Chapter Ten

WALTER SWEENEY GRIPPED THE EDGE OF HIS DESK, feeling a desperate need to hold on to something as he endured the whirlwind assault of the four excited women twittering like birds on the edge of their seats before him.

The Kent sisters, as they continued to be known despite their matrimonial status, had burst into his office in a chattering blast of feathered hats, glossy pearls, and tastefully tailored outfits, escorting their somewhat more understated looking cousin, Mrs. Marshall Chamberlain. Their brother, Dr. James Kent, had dropped by earlier and asked Walter if he would kindly grant an interview to his charming American cousin from Boston, who was recently widowed and now seeking a new life and employment in Inverness. Dr. Kent had explained that Mrs. Chamberlain was intimately acquainted with what was currently deemed fashionable in Boston, New York, Paris, and London, suggesting that this was an area of expertise which the Royal Hotel might find beneficial.

Walter had tactfully agreed to conduct the interview, but purely in the interest of maintaining cordial relations with the Kent family, who comprised a vital force in the local economy. The Marquess and Marchioness of Redmond and their children were well known for their support of local business and industry, including his hotel, which had hosted numerous dinners and parties for them over the years. While Walter wanted to be accommodating to the family, he did not, quite frankly, see any need to hire someone to advise him on matters of service or presentation. He had managed those aspects of his hotel quite successfully for some thirty years now. He might not have the time or the inclination to travel to fast places like Paris or London to see what foolish nonsense other hotels were up to, nor did he have to. He knew good, plain, old-fashioned Scottish food and service when he saw it, and that was the foundation on which his hotel had built its proud and long-standing reputation. He had intended to listen attentively to whatever Mrs. Chamberlain had to say and then politely inform her that he did not have a suitable opening at the Royal Hotel which would fit her admirable qualifications. His obligation to the Kent family thus met, he would have then continued with his daily agenda.

What he had not anticipated was that Mrs. Chamberlain would arrive with her three female cousins in tow, thereby subjecting him to a dizzying assault of feminine charm. He clutched his desk with the desperation of a drowning man, struggling to keep up with the dozens of criticisms and suggestions that were being volleyed back and forth between the four women. He had begun the meeting confident that his hotel’s performance and reputation were above censure. After nearly an hour of the women’s exhausting offensive, however, he was suddenly not so sure.

“Mrs. MacCulloch was adamant at her daughter’s last fitting that she expected her upcoming wedding to be an affair of great elegance from the moment the guests entered the reception room,” Grace was saying emphatically. “She mentioned some of the items that you have proposed for the wedding dinner menu, Mr. Sweeney. While they are admirable choices, I’m sure my dear cousin, Mrs. Chamberlain, could arrange a menu that would have every wedding guest talking about the food at the Royal Hotel for years to come.”

“The menu for the wedding has already been agreed upon,” Walter told her. “It cannot be changed.”

“But the wedding is not for three weeks yet,” protested Grace.

Annabelle gave a teasing laugh. “Surely you have not started preparing the food?”

“It cannot be changed,” Walter insisted. “I have already informed the kitchen. The menu is quite final.”

“What are you planning to serve?” inquired Amelia curiously.

Walter smiled at the slight, mousy-haired, bespectacled woman seated across from him. She bore no resemblance to her prettier cousins, from her primly arranged hair to her pallid skin and narrow, ashen lips. She was of an indeterminate age, perhaps twenty-seven or more, although there were brief moments where she looked rather younger. Her face was not lined, but there were shadows beneath her eyes, which might have been an important feature for her had they not been obscured behind the gold rims of her scholarly spectacles. Her clothes were tasteful but plain, and he could not decide whether her lack of feminine ornamentation was due to the fact that she still mourned the loss of her husband, or whether she simply disliked personal adornment. What was clear was that she was a woman of considerable poise and energy. She moved with an unhurried grace that spoke of an upbringing of refinement and cultivation, and despite her rather strange American accent, her description of things she had experienced at other hotels and formal affairs indicated that she was both intelligent and well educated.

“We will be serving what has always been popular at wedding dinners,” Walter told her. “Stewed trout and cock-a-leekie soup, followed by saddle of lamb, jugged hare, and sheep’s haggis, peas and potatoes, then boiled salmon and fried turbot, and finally, date pudding with sticky toffee sauce and cranachan.”

“What is cranachan?” asked Amelia.

“It’s a traditional Scottish dessert,” Charlotte explained. “It’s made with toasted oatmeal, heavy cream, soft fruit, honey, and whiskey, all mixed together and left to thicken.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Amelia said truthfully. “And the rest of the menu also sounds very…” She paused, trying to find the right word. “Hearty.”

“None of our guests have ever complained about our wedding menu,” Walter assured her.

“And that is to your great credit,” Amelia told him. “But I wonder, Mr. Sweeney, if, given the fact that Mrs. MacCulloch has indicated she is hoping for an event that will extend beyond what the people of Inverness have come to know and appreciate from your lovely hotel, you might not consider expanding the menu a little?”

“There will be more than enough food as it is,” Walter objected. “I dislike wastage.”

“I’m not suggesting you increase the amount of food you serve,” Amelia quickly qualified, “just that you might offer a broader variety of choices, so that people could try something a bit different.”

“Like what?”

