My Runaway Heart (3 page)

"The Phoenix?" A sharp tug came at Lindsay's
skirt. "Oh, dear, are they talking about that dreadful pirate again? Where's
Matilda? Where's my punch? My smelling salts!"

Lindsay sank down next to her aunt's chair, the poor
woman's silk fan fluttering triple time. Aunt Winifred looked ashen, which was
exactly what Lindsay had feared. When a young bride, her aunt had lost her
first husband, an official with the East India Company, to a pirate attack in
the Bay of Bengal.

"You mustn't let them distress you so, Aunt
Winnie. Their conversation has nothing to do with us."

"But your friend
Corie
and Lord Donovan. Oh, dear, oh—"

"You saw how they shrugged off such talk at their
party last night.
Corie's
very brave, you know. And
Lord Donovan arranged for an armed cutter to accompany them just in case. He
would be the last to take any heedless chances with his new wife aboard. So you
mustn't worry for them—ah, look, here's Matilda with your lemon punch."

Lindsay rose and threw a grateful look at the
sweet-faced lady's maid whose stout girth so matched that of her mistress,
whispering the word "pirates" as Matilda held out a brimming crystal
punch cup to Aunt Winifred.

"Frantic about pirates, are ye?" the old
Scotswoman chided softly while her mistress took a shaky gulp. "Nonsense,
now, milady. They're far out to sea and far away from ye, ye can be sure. And
if any comes near, they'll have to contend with Matilda MacDougal first, don't
ye forget it. Now drink up
yer
punch, it'll calm ye."

"Yes, Aunt Winnie, drink your punch, and if you
don't feel better soon, we could always lea—"

"Miss Somerset! Oh, Miss Somerset!"

Lindsay stiffened, groaning inwardly as she told
herself if she didn't move, didn't make a sound,
the
russet-haired, earnest-faced apparition plunging toward her through the crowd
would surely disappear. She even blinked, once, twice, but Lord Ambrose Lamb,
the twenty-four-year-old son of an impoverished marquis and one of her most
determined suitors, didn't stop his headlong rush until he was virtually upon
her, a black buckled shoe
trodding
upon her
slippered
toe.

Lindsay tried to stifle a wince, but it was too late.
Lord Ambrose reddened from his snowy starched cravat to the roots of his neatly
combed hair and immediately took her elbow to support her, his expression
stricken.

"Oh, my, Miss Somerset, I'm so terribly sorry! So
clumsy of me. Does it hurt? Perhaps we should find a physician."

"Please, my lord, I'm fine. Really." Lindsay
groaned to herself again as she tried unsuccessfully to disengage her arm, Lord
Ambrose Lamb no doubt fearing she might topple. "I'm made of quite sturdy
stuff, I assure you. No, no, that really isn't necessary . . . oh, dear."

Lindsay felt her face growing hot as flame as Lord
Ambrose dropped to one knee, awkwardly groping for her foot.

"But we should really call for a physician—
I say, bones could be broken
. Perhaps if I rubbed—"

"Lord Ambrose, please!" Lindsay jumped back a
step, bumping into the window ledge as she glanced up to see a host of shocked
faces turned toward them, Aunt Winifred's fan frozen in midair. It was all so
ridiculous she couldn't help but laugh, and at once Lord Ambrose ceased his
fumbling and looked up at her, relief shining in his hazel eyes. But just as
quickly
came
mortification, the young gentleman's
shiny scrubbed face glowing even redder as he realized the immodest impropriety
of his actions.

"Miss Somerset, f-forgive me. I fear I've made
quite a mess of things."

"No, no, don't be silly—you were simply concerned
about my welfare and I'm very grateful." Summoning a reassuring smile,
Lindsay knew she now risked enduring his company for much of the evening, but
Corisande
had always said she was too kindhearted for her
own good. Lord Ambrose's deep chagrin had been too pitiful to bear. Yet as the
first strains of music, a minuet, filled the air, she couldn't help thinking that
there still might be an escape . . .

"Miss Somerset, I was hoping to ask you for a
dance, but now that your toe—"

"Truly, my toe is fine, my lord, but I fear that
Aunt Winnie is feeling indisposed this evening. We were planning to call our
carriage as soon as she finished her punch."

