“Do you see Sandhurst anywhere?” Freddie craned his neck as he led Amelia inside Devonshire House. They handed over his coat and her wrap to the footman waiting at the door, along with their tickets.
“No.” But then, she wasn’t exactly looking. She only wanted to leave.
She would put in her obligatory appearance in the ballroom on Freddie’s arm, then she would feign a terrible malady of some kind or other, helped along if necessary by a vial of a noxious concoction that Maggie had slipped into her hand when she’d finished dressing her. Guaranteed to cause sickness, her maid had assured her.
Although as nervous as she was at the prospect of seeing Pearce again after their earlier encounter, she didn’t need any help on that score. She was more than uneasy enough to cast up her accounts all by herself.
“He’s been avoiding me,” Freddie complained as he led her through the circuit of reception rooms, not to see what entertainments were lined up for tonight but to hunt for Pearce. “I searched for him all afternoon, but he was nowhere to be found.” He smiled and nodded at an acquaintance in the crowd. “We’re running out of time.”
She knew that more than he did.
“You’d better help me with him, Amelia.”
“I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”
He slanted her an assessing look, as if uncertain if she were being sincere.
Around them, the party was already in full swing, proving itself to be the last great event of the season. In only a few days, Parliament would end, and the ton would flee for their country estates, for fresh air and hunting. But tonight they were still in the city, and the cream of society who had been well connected enough to gain tickets were all gathered here, all of them dressed in pure black as required on the invitation.
The Black Ball. An ironic pun on White’s selection ritual in which existing members tossed a ball into a bowl in order to vote on new members—a white ball for acceptance, a black one for rejection. It took only a single black ball to deny someone membership. Amelia contemplated the men in the crush around her. How many of them had been rejected by a black ball yet paid dearly to attend tonight, as if never having received that insult?
But not Pearce. Certainly, he had his choice of clubs. As a new earl and a war hero, he’d been welcomed into society with open arms, even if being in their embrace wasn’t at all what he’d wanted.
He was here, she could feel it—dressed in black like everyone else, meandering through the house that had been decorated throughout in white. The rooms had been tented in white sailcloth, complete with white silk curtains and sashes draped from windows and white sheets on the floor, and giant bouquets of white roses, daisies, and baby’s breath in white porcelain vases were scattered throughout. The terrace doors in every room were opened wide to let the guests drift between the house and the gardens, where white silk sashes hanging from the trees danced on the evening breeze like ghosts. All the servants wore white uniforms as they moved through the party, right down to the men who stood in the drive and directed the long row of carriages winding up to the front door. Among all the white, the guests contrasted starkly in their solid black silks and satins, their pearls and diamonds sparkling beneath the chandeliers.
The whole place looked as if a group of funeral mourners had stumbled into a snowstorm, then decided to linger for drinks and dancing.
“Stay here.” Freddie maneuvered her to the side of the ballroom as several dozen pairs of dancers faced off for a quadrille and thrice as many people lined the walls to watch. “I’m going to find the master of ceremonies to learn where the devil Sandhurst is. I’ll be back. Don’t wander off.”
“Why on earth would I do something like that?” Amelia mumbled beneath her breath as he hurried away. With a long-suffering sigh, she turned her head to look across the room—
And straight into Pearce’s eyes.
Her breath caught in her throat. Good heavens. The man was mesmerizing.
Even in this crowded room, he stood apart with a dashing and dangerous look that was simply captivating. His dark-blond hair shone like gold beneath the chandeliers, his tailored finery accentuating the solidity of his broad shoulders and muscular arms. Unlike the other men at the party who’d dressed in solid black, he’d cheekily chosen a diamond-patterned satin in black-and-white for his waistcoat, daring to break the black-only rule. But of course he would. Even here, amid the gentlemen and peers where he now belonged, he wanted to prove that he was different. Yet hadn’t he always stood out from the crowd, regardless of dress?
Little of the boy she once knew was physically visible in the man who now boldly returned her stare. Except for his smile, which curled slowly at his lips and warmed her through.
He rakishly lifted his glass to her in a toast, accompanied by a long perusal over her, from the upswept curls crowning her head to her slippered toes just edging out from beneath her hem. A blatant and sexually predacious look, as if he could see right through her clothes to her naked flesh beneath. And very much enjoyed what he saw.
All the tiny muscles in her belly contracted in a primal response to his presence that came so swiftly, so fiercely that it took her by surprise. So did the pulsating ache that followed on its heels. Under the heat of that brazen stare, she knew— She wanted him. More than she’d ever wanted a man in her life. Not just for physical pleasure, although as she shamelessly let her own gaze travel over him the way he’d done to her, she very much wanted that.