“Well, perhaps you could begin with a choice of a hot or a cold soup,” Amelia suggested. “That is particularly nice on summer nights, where people prefer not to indulge in a heavy meat soup to start. The cold soup can be of cucumber, or even some kind of berry, and decorated with a little flower floating in the center, or perhaps a very fine swirl of cream accompanied by a delicate spray of chives.”

“You want me to put flowers in the soup?” Walter thought she must be jesting.

“They aren’t to eat,” Amelia assured him. “They are to make the dishes look inviting.”

“The guests will think I’m trying to poison them.”

“Actually, many flowers are edible. We would make sure that we selected something that wasn’t harmful if someone did decide to taste it.”

“I think a flower floating on top of the soup sounds lovely,” said Charlotte. “Very creative.”

“After the soup you might serve the fish courses, so that the meal gets gradually heavier, instead of going directly to the meats,” Amelia continued. “Lobster is very popular these days, either prepared as a curry, or cubed and served with a trickle of lemon butter. Prawns are also very tasty and somewhat special, as is baked trout with slivered almonds. The idea is to offer dishes that are flavorful, attractive, and not something that people would typically prepare in their own homes.”

Walter frowned, considering. After a moment, he began to make notes.

“There should be a small spoonful of lemon sorbet served next, in a little crystal glass on a plate, to refresh the palate and give the guests a chance to rest before the next course,” Amelia went on. “Then for the meat dishes, it is important to balance the flavors and textures. Lamb and hare are very nice, but you should also offer braised ham, roasted chicken, perhaps some tongue, and a nice, tender cut of rare beef. There must be gravies to accompany each dish, but they should be offered separately, so that each guest can decide for him- or herself whether they want a rich sauce poured over.”

“That makes perfect sense,” declared Annabelle enthusiastically. “When I was in Paris I found they absolutely drowned everything in heavy cream sauces, and I didn’t care for it at all.”

“For the vegetables, I think you might want to go beyond peas and potatoes, even though they are common favorites,” Amelia suggested. “Why not try lightly steamed asparagus spears, honeyed carrots, thinly sliced beetroot, and buttered green beans? This way there is more color on the plate, especially if some guests wish to try a little of everything.

“In addition to the desserts you have planned, I would suggest a selection of cakes and tarts, at least two ice creams, one strawberry or vanilla, and the other something more exotic, like ginger or melon, perhaps served with thin wafers or candied peel. Finally there should be fruit pyramids constructed of peaches, plums, apricots, nectarines, raspberries, pears and grapes, which are served with cheese and biscuits, and champagne. At the end of the meal everyone should be encouraged to get up and walk around a little, so I would serve coffee, tea, and port in another room, if possible, or if not, at least offer it on tables at the end of the room so that everyone has to walk a bit to get it.”

Walter looked up from his writing. “Anything else?”

“Well, I have not yet considered the theme of the room itself, or the decoration of the tables, or the flowers or the linens or the orchestra and what music it should play,” Amelia reflected. “Then of course the MacCullochs might want some small token or favor to be given to the guests as they are leaving, and that is also something that the hotel could have a part in creating. You could build a whole new reputation for the hotel based on the intriguing themes you envision for these affairs, and the spectacular way in which they are executed.”

“Theme?” Walter crushed his brows together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“A premise or idea that pulls the affair together in some fun and entertaining way,” Amelia explained, “such as turning the room into a tropical paradise with palm and lemon trees, or creating midnight in an English garden, complete with stars and a fountain. Even if the bride’s parents prefer to keep the wedding simple, at the very least one must consider the colors and flowers to be used. For that we must consult the bride and find out what she likes, or what is meaningful to her and her betrothed. That way even if the same guests are invited to a dozen weddings and dinners in your hotel over the years, they will always be anxious to attend and see how different and wonderful the event will be. Every guest should be seen as a potential client who may wish to host an event in the future, so we must use every opportunity to impress them with our impeccable service and creativity.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Walter, who was feverishly scratching notes again. “Now tell me, Mrs. Chamberlain, what suggestions do you have for the—”

“Oh, my,” gasped Annabelle suddenly, rising from her chair, “how the time has flown. I’m afraid we must be off, Mr. Sweeney.”

“Off? Off where?”

“We have arranged another interview for Mrs. Chamberlain at the Palm Court Hotel just across the river. It is not as old as the Royal Hotel, of course, but it has all the latest amenities in plumbing and lighting and so forth, and they are anticipating quite a discerning clientele. Come, Mary,” she said, gesturing to Amelia, “we really must go or we’ll be late.”

“Yes, of course.” Amelia obediently rose. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sweeney,” she said, smiling serenely, “and I wish you and your hotel all the best—”

“Can you start today?” demanded Walter. “Now?”

Guarded excitement rippled through her. “Are you saying you wish to hire me?”

“Yes, yes.” He waved his pen about impatiently. “I’m most anxious to hear more of your thoughts, so we can set up a meeting with Mrs. MacCulloch and her daughter and discuss our new ideas for her wedding. We haven’t much time, you know. Barely three weeks. If we’re going to change the menu and create a theme, we must begin making arrangements immediately. Shall we agree to a salary of, say, one hundred pounds a year?”

Amelia regarded him incredulously. She was not terribly well-informed about what people earned, but her father often complained about the enormous bills he received from Mr. Worth’s salon in Paris, which generally exceeded twenty thousand dollars a season. Although she did not anticipate needing such an extraordinary wardrobe, how on earth could she be expected to live on a hundred pounds a year?

