between James and Reggie’s husband, she was inclined to agree. ’Course, at the moment, James had new blood to do verbal battle with, all five of Georgina’s brothers.

Thinking of those brothers, Amy recalled watching Warren last night when he didn’t
know it. That had been a pleasure for her, though she wished it had been under other circumstances, for he had been just as distraught as James was. Warren obviously loved his sister a great deal, so he
was
capable of that tender emotion, despite all signs to the contrary.

“Am I intruding?”

Amy gasped, recognizing that deep voice now, and he was there, standing in the doorway, six feet four of breathtaking handsomeness. Her heart started tripping to a new beat. Her tongue wouldn’t move.

Jeremy did the answering, and quite cheerfully. “Not at all, Yank. I was just leaving myself.”

Chapter 8

Jeremy hadn’t been joking about leaving. He stuffed a couple of sausages in a bun, then charged out the door and out of the house. Warren stared after him. Amy stared at Warren, her mind reeling with the blaring fact that they were suddenly, unexpectedly, alone.

But not completely alone, she had to remind her racing heart. No, there were servants in the house. Henri had just let Warren in, so he was around somewhere. Still, right now, they were alone, and she couldn’t believe Jeremy had deserted her like that.

Of course, if it were anyone else, Jeremy wouldn’t have done it. But she and Warren had ties of a sort. Her aunt-by-marriage was
his sister. Because of that, Jeremy would see nothing wrong in leaving them without a chaperon. But then, Jeremy didn’t know how she felt about Warren.

His eyes came back to her, unnerving her with their directness. He had the makings of dimples, but you’d never know it—she’d never seen him smile. His nose was straight, the cheekbones lean. His jaw had a stubborn thrust to it. His eyes might be the color of springtime and summer, but in his stern countenance, they appeared cold. His dark gold hair had been an unruly mop of fashionable curls, but now was much too long, though she supposed the extra length helped tame the curls somewhat.

His body ran along lean lines, much like Uncle Tony’s, though you could not call the man skinny by any means. He was taller than Anthony, his shoulders a bit broader, his arms sinewy. His long legs were braced apart—she’d noted all the Anderson brothers stood like that, as if they were balancing on the deck of a ship. Uncle James still stood like that occasionally, too.

Warren was dressed casually in a black coat with gray trousers, no waistcoat, and a plain white shirt without a cravat—something else she noted he had in common with his brothers, that none of them wore a cravat. It was not a tailored look he had, but one quite rugged, and quite suitable to an American sea captain, she supposed.

She needed to say something, but she couldn’t think what, couldn’t think at all with his attention so completely centered on her. The irony was, she’d hoped for just such an opportunity as this. She’d thought of so many things she might say to him, subtle things that would let him know of her tender regard. Not a one came to her now.

“Breakfast,” she suddenly blurted out. “Would you like some?”

“At this hour?”

It had been after five in the morning when he and his brothers had left. She’d heard they were staying at the Albany Hotel over on Piccadilly, which wasn’t far, yet it would still have been closer to six before he finally got to bed. Considering that was just eight hours ago, his derogatory tone was uncalled-for. But, of course, this was Warren, the cynic, the woman-hater, the English-hater, the Malory-hater, and the brother with the worst temper. She’d never get along with him unless she kept that firmly in mind and ignored the occasional insult and chilly manner.

Amy stood up to leave the table. “I suppose you’ve come to see George?”

“Hell, has he got his whole family calling her that now?” he asked.

She ignored the tone this time, though she still said, “I’m sorry. When Uncle James first introduced her as George, she didn’t correct him. It was a while before I found out
that wasn’t her name, and by then…” She shrugged to indicate it was a habit now. “But you don’t call her Georgina either, do you?”

He looked chagrined by that reminder. Or maybe that was how he looked when he was embarrassed. He ought to be embarrassed. “Georgie” was no more feminine than “George” was. But she hadn’t wanted to embarrass him. Drat it, this wasn’t progressing at all well.

To be prudent, she would avoid the name he objected to, and so she said, “My aunt and uncle are still sleeping. They were up earlier when Jack wanted her first feeding, but they went back to sleep when she did.”

“Kindly do not call my niece by that deplorable name.”

