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Chapter Eight

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After they were announced, Tessa offered to help Amelia find Kensworth, leaving James and Peyton to survey the colorful, shifting crush of people before them.

Frustrated with himself, James set out to forestall any discussion of women in general and Amelia in particular. “I cannot believe we have come to this point. A bit ironic, isn’t it?”  The corner of Peyton’s mouth lifted, and he took the bait. “I could pretend I don’t know what you are talking about, but neither of us ever had any patience for that sort of conversational dance. You used to hate these Society affairs because you felt awkward; you wanted to be home with your books and your translations.”

“And you thought these sorts of affairs were much too tame for your disreputable self,” James sallied back. After the scandal Peyton and Tessa were involved in, the two of them had had to disappear from Society, a circumstance they’d both come to enjoy. “Does it vex you to have to be here now?”

Peyton shook his head, his unruly hair controlled by an old-fashioned queue. “No. We are here for Amelia.”

“I am glad of that.” And he was. He appreciated the way his family had rallied around Amelia. Victoria and his mother had launched her into Society while Peyton served as her guardian and trustee. “But it must be difficult for Tessa. Have the rumors begun again?”

“Certainly. A dead earl makes a tragic figure, even if he was a blackmailing, traitorous—” Peyton broke off and rolled his shoulders, as if trying to force himself to relax. “Victoria—you wouldn’t believe how much social clout that lady commands now—has ruthlessly ground out most of the whispers. Tessa and I try to ignore it all and enjoy ourselves. She has realized how little she misses this life. We cannot wait to get back to Applewood. But enough of this. Come, I think I can spare thirty minutes or so in the card room before my wife wants to dance.”

“Alas, I have a mission.”

Peyton cocked an eyebrow. “Are you certain you want to wade into this to find a bride?”

“I’ve nothing else to do at the moment.” Ha.

Plus, Amelia is not available.

Enough. While he was pretending to look for a bride, he should look for a bride. Or at least give another woman a chance. Focusing on Amelia was leading him nowhere.

“Well then, I’m off to solicit Victoria’s assistance with a few introductions.”

Peyton shot him a disbelieving look but shrugged and headed off.

James stared at the mass of revelers—boots, buttons, and jewels all gleaming in the candlelight—and sighed. Deep down, he still felt awkward in these situations. However, spying had taught him many things, not least of which was how to pretend to be someone he wasn’t. He had the perfect example of whom to impersonate tonight: his flirtatious and confident brother. Three years ago he wouldn’t have even been able to imagine doing any such thing. Now, it was a matter of focused thinking.

It took him more than a quarter of an hour to find his petite sister-in-law, but when he did, she was most fortuitously surrounded by three young misses gowned in white.

She wasted no time in introducing him. “Lady Helen Carwood, Miss Effington, and Miss Milken, may I present Lord James Danforth?”

He smiled widely at them all, remarked on the magnificent ball, and listened attentively to their responses. Miss Milken, a black-haired, chalk-skinned wraith, though seemingly pleased to meet him, shrank back and allowed the other two to command his attention for a few minutes. Knowing exactly how she felt, it was easy for him to make his choice.

“Miss Milken, are you available for the next dance?”

She started. “Yes, I... That would be most...most kind.”

James offered his arm to her and nodded at Lady Helen and Miss Effington. “Ladies.” They were both daughters of peers on his list. He would further his acquaintance with them later, killing two birds with one stone, pretending to look for a bride and investigating their fathers. But not yet. Not when he was still thinking about Amelia.

As he turned Miss Milken toward the dance floor, Victoria caught his eye and winked. At least she and his mother would be happy seeing him squire the ladies about. Tessa would be ecstatic. Amelia, too. She’d be glad to be free of him. Her refusing to dance with him chafed like fabric rubbing against his burn scars, but James forced aside his thoughts as he and Miss Milken joined three other couples to form a set for the quadrille. He needed to concentrate on the steps of the dance, and she deserved his attention.

A while later James returned Miss Milken to her mother and then set off to find one of the lords on his list. Any of them would do, but luckily he found Lord Stretton first, a vocal baron with decidedly radical leanings whose estate in Beckenham was barely fifteen miles southwest.