“A hundred and twenty-five?” Walter suggested, sensing her reluctance to accept.

Amelia looked to Annabelle, Grace, and Charlotte, who in turn looked expectantly at Mr. Sweeney.

“I can go as high as one hundred and fifty, but that is, I’m afraid, my final offer.” A tic began to pulse in his cheek.

“I’m sure you’re offering as much as you believe you are able,” said Amelia, adjusting her gloves, “and I thank you for your consideration—”

“One hundred and seventy-five pounds, and all your meals can be taken in the hotel dining room,” Walter interrupted.

“But I shall need to eat the food we make if I am to know how it tastes and what to recommend,” Amelia pointed out reasonably. “Therefore eating here is an essential part of my job, and can hardly be negotiated as part of my compensation. If anything, I should be paid extra for the time it will involve.”

“Mrs. Marshall, I am in a position to pay you two hundred pounds a year, and that, I’m afraid, is my final offer,” Walter said weakly.

“We’ll take it,” said Grace before Amelia could refuse.

“Very well.” Amelia decided she had to trust that Grace must know more about such things than she. “Two hundred pounds will do—”

Walter sighed with relief, feeling as if he had won a battle.

“—to start.”

 

JACK SLOWLY SCANNED THE WRITING ON THE CON- tract before him, deciphering the words with effort. Reading had always been a challenge for him, and although Genevieve had worked long hours with him he had never mastered it to a degree that made it easy or pleasurable. There had been times when the infuriating words before him had mocked him with their arrogant superiority, enraging him, until he had been reduced to hurling his books against the wall, and once, into the flames of the fireplace. That had been one of the few times Genevieve had ever been genuinely upset with him. Books were too valuable to be abused or destroyed, she had told him firmly. It was better to channel his frustration into something constructive, like punching Eunice’s bread dough or chopping firewood. Jack had marched outside and chopped enough firewood to keep the twenty fireplaces of Haydon’s estate burning for two days.

He had never enjoyed working in the kitchen.

“Jack! Jack! Where are you?” Annabelle’s voice was bright with excitement. “We’re back!”

An unfamiliar swell of anticipation rose within him. He stood and awkwardly straightened his rumpled shirt and waistcoat. He had not seen Amelia since making his unforgivably stupid comment about her abilities the previous day in the kitchen. Although Charlotte had told him he should apologize to her, somehow he had not found an opportunity to do so. Amelia had remained closeted in her chamber that night, and an early meeting had forced him to leave first thing that morning for his Inverness office to discuss his increasingly faltering business. That meant he had missed seeing Amelia before Oliver and his sisters overhauled her appearance and dragged her off to her interview at the Royal Hotel. Feeling strangely uncertain, he went into the corridor, anxious to fix whatever damage he had done and see Amelia smile at him once more.

Annabelle, Charlotte, and Grace stood in the corridor, beaming with satisfaction.

“Where’s Amelia?”

“You’ll never guess,” Annabelle told him teasingly.

“I don’t want to guess.” Had they just left her somewhere, not realizing how dangerous that could be? “Where is she?”

“She’s fine, Jack,” Charlotte assured him. “She is still at the Royal Hotel. We’ve sent Oliver back to collect her once she has finished.”

“Finished what?” Eunice appeared through the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Did the lass get a position?” Doreen shuffled out behind her.

“Really, Jack, you must let me purchase some decent furniture for you,” Annabelle chided as she sailed into his drawing room. “These old, dark pieces are horribly ugly.”

“Why did you leave Amelia at the hotel?” he demanded.

“We left her there because she was working. At the very least you should have this old sofa of Genevieve’s reupholstered, Jack,” Grace suggested, looking at where the fabric had split on the armrest. “It looks positively shabby.”

“For God’s sake, forget the damn furniture! What have you done with Amelia?”

“We got her a job.” Annabelle smiled. “Just like we said we would.”

“Actually, Amelia got the job on her own,” Charlotte amended. “She didn’t really need much help from us.”

“Except when it came to the question of her salary.” Grace giggled. “She was so stunned when Mr. Sweeney offered her a hundred pounds a year, she nearly refused him!”

Doreen’s narrow brow wrinkled in bafflement. “That’s more than a fair wage for a young, single lass.”

“I’m afraid Amelia is somewhat unfamiliar with what most people earn,” explained Charlotte. “Given the luxury she is accustomed to, she thought Mr. Sweeney’s offer was most unreasonable.”

“But ultimately that worked in her favor—Mr. Sweeney was so afraid of losing her that ultimately he agreed to pay her two hundred pounds instead!” Grace finished triumphantly.

Eunice clapped her hands together with delight. “Sweet saints!”

“What is the lass goin’ to be doin’ for two hundred pounds?” Doreen demanded, suspicious.

“Oh, Doreen, it’s positively brilliant,” said Annabelle. “She is going to help the hotel organize its special affairs, from the decoration of the rooms to the setting of the tables and the planning of the menus.”

“She’s even going to introduce themes to these functions, so that the events will always be different and entertaining and terribly stylish,” Charlotte added.

“It’s perfect for her,” reflected Grace. “No one knows more about what’s fashionable and fun at these affairs than Amelia does!”

“She cannot do it.” Jack’s tone was final.

“Of course she can.” Annabelle regarded him with impatience. “Amelia is far more talented than you realize, Jack.”

