Even though Amelia spent a restless night with very little sleep involved, she arose early as usual. Her day was too full to allow otherwise. Besides, every time she closed her eyes the transformation of Jameson from long-time friend to man left her staring wide-eyed into the dark. She could not take much more thought on the matter without screaming and with relief started her toilet as early as she could.
She had only begun the first of her business for the day when Jameson was announced. So uncommonly early was he for a visit that she hadn’t any thought of the embarrassing episode of the night before.
“What in the world is the matter, Jameson? It is morning. Is Robin quite alright?”
He paused in the door, looking taken aback, then laughed. “My dear, he is fine. And I know it is morning, though I admit I do not see it often. I knew if I waited too long, you would be gone on your visits.”
She waited for a moment, expecting him to explain what was so important. She could hardly imagine he’d slept at all, let alone been home since the ball last night. But he looked as refreshed and alert as he ever did, and when he said nothing but simply looked at her, she realized. He had come to see her.
She turned back to her writing desk, hiding her suddenly quickened heartbeat. “You should never have been let in for a call; come back at the appropriate time.”
He laughed. “I could if you insist. But I assume your mother does not know of certain activities you participated in last night, my little Stilton. Wouldn’t you like to keep it that way?”
“I do not like being blackmailed.”
“No one does, my dear.”
Amelia turned back to him. “And I did not participate. You all but carried me through the garden last night.”
He murmured, “Thrilling, wasn’t it?”
She would die a thousand painful deaths before she admitted any such thing and she looked down her nose at him.
“Yes, I often end thrilling encounters with a balled fist.”
He bowed slightly. “Touché. Where did you learn that little move? I did not know pugilism was a subject often taught by governesses.”
“Father. He said I had a disturbing tendency to wander off by myself and needed to be able to protect myself sufficiently. I have needed to use it twice now.”
All humor left his eyes and he stared at her. “You shame me. Forgive me, Amelia. I had not meant. . . That you had to protect yourself from me as you did that shabbaroon. . .”
He turned to look out the window, his shoulders slumped.
Amelia closed her eyes, willing herself not to embarrass herself with any humiliating confession, but she could not let him suffer in pain when he did not deserve it.
She cleared her throat, then briskly said, “The situations were not at all the same. His attentions were quite repulsive. I did not experience the same with you. I was, unfortunately, only worried about being seen in such a compromising position. My reputation, I fear, would not survive another scandal.”
He continued to look out the window for a long moment. Then his shoulders straightened and he slowly turned to face her. The twinkle in his eyes made her sigh loudly and close her eyes again.
“Are you saying, Amelia, that my attentions were not so unwelcome? I must admit I had thought so at the time.” He sat down comfortably, steepling his fingers, and watched her with what she could only call a smirk on his face. “But you were quite right to alert me to our imminent discovery.”
She pursed her lips together and he said, “Although it has become quite a distressing habit of late to be physically assaulted by the women in my life. First Miss Underwood, then yourself.”
“Perhaps, Jameson, you should look to your own behavior for an explanation. It is not a defect in us that is causing this behavior; you are acting like an imbecile.”
He laughed. “Yes, my dear. I do seem to be floundering. Usually those around me follow my lead and I have very little work to do. I find I have little experience dealing with those who disagree with me so vehemently.”
“I hope I made you stop and think for a moment at least.”
“Yes, my dear.” Though he doubted she would approve of exactly what he was thinking about. “I wonder if my actions last night made you stop thinking for a moment.” He glanced toward the open door. “Perhaps you would like me to make you stop thinking again this morning? I can hear the clockworks spinning from here; it must be exhausting.”
He made to rise and she jumped up, startled. He stared at her a moment, then smiled and settled back into his chair. “Or perhaps not. Sit back down, Amelia. I will not accost you.”
She cleared her throat and walked toward her writing desk. She pulled out a slip of paper from the top drawer and brought it over to him. His blood heated as she got closer and he imagined for one long breathless moment simply pulling her onto his lap and ravaging them both senseless again– damn the open door.
She must have seen those thoughts reflected on his face because the nearer she came to him, the warier she looked. She held the paper out to him with her fingertips, stopping as far away from him as she could.