“My lord,” James said, hoping the man would remember him from some of his mother’s dinner parties years ago.

The older gentleman’s hazel eyes expanded in surprise, and his wine barrel-shaped middle jiggled. “Lord James Danforth! Well, how are you, my boy? By God, you’ve quite grown. I can’t remember how many years it’s been since I saw you last.”

“Too many,” James replied honestly. He’d forgotten how much he liked Lord Stretton and his hearty enthusiasm. The man was easy to talk to, and James enjoyed, probably more than he should as the brother of a Tory lord, Stretton’s outspoken disapproval of many government policies. “I’ve recently returned from the Continent. Are you still slaying Tories with your tongue?”

“Every day that I’m able!” Stretton laughed loudly—he didn’t do anything quietly—drawing the gaze of a few others. “In fact, I’m just back from Scotland, and as my son-in-law would say, I canna wait to begin debating again.”

“Scotland, you say?” James held his breath, more hopeful than made sense that Stretton couldn’t be the man he was after. The threatening letter had been written eight days ago, so depending on when Stretton returned, James might be able to eliminate him.

The baron nodded, and his grey-streaked mahogany hair slapped against the sides of his head. “Two months in that godforsaken place! Returned Sunday last. My Jennie had to visit our girl and her new baby.”

Exhaling slowly, James replied, “Congratulations to your family.”

If Stretton had been in Scotland for two months and returned six days ago, he couldn’t have been plotting against the prime minister—but he might still be able to help James. An idea sprang up in his mind, and he moved a step closer to Stretton and lowered his voice, improvising.

“Sir, I’ve been considering entering Parliament. While I have the greatest respect for Taviston, I am not certain I wish to stand as a Tory.”

Stretton might be loud, but the man did have one thin vein of circumspection running through his body. He gave James a long look and then led him farther away from the crowd. “I’m sorry, my boy. I’m afraid I have no boroughs with empty seats right now.”

“Perhaps you know someone who might?” James prompted. Any crony of Stretton’s was likely to be a progressive thinker, possibly even the peer he was looking for.

The baron puffed up his cheeks and then loudly exhaled. “Try Dundell, Kensworth, or Gorley. Dundell’s likely to be suspicious of your connection to a Tory, but then he’s suspicious of his own mother. Kensworth doesn’t have much clout—yet—but I admire his ideas and his tenacity.” Stretton suddenly snapped his fingers. “One moment! Isn’t Kensworth marrying into your family?”

“Yes,” James replied. Obviously, no one had a bad thing to say about the man. Leave it to Amelia to choose a paragon. “He’s marrying my brother’s wife’s sister.”

“Family’s family. Use what connections you have.”

James leaned against the nearest wall and folded his arms over his chest. “Mightn’t be such a good idea to associate myself so blatantly with Kensworth. My brother might have an apoplexy.”

“You have been gone a while,” Stretton commented. “Taviston isn’t nearly as uncompromising as he used to be, especially for a Tory. An alliance between you and Kensworth might be just what we need.”

Might as well canonize the man right now. St. Stephen. Then he moved the conversation back to more important matters. “What about Gorley?” Gorley was on his list too.

“He’s lost some influence due to his illness, but he could still manage to get you a decent seat.”

“Illness?” James asked, mental pencil ready to slash through Gorley’s name.

Stretton shook his head and tried to pull his waistcoat over the bulge of his stomach. “Been in bed for the past three months. We paid him a brief visit on our return trip. He’s lucid about half the time, so he’d still be able to help.” He paused and looked around. “I must find my Jennie. She promised me a dance. I’m at Brooks’s most nights; come see me if you’d like to talk further.”

James pushed away from the wall. “Thank you, sir. I will take your information under advisement.”

