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James surveyed the voluminous library of Taviston House, trying to remember where Debrett’s Peerage was located. He could have walked straight to the history shelf without hesitation; could have plucked a description of the Italian countryside from the shelf without even looking; could have found—in fact, did find—a novel Amelia would like; but he didn’t have a clue where the aristocratic reference book was. Anyway, he pulled out the three small volumes of the novel.
“Oh, I...”
He turned to find Amelia, flustered, standing in the doorway with a sheaf of papers in her arms. They hadn’t seen much of each other over the last three days. She had made herself scarce—having a breakfast tray sent up in the mornings, calling on friends in the afternoons, attending various amusements in the evenings.
“Good morning,” he said while he looked his fill at her. Despite being kept busy with measurements and fittings with Weston, dance lessons with his mother and Victoria, and becoming acquainted with his nephews and nieces, he had missed Amelia. Missed her smile and her opinions. Missed the sight of her gowns clinging to her full curves. This day she wore a frothy pink dress that made her look temptingly sweet.
“I don’t need... I will come back later,” she said, her voice rigid and polite. She turned to go.
As fascinating as her derriere was, James didn’t want to see her leave. “Could you help me? I can’t find Debrett’s.”
Her hesitation was ever so brief before she turned and walked to the far corner of the room, bending slightly to reach a book on a lower shelf. James smiled at his good fortune but put a halt to thoughts of her in such a position without the pink dress, petticoat, and chemise.
“It’s here.” Amelia whirled around, clutching the heavy book and the papers to her chest. She must have noticed his smile, for she said, still maintaining her air of distant civility, “You seem in good spirits this morning.”
“It is good to be home.” Under the circumstances, it was actually quite wretched. He didn’t want to trade niceties with dignified, civil Amelia; he wanted to have a conversation with spirited, opinionated Amelia. Still, the sight of her always elevated his mood.
She looked at him for a moment but didn’t say anything. Awkwardly, she attempted to set the Debrett’s on a table without losing hold of the papers she’d brought. Alas, a number of them fluttered to the floor.
James rushed forward to help retrieve them. He had a few sheets in his hand before Amelia exclaimed, “Oh, please don’t! I’ll get them. They’re private. Don’t look at them.”
Standing, he held out the papers he’d picked up and averted his eyes. With a soft tug, she took them. After he’d given her a moment of privacy, he turned back. She stood over a desk in the corner, rearranging the pages.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Amelia sighed and squared the stack of papers. “I know you didn’t. Thank you for your help.” She gestured toward the tome she’d found for him. “What do you plan to do, find suitable heiresses to search out at the ball tonight?”
He most certainly did not want to peruse the peerage for a bride. He needed to search for an assassin. But he couldn’t tell her that. As it was, he’d barely withstood her interrogation at breakfast the other morning.
From the brightness in her eyes, she might have been teasing about the heiress. He chose to believe she was. “I wanted to familiarize myself with some of the members of the ton before I meet them again. I’ve been kept awake the last few nights by thoughts of my social ineptness.” That was only partially true—mostly he had been kept awake by the knowledge that Amelia slept down the corridor. “What if I don’t recognize someone I should? What if I forget that Lady Scarlet-Cravat is now married to Lord Padded-Calf?”
Amelia tried mightily not to giggle, and relief washed over him. “Yes, poor Lord Scarlet-Cravat has passed on, but we must be happy for Lord Padded-Calf, who has won his first love at last.”
“He’s a very lucky fellow,” James said.
“Do not worry. Victoria and your mother will readily assist you, I am certain.”
“And you?” he asked, with more hope than was necessary.
Her gaze lowered to the three-part novel he’d been holding since she arrived. “Of course, yes, certainly. I... James, I must apologize for my behavior the other morning. I did not mean to imply you were a liar.” She lifted her lashes and looked him in the face. “It’s just... Never mind. I’m sorry.”
He smiled wryly. He had got over his anger within the hour. He had lied to her—too often, including just now. Though he couldn’t afford her suspicions, she had every right to have them. Amelia was nothing if not astute and observant. “Do not give it another thought. I would prefer to focus on the present, not the past. By the way” –he took a gamble and strode closer— “I’ve found something you might like to read.”
Instead of offering the smile he expected, Amelia frowned as he approached the desk. “I have plenty to read.”