“I don’t mean that she is not qualified.” In truth, Jack was surprised that Amelia had managed to find employment in something so appropriate to her background. “I meant that it’s too dangerous.”

“Really, Jack, you must get past this idea that Amelia should simply be shut up in a room and never face the world again,” said Grace.

“There is an enormous reward on her head and her family is looking for her.” Jack was amazed his family couldn’t understand the danger. “She cannot be working at a hotel where she is exposed to dozens of people every day, any one of whom might suddenly recognize her and turn her over to the police.”

“No one is going to recognize her,” Charlotte assured him gently. “You needn’t worry.”

“You didn’t see her before she left the house today.” Grace smiled. “I don’t think even you would have known her.”

“Certainly no one who is looking for a beautiful young heiress who has turned the heads of noblemen from Paris to London is going to connect her with the plain, sober-looking widow who is now toiling at a hotel in Scotland to support herself,” pointed out Annabelle.

“And it isn’t as if Mrs. Chamberlain just suddenly appeared out of nowhere on her own,” Charlotte added. “By introducing her as a relative, we have given her a background and a connection to Inverness that is credible.”

“Besides, most people wouldn’t think to find a privileged American heiress working at a hotel,” argued Grace. “They think like you do, Jack, that she is spoiled and utterly incapable of doing anything worthwhile.”

“I never said that.”

“Not in those words, perhaps, but you insinuated it just the same. Amelia was terribly hurt, and I don’t blame her.”

Charlotte regarded him enquiringly. “You did apologize, Jack, didn’t you?”

He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. “I will.”

“Well, you’d better do so as soon as she comes home,” Annabelle advised, “because after that you may not have the chance for a while.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have invited Amelia to stay with me, and she has agreed.”

Jack regarded his sister incredulously. “You what?”

“Really, it’s the most sensible thing for everyone, Jack. Having Amelia around has kept you from your next voyage, and I know you must be terribly anxious to leave. You hate to stay put anywhere for more than a few days.”

“Amelia will stay with Annabelle, and that will enable you to get on with your affairs, and let poor Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen finally go home,” finished Grace.

“An’ who said anythin’ about us wanting to go home?” Eunice made it sound as if the idea was ridiculous.

“We like lookin’ after Jack and the lass,” Doreen added emphatically. “ ’Tis nae bother.”

“You’re both very sweet, but I’m sure you must find all the hard work you have to do here very tiring,” Annabelle insisted. “At home you don’t have to do anything. You can just sit and rest.”

“I dinna need to sit and rest,” Eunice huffed, planting her sturdy hands on her formidable hips. “I’ve the strength and the energy of a woman half my age, and the good Lord intended for me to use it.”

“An’ the same goes for me.” Doreen snorted with irritation. “The day I canna scrub a floor or push a rag over the furniture will be the day ye can toss me in my coffin and bang down the lid.”

“There, you see?” said Jack. “Eunice and Doreen are fine staying here, and I am in no rush to sail again. As a matter of fact I just gave orders for the Lightning to leave tomorrow, without me.”

“But now that Amelia is going to stay with me, you needn’t inconvenience yourself,” Annabelle insisted. “You can sail off to Egypt or Africa or wherever it is you’re planning to go, and not worry any more about her.”

Jack glared helplessly at his sister. Annabelle’s generous offer would free him of the responsibility of looking after Amelia, and enable him to get back to the demands of his life. He could set sail the next day on the Lightning, secure in the knowledge that she was being well looked after by his family, who would do everything within their power to see that she was safe. It was a perfectly reasonable solution. He should have felt relieved.

Instead he felt utterly hollow.

“Thank you for your offer, Annabelle,” he began stiffly, “but Amelia is going to remain here with me.”

“Really, Jack, you’re not being reasonable—”

“I’m being perfectly reasonable,” he countered. “I’m the one whose carriage she climbed into, and I’m the one who agreed to take her away. Amelia is my responsibility, not yours. She stays with me.”

“But what will people think?”

“I don’t give a damn what people think.”

“You may not, but Amelia does.”

“No, she doesn’t.” Jack thought of Amelia scrabbling down the church wall in her wedding gown, and slapping Percy hard across the face in front of eight hundred people. Those were hardly the actions of a woman who was overly concerned with appearances. “Amelia is American. She does what she wants to do.”

“What if she does not want to stay here?”

Charlotte’s question took him by surprise. “Did she say she did not want to stay here?”

“Not in those words.” Charlotte regarded him steadily. “But she was very upset by the way you spoke about her yesterday.”

“If she doesn’t want to stay here, then she is free to go wherever she bloody well pleases,” he retaliated brusquely. “I don’t give a damn.”

He turned and stalked angrily from the room, leaving his sisters staring in wonder after him.

 

AMELIA PUSHED OPEN THE HEAVY DOOR AND WEARILY stepped inside the faintly lit front vestibule. The spicy-sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon mingled with the lingering aroma of beef-and-onion stew. It was late and she knew the food had already been served and put away, but the memory of it wafted in tantalizing currents upon the air, filling her senses with a warm, comfortable feeling. She sighed and stripped off her gloves.

It was good to be home.