As Stretton walked away, James hoped he hadn’t made an error by soliciting the man’s patronage. Would Taviston be upset about this purported defection to the Whigs? Or had his brother changed as much as Stretton thought? Taviston was willing to tolerate Kensworth’s Whig leanings, but then Kensworth wasn’t his brother and didn’t come from a long line of Tories. James still didn’t regret spending all that time in Europe, but he was beginning to regret not visiting his family or keeping up a better correspondence. Regardless, he needed to speak to his brother soon about his supposed plans. Spying, and the necessary improvisation that went with it, was much more difficult with family and friends around.

He found a footman and secured a glass of sherry in order to fortify himself for what lay ahead: more dancing with marriage-mad females. But perhaps he’d find another one like Miss Milken, or better yet, like Amelia. Only, less prickly than she had been since his return.

He looked up—straight into Amelia’s burning brown gaze. James nodded and started to smile, but with a perfunctory nod she turned and walked away.

Why the devil couldn’t she be more than civil? He was attempting to accustom himself to being around her without wanting to kiss her, to caress her, to breathe the very essence of her. She had clearly never felt the same about him, so why did she seem to be so...so incensed when he was in close proximity? She should be grateful he had set her free to marry her saint-cum-Viking warlord.

Irritated, he banished Amelia from his mind once again and set off to find a willing dance partner. He managed to land first Lady Helen Carwood and then Miss Effington. The latter unwittingly gave her father an alibi by describing, in a tale that left no detail wanting and no emotion lacking, how her father had ridden to their estate near Sheffield, the larger one, not the nearer one in Surrey, last week to personally escort her to London for her first Season, as her mother had, quite inconveniently, gone into an early confinement with her eleventh sibling. She, Miss Effington, would be at this moment wasting away in the wilds of Yorkshire if her father hadn’t been so gallant, and he, Lord James, would have been deprived of the opportunity to whirl that estimable lady around the ballroom. Twice, if he so desired, she strongly hinted.

He did not so desire. Not with her or with anyone else. He found a corner occupied by a decorative urn and pretended to study it.

All he had got from Lady Helen was that her father took his responsibilities in the Lords so seriously they rarely visited their estate in Essex. It wasn’t enough to eliminate the man. So he had further work to do there, plus he had to verify Stretton’s and Gorley’s stories.

Neither the urn nor his mission could keep his plagued mind off Amelia, however.

What was wrong with her? Was she embarrassed to have a former “fiancé” appear on the scene so close to her wedding? His return had created a coil, but for the most part everyone had handled it well. Even Kensworth.

The esteemed viscount who had unexpectedly inherited the title two years ago. The exalted lord who was apparently well on his way to becoming a Whig to be reckoned with. Amelia’s beloved Stephen, whose estate was merely a two-hour ride from London.

Kensworth. It was time to offer him proper felicitations on his upcoming marriage.

James donned his spectacles and inspected the room. Surprisingly, the viscount was quite close by and alone. James strode toward him, acknowledging silently that Kensworth, wide shoulders stretching the bottle-green coat that perfectly matched his eyes, looked exactly like the ideal lord everyone thought him.

“Kensworth.” James greeted the man with a smile and a proffered hand, now playing the role of affable young buck. “I’d like to offer you best wishes on your approaching marriage.”

Wariness flashed through the viscount’s eyes faster than a startled rabbit, but he managed an easy smile and a hearty handshake. “Thank you.”

“You’re a lucky man,” James continued, watching closely to see Kensworth’s reaction.

“Do you think so?”

That wasn’t the reply James expected. He sharpened his attention on the man smiling lazily before him but maintained his jocular expression. “Indeed, I do.”

“I couldn’t agree more. I need Lady Amelia’s help in navigating this.” Kensworth waved a large hand toward the mass of humanity behind James.

“Society?”

The viscount shrugged. “It is not my preferred setting.”

“Nor mine.” James couldn’t help but smile in commiseration, even though he had contradicted his intended image as a Society man. Kensworth had thrown him off-balance; he would have to try harder to keep up the pretense.

“But you were raised here,” the viscount replied with a tilt of his blond head, as if he couldn’t figure out which aspect of James was real.

It wouldn’t hurt to keep him guessing. “Doesn’t mean I enjoy the pitfalls, er, festivities.”

