Chapter Two

TO LONDON,” AMELIA DIRECTED OLIVER, NERVOUSLY clutching at the tatters of her ruined gown. “Please.”

“To the train station, Oliver. We’re going to Inverness.”

Amelia regarded Jack in confusion. “Isn’t Inverness in Scotland?”

“Unless they have recently moved it.”

“But I can’t go to Scotland,” she protested. “I must get to London at once—that is where my betrothed is!”

“Your betrothed is standing by the church seething with rage about a half mile back.” Jack suddenly wondered if perhaps Miss Belford was mentally unstable. “I am happy to have Oliver turn the carriage around and reunite you with him if you wish.”

“Not Whitcliffe,” Amelia amended. “He was only my betrothed in the eyes of my mother and father, but he was never my true love. The truth of the matter is, Mr. Kent, I was secretly engaged at the time my parents arranged my betrothal to Lord Whitcliffe. Of course, he wasn’t a duke,” she quickly added.

“Of course not.” He felt a stab of disappointment.

Somehow he had thought there was more to Miss Belford’s gloriously capricious escape than the mundane desire to be with another man. For a brief moment he had imagined he had caught a glimpse of something wild and free within her, a flash of spirit and independence that set her apart from all the other sheltered, gently bred women he had known. She had talked of finding another life. He had assumed she meant breaking free of the fetters of her womanhood and forging a new existence entirely on her own. Instead she merely wanted to exchange one keeper for another. He should have suspected as much, he told himself, suddenly annoyed at having become involved in her romantic escapade. Few women would flee from a life of extraordinary affluence and status unless they knew they were falling into a gilded nest of comparable luxury. The only woman he had ever known to do such a thing was Genevieve, and he had always understood that she was unique.

“His name is Percy Baring,” Amelia continued, her cheeks now flushed with excitement. “He is the fifth Viscount Philmore. No doubt you have heard of him?”

“No.”

She blinked in astonishment. “You haven’t? How peculiar. Lord Philmore knows everyone in London, or so it seemed every time we met. He belongs to the Marbury Club, which is terribly exclusive, and was at all the important balls and parties of the season.”

I’m sure he was, Jack thought irritably. “I’m from Scotland, Miss Belford. I don’t go to London much.”

“I see,” said Amelia. “I suppose that accounts for your accent, then. I couldn’t help but notice that it was different—but then, everyone sounds strange to me over here,” she quickly added, not wanting to offend him, “just as I know I sound strange to them. Lord Whitcliffe told me that I would have to work on that, once we were married. He said my accent was atrocious, and that he couldn’t have a duchess of his walking around sounding as if she didn’t know how to speak proper English.” Her pale brows twisted together in a frown. “He actually said that I butchered words. I thought that rather funny, because I always thought that it was he who was mispronouncing words, not me—but I never would have dreamed of saying anything to him about it, for fear of injuring his feelings.”

The idea of old Whitcliffe having his feelings hurt by Miss Belford struck Jack as highly improbable. “Lord Philmore doesn’t mind your accent?”

“He finds it charming.”

Of course he does, Jack reflected wryly. With the potential of millions of pounds in dowry payments dangling over his head, Lord Philmore would undoubtedly claim to find everything about Miss Belford charming. After all, a viscount could not afford to be nearly as discriminating as a duke. “But a viscount wasn’t high enough on your parents’ ranking of aristocrats?” His voice was edged with contempt.

“It sounds awful when you put it like that,” Amelia acknowledged. “But it isn’t what you think. Both my mother and my father come from simple beginnings, and my father has worked his entire life to achieve his financial success. While he has been absorbed with his business, my mother has struggled to elevate our family’s place in society. Money doesn’t buy respectability, Mr. Kent, and there are many society gatherings in New York from which my parents are still excluded.”

“And if you married a duke, that would change.”

“I don’t think my mother is naive enough to believe that it would change how society looks at her and my father,” Amelia replied. “She is thinking about me and my brothers, and any children I might have. Marrying Lord Whitcliffe would have guaranteed their place in society.”

“She didn’t care that you wanted to marry someone else?”

“She thinks I’m too young to understand what will make me happy,” she explained. “When I told her about Percy, she forbade me to ever see him again or even to write to him to tell him that my parents had learned of our relationship. She denied that we were engaged, saying that since my father hadn’t given his permission, it was not a proper betrothal. I told her that we had sworn ourselves to each other, and that a union of the souls can never be separated.” Her blue eyes sparkled with steely defiance. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Kent?”