She unpinned her hat as she walked toward the staircase, eager to wash and go to bed. The day had been long and tiring, and while Mr. Sweeney had apologized profusely for keeping her so late, he had asked that she be back to work by eight o’clock the following morning. There were a dozen or more upcoming events he wanted to work on with her, each of which would require meetings with the clients and then the organization of everything necessary to create a unique and scintillating atmosphere. Amelia had no doubt that she could envision ideas for all of them, for she had been to enough balls and luncheons and teas in her life to provide her with inspiration for scores of affairs. Doing the necessary administrative work to bring these events to fruition, however, was another matter entirely. She was expected to draft the letters and place all the necessary orders, then ensure that everything arrived on schedule and more, on budget. She was reasonably adept with figures and believed she would have little trouble keeping track of the expenses she incurred for each event. What would prove more challenging would be setting a budget for each spectacle, and then staying within its limits. Budgets were not something with which she had a great deal of experience.

“You’re back,” drawled a low, accusing voice.

Jack’s towering form was silhouetted against the dim light spilling from his study. It was too dark to make out his face, but she could see he wore no jacket and his badly wrinkled shirt had escaped the confines of his trousers.

“You startled me.” She lowered the hand that had flown to her throat.

He slouched against the wall and raised a bottle to his lips. “Did I? How common of me. Not what you’re accustomed to, I suppose—being with someone so low and base.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Amelia frowned, surprised by his obvious hostility. “You’re drunk.”

“I suppose I am.” He shrugged. “Come have a drink and we can be drunk together.”

“I’m tired,” she informed him with stiff civility. “I believe I shall say good night and retire to my chamber.”

“Now those are the words of a proper English duchess if ever I heard any.” His voice was laden with contempt. “I’d have thought you braver than that, Amelia. Having slapped one viscount in a ballroom full of aristocrats and left a duke sweating at the altar, I’d not have thought you a girl afraid of indulging in one simple drink with a lowborn sailor like me.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Even as she spoke the words, she knew they were not precisely true. She remembered when she had inadvertently roused him from his sleep a few nights earlier. He had seized her wrist with bruising strength as he stared at her, his eyes filled with fear and ice-cold fury. In that moment, she had known he was capable of violence. Not toward her, but toward the demons that haunted him. There were ghosts in Jack’s past—cruel, vicious memories that still preyed upon a starving, shivering boy who had been forced to survive an unbearable life she could scarcely imagine.

“You’re not afraid, are you, my sheltered little American?” He raised his bottle and took another swig before finishing darkly, “You should be.”

“Why?” she asked, unable to comprehend what had aroused the resentment he seemed to suddenly have toward her. “What have I done to make you so angry with me, Jack?”

He looked at her a long moment, weighing her question. She seemed different to him somehow, like the beautiful young heiress who had scrambled into his carriage, and yet not like her at all. It was not her dour-looking outfit that accounted for her change, for he had seen her in everything from the most lavish of wedding gowns to the simplest of his own wrinkled shirts. Mere clothes could not begin to diminish her uncommon beauty. No, something more had been done to her. He frowned as he raked her with his gaze, taking in her darkened hair and brows, the matronly spectacles obscuring her eyes, the deftly painted shadows that accentuated the faint wrinkles of her forehead and bruised the skin beneath her lower lashes. Oliver’s makeup, he realized, unaccountably annoyed by how effective it was. The old thief and his sisters had said they would transform her so that no one would recognize her. They had taken her and turned her into someone else.

And they had stolen her from Jack in the process.

“Go to bed, Amelia,” he snapped. “You’ll need your rest for packing in the morning.” He turned and staggered back into his study.

Amelia stared after him, stunned. She had defied him by going out and getting work, and he was punishing her by severing the ties of their friendship and casting her out. While she had initially accepted Annabelle’s invitation to stay with her and her family, Amelia had discovered that deep down she didn’t want to leave Jack and Oliver, Eunice and Doreen. She had intended to graciously thank Annabelle for her kindness the next day, and tell her that she preferred to stay where she was. But now Jack was throwing her out.

You can trust me, he had told her. How eagerly she had grasped those words. She had thought he was her friend. She had believed he was the first man who appreciated her for what she was and what she could become, instead of all that had marked her as a means for gain to every other man she had ever known. But mired within his appreciation of her was the untenable condition that she remain helplessly dependent upon him, like some little lost bird that could never learn to fend for itself. It was more than unacceptable. It was vile and controlling. In his own way, Jack Kent was every bit as dominating as her family, and Percy and Lord Whitcliffe. At one time she would have reluctantly accepted this, would have found a way to silently tolerate it, the way she had tolerated so much else in her life. But she was not the same Amelia Belford who had allowed herself to be used and manipulated by others for so many years. She was changing, and she would be bloody damned if she wouldn’t let him know it.

“You lied to me,” she hissed, tearing off her spectacles and hurling them down as she marched into the study after him. “You told me I could trust you—that you were my friend. Then the minute I do something of which you don’t approve, you throw me onto the street. What did I do that was so wrong, Jack?” Her voice was shaking with fury. “All I did was go out and get a job, so for the first time in my life I could have some degree of independence, instead of always relying on the generosity of others—including you. Why is that so terrible?”

“I don’t give a damn about the blasted job,” Jack snarled. “Go out and get ten jobs if you want—each one under a different bloody disguise, if it pleases you.”

“If you don’t care about the job, then why are you so angry?”

“I’m not goddamn angry!”

She stared at him, bewildered. His body was rigid as he glared at her, a terrible mixture of rage and resentment churning through him.

“You are angry,” she insisted. “Why?”