Kensworth’s chuckle barely reached James’s ears above the din of the crowd that surrounded them.

“How different could your upbringing have been?” James pressed after a moment. “You’re the great-grandson of a viscount.”

“More different than you could imagine,” Kensworth muttered. Then, louder, he said, “The army doesn’t teach artifice, at least not to those coming up through the ranks.”

“You served?” James injected surprise into his tone despite having read of Kensworth’s service in Debrett’s.

“With the Fifty-second,” Kensworth replied. “As did my brothers.”

James waited for him to continue, to detail what act of bravery had led to his promotion or at the very least to mention his presence at Waterloo, but he didn’t appear to have anything else to say in that regard. James stubbornly smothered the seed of admiration that had begun to grow.

Into the silence he said, “You know, it would be possible to employ your military skills here in Society.”

Kensworth snorted.

“You need only a strategy and plenty of firepower,” James explained.

This time the other man laughed. “I’ve transferred some of my abilities to my work in Parliament with a degree of success, but here? This is the bastion of women, and they’ve never met a strategy they can’t undermine. While it probably isn’t true, it seems as if they vastly outnumber us.”

James laughed. Damn, but it would be easy to like Kensworth. At least pretending to wouldn’t be difficult.

“Besides,” Kensworth continued in a jovial tone. “I’ve already conquered Society. I have found my bride. Perhaps you should do the same. Nothing like a pretty girl to make all these blasted social contortions worthwhile.”

Spoken like a man who had found true love. James swallowed his bitterness. “You are certainly proof positive. Lady Amelia will do you proud.”

“Indeed. These affairs have become far less tedious with her acting as my shield.”

That thought wasn’t quite as romantic as the other. James unclenched his jaw before the tension became too painful. Then he told a bald-faced lie. “The two of you appear well-suited.”

“Ah, here she is now, with my brother in tow.”

James watched Amelia approach. She eyed Kensworth with a certain fondness, but something was missing. Two somethings actually, such as the tender love and simmering passion in evidence when Victoria looked upon Taviston or Tessa upon Peyton.

“Lord James, may I present my brother, Mr. David Caldwell?”

Amelia turned her face up to the man beside her, another blond giant clearly cut from the same cloth as Kensworth. He was younger, though, and his eyes more hazel than green.

James made a bow. “Pleasure to meet you.”

David Caldwell returned the bow and smiled widely, revealing a set of crooked teeth. “I hope you are enjoying your return to Mother England. I’m sure you won’t find things much different from when you left. More’s the pity.”

“I am afraid I have found too many changes for my liking,” James replied, though he was thinking of Amelia. When he’d met her, she had wanted to marry for love. Did she love Kensworth, or had she settled for marrying a friend? Did he love her?

Peyton had been so right; in her red gown, she was the most striking woman in the room. The glowing satin enveloped her every curve, provoking sensuous images like a flame laying claim to tinder. James didn’t dare pay any heed to such musings. How could such a passionate woman settle for...for...the perfect lord? Perfect in every way, except Kensworth couldn’t possibly love her or cherish her or desire her as much as James did.

But of course he could. James’s brain overrode his heart. Kensworth could easily love, cherish, and desire Amelia.

Even while possibly still being a treacherous assassin.

Kensworth was making a comment about change, but James couldn’t hear him for all the embittered rage pounding inside his head. Amelia kept her restless gaze trained on the people milling behind him, as if she were searching for an excuse to leave.

Fate, in the hulking form of David Caldwell, intervened.

“The biggest bloody—er, pardon, my lady—the biggest change is all these new dances. Lady Amelia was just saying how much she wanted to waltz tonight. There’s one coming up now, but I haven’t managed to learn the steps. So...”

The youngest Caldwell shot his brother a meaningful look, clearly indicating Kensworth should offer to partner his future wife.

Amelia, too, turned hopeful eyes toward her intended. However, James could see that the viscount’s attention had been caught by an approaching acquaintance.

“I’m sorry, Amelia, you know I must speak with Mr. Turner,” Kensworth said as that fellow and his wife joined their circle.

