Anne Barbour (22 page)

He scuttled through the door. Ash turned to face Amanda, fury rising in him once more. “Just what the devil did you think you were doing?” he demanded.

“I wasn’t doing anything!”

“Nothing! What
do you call kissing that oily snake?”

“I wasn’t kissing him. I was merely waiting for him to get through kissing me. I thought of struggling, but nonparticipation is just as effective in dampening a man’s ardor, and it doesn’t ruin your hairdo.”

She appeared so calm and self-possessed that Ash wanted to shake her.

“And what were you doing in this little tête-à-tête to begin with? A little far afield from the ballroom, isn’t it?”

“He threatened to make a scene if I didn’t talk to him, so I took him where I thought there would be people, but not too many. When we came into the room, there were several couples here, but, unfortunately, they left.”

“How obliging of them,” said Ash nastily.

Amanda moved toward him. “Now, see here, my lord, I hope you are not implying ... Good grief, do you actually think I have some feeling for that ludicrous jerk?”

“No—you see here, Miss Bridge. All the world knows you planned to elope with him. Don’t tell me you were going to accomplish that without feeling anything toward him.”

“Oh, that.” Amanda shrugged. “As I told you, I have no memory of all that, but it must have been a—a momentary lapse on my part.” She hesitated a moment before lifting her hand in a propitiatory gesture. “Ash, if I were truly in love with someone else, I would not have agreed to marry you. Furthermore, please believe me when I tell you that, since I did make such an agreement, I plan to keep it. I shall not indulge in flirtations with other men. I will not kiss them in secluded nooks, and I won’t encourage them to believe that I am open to extracurricular behavior when we are married.”

She took a long breath and gazed at him steadily, her eyes still and deep and clear as mountain pools. Shaken, Ash took refuge in a tone of light irony. “What laudable sentiments, Miss Bridge. Are you saying that you plan to make a real marriage of our business arrangement?”

Amanda stepped back, and Ash knew a moment of compunction. “I’m sorry. I should not have said that, I merely meant—”

“I never said anything about marriage, my lord. I am speaking of the betrothal. If you will recall, it is my intention that the marriage not take place at all.”

Ash swore under his breath.

“Are you still on that tack? How many times do I have to tell you that the betrothal—
and
the marriage are signed, sealed, and all but delivered? You
will
be my wife, Amanda.” He stepped forward and grasped her lightly by the shoulders. “Is that so very distasteful to you?”

Amanda, staring up at him, said nothing. Ash found that he was drowning in those magical pools, and he was having a great deal of trouble with his breathing. Slowly, unable to help himself, he bent his head and pressed his mouth to hers. Her lips were warm and soft and tasted of wine. She shivered in his arms for a moment, and Ash tightened them so that she would not draw away.

Instead, she shifted slightly to accommodate his body against hers, and Ash thought that nothing he had ever experienced in his life felt so good. She seemed made to fit against him, her curves filling his hollows, and her scent filling his senses. She made a small sound in the back of her throat that nearly shattered what composure he had left. His mouth moved urgently on hers, and he shuddered when her hands came up to curl in the hair at the nape of his neck. Pulling her closer, as though he would absorb her into his very bones, he ran his hands over the delicate curve of
her
back, then up to the swell of her breasts.

Amanda drew in a sharp breath, and at the sound of voices in the corridor outside the music room pulled away from him. Her eyes, Ash noted somewhere in a corner of his mind, had darkened to the color of a summer midnight. She stared at him, and in her gaze Ash saw the reflection of his own confusion. But all she said was, “We had best return to the ballroom, my lord.”

Passing two laughing couples in the corridor, they made their way wordlessly back to the throng of dancers. They did not speak until Ash claimed her hand for the supper dance, which was a quadrille.

“You have attained a commendable skill in country dancing, Miss Bridge,” Ash said with a composure that pleased him vastly. “I think you will not need any more lessons.”

Her voice was somewhat breathless as she replied, “I had an excellent instructor.” She laughed. “I have twice danced to music other than the waltz this evening, and I must tell you I
am quite flown by the compliments on my skill.”

