Page 24

The news was out. And it wasn’t too bad, Amelia told herself.

Of course the Friends of Lavinia were shocked and furious, enraged even, but then they’d hated her already.

There was an ugly little scene one evening when, in the press of people waiting to enter Almack’s, someone – she could not have said who – had trodden heavily upon the flounce of Amelia’s gown, in such a way that a rip quite a foot long had marred the silk, exposing her petticoat; the tear was so extensive that it could not easily be pinned up, and she’d been obliged to admit defeat and go home, her evening coming to a premature end.

It might have been an accident, of course; someone might have stumbled into her – but she didn’t really believe that.

It was a petty sort of revenge, if that was what it was, and she did not speak of it to anyone, least of all Lord Thornfalcon.

Marcus’s own admirers seemed more sanguine; he was betrothed and out of their reach, and they appeared to accept that and move on.

It was not as though he’d ever given a single one of them any encouragement.

The incidents of damsels falling from their horses at his feet or down flights of stairs into his arms ceased entirely.

And – she could not fail to notice – her unwelcome suitors deserted her en masse, as she had hoped they would.

The printmakers fell upon the announcement as on a gift from heaven; this was only to be expected.

The ladies of fashion were depicted going into mourning for their lost hopes, and tore at their hair and at their dark but insubstantial garments.

Marcus was now the Hero of Brook Street and – rather prematurely shown marrying a simpering Amelia, despite the efforts of several determined ladies, including a frantic Lavinia, to prevent it – the Hero of St George’s, Hanover Square.

Farewell , sweet ladies! proclaimed the unscrolling ribbon of text.

And then the prints ceased, at least for a while.

There was nothing more to be said, and other targets for satire.

The reigning arbiters of the ton, who had never had any time for all this childish nonsense, showed almost unanimous approval of the union.

Perhaps they took their cue from Lady Keswick, with whom Amelia and Sophie were reconciled over a highly awkward tea at which many insincere things were said on all sides.

After tea came ratafia. A mutual though unspoken agreement was reached never to allude by so much as the blink of an eyelash to the unfortunate events that had occurred on the day of Amelia’s betrothal, and the heated words that had been spoken then.

The prospective bride could only be sincerely grateful for her aunt’s magnanimity, never doubting that the Dowager was genuinely fond of her and wished her nothing but happiness.

That formidable lady had been in her youth in attendance upon the Queen, at a most difficult time in the late 1780s when the King had first been seriously unwell, and more than twenty years later continued in intimate correspondence with the long-suffering monarch.

This privileged access enabled her to obtain and spread – with Her Majesty’s gracious permission, naturally – the interesting intelligence that the Wyverne/Thornfalcon match had the royal blessing.

The Queen had been understood to say, the German accent she still retained despite so many decades in England lending pungency to her words, that if the sins of the fathers were indeed always to be visited on their innocent daughters, it would be hard to know who would ever escape censure.

This must be a reference to her own young granddaughter Princess Charlotte, now fifteen, and to her eldest son the Prince Regent, whose reputation would hardly bear examination.

He was currently still making a cake of himself over Lady Hertford, latest of many irregular liaisons.

So open criticism of Amelia’s forthcoming marriage, or of Amelia herself, took on almost the appearance of disloyalty – not to the Regent, who was widely disliked, but to his daughter, who was the object of almost universal affection as the sole future hope of the nation.

It was unfortunate, Amelia mused, that Lady Keswick could not have exerted her considerable influence rather earlier, perhaps even last Season, so that such a grave step as a false engagement, with all the complications it entailed, had never been necessary in the first place.

But maybe that was unfair – the Queen had spoken kindly to her on her come-out, as had her daughters, and they had received Sophie graciously too, even though her past was obscure in places.

With this clear sign of favour, they had both obtained vouchers for Almack’s, as they easily might not have done.

Maybe more could not have been expected of Charlotte at that time.

The poor lady had enough family troubles of her own.

Amelia could only hope that when the engagement came to an end, as it must, the Queen would not be too seriously displeased.