"Oh, my, no, I never said a word about leaving,"
Aunt Winifred announced with surprising vigor after her recent complaints. "It
appears there's going to be dancing after all, my dear. See, they're making
room this very moment. Lady Oglethorpe is leading the way with her daughters
and their escorts. How absolutely delightful for you!"

"Yes, delightful," Lindsay said under her
breath, the night suddenly looming long and drearily before her. And to think
only weeks ago a glittering ball would have thrilled her, being so new to
London and the Season. But after eleven such assemblies and not one trip to the
theater or pleasure gardens, thanks to Olympia's deeming such amusements
entirely too frivolous and unnecessary in securing a husband, she felt as
doomed as a prisoner bound for
Tyburn
.

"May I have the pleasure, Miss Somerset?"

Forcing a bright smile, Lindsay nodded and allowed
herself to be led to the dance floor, Lord Ambrose beaming so broadly she
wondered if his face might split as they joined the minuet.

Of course, she could always pretend a swoon and claim
later that she had underestimated the injury to her toe. She was very good at
swoons, her flair for the dramatic having come in quite handy on several
occasions in Cornwall as a way to thwart her stepmother. And swooning was
particularly useful when telling tales of damsels in distress, as she had done
for
Corisande's
three younger sisters, Marguerite,
Linette
and Estelle Easton.
Twelve-year-old
Linette
had especially liked her
stories—

"Y-you look very lovely tonight, Miss Somerset.
Simply exquisite."

Lindsay pushed away warm memories of many happy hours
spent at the Easton parsonage as a refuge from her stepmother, and tried to
ignore, too, Lord Ambrose's persistent squeezing of her fingers. Grateful that
the dance wasn't a waltz for the bruised ribs she might suffer, she politely
inclined her head. "It is kind of you to say so, sir."

"Not kind at all. I say, Lindsay, you're the most
beautiful woman in the room—in all of London! Forgive my boldness, but may I
call you Lindsay?"

Somehow she managed a nod, not sure what she might say
if he insisted that she call him Ambrose. And he had voiced his effusive
compliment so loudly, she was certain that there were many guests who might
have overheard. As they circled around each other, Ambrose's expression growing
all the more earnest, she began to hope fervently that the minuet would soon
end.

"Your gown is
all the
crack, too. If you were my wife I'd shower you with dozens like it. Yellow
truly suits you—"

"Jonquil."

"I'm sorry?"

"Not yellow. Jonquil," Lindsay repeated
nervously, fearing suddenly that Lord Ambrose Lamb might be considering
dropping a second time onto his knee and proposing marriage to her right there
on the dance floor. His
wife
?
Kindheartedness
be
damned. It was definitely time for a
swoon. Pulling her fingers free of Ambrose's, she pressed them to her forehead
and rolled her eyes heavenward. "Dear Lord, the room is positively
swimming. I feel the most horrible pain in my foot—quite dreadful—"

"Lindsay? Lindsay!"

Lord Ambrose's stricken cry echoed around them as
Lindsay spun and collapsed to the floor, not as gracefully as she would have
wanted, but effective all the same. She heard several gentlemen command loudly for
the guests to stand back and make room, ladies gasping and a few complaining
that they felt faint as well; then she felt herself being lifted.

"You heard them, damn you. Stand back and give the
young woman air."

Damn you?
That profane command didn't sound like Ambrose at all, Lindsay never having
heard him
use
anything but the most impeccable speech.
And she would never have imagined Ambrose possessing such strength to lift her
so effortlessly, the marquis's son being somewhat on the slender side. Tempted
beyond measure to open her eyes, Lindsay had to
will
herself to remain limp, although she was finding these strange inconsistencies
quite disconcerting.

"Oh, dear God, what has happened to my niece?
Lindsay? Can you hear me? Set her down—set her down in this chair! Matilda, my
smelling salts!"

Deposited just as easily as she'd been swept up from
the floor, Lindsay prepared herself for the disagreeable smell of ammonia and
started appropriately when the vile stuff was waved under her nose. Fluttering
open her eyes, she smiled weakly at Aunt Winifred and Matilda, the two women
hovering over her.

"Lindsay? Oh, my dear child, you've given me such
a fright. Matilda, fetch some punch—hurry!"

"I believe the good gentleman already went to the
refreshment table, milady."