It seemed to Ash that they communicated on two levels. Below the commonplaces during the brief contact afforded by the figures of the dance, there was a current between them that spoke of a new, unsettling turn in their relationship. Was it a turn he wished to pursue? he wondered. He had no desire to lead Amanda Bridge to the inalterably false conclusion that he wanted more from her than an amicable association. Yet the kiss had stirred him to a depth he would not have thought possible.

He had exchanged kisses with many women, of course, and, aside from those shared with Lianne, he had found them to be sexually stimulating, but nothing more. The contact with Amanda had gone beyond the physical, however. He felt they had shared a communion of spirit—a joining of essence such as he had never experienced even in Lianne’s exhilarating embrace. And, frankly, it scared the hell out of him.

They were joined during supper by Serena and Jeremiah, and as the meal concluded, Jeremiah rose and cleared his throat ostentatiously. The clatter of glasses and silver silenced as Jeremiah launched into the speech that, though brief, represented the culmination of his dreams.

“My dear friends,” he began, placing a slight emphasis on the last word, “I am so pleased you could be with us tonight, for we have invited you here for a special purpose beyond music and dancing. It is my very great pleasure to announce at this time the betrothal of my beloved daughter Amanda to William Wexford, the Earl of Ashindon.”

If the assembled company thought it odd that Serena was given no recognition as coproducer of the beloved daughter, there was no indication in the polite round of applause that greeted the pronouncement. A toast was proposed and the guests rose to offer their felicitations to the happy couple.

Through it all, Amanda smiled and nodded and mouthed appropriate expressions of gratification, all the while feeling both numb and terrified at the same time, as though she stood in the center of a whirling maelstrom.

She felt that part of her was still in the music room, lost in Ash’s embrace. She had never known a kiss could be so stirring—so eminently satisfying yet creating such a storm of wanting. When Ash’s mouth had come down on hers, she had known she should protest. The man was in love with another woman, after all. But at the feel of his lips on hers, and the touch of his hands, all rational thought had fled. Her body, traitor to her will, responded with every atom of her being to the wonderful, almost unbearably right feel of his touch, and she had curled into him like an animal seeking haven.

Had he been trying to seduce her? she wondered uncomfortably. If so, he’d certainly made splendid progress in a very few moments. That first kiss a couple of weeks earlier in the Marchford garden, had been shockingly provocative, but it had not produced the spreading heat that even now, as she thought about it, caused her pulse to throb. He did not seem the sort of man who could love one woman and seek to conquer another. Yet why else would he use her so? He had apparently determined to shake off his initial antipathy toward her in order to make the best of their bargain, but nothing in his behavior toward her so far indicated anything beyond a mild liking for her.

Her thoughts continued in this muddled vein throughout the rest of the evening, and she maintained a flow of meaningless conversation with the patronesses, the dukes and their wives, and the rest. At the end of the evening, exhausted and wrung dry of coherent thought, Amanda stood with her parents at the Bridge front door to bid good night to the earl. His lips, brushing her fingertips seemed to burn through the fragile fabric of her glove, and she murmured an incomprehensible assent to his offer to take her driving the next morning.

“Or—no,” she said immediately. “I am promised to your grandmother. She asked that I come alone,” she added, puzzled.

“En garde, then, my dear. Perhaps I shall see you later in the day.” He hesitated. “By the by, perhaps you—all of you”—he gestured to Serena and Jeremiah—“would like to come up to the Park for a brief visit next week. I cannot ask you to stay in the main house, but the Dower House has been maintained in reasonably good condition, and I think you would be comfortable.”

Serena beamed her delighted assent, and Jeremiah, shooting his prospective son-in-law a shrewd glance, chuckled. “Time to put the dibs in tune, eh? Well, boy, I’m game. Truth to tell, I’ve been looking forward to seeing the grand place where my little girl will be mistress.”

Ash nodded curtly. “Very well, then. I shall make the arrangements.” He kissed Amanda’s cheek lightly and, bowing to Serena and Jeremiah, mounted his waiting curricle and clattered off into the night.