Jack shrugged. Genevieve had spent over twenty years trying to break him of that unrefined habit, among many others, with only limited success. “I suppose.” He didn’t have much experience with unions of the souls. “What did your mother say to that?”

“She said that I was just a child, and couldn’t possibly know what was best for me, but that one day I would thank her for arranging my marriage to Lord Whitcliffe. And then she never permitted me to be alone, and ordered the servants to intercept all of my correspondence, so that I would not be able to get word to Percy of what had happened, and would not have knowledge of any notes he tried to send to me.”

“So you don’t know how your viscount reacted when he heard that you were now officially engaged to marry Lord Whitcliffe?”

“I know in my heart that he was devastated,” Amelia told him, “and that he would have realized that it was not by my choice.”

Jack arched a skeptical brow. “What makes you think that he hasn’t just gone and gotten himself betrothed to someone else?”

“Percy swore to me that there would never be anyone else for him, ever. I’m positive he has been heartbroken these past few months, as I have. He will be thrilled to discover I have returned to him, and that we are now free to marry as we planned.”

His deeply rooted cynicism made Jack wonder if this viscount’s first concern might not be that by publicly defying her parents’ wishes and running away on the day of her marriage, Miss Belford had effectively destroyed her relationship with them, thereby severing any possibility of either a dowry or inheritance in the process. Lord Philmore might have originally hoped that with a secret engagement and marriage, Mr. and Mrs. Belford would eventually come to accept their daughter’s union, and would have been willing to help the newly wedded couple get settled in a manner comparable to the lavish lifestyle in which their precious daughter had been raised. But there was a marked difference between quietly eloping with an unattached heiress and marrying a runaway bride who was now at the center of a mortifying scandal.

“Does Philmore have any money of his own?”

Amelia was taken aback by the question.

“Forgive me.” Jack realized Miss Belford had probably never been exposed to the tawdry business of personal finance, and might not realize that the men who had courted her so enthusiastically would have been attracted to more than her uncommon beauty. “What I meant was—”

“I know exactly what you meant, Mr. Kent,” Amelia assured him tautly. “Despite what you may think of me, I’m not a fool. I have spent the last year on the marriage market in London and Paris, and I’m painfully aware of the fact that most men—Lord Whitcliffe included—look at me first and foremost as a prodigious source of income. London town houses and country estates are expensive to maintain, and many English lords currently find themselves in a position where they don’t have sufficient income to keep a roof over their heads that isn’t about to fall down about their ears. Marriage to an American heiress, even one with an atrocious accent like myself, provides them with the means to instantly eradicate their debts and support their lavish lifestyles, all while pouring new money into their precious, decrepit ancestral homes.”

Her cheeks were heated with indignation. It was clear he had insulted her.

“I can assure you that Viscount Philmore is different,” she continued emphatically. “Although I do not know the precise nature of his financial affairs, I can tell you that he is a man of honorable means and he doesn’t care about the wealth of my family. Each time we were together, Percy swore that my fortune meant nothing to him—it was only I who had captured his heart.” Her eyes flashed with challenge. “Do you find that so impossible to believe, Mr. Kent?”

She was an enigma, Jack realized. One moment she seemed as forlorn as an abandoned child, huddled amidst the ragged remains of her gown with her scratched hands and her red-rimmed eyes. And the next she was like an outraged angel, filling the carriage with her strength and her passion as she defended the man to whom she believed she had united her soul. If this Philmore had any inkling of the woman breathing beneath the shimmering trappings of wealth and cultivation in which her family had swaddled her, he would have been a fool not to want her.

Unfortunately, in Jack’s experience, most men born to a life of privilege were utter morons.

He didn’t have time for this nonsense, he reminded himself impatiently. He was scheduled to meet with the manager of his shipping company to review its finances and finalize the details of the shipments scheduled for the next four months. He planned to remain in Inverness for no more than three days before boarding his ship for Ceylon. He didn’t have time to go traipsing off to London to deliver Miss Belford into the arms of her paramour. But what the devil was he to do with her? He could hardly drag her all the way back to Inverness against her will and then abandon her. By helping her escape her marriage to Whitcliffe, he had inadvertently assumed responsibility for her, at least temporarily.

The most logical course of action was to see Miss Belford safely deposited into someone else’s trust. While that would inconveniently delay his business dealings by a day or two, it would absolve Jack of any further responsibility regarding her welfare. If Philmore was as happy to see her as Miss Belford claimed he would be, then Jack could leave her in his tender charge to marry or do whatever she bloody well pleased while he got on with his own affairs.

“Oliver,” he called, “we’re going to London after all.”