Lady Keswick – who would undoubtedly be very annoyed indeed – might be forced to intercede again, and her niece might have to beg her to do it.

It would all be highly disagreeable. But that must be a worry for another day.

The plan had worked, then. All that could have been hoped for from the audacious scheme had been achieved. Why, then, did Amelia feel so ill at ease, as the days passed in a whirl of social events at which so many people smiled on her and spoke to her cordially for the first time?

It was the kiss. The kiss , et cetera. She must admit it to herself even if she would go to the stake before she said as much to others.

It had been so brief, so rudely ended – but she simply could not put it from her mind.

She lay in bed and relived it every night, from the moment when he first brushed the back of her hand so softly with his lips to the moment Sophie’s voice had cut off their embrace, though he had not released her for a second or two.

He had held her so tightly as they’d kissed – he had most memorably said that if they’d continued, he would have pulled her closer yet – and she had liked it.

Loved it. His arms had been strong and his chest broad and muscular under the layers of fabric that had separated them.

Her nipples had hardened against him, and hardened again whenever she dwelt on the moment.

She had shockingly buried her hands deep in his silky, auburn locks, and she could feel its texture under her fingers still; she’d liked that too, and wondered if he had.

His lips had opened under hers and his mouth had been warm and inviting.

She thought his tongue had just crept out to caress hers, and hers – shockingly – had known to come and meet it.

She’d wanted to climb him like a ladder and wrap herself about him.

He was strong; she was sure he could cope with it.

She even remembered the smell of him – fresh linen and orange spiced soap and clean man – and the feel of his skin, a little rough, against hers.

He had left her wanting more. She was tantalised almost to screaming pitch by wondering what might have happened next. Her imagination provided her with several suggestions as she lay in her lonely bed – not her cold and lonely bed, because it could grow quite hot, she found.

And when she was in Lord Thornfalcon’s company, when he took her gloved hand in his to help her into or out of a carriage, or when she danced with him, moving together in a rhythm that bewitched her…

Well, he had been right, damn him. All her senses were in turmoil, because, yes, he tempted her.

She had no idea if she tempted him, if he relived the moment too, and remembered how she felt in his embrace, and it wasn’t at all a helpful thing to think about.

Nor was the notion that between the two of them, with her unassuaged curiosity and the frustration that she must assume came from his eight years unkissed, they were like a powder keg primed to explode.

The truth was, she wanted that explosion, however dangerous it might be. What had she unleashed in herself?

It occurred to her, and once she’d thought of it, she could not shift it from her mind, that if for some reason they were shut up in a room together again now, or even a closed carriage, they’d find themselves in each other’s arms as they had before, and if this time there should be no interruption, there was no knowing what might happen.

This new Amelia was hungry for him. She did not want to stop at kissing; she did not want to stop at all.

She had felt his lips on hers, exploring her mouth, they had brushed the skin of her hand all too briefly, and she could easily imagine them pressed to the pulse point in her wrist, her neck…

Even more shockingly, she who had seen no more of his bare flesh than his face and hands, and did not suppose that she ever would see more, could vividly imagine him without his jacket, his waistcoat, even his shirt.

She could imagine her lips on his warm skin too – his strong throat, his chest…

She could imagine touching him. She wanted that.

It frightened her how much she wanted it.

But – she could not afford to forget this again – they were not truly betrothed and were not, despite Lady Keswick’s best efforts, going to be married in a week or two or three.

And was it not just as well? He might, for all she knew, still have strong feelings for another woman.

Probably he did. Their engagement was nothing more than a sham, and their marriage was never going to happen.

He was not going to come to her bedchamber in fulfilment of all her fantasies and smile at her – that rare smile of his, like the sun breaking through a cloud – and tease her and fall into her arms, pressing his body to hers…

She thumped her pillow and turned it over to see if the cool other side of it would soothe her fevered nerves. It didn’t.

Perhaps Amelia was distracted then, and that explained what happened. Perhaps if she’d been paying attention, she might have prevented it, and saved herself all manner of trouble and distress.