This was worse than a surly tone. This was actual anger, and it was quite intimidating, experiencing Warren’s displeasure directly, personally, and in his presence, particularly after her uncle’s remark yesterday about his belt. Her eyes dropped to his belt without her realizing it. It was wide and made of thick leather. She imagined it would hurt like the dickens to feel it…

“What the devil are you staring at?”

Her face blossomed with high color. She thought about crawling under the table to hide. She settled instead on the truth.

“Your belt. Would you really have used it to discourage your sister’s willfulness?”

His frown got worse. “Your uncle has been carrying tales, I see.”

Amy took her courage in hand and persisted, asking again, “Would you?”

“That, little girl, is none of your business,” he said with stony finality.

She sighed. She never should have mentioned it, but obviously he was going to be disagreeable no matter what she said.

For now, she opted to change the subject. “You have a thing about names, I see. My uncle Tony does, too—actually, all my uncles do. It started with Cousin Regina’s name. Most of the family calls her Reggie, but Uncle James had to be different and so he calls her Regan. They’re not nearly so difficult about it these days, but it used to drive his brothers crazy whenever James used that name. Amazing that you have that in common with my uncles.”

Her mischievousness was showing through. And his expression of disgust, to be compared with the Malorys in any way at all, was quite laughable. She didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile. She offered a peace token instead.

“If it’s any consolation, your sister had a fit this morning when she heard what Uncle James had gone and done. She said
she
was going to call her baby Jacqueline, Jackie at the very least, and he could rot if he didn’t like it.”

“He ought to rot—”

“Be nice. Warren—is it all right if I call you that?”

“No, it is not,” he replied stiffly, possibly because she’d just had the audacity to scold him, and he didn’t like that one little bit. “You may call me Mr. Anderson, or Captain Anderson.”

“No, I don’t think so. That’s too formal, and we aren’t going to be formal, you and I. So I’ll have to think of something else to call you, if ‘Warren’ won’t do.”

She gave him a gaminelike smile as she finished, and walked past him, well aware that she’d just shocked him into silence. The wretched man thought he could put “formal” to
their
relationship—not that they had one yet, but they would. She’d simply have to show him otherwise.

She stopped a few steps up the stairs and turned to see that he’d moved back to the doorway so he could still see her. She was annoyed enough to say, “You can go up to see
Jack
in the nursery if you’d like. Otherwise you can entertain yourself until
George
wakes up.”

She didn’t wait for his answer, so she was nearly to the top of the stairs before she heard his grudging reply. “I’d like to see the baby.”

“Then come along and I’ll take you to her.”

She waited for him to reach her. When he did, she started to turn, but his hand on her arm stopped her and drew a soft gasp from
her. He didn’t hear it. He’d already started to ask, “What are
you
doing here, anyway?”

“I’m staying over to help your sister until the doctor says she’s recovered enough to get back to her duties.”

“Why you?”

“I happen to like your sister. She and I have become good friends. Now aren’t you ashamed of yourself for the deplorable way you’ve treated me?”

“No,” he said, but there was a softening around his mouth, and his eyes seemed a few degrees warmer, though he added, “And you’re damned lippy for a girl your age.”

“Good God, don’t smile!” she said in feigned alarm. “Your dimples might show.”

He laughed then. It seemed to surprise him, because he cut it off abruptly and even flushed. Amy turned away so she wouldn’t embarrass him further and led the way into a dimly lit room.

The adorable newcomer to the family was fast asleep. She’d been laid down on her stomach, her face was to the side, and a little fist was close to her mouth. The few tufts of hair she had were a light blond. It would be interesting to know whether her eyes were going to end up brown or green, but for the time being they were baby blue.

Warren came quietly to stand beside Amy and gaze down at the baby. This having him all to herself—Jack wasn’t paying attention—
was getting to her. Considering the size of their respective families and that Warren wasn’t going to be in England for very long, she was aware that this would likely be the only time she would ever be
this
alone with him. That sure knowledge added a kind of desperation to her feelings that she wasn’t sure how to handle.

When she glanced to the side and saw again that tender look he reserved for so few people, she asked him, “You like children?”

“I love them,” he said without looking at her, and probably without intending to, because he added, “They don’t disappoint you or break your heart—until they grow up.”