No, she wanted even more. She wanted him. In every way. Friend, confidante, hero, lover…
But that simply could never happen.
With his gaze pinned to hers, he lifted a brow. His sensuous lips twisted with private amusement to acknowledge her own lingering look.
Caught. She flushed and turned away, snagging a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman so she could lift it to her mouth and cover the expression of embarrassment blossoming on her face.
“You’re Miss Howard, aren’t you?” A beautiful auburn-haired woman sidled up to her from behind, catching her by surprise.
A second woman flanked her other side. This one younger, with a sprinkling of freckles across her pert nose. “Frederick Howard’s sister, correct?”
“We are so pleased to make your acquaintance.” The first woman smiled warmly and linked her arm around Amelia’s.
Amelia’s mouth fell open as she recognized the woman. The new Duchess of Hampton. “Your Grace.”
But when Amelia attempted to curtsy, the duchess would have none of it and held firmly to her arm, keeping her straight up. “Please call me Danielle. And this is my sister-in-law, Mrs. Claudia Trousdale.”
“A pleasure to meet both of you.” Amelia managed to squelch her surprise—and bewilderment—at the way the two ladies had descended upon her.
“You’ll forgive us that we forewent the stuffiness of a formal introduction and simply introduced ourselves, won’t you?” Claudia pressed.
Introduced themselves? No. They’d pounced. There was no other word for it. “Of course. But I don’t—”
“We have a friend in common.” The young duchess glanced across the ballroom toward Pearce and smiled. “The Earl of Sandhurst.”
Ah. Of course. The fog of confusion was beginning to clear. But when Amelia hardened her gaze on him for setting up this sneak attack, he didn’t look at all pleased. Downright miffed, in fact. So did the Duke of Hampton standing next to him.
Apparently the two women had taken it upon themselves to approach her.
“I understand that you’ve known each other for years.” Danielle wiggled her gloved fingers at Pearce in greeting. “From before he entered the army.”
“We knew each other as children in Birmingham.” Yet something told Amelia that the two women already knew that and were here to uncover other, more intimate details. So she threw the conversation back at them. “How do you know Sandhurst?”
“Marcus,” both women answered at once. Testimony to how close they were.
“My husband Marcus, Duke of Hampton,” Danielle explained. “That’s him there at Pearce’s side, scowling at us in dark irritation. He’s awfully good at it.”
Amelia had already lost the course of the conversation. “At being a duke?”
“Heavens no!” She laughed lightly. “At scowling with dark irritation.”
“An expert,” Claudia agreed. “That’s what made him such a good general.”
Yes. Amelia had heard about the man. His leadership had been rated second only to Wellington’s in the fight against the French. And looking at him now, she had to agree that he certainly possessed an imposing air that would have brooked no resistance when giving orders.
But standing next to Pearce, the man seemed a bit…lacking. Of course, she might have been biased, but Pearce appeared so much more untamed and dangerous, so much more muscular and solid. So much more dashing because of it.
“We’re quite fond of Pearce,” the duchess commented. “Marcus thinks of him as a brother, in fact.”
“So do all the men who served with him in the Coldstream Guards,” Claudia interjected. “He’s a true war hero, you know. Saved his men’s lives on several occasions when all should have been lost. He was a great brigadier.”
Amelia raised the glass to her lips to cover the proud smile lingering there. Of course he was. He was born for battle.
“But not so much an earl.”
Amelia froze, the flute at her lips, not at all expecting that. “Pardon?”
Even though Danielle’s voice lowered so that they wouldn’t be overheard by anyone in the crush around them, her concern rang clear. “He’s having difficulty adjusting to being a peer.”
“Oh?” Amelia couldn’t have told that from the way he looked tonight. Just as handsome in his evening finery as the other gentlemen filling the room, his presence just as commanding and confident. As if he’d never belonged anywhere else.
“He’s restless.” Danielle’s pretty brow creased. “He’s having trouble with being thrust back into London life. Even being responsible for the earldom isn’t enough, not when he has an army of accountants, solicitors, and servants to run it for him.” Her frown deepened. “Marcus went through that at first, too, when he was granted the dukedom.”
“Yes, but Marcus had you,” Claudia reminded the duchess. “You gave him new purpose.” An overlong, intentional pause… “Where will Pearce find his purpose, do you think?”
With that, the fog vanished. Amelia’s mouth twisted. Clearly, the two ladies already had an answer in mind.
“Pearce and I haven’t seen each other in years,” she clarified. “We’re barely friends anymore. What you’re suggesting is…” Ludicrous. Preposterous. Outlandish.
Impossible.
A piercing thud jarred along her spine. Amelia raised her glass to her lips, to hide whatever stray emotions might be visible on her face. And her pain.