Oliver abruptly halted the horses and turned to scowl at him, his white brows knotted in exasperation. “Are ye sure, lad? I can always just stop for a bit at the side of the road while the two of ye make up yer minds. After all, I’ve nae better to do on this blisterin’ afternoon.”

“I’m quite sure, Oliver,” Jack replied, wholly untroubled by the old man’s churlish attitude. “Just get us there as quickly as you can.”

“Fine. London it is.” He grumbled something more under his breath that Jack couldn’t quite hear as he snapped the reins smartly over the horses’ hindquarters.

“Is he always quite so—discourteous?” wondered Amelia, amazed by the rude tone the driver had taken with Jack.

“Frequently.”

“Then why don’t you discharge him?”

“Because he has been part of my family for years.”

Amelia didn’t know what to make of that. Her mother had discharged scores of servants for far less serious infractions than the impertinent manner Oliver had taken with Jack. Certainly none of them were ever thought of as part of the family.

“Was he always a coachman?” She couldn’t imagine another employer tolerating the old man’s insolence.

“Actually, he was a thief.” Jack was amused by the look of incredulity on her face. “And quite a good one, too.”

Amelia stared in fascination at the back of Oliver’s snowy head. She had never met a criminal of any kind before—at least, not knowingly. “Didn’t you check his references?”

“Actually, I didn’t hire him,” Jack told her. “My mother employed him years ago. She took him straight from the Inveraray jail to her home, and certainly wasn’t expecting him to have any references.”

“Wasn’t she concerned about having a dangerous criminal in her employ?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Other than his sharp tongue, Oliver isn’t dangerous. My mother likes to help people who find themselves in unfortunate circumstances.”

“Then it seems you and she have something in common. You both have very kind hearts.”

Jack said nothing. It wasn’t often that anyone accused him of being kind.

“Forgive me,” Amelia apologized, stifling a yawn. “I’m afraid I didn’t sleep very much last night—or the last few nights, for that matter.”

“It is several hours to London. You should try to get some sleep.”

“I don’t think I could possibly sleep in this crowded coach. Not that you are making it crowded,” she quickly amended, although in truth Jack’s immense frame and long legs were taking up much of the available space. “It’s this ridiculous gown that is making it impossible for me to get comfortable. My mother ordered it from Charles Worth, the famous designer in Paris.” She valiantly began to beat down the expensive silk and satin exploding around her so that she might have more room. “I don’t suppose you have heard of him,” she added, remembering that he had never heard of Viscount Philmore.

“Actually, I am familiar with the name. Although I don’t take much notice of women’s fashions, my sister Grace has a small dress shop in Inverness. She designs the gowns herself, and I have heard her mention Mr. Worth.”

Amelia stopped pummeling her gown for a moment, intrigued. “Your sister designs gowns? Would I have heard of her?”

“I doubt it. She only has the one shop, although her husband has been trying to convince her to open another in Edinburgh or London.”

“Her husband permits her to work even though she is married?” Amelia was astonished.

“Grace is very independent, and has always loved to design clothes. Her husband wants her to be happy, so he is supportive of her career.”

“I would love to meet them. Perhaps once Lord Philmore and I are married we will travel to Scotland.”

Jack thought it far more likely that Miss Belford’s new husband would immediately shut her up in some faded, velvet-draped home and expect her to play hostess at an endless array of spectacularly dull teas and dinners and accompany him to every tedious social event imaginable. Until he got her pregnant, at which point he would banish her from society completely.

Jack turned to study the shifting ribbons of afternoon light from his window, wondering why he was determined to find her prospects with this unknown viscount so bleak.

“Forgive me, Mr. Kent, but would you mind helping me with the pins securing my veil to my hair?” She leaned into him and bent her head.

Jack hesitated.

And then, not knowing what else to do, he began to clumsily pluck the dark wire hooks from the tangled mass of blonde before him.

Her veil was a gossamer shroud of the finest silk he had ever seen, held in place by a sparkling diamond tiara. The dozens of pins used to anchor the piece had kept it from flying off when she tumbled from the vine and crashed into the bushes. Jack worked in silence, carelessly dropping the pins on the floor of the carriage, watching in fascination as her hair unraveled from the elegant configuration some lady’s maid had spent hours fussing over. Finally the glittering tiara slipped heavily into his hand, trailing no less than nine feet of veil.

Amelia sighed, massaging her aching scalp. “You can’t imagine how dreadfully uncomfortable it is to have all those wire pins poking into your head, and that tiara was insufferably heavy.” She dragged her fingers through the length of her hair until it poured like liquid honey over her shoulders and down to her waist.