What could he tell her? he wondered helplessly. That he was angry because she was leaving him? That nothing had been the same since she came into his life, and now he was loathe to be without her? It was as pathetic as it was ridiculous. She couldn’t stay with him. He had no right to her, and no hope of ever having any right to her. No matter how faded and dull Oliver and his sisters tried to make her, no matter whether she was gilded with her father’s wealth or stripped down to the essential, glorious core of her being, she was as unattainable to him as the moon. Amelia had been reared in a world of overwhelming privilege and protection, and with or without her money she remained what she had always been: hopelessly fine and rare and pure. She was as magnificent as a glittering star, as shimmering and lovely and beyond his reach as the sunlight that played in silvery sparkles upon the ocean.

Such a precious treasure was not meant for him.

Despite all that Haydon and Genevieve had done for him, despite all the hateful lessons and expensive clothes and determined attempts to refine him, he could never escape what he was. The bastard result of some filthy, disease-ridden coupling, a lad who lacked the common birthright of even a proper name or home. If he closed his eyes and tried very hard a faded image of his mother came to mind, all round and soft and ripe with the smell of unwashed wool and cheap perfume and whiskey. But he had not known then that she was cheap and dirty, had not understood that her rouged cheeks and caked powder were the marks of a woman who lifted her skirts for any man who opened his wallet. He had thought her pretty then, had looked forward to the painfully brief visits that she had made to the filthy shack he lived in with that old prick and his wife. His mother had promised to take him away, had promised that it would only be a little longer before she had saved enough to buy a cottage that the two of them could live in. And stupidly, pathetically, he had believed her. He had clung to her tightly corseted form and breathed in the familiar scent of her and listened to her talk as she ruffled her fingers through his hair, pleading with her to stay, begging her not to leave him. But she always did. She left him again and again, almost killing him with despair each time he watched her disappear down the path that led her back to wherever it was from which she came. Until finally she didn’t come anymore.

At the time he believed she had merely been delayed, for months and months and ultimately, over a year. And on that day he fought back, when he finally killed that old bastard and ran away, he had felt absolutely certain he would find her. That he would simply go to the nearest village and she would be there, with her rouged lips and her gentle hands, ready to take him in her arms and protect him. At the age of nine, he had no inkling of how very big the world was, and how extraordinarily unimportant and despised his place within it.

He struggled to stifle the sob rising from his chest.

“Jack?”

He stared in confusion at Amelia, wondering how long she had been watching him. Her eyes were wide with concern. It was as if she had seen something, had pierced the layers of his carefully cultivated indifference and caught a glimpse of the pain and loss that lay festering there. He didn’t want her pity and concern. He was supposed to be looking after her, not the other way around. He struggled to adopt a cool derision that he hoped cut through whatever she imagined she saw and left her with the impression that he was merely a rude and unfeeling bastard.

“Leave me if you want to,” he snarled. “I don’t give a shit.”

Amelia winced as if he had slapped her.

But something kept her there, kept her from wheeling about and storming from Jack’s study, from shouting for Oliver to come down at once so that he could drive her over to Annabelle’s house immediately. It was obscured by the shadows of Jack’s gaze, but Amelia could see it nonetheless. An emotion so deep and desperate that once she had unveiled it from the rest of his profoundly boorish performance, she was amazed that she had not recognized it earlier. Everything in his manner and stance and words was telling her that she meant nothing to him, and that she should go.

Yet within the smoky gray of his anguished eyes, he was pleading with her to stay.

She moved toward him with steady purpose, her gaze never leaving his. And when she stood so close to him that she could almost feel the powerful beating of his heart against her breast, she raised her hand and laid her palm upon the ragged white scar on his cheek, holding him fast.

“I will not leave you, Jack,” she told him simply, “unless you truly wish it.”

Jack stared at her, mesmerized by her words, her scent, her touch. She was promising to stay with him. But why? In that brief, frozen moment, it scarcely seemed to matter. He had thought he was losing her, and suddenly he wasn’t. His mind was too distorted by rage and need to analyze it further. Wanting to seal her pledge, to bind her to him so that she could not change her mind, he dropped his bottle and wrapped his arms around her, imprisoning her against him.

And then, with a haunting despair that he felt surely was going to destroy him, he sobbed and captured her lips with his.

Amelia released her hold upon Jack’s scarred cheek to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him down as she opened her mouth to him. Her body crushed against his with a frantic cry, feeling the heat and strength and power of him closing around her in an impenetrable shield. Desire pounded through her, heating her blood and setting fire to her flesh until she could think of nothing but the whiskey-sweet taste of his mouth, the rough scrape of his jaw against her cheek, the hard press of his manhood against the melting triangle between her thighs. Somewhere in the faraway reaches of her mind she knew that it was wrong, but a staggering need had obscured all reason, until she was aware of nothing but the hunger to hold him, and touch him, and kiss him, to reach into his soul and make him understand that she would not abandon him, regardless of what others had done in the past. And so she plunged her hands into the dark tangle of his hair and delved his mouth with her tongue, tasting him deeply, passionately, offering herself to him as she made him hers, not caring if it was right or not, not caring about anything except the fact that she wanted him with a desperation that obliterated everything. Nothing was clear except the granite heat of his body as it molded itself to hers, the ravishing caress of his hands as they roamed across her breasts and back and hips, the rigid length of his arousal as it stroked against her, filling her with aching need. She wanted to wash away the pain of whatever was tormenting him so, to cleanse his mind and ease his heart until he no longer needed to lose himself to the hollow respite of alcohol and rage. And so she did not stop him as he fumbled with the buttons on her jacket, did not so much as whimper a feeble protest when he finally growled in frustration and tore the offending garment open. The linen of her blouse disintegrated next, but all she could do was tilt her head back as he buried his face against the soft swell of her breasts, a low, feline cry rippling from her throat as his hands gripped the cool silk of her corset.