“Oh, no! We’re not suggesting anything of the sort,” Danielle protested quickly.
“Nothing at all like that,” Claudia agreed. Then another long pause… “But would it be so terrible if we did?”
Amelia choked on her champagne.
“I mean, just look at the man.” Claudia gestured at Pearce with her wineglass, not attempting to hide that the three women were obviously talking about him. “He’s been captivated by you since the moment you walked into the ballroom.”
Amelia’s face flushed in embarrassment. How on earth had she gotten into this peculiarly personal conversation with these two women whom she barely knew? “That isn’t—”
“He hasn’t been able to drag his eyes away from you for a moment.” Claudia cast her a knowing look. “And he isn’t at all looking at you as someone he once knew as a childhood friend and now holds in fond affection.”
“No,” she had to agree, with full chagrin, or risk being called out for a liar. “He isn’t.” He stared at her as if he were a wolf who wanted to devour her. And shamelessly, she very much wanted to let him.
“Now, Claudia,” the duchess scolded lightly, “you know we shouldn’t play at matchmaking.”
Yet something told Amelia that the two women planned on doing exactly that.
“If Miss Howard says they’re only acquaintances, then we have to respect that.”
Relief surged through Amelia. “Thank you, Your—”
The duchess added beneath her breath, “It doesn’t mean we have to like it, however.”
Oh bother. Amelia rolled her eyes—
Just in time to see Freddie return to the ballroom in his hunt for Pearce.
“But making certain Pearce has an old friend in town—a dear friend,” Danielle continued, although Amelia only half paid attention, “well, there’s no fault in that, is there?”
“None,” Amelia murmured, distracted.
She watched as her brother stopped and scanned his gaze around the ballroom. He knew Pearce was here, and it was only a matter of time until he found him. After all, Pearce wasn’t exactly inconspicuous in the crush, towering a good half-foot over the rest of the men. And judging from the resolute expression on Freddie’s face, he planned to force Pearce into making a decision about the trust tonight, potentially ruining her plans for delay if he agreed or forcing the blackmailer into going to Varnham if he refused.
Icy dread chilled her. Both outcomes would destroy her.
“And if you two happened to be able to spend more time together—say, at small private outings and dinners—wouldn’t that be best for him? And for you?”
Amelia mumbled some sort of preoccupied agreement and caught her breath when Freddie spotted Pearce, then made his way toward him in a beeline. There was nothing she could do to stop him.
“After all,” Claudia added, “you two are dear, old friends. There’s no harm in two friends spending time together and getting to know each other again. Perhaps walks through the park or carriage rides…”
Amelia winced as Freddie interrupted Pearce’s conversation with the Duke of Hampton and another gentleman flanking his other side whom Amelia didn’t recognize. Oh, so rude! Made worse by the way he stuck out his hand in eager greeting to Pearce and largely ignored the duke and his friend.
Pearce smiled wryly and shook his hand anyway, letting Freddie’s discourtesy pass unacknowledged. But she also noticed that Pearce didn’t introduce her brother to his friends.
“…seats in our box at the theatre and Vauxhall…”
“…renting a boat down to Greenwich or up to Hampton Court…”
“Yes! With a picnic…”
Amelia didn’t hear the two women, so focused was she on her brother as he gestured toward the door. An invitation to Pearce to converse somewhere more private, and Freddie’s opportunity to corner him about the trust.
Pearce nodded his agreement and stepped aside to let Freddie lead the way. Giving his apologies over his shoulder to his friends—and sliding one last parting look at her—Pearce followed after.
“Oh no,” Amelia mumbled in dread. Everything was going to be ruined!
The duchess stiffened. “If you don’t like the idea of a picnic, then perhaps just dinner at our town house.”
Her attention snapped back to the two women, who were both staring at her as if she’d just sprouted a second head. God only knew what she’d agreed to during the conversation, while they’d been plotting out her courtship and she’d been focused on her brother.
“No, that’s not—I mean, I enjoy dinners—and picnics—” she stammered, her eyes trailing after the two men. They were leaving, and she needed to know what they were going to discuss, what decisions they would come to about the trust. And somehow find a way to stop them. “It’s just—I can’t…”
Her Grace’s eyes narrowed on Amelia with concern, and she reached a gloved hand toward her arm. “Are you unwell?”
“Yes!” Amelia seized upon the excuse and waved her fan like mad. “I’m feeling unwell. Too much champagne, I’m afraid. If you’ll both excuse me—” As she dipped a curtsy, she threw a glance after the two men. “I need to find the retiring room.” They disappeared from the ballroom. “Now.”
Mumbling a string of apologies, she hurried away, leaving the two women staring curiously after her.