"Good gentleman indeed," Aunt Winifred said
in outrage, to Lindsay's surprise. "I'll have none such as he fetching
punch for my niece—why, it's bad enough he had to come to her rescue, carrying
her so brazenly from the dance floor—"

"Who carried me, Aunt Winnie?" Lindsay did a
fair impression of shaking the cobwebs from her head while her aunt seemed
intent upon half lifting her from the chair.

"Never
you mind
. Matilda,
help me support her! I want us gone before that blackguard returns." "What
blackguard? I thought it was Lord Ambrose—"

"I'm here, my dearest, right here!" cried a
familiar tenor voice. Lindsay focused upon Ambrose's flushed face as he tried
unsuccessfully to squeeze his way past Aunt Winifred and Matilda's girth to
come to her side. There was such a crush of concerned guests around her chair
that it was a wonder the two older women could maneuver at all, but together
they drew Lindsay to her feet, each gripping an arm, and she could do nothing
but walk with them.

"Aunt Winnie, I'm feeling better, really,"
she said with some embarrassment, stunned by her aunt's strange behavior. "We
don't have to rush so."

"And I tell you we do! Some say he's a spy against
Napoleon himself, but we'll have no part of that notorious fellow, oh, my dear,
no. A rake he is, not to be trusted with any young girl, and certainly not with
my—"

"Did you say a spy?" Suddenly heedless of the
curious faces as they hastened across the room, Lindsay threw a glance behind
her but saw only a distraught-looking Lord Ambrose gazing forlornly after them.
She glanced wildly to the left and right, gooseflesh dimpling her skin as she
recalled the sheer strength of her rescuer. He had gallantly gone to fetch her
punch, but who . . . ?

"Oh, dear, it certainly won't look very gracious
of me if we leave without bidding Lady Oglethorpe good night," Aunt
Winifred said with clear frustration, her fan fluttering crazily. "I'll
only be a moment, Lindsay. Stay right here by the door with Matilda."

"Never ye fear, I'll protect the lass," the
Scotswoman intoned briskly, looping her plump arm through Lindsay's. But as
Aunt Winifred bustled back into the crowd, Matilda leaned to whisper into
Lindsay's ear, "Pity he's a rogue. I've ne'er seen so handsome a gentleman
as that one, no, not even in the Highlands, where fine, strapping men are as
common as rain."

Lindsay felt her heart plummet into her slippers, her
disappointment so keen she could taste it.

A spy against Napoleon? She had been so close to so
noble and heroic a
gentleman,
and she wasn't going to
be allowed to meet him? If only she had peeked! She would have known then it
wasn't Lord Ambrose carrying her but another man altogether—

"I'm pleased to see you so remarkably recovered,
Miss Somerset. I trust you no longer need a glass of punch?"

Chapter 3

Lindsay spun around, her heart suddenly in her throat
as she met a pair of amused blue eyes.

And not just any blue, but a deep turbulent blue that
held her mesmerized, at least until a wry smile drew her gaze reluctantly away.
She was staring, she knew, but she couldn't help herself, the man truly as
handsome as Matilda had said—even more so. And to think he had held her in his
arms, had come to her rescue like a gallant knight, had

"Your lemon punch, Miss Somerset?"

Lindsay blinked. Lord, what a ninny she must appear!
Her face as warm as if she'd stood in front of a hot
oven,
she groped for something to say.

"I-I, uh, yes, the punch—so kind of you, truly,
but I'm afraid we're leaving, my aunt Winifred and I. And—and Matilda, of
course, Aunt Winnie's maid, she came with us—and she's leaving, too . . ."
Lindsay fell helplessly silent, incredulous that she was stammering such
nonsense.

"Aye, milord, 'tis true we're leaving, and Lady
Penney bade that we wait right here while she gives her good-nights."
Matilda's firm voice filled the awkward pause, Lindsay realizing that the
feisty Scotswoman still held fast as a bulldog to her arm.

"A pity. I noted during your headlong flight to the
door, Miss Somerset, that your foot appears to have mended nicely—no limp, no
injury apparent at all. Is that true?"

The husky timbre of his voice making her shiver,
Lindsay once more lost her tongue. But when his smile grew more amused, the
speculative look in his eyes clearly daring her to deny she felt right as rain,
she realized with a jolt that he was teasing her. Teasing her! He must know she
had feigned her swoon, he had
to—
he was a spy, after
all. Surely accomplished spies could recognize such things.