“Here,” said Jack thickly, offering her the tiara.

“Just put it on the floor,” she instructed, now working on wadding up the train of her gown and stuffing it into the corner for a pillow. “I’ll get it later.”

Instead Jack placed the diamond necklace and emerald earrings Miss Belford had given him earlier into the center of the tiara, then wound the veil protectively around the valuable cache of jewelry before placing it on the seat beside him.

Amelia settled wearily against the lumpy satin cushion she had created. “I do hope you’ll forgive me, Mr. Kent, if I close my eyes for a moment.”

“Go ahead.” Jack leaned back against his seat and stretched his legs out as much as the carriage would allow. “I’ll wake you before we reach—”

He stopped suddenly and regarded her in confusion.

And then the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement as he realized the lovely, elegant Miss Amelia Belford was snoring.

 

JACK KNEW THEY HAD REACHED LONDON LONG BEFORE he drew back the maroon curtain to see the ghostly forms of Mayfair’s sleeping houses standing in endless neat rows before him. The stench of the city assailed his nostrils, a caustic brew of ash and smoke spewing from the chimneys of homes and factories, combined with the stomach-churning fetor of the Thames. The sooty veil that hung in a perpetual caul over the city’s crowded skies was less effusive in the summer than in winter, when tens of thousands of coal fires were lit across the city every morning to banish the chill of night and facilitate the preparation of the day’s meals. Unfortunately, the serenity of the warm night air had trapped the day’s smoke, blending it with the reek of the tons of horse manure that fell unceremoniously onto the streets each day and the human sewage that flowed with equal abandon into the gray, fetid waters of the Thames.

It was almost enough to make Jack wish he were back in the floral-choked confines of the church.

He stretched his neck from side to side, silently groaning as he released the tight grip of muscles corded there. Then he gingerly shifted his position, marginally alleviating the pressure that had built along the vertebrae and muscles of his back, taking care not to disturb the sleeping form of Miss Belford. She had been in a deep slumber for several hours now. As her repose wore on, her initially upright position within the carriage had gradually deteriorated, until finally Jack had been forced to reach out and catch her just before she slid off her seat entirely. Her response had been to snuggle against his chest, evidently finding him a far more comfortable mattress than the scratchy clump of embroidered satin and pearls against which she had previously been lying. Reluctant to waken her when she was so obviously exhausted, but unable to support her for any length of time while seated on the opposite bench, he had moved beside her, thereby enabling her to capsize completely, until her little stockinged feet were drawn up beneath her and her hair was spilling in a tangled river across his lap.

For a long while he sat rigid, unaccustomed to having a woman lie so trustingly against him while she slept. It occurred to him that his experience with women was somewhat limited in that regard. He had indulged in more than his share of sexual pleasure, but he preferred the company of the females he met abroad. They were inclined to view him as a pleasant but fleeting diversion, which he supposed lessened their expectations of him. Delving into the twisted roots of his past was of no interest to them. By contrast, the well-bred young ladies of Scotland and England never let him forget his despicable beginnings.

From the time he had fallen into Genevieve’s care he had been obsessed with trying to make something better of himself—to carve himself into a man who bore no resemblance to the filthy, illiterate, angry little thief she had rescued from the Inveraray jail some twenty-two years earlier. It had been a long and arduous battle. Genevieve and Haydon had done everything within their power to assist him with his transformation. After teaching him herself for a time and gradually fostering an interest in learning, which had previously been buried beneath arrogant indifference, Genevieve had decided he was bright enough to attend university. His preparation involved suffering through an excruciating series of deathly dull tutors, who nearly succeeded in dousing the flame of curiosity that Genevieve had so tenderly coaxed to life. He was a fair student at best, for he had not learned to read or write until he was nearly fifteen, and his ability in both remained frustratingly slow. He had hated the study of Greek and Latin, and had not understood how these two ancient languages would ever be of any earthly use to him. But he was quick with numbers and liked history and art, which were particular passions of Genevieve’s.

Eventually he was deemed fit to attend the University of St. Andrews, where both his teachers and fellow students roundly despised him. The fact that he was the ward of the Marquess and Marchioness of Redmond bore little weight amongst the imperious sons of the English and Scottish nobility, who had been raised to worship at the shrine of their own superiority, and to detest the baseness of lower class scum like him. Fortunately, his years of living on the streets had rendered him sufficiently impervious to their disdain, which he met with an equal measure of cool contempt. He was tall and strong and quick with his fists, earning him a temporary expulsion during his first year there, but that had the benefit of establishing his reputation as a street fighter with ample skills to match his temper. Few dared to bother him after that, enabling him to struggle through the remainder of his studies in relative peace.