James knew it was the last thing she wanted. He knew she would be furious. He asked anyway. “Lady Amelia, would you honor me with this dance?”

Instantly her eyes burned, and her cheeks flushed; she must be furious. She opened her mouth to deny him, once again, but this time her future husband stood in Fate’s stead.

“Do go on with Lord James, my dear. I will escort you to supper as soon as you are finished.” Kensworth smiled at Amelia and then shot James an inscrutable look before attending to Turner.

To make her acquiescence more complete, James held out his hand. Looking as if she were to dance with the devil himself, Amelia gingerly laid her gloved fingers atop his.

If he hadn’t been entirely too jealous of her faultless betrothed, he probably would have teased her out of her ill-humored mood. As it was, they both stepped onto the dance floor with tempers piqued, and James had no difficulty forgetting about the others in the room.

As the energetic notes began drifting down from the orchestra, he snared her attention by sharply calling her name. Amelia turned her eyes up to his face, and he slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her far closer than was probably considered proper even for the “indecent” waltz.

Her lips parted as the two of them began to glide along with the score of other couples. He couldn’t take his eyes off the plumpness of her mouth. Nor could he ignore the soft feel of her body beneath his hand, despite their gloves and layers of clothing between them.

How he managed to keep his feet moving to the rhythm of the music as they spun in a feverish whirlwind around the dance floor, he didn’t know. Still, Amelia moved gracefully; at times it seemed as if her feet barely touched the tile. Despite her former reticence, her hand upon his back was solid and she never once tried to create space between their hips and thighs.

Neither of them spoke. Half the time Amelia’s eyes drifted shut. James pretended she had walked into his arms willingly, that her blood rushed with as much uninhibited desire as his. With the color still high in her cheeks, it was easy to imagine that her heart beat wildly and that she wanted all these people to take themselves off to Hades so they could dance alone and indulge in passionate kisses.

The last note of the waltz sounded a death knell. They came to a standstill, and Amelia withdrew her hand and stepped back. Breathing fast, she didn’t appear to have the energy to do more—like run away.

James tried to collect his wayward emotions. He should bow and let Amelia escape, but before he could she whispered fiercely, “How could you?”

Then she turned on her heel and stalked off.

He couldn’t focus on anything else; he saw only the flight of that satin flame as she bolted from not only the dance floor but the ballroom as well.

What was so horrible about dancing with him? If she was going to treat him like an ogre, he had a right to know why.

As the other partygoers paired up to head off to the supper room, James pushed in the opposite direction, striding after Amelia.

By the time he reached the entrance hall she had retrieved her shawl and was heading out the front door.

“There you are, James dear.” His mother, seemingly oblivious to his pursuit, stopped his progress cold. “Come, take me in to supper. You must be starving after that dance with Amelia.”

He wanted answers. “Mother, I apologize, but I must be going.” He grasped her hands and squeezed. “Truly, I’m sorry. I promise I will take you to Gunter’s for a lemon ice one afternoon this week.”

Her smile was indulgent. “Of course, dear.”

James flew out the door in time to see the Taviston carriage rattling down the congested street. He sprinted after it, and when he drew near enough, he grabbed the handle on the door and flung it open, swinging himself up into the vehicle in one fluid motion, a neat maneuver that had served him well on a few of his missions’ more hurried exits.

Briefly ignoring the startled woman on the opposite seat, he reached up and opened the trap in the ceiling. “Horace, it’s me. Lord James. Continue toward home.”

“Yes, sir.” The carriage, which had slowed, picked up speed once again.

By the time James turned back to Amelia, her expression reconfigured into one of ire. “What do you think you are doing?”

He stared at her, his every nerve still abuzz from holding her so close. Did she have to look even more beautiful when she was agitated? Couldn’t she have transformed into a hag? No, her cheeks were flushed with color, her eyes shone, and he could easily envision her in the throes of passion, about to experience her first orgasm.

Most of his blood headed south, but somehow he was able to get his tongue working. “You’re angry. You have been for days now. The question is, are you angry that I left or angry that I’ve returned?”