Jack dragged his tongue over Amelia’s breasts, his senses drowning in heat and taste and touch. A claret nipple blossomed from the lacy edge of her corset and he hungrily closed his mouth over it, sucking upon it long and hard, swirling his tongue over the tender peak until the pressure of Amelia’s fingers biting into his shoulders told him she could bear no more. And so he moved to the other, drawing it from its fabric and whalebone nest and suckling it between his lips and teeth until it sprang sweetly ardent against his tongue. He ran impatient fingers down the intricate webbing at her back and found the clasp of her skirt, which he released with a practiced hand. Her hooped petticoats fell next, an elaborate confection of lace and bands of silk-covered steel, which pooled round her ankles in an ivory puddle. All that remained beyond her corset now were her stockings and drawers, a flimsy affair of frills and rosettes that he found maddeningly arousing. He slipped one hand inside the fabric opening between her legs and fondled the satiny mound beneath, holding her fast with one arm as he kissed her deeply, assaulting her with a storm of caresses and sensations as he drew her to him, feeling the brief tension of her resistance erode as he slipped his fingers into the slick petals of her. Sweet, wet heat poured over his hand and he growled with satisfaction, arrogantly pleased that he could arouse her so.

He eased his fingers into her, exploring the intimate folds and pleats, stroking her and stretching her as his mouth tasted the delectable ripeness of her lips. He placed his knee between her legs and pushed her thighs wider, opening her to his gentle touch as he began to rain starving kisses upon her naked shoulders, her slender arms, down the flat plane of her corseted belly, until finally he was kneeling before her. She gasped with shock but it was too late, for he grasped her wrists and pinned them hard against the wall as he flicked his tongue into her hot coral cleft. Her thighs clamped together and she mewled a desperate protest, but he only tasted her more, his tongue slipping in sensual circles across the delicate sleek flesh. He alternated his caresses, first light and teasing, then harder and more demanding, patiently stoking the flames of her until she released the breath she had been holding and the iron clasp of her thighs relaxed.

Amelia leaned against the wall and fought for the strength to stand, overwhelmed by the exquisitely forbidden sensations tearing through her. The sight of Jack on his knees lapping at the dark wet pool of her womanhood sent shivers of excitement through her. She was most certainly wanton and depraved, she realized, to take pleasure in such a decadently indecent assault. And yet she could not stop herself from enduring his glorious torture, no, instead she stood frozen and breathless, appalled by what he was doing, but even more terrified that he would stop. She could have moved away if she wanted to, for he had released one hand to probe her innermost passage with his finger, thrusting in and out of her as his mouth tasted her with an insistent, steady rhythm. Instead she pulled him closer as she opened herself, shifting and arching against him as he continued to ravish her with his mouth. Sheer, undiluted pleasure was building within her in ever intensifying waves, stretching and rippling, while her breath was reduced to tiny, desperate sips. It was excruciating to be tormented so, to be hovering on the threshold of ecstasy and yet unable to leap over it, excruciating and agonizing and exquisite. A hollow ache was blooming inside her, making her feel restless and desperate, and so she reached for more, suddenly rigid except for the ragged flutter of her chest as she fought to fill her lungs and somehow withstand the unbearable torment of Jack’s caresses. Reached and gasped and reached, until finally there was no more breath to be had, nothing except the tiny sob that spilled from the back of her throat as she arched suddenly against him.

And then she was exploding into a thousand fiery pieces, quivering and trembling as she disintegrated into a silvery shower.

Jack caught Amelia as she collapsed against him, holding her close as he lowered her to the floor. He shrugged off his shirt, then tore open the fastenings of his trousers and peeled away the layers of wool, kicking off his shoes and stockings. He wanted her with a staggering desperation, a need so awesome and consuming that he did not think he could bear it. She was his, he told himself desperately. She had given herself to him, had kissed him and opened herself to him and wrapped her arms around him, willingly offering him her heat and tenderness and trust. If that did not make her his, then what did? He was wrong for her, he knew that, just as he knew that she was wrong for him. No woman of Amelia’s birthright and grace and tender romanticism could ever survive a life with a baseborn, despised criminal like him. And yet in that moment nothing mattered beyond the apricot flicker of firelight as it played against her heated cheeks, and the soft pants gusting from her throat as she lay before him, staring at him with smoldering eyes. I will not leave you, she had told him, the words filled with innocent, fervent promise. But she would leave him, and the realization was like a dirk plunging into his chest, leaving him empty and bleeding and torn. She was already leaving him, although she didn’t know it, with her growing independence and her burgeoning discovery of her own strengths and abilities. She no longer needed him, and with every day that passed, she would need him even less. Stay with me, he pleaded silently as he stretched over her, cupping her face with his hands and lowering his mouth to hers. Do not leave me, he begged feverishly, his hardness poised against the wet heat of her, feeling as if he were about to cry. I need you, he confessed brokenly, wanting her to understand even though he did not understand it himself. All this he wanted to say to her and more, certain that if he could but make her realize the depths of his need for her, then she would never be able to go. He inhaled a ragged, steadying breath, staring at her in despair, determined to make her his and knowing that it could never be.