Haydon and Genevieve were disappointed that he had not made any friends while at university, but Jack was accustomed to being despised, and had not been bothered by it. He had his loving parents and the brothers, sisters, and “servants” he had acquired when he joined Genevieve’s household, each of whom boasted a background that was as extravagantly flawed as his own.

As far as he was concerned, the rest of the world could go to bloody hell.

“We’re here, lad,” Oliver announced as the carriage finally ambled to a stop before the elegant stone structure of Genevieve and Haydon’s London town house. The old man slowly climbed down from his perch and opened the carriage door. His sharp little eyes were nearly lost in the folds of his lids as he squinted into the darkness of the vehicle. “Safe and sound and nae the worse for it—though these old bones will be needin’ a wee rest an’ a fair drop o’ drink afore we set out again.” His brows furrowed into a single white pelt as he took in the sight of Amelia curled up on Jack’s lap. “Looks like yer bride is in need of a wee rest as well.”

“She isn’t my bride,” Jack objected.

“She’s more yours than old Whitcliffe’s,” observed Oliver, shrugging. “Lizzie and Beaton must be in their beds,” he decided, removing his battered felt hat so he could give his head a thorough scratching. “They’re nae expectin’ anyone to return after Whitcliffe’s weddin’, as Miss Genevieve planned to return to Inverness after. I’ll just go open up the house.” He rubbed his gnarled hands together in anticipation. “I’m a bit out of practice, but I’d wager there isn’t a lock in London I canna open.”

“Just ring the bell, Oliver.”

“Now lad, there’s nae sense in wakin’ poor old Lizzie and Beaton when I can get ye in quicker than a greased frog—”

“I don’t want Lizzie or Beaton to think the house is being robbed and bang you over the head with a pot the minute you open the front door.”

Oliver frowned. “Who said anything about goin’ in the front door?”

“Oliver—” Jack began in a warning tone.

“All right, then.” He crammed his hat back onto his head and stomped toward the door, clearly irritated at having his skills called into question.

“Where are we?” murmured Amelia, her voice thick with sleep.

“We’re in London.”

She was silent for a moment, trying to make sense of the deep, unfamiliar voice. Slowly she opened her eyes to find her head pillowed against the hard muscles of Jack’s thighs while her hand lay with shocking intimacy upon his knee.

“Oh!” she gasped, bolting upright and scrambling away from him. “Please excuse me—I’m afraid I must have been very tired.”

“You were.” Jack was amused by her sudden sense of propriety.

“Is this your house?” she asked, desperate to shift his attention away from the fact that she had just been lying atop him. “It’s very nice.”

“It belongs to my parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Redmond, but no one is here now except for a couple of servants. Come.” He leapt down from the carriage and extended his hand to her. “I believe we can find a bed inside that is far more comfortable than—” He was about to say “my lap,” but the heated stain on Miss Belford’s cheeks suggested she might not appreciate his attempt at humor. “—this carriage.”

She groped around the dark floor for her shoes and slipped them onto her feet before laying her palm lightly against his hand. It felt soft and small, like a sun-warmed petal against his callused skin.

“Perhaps you had better take your jewelry as well,” he suggested, indicating the veil-wrapped bundle on the seat.

She scooped up the priceless bundle without interest, gathered her crumpled skirts into one hand, and permitted Jack to assist her from the carriage.

“Lord have mercy on us—it’s Mr. Jack!” cried a startled voice.

A short dumpling of a woman with a flushed face and a frazzle of silver hair poking out from beneath her nightcap stared at them wide-eyed from the doorway. Her cheeks were fleshy but wrinkled and her little round eyes were slightly glazed, as if she had just been roused from a deep sleep. She opened her mouth to say something more, exposing a row of slightly crooked, yellowing teeth, but all that came out was an extremely loud hiccup.

“Good evening, Lizzie,” said Jack as the housekeeper clapped a hand to her lips. “I hope we’re not causing you too much inconvenience with our late arrival.”

The syrupy smell of gin wafted from the older woman’s nostrils and mouth as he escorted Amelia into the house.

“Of course not,” mumbled Lizzie, struggling admirably to affect a sober demeanor. She hiccuped loudly again, then blinked, hoping no one had noticed. “We just wasn’t expectin’ you, is all.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to give you notice,” Jack apologized. “I had not intended to come to London, but my plans changed.”