James stopped, leaving the teakwood writing surface as a buffer between them. For his own sanity, as simply gazing into her chocolate-colored eyes nearly left him breathless. “It’s a novel. Do you not still enjoy them?”
“I do.” She sucked in her lower lip and James almost lost his equilibrium. “Let me see.”
He was going straight to hell, no doubt about it. The lies, the subterfuge, the lust for another man’s betrothed. There was no hope for him.
“James.”
Her sharp tone reeled him back to the moment. She was holding her hand out. He passed over the volumes and whipped his hand away before they could touch. He was playing with fire.
A soft smile lit her face. “I adored this one.”
“You’ve read it then?”
“I’ve read all of her novels. Emma is my favorite but” –she lifted the slim volumes in her hand— “Pride and Prejudice is a close second. Whoever this mystery author is, I am impressed with her work.”
“Whom did you prefer, Marianne or Elinor?”
Her mouth gaped. “You have read Sense and Sensibility?”
“Yes, I’ve read them all.”
“James, you don’t like novels. I cannot believe you have read these.” She tried to make her voice sound disappointed, but he could tell by the light in her eyes she was intrigued.
“I prefer other genres, but I do not dislike novels. The author is quite shrewd.” He hesitated, unsure of his next words but then decided, why not? “More than once, I’ve had a fleeting notion that perhaps you might be the anonymous writer, ‘A Lady.’”
Her mouth fell open. “Me? Wh—whatever would make you think such a thing?”
He smiled and offered softly, “Because with your splendid imagination, I can see you writing a novel, and exceling at it.”
She blinked rapidly as color climbed her cheeks. “That’s... That’s very kind of you to say.” Her gaze flitted around the room, falling on the ink-filled papers on the desk a number of times but always darting away.
James’s brain stuttered in wonder. He leaned closer and lowered his voice in awe, “Amelia, are you the author of Pride and Prejudice?”
“No! No, of course not.”
James saw the tiniest glimmer in her eye and knew there was something more. He said nothing, waiting and hoping she’d confide in him, whatever her secret might be.
At last, she drew in a breath and settled her gaze on him. It was another moment before she seemed to make her decision. She tapped the stack of papers on the desk. “I am a writer. Unpublished, of course, though I hope perhaps someday that will change.”
“Amelia! That’s marvelous.” She was glowing with pride, as she should. “May I ask what you write?”
She lifted a shoulder. “It’s just a novel.”
“Oh, I hardly think it’s ‘just’ a novel. Tell me more.”
“It’s in the same vein as these,” she replied, resting her had on the three volumes of Pride and Prejudice. “Though, I’m not nearly as insightful as that author.”
“Do not belittle yourself. You’re an intelligent woman, Amelia.” James couldn’t stop a broad grin from forming. “I always knew you were capable of great things.”
For the first time since he’d returned, she answered his with a smile of her own. “Thank you for your confidence. It’s quite thrilling to write about a life different than my own.”
“Do you mean to say you find your own life tiresome?” He masked the serious question with a smile, attempting to keep their conversation positive and open.
She mumbled something that sounded like, “Not the last four days.” But then it was as if she threw her cloak of courtesy around her shoulders once again. “Of course not. I am to be married to a viscount in a month. What girl wouldn’t find such a life exciting?”
A girl who wasn’t in love with her fiancé. But that was merely wishful thinking on his part. Kensworth seemed to have every advantage a woman could want: fair looks, wealth, a title.
“If you’d ever like to share it, I would be honored to read your novel.” Given their current friendly conversation, he couldn’t resist pushing his luck. “Might you save a dance for me this evening?”
Her demeanor changed in an instant, her eyes growing wide with horror. “No!” She gathered her papers and rushed to the door. “That wouldn’t be—”
He didn’t hear what their dancing together would not be, because she banged the door shut.
With a grunt of disgust, he stepped around the desk and jerked the chair back. Once he sank down next to the Debrett’s, he pulled his spectacles off and rubbed his eyes. What the devil had he been thinking? Well, that was easy. How heavenly it would feel to touch her. How her scent—whatever it was—drove him mad. How he didn’t care; to be near her, he’d gladly trade his sanity. Living with Amelia would leave him with a screw loose. She was wise to decline his offer of a dance.