His eyes did not leave hers as he slowly reached out to take the paper from her. Her breath hitched and she whispered, “You have gone mad.”
He very well believed it. He felt as if the blood in his veins sang only for her now. Drink held no allure, cards had lost their fun. Last night at his club had been boring. He had wanted only her. He still wanted only her.
And here she was, steps away from him. Alone.
She dropped the paper as if it burned her and walked quickly toward the bell. “I need tea.”
He came back to earth with a thud. In a moment he would laugh at himself but for now he used the paper to strategically hide his lap as instructions for tea were given.
She sat and repeated, with more composure than he suspected she felt, “You have gone quite, quite mad.”
“Yes.”
She snorted, nodding to the paper. “Since you seem not to be able to get a handle on it, I have prepared a list for you.”
He didn’t even glance at it. “What kind of a list?”
“A list of marriageable women.”
That surprised him and he looked down. A list of women Amelia would consider suitable seemed to cool his ardor and he lifted the paper off his lap to scan the names. His eyebrows rose a few times at a surprising name and he even laughed out loud at the last.
He looked up at Amelia and found amusement dancing in her eyes as well. She said, “I admit that Lady Whitcomb is not the sort of woman most men think of as a blushing bride. But she made her late husband very happy and is sensible enough to talk you out of any hare-brained scheme you can come up with.”
“She has four children, the oldest of which must be at least ten.”
“He’s twelve. But she married very young. I believe she still has an heir and a spare in her.”
He snorted. “She may be too sensible to marry me.”
Amelia nodded. “Yes, that could be a problem.”
Jameson laughed and she smiled at him. He looked at her in amusement and mentally crossed off every name on the list.
He said, “My dear, your schemes are just as hare-brained as mine.”
She shook her head. “Every woman on that list would make you an excellent wife. Though you both may need to be persuaded about it.”
He looked at the one woman he would be willing to persuade and said, “I shall take these names into consideration. Shall we discuss them over dinner tonight?”
“Not tonight. I am attending a tête-à-tête with Clarice.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“I will see if Robin is available.”
He smiled at her subterfuge. “Of course.”
He rose, bowing to her formally, a nicety they rarely engaged in. As he left, he folded the paper she had given him and put it in his pocket. He appreciated her attempt to distract him but he had already made his own list and there was only one name on it.
Amelia.
Amelia had not been entirely truthful about her plans for the evening but she quickly invited Clarice for dinner and was happy to find her free for the evening. She did not look too closely at her reasons for avoiding Jameson; she had spent an inordinate amount of time thinking, planning, and scheming for him in the last few weeks. Any woman would deserve one night free from him.
Instead, she and Clarice compared the suitors now clamoring for Jameson’s discarded bride. Clarice had been surprised to find her prospects of marriage not dashed completely but Amelia had known only too well that there was a class of men attracted to a scandal– especially when the woman refused to acknowledge there was a scandal in the first place. The unanswered question of it seemed to drive some men mad.
Of course, none of those men would make Clarice a happy union.
“Not even Mr. Snowden?”
Amelia shook her head. “You are attracted to the flashy ones, aren’t you?”
“He is quite handsome.”
Amelia smiled. She too had thought beauty the be-all and end-all of a prospective husband when she’d first come out. She’d learned quickly enough that the most beautiful men were also the most trouble.
Of course, she’d grown up with Jameson, who’d insisted on proving her right day after day. Perhaps that had predisposed her to an aversion to handsome men and then the miscreant had finished it off.
In any case, beauty in a man put him on a suspect list. Add in any man who thought he could fall in love in a week’s time and that scratched him off the list entirely. Amelia saw no reason to think Clarice deserved any less than a not unattractive man who was slow with his emotions.
Amelia said, “How about Mr. Stillwell? He would make you a fine husband.”
Clarice grimaced. “He is too solicitous. Always wondering if I am too cold or too hot.”
“Yes, I have heard many a wife complain that her husband cared too much for her comfort. Strike him off the list at once.”
Clarice rolled her eyes. “And he is too old.”
“And not very handsome.”
“Well. . . If I am to sit across the dining table from a man for the rest of my life, shouldn’t it be a view I admire?”
Amelia smiled. “I can not fault the logic. However, beauty fades, as does eye sight.”