A great, round ball of a man exploded suddenly through the kitchen door, desperately trying to tie the sash of his crimson dressing gown over the generous expanse of his girth. A blue-and-white-striped nightcap drooped precariously upon his shiny bald head, and he had only managed to find one scuffed and worn bedroom slipper, leaving the stubby toes of his other foot bare. Like Lizzie’s, his face was amply lined, suggesting he had seen sixty years and more, but Amelia thought there was something sweetly childlike about him as he fumbled clumsily with the fraying tie of his dressing gown.

“Good evening, Beaton,” said Jack.

“Goda’mighty!” swore Beaton, his glassy eyes nearly popping from his head as he stared in bleary confusion at Amelia. “Our Mr. Jack has gone and gotten himself married!” Overcome, he stumbled forward and clamped his stout arms around Jack’s waist. “Congratulations, sir,” he gushed, sniffing with emotion. “If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, she’s a real spanker.” He belched.

“Drunk as wheelbarrows, the pair of them,” observed Oliver in disgust. “Ye canna find decent help these days.”

“I’m no such thing,” protested Lizzie indignantly. “I need to take a spot of gin now and again for my poor old heart, is all.” She hiccuped again, then proceeded to affect a fit of phlegmy coughing.

“An’ I only took a nip to keep her company,” added Beaton, still standing with his arms wrapped tightly around Jack’s waist. Amelia was not certain whether the butler was clinging to Jack out of fondness or his very real need for support.

“Ye’re completely wellied, both of ye,” Oliver objected irritably. “Ye should be ashamed of yerselves.”

“Now, Oliver, we cannot fault Lizzie and Mr. Beaton for having a little drink when the house was safely locked up for the evening and they weren’t expecting our arrival—especially as Lizzie obviously needs to take gin for medicinal purposes.”

The servants stared at Amelia in slack-jawed surprise. Even Jack regarded her with curiosity. He had not expected his fabulously wealthy heiress to be quite so forgiving of his servants’ obvious shortcomings.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kent,” said Lizzie, coming dangerously close to toppling over as she bobbed a clumsy curtsey. “You’re most kind.” She hiccuped.

“She’s a real spanker.” Beaton winked at Jack.

“Miss Belford is not my wife,” Jack said, prying Beaton’s arms off his waist. He held the butler’s wrist for a moment, making sure the fellow was steady on his feet before actually letting go. “She is my guest, and she will be staying with us for a day or so while I make arrangements to—”

“Miss Belford?” Lizzie’s withered brow puckered in confusion. “Miss Amelia Belford, the American heiress?”

Amelia regarded Jack uncertainly.

“Bless my soul, you are her, aren’t you?” Lizzie leaned closer to Amelia to take a better look, overwhelming Amelia with the stench of gin. “I’ve seen your picture in the shops, and of course the society pages have been filled with talk of your upcoming weddin’ to that fat old codger, Whitcliffe.”

“Here now, we’ll have none o’ that talk,” interjected Oliver, concerned that Amelia might take offense at having her betrothed described in such unflattering terms. “Old Whitcliffe is nae fat—he’s just a wee bit beefy. All dukes are,” he added with uncharacteristic charity. “That’s what comes of bein’ well stuffed from cradle to grave.”

“I’m sure it’s you,” Lizzie insisted, as if Amelia needed convincing of her own identity. “Your picture has been in all the shops.”

Like most heiresses who traveled to London to find an English lord, Amelia’s mother had arranged for her to be photographed by one of the city’s leading photographers. Her portrait had been for sale in numerous shops, enabling a fascinated public to purchase her picture. Beyond the popularity of her portrait, Amelia’s wedding had received extensive coverage in both the English and American newspapers during the previous weeks, a fact that distressed her but pleased her mother immensely.

“Goda’mighty—she is her—isn’t she?” Beaton’s eyes bulged from his shiny round head.

“Yes,” said Jack. Lizzie and Beaton had been in his parents’ employ for more than ten years, and although they clearly liked to indulge in a drink now and again, Jack knew that in matters of importance they could be absolutely trusted. “She is.”

“Oh, my, you’re even prettier in the flesh!” gushed Lizzie, studying Amelia with fresh rapture. “Even if your hair is a mess and your gown looks like you’ve been crawlin’ about the coal bin.”

“But you were to marry Lord Whitcliffe today,” pointed out Beaton. “It’s been in the paper for weeks—with sketches of you and His Grace, and the gifts and flowers and lists of food—”

“They said your garters had gold clasps with diamonds on them,” interrupted Lizzie excitedly. “Is that true?”