And then he whispered her name and drove himself deep inside her, losing himself forever as he crushed his mouth to hers.

He felt her freeze beneath him, her body locked in a startled spasm of pain and fear. He cursed silently, hating himself for being so selfish and lacking in control that he did not remember that she was a virgin and needed special care.

“It’s all right, Amelia,” he managed roughly. “Hold fast to me—the pain will pass soon.”

In truth he had no idea whether it would or not, for he had never lain with an inexperienced woman before. It was torture to be so tightly sheathed within her velvet heat and not be able to move, but he held himself steady nonetheless, vowing that he would rather die than cause her any further pain. To ease her anxiety he began to rain tender kisses upon her eyes, her cheeks, along the elegant curve of her jaw, and down into the fluttering hollow at the base of her throat. He stroked the silky fall of her darkened hair, which had escaped its pins and spilled in shimmering waves across the intricately woven carpet. And just as he began to fear that she would never experience the pleasure he so wanted to give her, she sighed and shifted slightly, wrapping her arms around him as the tension seeped from her like sand spilling from a sack.

He started to move slowly within her, gently easing himself in and out of her tight heat, stretching her, filling her, binding her to him with every aching thrust. And then he slipped his hand between them and stroked the pearly center of her, rousing her once more with his kisses and caresses and gentle thrusting, making his own pleasure even more intense as she began to twist and pant beneath him. Stay with me, he pleaded as she gripped him ever tighter and began to suckle upon his lips and jaw and neck. I will keep you safe, he vowed, moving faster and deeper within her, wanting to lose himself in the glorious depths of her. He would stay that way forever, buried within Amelia’s magnificent body, with her softness flexing against him and her fragrance and tiny gasps intoxicating his senses. Faster and harder and deeper he thrust, trying to bind her to him, wanting to be a part of her, not just in that moment but forever. In and out he moved, taking her, possessing her, giving himself to her until finally they moved with one flesh, one breath, one heart. He wanted to slow himself, to make it last forever, but his body was treacherous and moved faster instead. And suddenly he was falling into an abyss, and he cried out in wonder and in anguish, crushing his mouth to hers as he spilled himself inside her. Again and again he drove into her, fighting to keep her, until finally he could endure no more. He gathered her into his arms and rolled onto his side, kissing her with shattered hope as he cradled her body with his own.

Do not leave me, he pleaded, wondering how he would bear it when she did.

He broke the kiss and closed his eyes, unable to look at her for fear that she might see the painful tearing of his soul.

Amelia lay her cheek against Jack’s chest, feeling the rapid pounding of his heart. Nothing had prepared her for what had just passed between them. Nothing. She lay perfectly still, listening to him breathe, wondering if he were experiencing emotions nearly as intense and confusing as those that were coursing through her. She wanted him to say something, to tell her what must happen between them now.

He said nothing.

A quiet forlornness seized her, vanquishing the overwhelming joy that had been there moments earlier. Jack would never want to marry her, she realized. To him she was little more than a spoiled heiress, who was incapable of understanding the world from which he came or the dreadful life he had been forced to endure. That was why he had not shared the truth of his past with her. For the first time in her life, her birthright actually discredited her. Perhaps if she still had a dowry, she might have had more appeal for him, for at least then she would have been able to offer him some assistance with the building of his shipping line. As it was, however, she had nothing. Nothing except herself and a pitifully inadequate income of two hundred pounds a year, providing she didn’t do something to get herself fired while she charted the unfamiliar waters of being an employee.

If that had been enough, surely this was the moment for him to say so.

He said nothing.

Her tear-blurred gaze fell upon the portrait of Charlotte hanging above the fireplace. When Amelia had first seen it she had not known that the girl seated in the chair was Jack’s sister—the namesake of his precious clipper ship. Now that Amelia had met Charlotte, the painting held greater meaning. If Charlotte attempted to pick up the rose at her feet she would injure herself on its thorns, but if she left it where it was, the flower would die. In her life, if Charlotte attempted to walk then everyone would judge her for her affliction—with pity, of course, but also with the conviction that there were many things she could not do. Yet if Charlotte did not try to walk, her life would be cloistered and small. Amelia thought of how lovely Charlotte was as she awkwardly moved about, how she had insisted upon accompanying Amelia to her interview, even though that had necessitated that she climb many steps and endure the stares of others. Yet Charlotte had smiled at each stranger she passed, trying to put them at ease. Although she lacked the vivaciousness of Annabelle and the practical confidence of Grace, Charlotte had overcome her considerable challenges and created a fulfilling life for herself.

Perhaps, Amelia reflected shakily, she could do the same.

Loud, long snores cracked the quiet of the small study. Jack’s hold upon her had eased, enabling Amelia to extract herself from the warm cocoon of his body. Feeling cold and ashamed, she quickly gathered up her discarded clothing and dressed. The combination of liquor and exhaustion had put Jack in a deep slumber. Moving carefully so as not to waken him, Amelia gently covered him with his wrinkled shirt and trousers, then bent to brush a dark lock of hair from his forehead.

She left the room and quietly closed the door, destroyed by the realization that she had to leave him, before he completely shattered her heart.