Clarice sighed. “I will strike Mr. Snowden from my list if you strike Mr. Stillwell.”
Amelia laughed in delight. “Excellent suggestion, my dear. Good-bye, Mr. Snowden.”
“And good-bye, Mr. Stillwell.”
They laughed. Then Amelia said, “How about Sir James Pickering?” and Clarice groaned.
The next night brother and sister arrived at Jameson’s for dinner. He was at his most charming and entertaining, and Amelia was thoroughly sick of him not even half an hour after arriving.
“You are completely soused.”
“I assure you I am not. But I am in a rather good mood, perhaps that is what you object to.”
Robin took a sip, enjoying their play. “What’s put you in such a good mood then? Perhaps Amelia will allow it if she knows what has caused it.”
He had been with Jameson all day and knew precisely why he was bursting. Robin could scarcely wait for the fireworks himself. It had been a long time since he and Jameson had teased Amelia; she had become exceedingly adept at turning their fun into a thorough tongue-lashing. He had no doubt today’s escapade would result in the same but he would enjoy the fun while it lasted.
Amelia looked at her brother suspiciously. “If you insist. However I would much rather have a nice, quiet dinner.”
Jameson said, “I have no doubt that is true. I don’t think you will find it quite as exciting in any case. I simply purchased some horse flesh today.”
“Is that all? It must be a potential derby winner to have you so excited.”
“No, but she is uncommonly spirited. She nearly bucked me twice trying her out; I knew I simply had to have her.”
Robin snorted into his glass and Amelia looked between them for a moment.
She said, “I’m afraid I missed the joke.”
“Robin thinks her name quite inappropriate but I merely named her after the most spirited female I know. It was meant as a compliment.”
Stillness came over Amelia. She stared at Jameson, unblinking. He gave her his most charming smile.
“You named a horse after. . . me?” She could not keep the horror off her face and Jameson laughed.
“She reminded me so of you. Quite determined to lead me her own way. I could really name her nothing else.”
She regained her composure. “I hope you were subtle enough that I do not have to worry that one and all know I am her namesake. I suppose I could be flattered, depending on what you call her.”
“I call her Amelia.”
Her mouth fell open. “Amelia! No subtlety, no allusion! Simply Amelia?”
“It suits her.”
“Jameson! You can not name a horse Amelia! You’ll be riding in company and suddenly ‘Whoa, Amelia’ will pop out.”
Robin snorted.
Jameson kept his face calm. “I am more worried that ‘Whoa, Amelia’ will pop out when I’m speaking to you. That would be quite a bit more embarrassing. For you, I would imagine. I can’t see the horse being all that upset at the confusion.”
Robin lost all control and sat there laughing, his breath wheezing in and out. Amelia transferred her horror to him. If her own brother thought this was hilarious, what would everyone else think? Amelia did not consider herself overly concerned with society’s opinion; she would have faltered a long time ago if she cared overmuch what anyone privately thought of her. But this! This was too much, even for Jameson.
She paused, thinking it through. It was too much. Even Jameson himself couldn’t name a horse after a woman. She held a hand to her chest and relief whooshed out of her in a long breath. “Oh, this is a joke. Ha ha. Yes, you had me going there.”
She eyed her brother, who now sat slumped gasping for air, and pursed her lips. She looked at Jameson. “What did you really name her then?”
His eyes twinkled and he smiled. “Amelia.”
Robin had been correct. The rest of the evening was filled with long-winded lectures and harsh criticisms of both men’s parentage and mental capacities. Yet neither could quite get the laugh off their face and thought the evening well worth the price.
Another night, another ball. Amelia had lost count of the events she had been forced to attend this season; not even her first year had been quite so much work.
Last night she had attended a smallish dinner party with Clarice, where the girl had endeavored to convince both Misters Snowden and Stillwell that their efforts were better spent elsewhere. And she had done it with grace and tact, something Amelia had watched with surprised interest. The more time she spent with Clarice the more she thought the girl would indeed make someone a very fine wife. As long as the gentleman was of the refined sort and had some power to back up Clarice’s grace and tact. Both Misters Snowden and Stillwell had seemed inclined to ignore Clarice’s rebuffs until Amelia let them know their intentions were now unwelcome.