Reluctantly, he replaced the spectacles. The government’s initial clue about the assassination attempt had come from an unsigned note dated the sixth day of April, found by an honest man and turned over to the proper officials. James had memorized the words he’d read in the file:
In Lords today—HC discussed as if a threat of epic proportions. The damned Tories were in a dither about the evil plotting that must go on at these meetings. Isn’t that the bloody pot calling the kettle black? Come May, the common people of this nation might wear black for the PM but they will cheerfully thank us for the privilege! I’m spending tomorrow morning in Town and then I’ll ride homeward. Join me for dinner at four.
HC undoubtedly stood for Hampden Club. The writer, if he was a member of the House of Lords, most assuredly was a Whig since he readily disparaged the Tories, the less reform-minded party. The nation might wear black for the PM could refer to the prime minister’s funeral following an assassination by this mysterious us. Or this could all be nothing but the ramblings of a servant or someone else who had overheard a lord discussing the Hampden Clubs.
In a casual conversation with Taviston, James had asked if the Hampden Clubs were debated in the last week or two. His brother had said no, leading him to believe that the referenced discussion must have taken place either in a committee meeting or in a private conversation.
Regardless, he had best start with the peers, as Sidmouth had averred, and see where that might lead him. If the writer of the letter intended to be home by four o’clock after a morning in Town, James could only surmise that said person’s estate must be within a few hours’ ride of London.
He opened Debrett’s, intent on researching all the dukes, marquises, earls, and barons who resided within thirty miles of London and immediately slammed his fist onto the open page. Lord Kensworth, whose estate lay only twenty miles away in Hertfordshire, would make the list.
James had spent the last few evenings at his old club, renewing acquaintances and gathering information on Whig members of the House of Lords, of which Kensworth was a rising member.
For the next hour he paged through Debrett’s. Kensworth’s entry somehow didn’t surprise him. Of course the man had served in the army, fighting against Napoleon, and of course he had risen to the rank of captain despite no currency to purchase advancement.
I wonder if they’ve begun erecting his statue yet.
He finished memorizing what details he could about each peer, for he planned to begin his investigation that evening, at his first ball. His mother and Victoria had at last deemed him ready for Society. He’d been fitted with a new evening kit, received a haircut from his brother’s valet, and practiced the waltz and the quadrille with his sister-in-law while his mother played the pianoforte. Unfortunately, he had not learned the steps as well as he should have, because most of his attention had been focused on the drawing room door, willing Amelia to walk through it and partner him.
She hadn’t, of course, and now it looked as if she would never dance with him.
“Which is for the best,” he muttered savagely to himself. Was he so lost to sense he could not recognize the broad hints she’d thrown his way?
The door to the library slammed open as loudly as it had been shut. “Uncle, Uncle! Save me!”
James turned in time to catch up little Foster in his arms. Behind him, his older brother Lord Marden crashed into the room brandishing a wooden sword.
“Arrrr! He’s led me right to you!” the boy cried. “I’ll ransom you both to the queen.”
Facing the pointed end of the weapon, with a squealing three-year-old hanging on him, James gave himself up. “Fear not, Foster, the queen will save our necks.” After snatching up his list and stowing it in a pocket, he whispered slyly in the little one’s ear, “If we do not escape first.”
***
AMELIA STOOD IN FRONT of her mirror, not entirely satisfied with the flattering appearance of her Bristol red gown. Her recent restless nights and distressed days had sapped some of the color from her skin, enabling the dress to complement her complexion in a way it usually wouldn’t, and the cut of the gown showed her too-plump figure to an advantage she’d never noticed before. But why did she have to look so pleasing tonight of all nights? She wanted to look as she felt, blue-deviled.
As she slipped a gold chain around her neck, she thought about begging off the ball. But she didn’t want the family or Stephen speculating that she was avoiding James. Because she wasn’t. She had already turned down his absurd request for a dance, so she had nothing to fear on that front. An ill-humor had taken hold of her, however; perhaps her monthly courses were about to begin.
She wanted to be married to Stephen sooner rather than later. If there was anything she had learned over the past few months, it was that he was the perfect man to marry, even if he didn’t love her. He was charming enough to amuse her when she needed it, interesting enough to prevent their marriage from ever going stale, and caring enough to treat her with respect. They’d formed an attachment as friends and the passion would come later. The viscountcy had come to him unexpectedly, but he was serious about his responsibilities, both on the estate and in Parliament. Oh, how she admired a responsible man.
She would not give him up for a wish and a prayer.
“Amelia?” A soft knock preceded her sister’s voice. “We must be leaving now. Everyone’s ready.”