Before the door had closed behind him, Serena, her expression beatific, launched into an exhilarated monologue on the altitudes into which the Bridge family had soared that evening. Jeremiah, for once, seemed content to let his wife ramble, and stood aside, rubbing his hands, a wide smile creasing his blunt features.

Suddenly, Amanda felt suffocated. Unable to listen to more, she pled a headache and fled to the haven of her bedchamber. She endured Hutchings’ excited chatter as she removed the diamonds, drew off the blue satin gown, and brushed out her mistress’s hair, but abruptly dismissed the maid afterward, declaring her intention of donning her own nightwear.

Some minutes later, she crawled wearily under the comforter and blew out her bedside candle. She closed her eyes, but was distressingly aware that she could still feel the imprint of a hard, muscular body against her own. She touched her lips. Surely they were still swollen from that dizzying kiss.

Lord, what was she going to do about her growing feelings for the man to whom she was betrothed but with whom her involvement would shortly be over? She tried to dwell on the fact that if all progressed according to plan she would soon leave Regency England and the compelling nobleman who lived here. Ash might mourn her departure—a little, and he would see it as a financial disaster, but, again if she could work things out, he would be possessed of what he needed to get back on his feet. He would be free to marry the woman of his dreams.

And herself? She had learned something about relationships during her sojourn in another time, and she had learned something about herself. Returned to her own place and secure in her career, she was sure she would also feel more secure in her own person, even if that person was maimed and ugly.

Given the certainty that everything was going to work out well for all concerned, why did she feel like crying? Exasperated, she turned her face into her pillow, determined to think about something else until sleep overtook her.

Grandmama Ashindon, for example. The old lady had been insistent that Amanda visit her on the morrow. What in the world could she want? Please God, not a lecture on wifely duties.

At last, her eyes closed and her breathing deepened, but her dreams that night were disturbed by an arrogant figure who strode through them, whose touch produced rivers of excitement in her veins.

* * * *

The dowager countess awaited her visitor in the morning room of her home in Grosvenor Square. Today, she wore a gown of stiff, wine-colored silk, panniered in an old-fashioned style. Again, she wore an absurd pair of slippers, this time of pink satin, trimmed with swansdown. A few moments were spent in dissecting the events of the previous evening.

“I fancy,” said the old lady with a grunt of satisfaction, “that you will receive your vouchers by week’s end. I could see that Mrs. Drummond-Burrell had a great deal of difficulty in overcoming her distaste of the whole affair, but she will come around. I am in possession of some rather uncomfortable facts concerning her behavior when she was much younger.”

Amanda chuckled. “You are nothing short of wicked, my lady. Is there anyone in London who does not fear you?”

“I certainly hope not,” retorted the countess with relish. “And please call me Grandmama. I used to loathe the appellation, but now that I am finally reconciled to my years, I rather like it.”

A wizened old man in butler’s panoply entered, staggering under a full complement of plate, which he set down with a flourish before the dowager. She waved him away and instructed Amanda to pour. “Now tell me, gel, are you entering into this betrothal of your own will?”

Amanda looked up in surprise. “Why—I agreed to it, if that’s what you mean.” She passed a steaming cup fashioned of paper-thin Sevres to the old lady and filled one for herself.

“Of course, that’s not what I mean,” snorted the dowager. “I mean, how do you feel about Ashindon?”

An unwelcome heat rose to Amanda’s cheeks. “He—he seems a fine man. A little on the prideful side, but married to the right woman, I should imagine he would be a most satisfactory husband.”

The countess frowned. “You sound as though you are not to be that woman. Surely, everything is in place now. You will marry Ashindon, will you not?”

“Um—well, yes, of course.
It is just that—”

“Just that—what?” snapped the old lady. “Out with it, gel. If you’re getting cold feet, now’s the time to lay your cards on the table.”

Amanda took a deep breath. “My la—Grandmama, Ash does not love me. Yes, I know,” she added hastily, “love is not supposed to enter into a marriage like ours, but the fact that he’s in love with someone else cannot help but—color our relationship.”

The dowager’s mouth turned down. “I collect you are referring to Lianne.”

“Yes.”

“Good God, gel, you cannot seriously believe that Ashindon truly loves that brainless little vixen.”