“No.” Amelia was horrified that the London papers had gone so far as to falsely describe her undergarments. Did people really believe she could be so idiotically frivolous as to wear lingerie studded with diamonds?

“Oh, but look at what’s happened to your lovely gown,” Lizzie moaned, “and your hands too, you poor lamb.” She took Amelia’s badly scratched hands into her own and clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Did you have an accident?”

“I fell,” Amelia replied. “Into a bush.”

“Miss Belford had a change of heart at the last minute,” explained Jack.

“But your betrothed was a bleedin’ duke!” burst out Lizzie. “Whitcliffe lives in one of the grandest castles in all England!”

“Aye, and the lass decided she didna want him,” interjected Oliver, coming to Amelia’s defense.

“Surely she must have known he was beefy before she agreed to marry him,” argued Beaton, still focused on the matter of Whitcliffe’s size.

“I’ve heard of cases amongst the rich where the bride is not permitted to see the groom till she rubs elbows with him at the altar,” Lizzie said, “out of fear she might change her mind and call the whole weddin’ off.”

“If t’were me bein’ forced to marry old Whitcliffe, I know which direction I’d have run.” Oliver chuckled, forgetting that but a moment earlier he had been defending Amelia’s choice for a husband.

“Miss Belford is very tired, Lizzie.” Jack thought Amelia had endured enough questions for one night. “Do you think you and Beaton could prepare a bath for her and find her something suitable to wear? I’m sure there must be something appropriate in my mother’s wardrobe. See that she is given whatever she needs in terms of clothes. She will sleep in the blue guest bedroom tonight.”

“Of course you’re tired, you poor lost lamb.” Lizzie clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Follow me, dearie, and I’ll get you settled in as cozy as a kitten in a basket.”

“You’re very kind.” Amelia suddenly felt as if she were about to collapse from exhaustion. “I apologize for interrupting your sleep by arriving here unannounced. I hope you won’t have to go to too much trouble on my behalf.”

Beaton and Lizzie blinked in confusion. Neither had ever met an American heiress before, but everything they had heard about these fantastically indulged beauties suggested that they would be just as haughty and condescending toward their class as the English aristocracy generally was.

“ ’Tis no trouble at all, miss,” Lizzie assured her.

“We weren’t doing anything before you came,” added Beaton.

“Except for gettin’ soaked,” Oliver muttered.

“Up we go then,” said Lizzie, ignoring Oliver’s insult as she shepherded Amelia toward the stairs, holding her mangled train behind her. “Beaton will set to heatin’ some water for your bath while we see about gettin’ you out of this gown.”

Jack watched as the servants set to work to provide for Miss Belford’s comfort.

Then he jerked off his necktie and headed toward the drawing room, very much in need of a drink.

 

THE WHISKEY WAS WELL AGED AND FULL-BODIED, with just enough of a smoky finish to remind him of the sweet burning peat of the Highlands. Jack sipped it slowly, taking time to appreciate its carefully cultivated scent, body, and flavor.

There had been a time when he had not been quite so discerning.

He’d started drinking at the tender age of eight, when he used to sneak a fiery swig from a chipped brown jug hidden beneath a filthy crate in the kitchen. That was where the old bastard his mother paid to look after him used to hide it. Jack was never sure whether he was concealing the foul-tasting brew from Jack or from his own wife, a nasty-tempered woman who also enjoyed a good solid drunk now and again. After Jack ran away from them at the age of nine and began living on the streets, he found his taste for alcohol grew. By the time he was fourteen he was arrogantly proud of the fact that he could consume nearly an entire bottle of spirits without vomiting it back up again. He had done just that the night before he was arrested for stealing some cheese, a bottle of cheap whiskey, and a pair of worn shoes. He sobered up quick enough when he found himself sentenced to thirty-six stripes of the lash, forty days imprisonment, and two years at a reformatory school. At the time he had believed he had reached the end of his short, miserable life, for he did not expect to survive the brutality of the judicial system.

Then Genevieve had appeared in his cell, and everything he was destined to become was changed forever.

It was strange, he mused, how some facets of life could be irrevocably altered in an instant, while others remained infuriatingly fixed. He had struggled for years to cast off the filthy mantle of his sordid beginnings. He was the unwanted progeny of a drunken whore and some base customer whose identity he had never known, which was just as well. As a lad he had been a scrawny thief who survived on little more than his sharp wits and his bloodstained fists. His existence had been pitted with desperation and violence, and he had done what he had to in order to survive. And then he was suddenly the ward of the Marquess and Marchioness of Redmond, who made him part of a loving family while helping him to rise above the dark sludge of his origins.