Amelia grabbed her shawl from the bed and opened the door.
“Well!” Tessa exclaimed. “That gown is much more becoming than we anticipated. Still, I thought you swore never to wear it?”
“It looks well enough.”
Tessa laid a hand on Amelia’s cheek. “You look stunning. Stop being such a humdudgeon. You have a wonderful fiancé who cares for you exactly as you are. Life is grand!”
A week ago, life had felt grand. Now, she was angry and low-spirited. Tessa was right, though, Stephen and her family deserved nothing less than her enthusiastic commitment. She pasted on a smile. “It is indeed!”
Tessa hugged her. “Come, our audience awaits us.”
They stepped carefully down the grand staircase dominating the hall, and Amelia saw the rest of the family assembled at the bottom watching their descent. One pair of gleaming blue eyes snagged her attention. James. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles, and she grasped the rail as her feet suddenly forgot which way to move. Not that she didn’t find him devastatingly handsome with his spectacles, but without them his eyes were so clear it was as if she could see into—
Humph. She had no business thinking about the handsomeness of a man other than her fiancé. She maneuvered down the last two steps and slid behind the dowager duchess, pretending to rearrange her shawl.
“Amelia, I never thought it was in your nature to be so cruel,” Peyton exclaimed.
Bewildered but forced to show herself, she stepped around his mother. Peyton’s smile could have charmed the Corsican monster into surrendering to a lowly captain, but Amelia couldn’t keep her gaze from James, who stood beside him, equally as tall now, just as dashing but infinitely more solemn. His newly-tailored coat, as dark as the midnight sky, stretched across his shoulders in perfect proportion, narrowing down to encircle his lean waist.
Beneath her shawl she pinched herself in disgust and turned to her brother-in-law. “I beg your pardon?”
“Shame on you. As striking as you are in that dress, the unmarried ladies present tonight will have the devil’s own time snaring even the slightest attention from the gentlemen.”
The heat that crept up her cheeks surely ruined the harmony her skin had achieved with the dress’s hue. “Thank you. I think.”
Taviston, muttering something about “appalling encomium,” led Victoria and his mother toward the front door, spurring everyone else into motion.
After Tessa was handed into the carriage, Amelia followed and deliberately chose to sit next to her sister. Peyton and James clambered in after them. As usual, Taviston and Victoria chose to walk, and the dowager had decided to join them. The experienced coachman set them off without a jolt, and Amelia tried to relax. After they arrived at their destination, she would not have to see James for the rest of the evening.
Tessa turned to her. “Kensworth is coming, isn’t he? I know how the two of you enjoy dancing.”
Amelia avoided looking at James and answered quickly, hoping to dispel the topic. “Yes, of course, he will be there.”
“You cannot dance with your fiancé all night. Undoubtedly you can spare one set each for James and me?” Peyton asked.
Desperate, Amelia tried to think of how to decline both brothers, for she couldn’t dance with Peyton while refusing his brother. But she didn’t want to beg off dancing completely; it was one of her favorite activities.
“I... Well, I...,” she began, but still couldn’t think what to say.
James interrupted her, saying, “I do not anticipate being in want of a dance partner.”
His remark stung like the prick of a needle, but there was no malice in his tone, and he refused to look up from the hat he held between his legs.
He’d said it, she realized, to spare her from answering the question.
“Ho-ho! Can you believe the confidence of my little brother?” Peyton caught Amelia’s gaze. “Do you not think he’s much changed since his return?”
James was staring at his fingers as they skimmed the rim of his hat, and Amelia could not see his face. He had changed. He was more comfortable with himself and with his place in the world. He still spoke infrequently in groups, but when he did have something to say his voice held more certainty. And while his family had often complained about his past preference for secluding himself away with his books and his work, he had spent the last few days in constant company with them.
But where it really mattered—to Amelia—he hadn’t changed at all. He still played with her emotions. Before he’d gallantly offered his help, flirted with her, kissed her, and then left her. Despite her engagement, he still flirted with her and asked her to dance.
Amelia stared out the window, recalling her vow to be civil. “I should like to think we’ve all changed. I do not doubt that, if he so chooses, James will be the toast of Society and will have a wealth of young ladies from which to choose a bride.”
The carriage grew tensely silent. James was staring at her, his expression that of an irritated wolf.
She was ever so glad when the carriage came to a gentle halt in Berkeley Square.