Grace and tact were all well and good, but Amelia had always preferred to get the job done quickly when the time for play was done.
The most unrefined gentleman still in the good graces of the ton made his way to her side, offering a drink.
“I’m not speaking with you.”
“Come, don’t be a spoilsport. You tried your damnedest last night to get me to change the name. You know I won’t. I enjoy steering you, or at least your namesake, around for once.”
“It is improper!”
Jameson’s eyes twinkled and he whispered, “Oh, I do know that.”
“You are the most. . . I can not fathom. . .”
Words failed her and she let out a small growl. He simply smiled wider and once again offered her
the drink.
“Drink up, my dear. It seems your throat is a little parched.”
“That is not punch.”
He looked down, as if in surprise. “Hmm? Oh, you looked a little tired. Thought you might need something a little stronger.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Jameson?”
He held an offended hand to his chest. “Get you drunk? My dear Amelia, you simply looked thirsty.”
“You’re making me very nervous. Please go away and bother someone else.”
He leaned toward her, pressing the glass into her hand. “I’m glad I’m making you nervous.”
She watched him walk away and shook her head. How many more months of this was she to bear? Perhaps if she got Clarice married off before the end of the season she could escape to the country early. She was in desperate need of some peace and quiet.
The reason Amelia was in such desperate need of peace and quiet left her alone for scarcely half an hour before he was back bothering her again.
Jameson bowed, his hand held out to her. “I believe this dance is mine.”
She sighed and placed her hand in his, allowing him to lead her onto the floor. “Did you have to choose a waltz?”
“I believe I did. My hope is to one day complete a whole dance without a tug-of-war ensuing. I think it unlikely but I’m willing to keep trying.”
“Perhaps the fault lies not with me but with my partners.”
Jameson nodded, looking thoughtful. “What you’re saying is none of your dance partners has mastered the art well enough and you are simply trying to instruct.”
“Something of the sort. Should I be expected to follow someone’s lead in a dance, no matter his rhythm or technique?”
“Of course not, my dear, although I would assert that most women do.”
Amelia sniffed. “I can not help it if my sex has lower standards than I.”
“I would also assert that the point of the dance is not always mastery but enjoyment, social interaction, even seduction.”
“Excepting the last reason, can we not have both mastery and enjoyment? Must one compromise?”
“Perhaps it is that your partners fail to keep you entertained and you must focus on technique to keep from being bored. You have not tried to drag me around the floor yet; I must be entertaining enough to keep you malleable.”
He smiled slightly. “Perhaps that is the trick with you after all.”
Amelia hadn’t yet thought of a reply before he laughed and said, “Of course, that is assuming I prefer you malleable. To which I must admit I have fond memories of a certain skirmish of ours. That I would not mind repeating whatsoever.”
Her reply to that sounded too much like a squeak for her comfort and she cleared her throat. Amelia opened her mouth to say something scathing but was a little relieved when he interrupted her by sighing theatrically. He had gotten the upper hand in this conversation and she felt two steps behind.
He said, “Very well. Perhaps another dance on another night. Now, Amelia, I have a very important question to ask you. Are you drunk yet?”
Her mouth fell open. “Am I drunk? Yet? Are you awaiting this condition?”
“You told me yourself you would accept my proposal when you were drunk. I’m simply wondering if you’re ready.”
She stopped completely, forcing another couple to dance around them. “Are you serious? Are you mad? Are you asking me to marry you on a dance floor?”
Everyone who had not been looking at them turned at that. Jameson glanced around, then smiled. “Yes, I am. I do hope you’re drunk.”
Amelia gaped at his audacity.
He said, “A bit unorthodox, I know. But at least this way you’ll have to give me an answer. No pretending I’m not serious.”
Her eyes flashed and she stepped out of his arms. She glanced once at the crowd staring at them, then raised her chin. “You should have been more certain of my answer.”
Amelia turned, not looking anyone in the eye. Her mother stood up quietly, sparing a pitying glance for the boy she thought of as a son, then followed her daughter out. Robin managed to choke down the drink resting in his mouth.
The crowd started talking all at once. Jameson stood in the center of the dance floor watching others ignore him and wondered how many daughters he was going to have to dance with to be forgiven of this latest fiasco.
Six