When he was a callow lad of fifteen, he had told himself that he was a born survivor and that he would have managed well enough, regardless of whether Genevieve had come into his life or not. As he matured, the harsh reality of the world took on a different cast. He had only to look at the rough, half-starved young men hanging about the streets of Edinburgh and Glasgow to see what he would have become but for Genevieve: illiterate, angry, and contemptuous of the world around him. Most of these aimless fellows scrabbled out a miserable living slaving in the factories or stealing, both professions that were better performed sober, which they rarely were. Trapped by poverty and ignorance, they hoped for little more than to still be alive the following week, and not jailed or killed by alcohol or a brawl or some ungodly piece of factory machinery.

It was scarcely a life worth surviving for.

How different were the travails of Miss Amelia Belford. For her, hunger was an entirely abstract concept, based upon the vaguely empty sensation one felt between the hours of luncheon and teatime. Jack could not imagine that she had ever been permitted to want for anything—save perhaps a gown so extravagant even her father had been forced to question its necessity, or perhaps those ludicrous diamond-studded garters Lizzie had gone on about. For Amelia, life was a glorious pageant of everything she could ever have possibly imagined, and more.

Yet she had risked all of it to scale down a church wall and run away.

She was naive in the extreme if she thought for a moment that her Viscount Philmore could provide her with anything resembling the affluent life she might have enjoyed with Whitcliffe, Jack decided, albeit at her father’s expense. Jack didn’t know Philmore, but if he was at all typical of his class, Jack knew his type. Spoiled, arrogant, and lazy. Jack supposed he should not judge him for being tediously representative of his class. After all, even Haydon had once borne these very same traits. But if this Philmore cared for Miss Belford as much as she evidently believed he did, why hadn’t he married her? Had it been Jack, he would never have let Amelia’s subsequent betrothal to Whitcliffe and her parents’ refusal to let him see her stand in his way. If he had suspected for an instant that she was being forced into a marriage she did not want, he would have bloody well charged through her home and knocked aside anyone who got in his way as he took her out.

He extricated himself from his chair, too weary to think about the matter anymore. He blew out the lamp in the library and slowly mounted the stairs, unfastening the buttons of his shirt.

Upon reaching the upstairs floor he noticed a spill of lamplight seeping onto the richly woven Persian carpet from the ajar door of the guest bedroom. Frowning, he walked toward it, wondering if something was amiss with Miss Belford.

Asleep, she lay tucked in a tiny ball upon the bed, her honey-gold hair trickling in soft swells across the expansive white ocean of her pillow and sheets. Her hapless wedding gown and veil rested in a discarded froth upon a chair, and there was a tray of tea, toast, and cold beef sitting untouched upon a table. She had kicked off her woolen blankets, but the air gusting through the open window was cool, and it was clear to Jack as he moved toward her that she was chilled and needed to be covered.

She was wearing a nightgown of ivory cotton, delicately embroidered with a scattering of tiny pink rosebuds at the neckline and trimmed with a cascade of filmy lace. It was void of all the shimmering ornamentation that had rendered her wedding gown so ostentatious, and Jack felt it suited her much better. The scalloped neckline draped loosely over her shoulder and across her breasts, exposing an expanse of silky skin, and the lacy hem had shifted up her calves as she kicked away her blankets, revealing her small, perfectly formed feet. He leaned upon the bedpost and studied her a long moment.

And then he frowned at the sparkle of tears upon her lashes.

He should have asked Lizzie to stay with her, he realized. Despite the confident, determined composure she had maintained during their ride to London, it was clear Miss Belford’s wedding day had been filled with extreme emotions, which obviously had taken their toll when she finally rested her head against her pillow. But for his agreeing to spirit her away, the young woman before him would have been a prisoner in Whitcliffe’s bed tonight, a terrified, unwilling bride with no choice but to endure whatever her new husband wanted of her. And Whitcliffe would have wanted as much of her as he could consume. Despite the duke’s advanced age and substantial weight, Jack did not believe any man could have resisted such exquisite beauty.

Outrage unfurled within him. No man had the right to force himself on an unwilling woman, regardless of whether the law, the church, and her parents conspired to give him that right. Jack did not know whether Amelia had wept out of fear of her future or sheer relief at having escaped her bondage to Whitcliffe. Whatever the reason, the trail of tears staining her cheek cut him to the core. He lifted the disheveled blankets at the foot of the bed and clumsily draped them over her.

Then he blew out the lamp and quit the room, too angry to wonder at the unfamiliar flame of protectiveness burgeoning within his chest.