Anne Barbour Read online

  “Old man in church—agent for change?”

  She had been having headaches, and the one that had struck her in the chapel was a real killer.

  Wait a minute. Killer?

  Amanda Bridge had also been having headaches. Was it possible the two Amandas had been suffering from some sort of terminal awfulness? She had heard of aneurysms striking down people without warning.

  Oh, God. Oh, dear God.

  Was Amanda McGovern dead? Or, at least, the body in which Amanda McGovern had dwelled for twenty-eight years? Had her mind and spirit been transported to the body of Amanda Bridge, just as that young woman was about to die from the same ailment?

  It all made sense.

  It made no sense at all. Such a thing was impossible.

  Which brought her back to square one.

  For the rest of the morning, she pondered her situation, coming to the conclusion at last that her best option would be to carry on as though she, Amanda McGovern, really had been siphoned into the body of a Regency miss. The whole concept seemed ghoulish in the extreme, but she supposed she could get used to the idea eventually.

  She had no idea what she was going to do about the Earl of Ashindon. She had nothing against the idea of marriage, but she was not, by God, going to let somebody else select her husband for her, thank you very much. At the earliest opportunity she would turn the impoverished peer loose to find another honey fall. She resolutely squelched the quiver that raced through her insides at the thought. Good grief, at her age she certainly was not about to go all melty over a lean, hard body and a pair of sea-colored eyes that made her toes curl.

  Determinedly, she rang for Hutchings and accepted the maid’s assistance in turning her out in the most fashionable ensemble in her wardrobe.

  * * * *

  At his lodgings in Jermyn Street, Ash was expounding unhappily to James.

  “I could not believe it when Lianne launched into a pretty little welcome-to-the-family speech. She actually invited Amanda to tea.”

  “I’d like to be a fly on the wall during that tête-à-tête.” James grinned, his lean body draped across a comfortable chair as he thumbed idly through the latest edition of Gentleman’s Quarterly.

  “She said she planned to tell Amanda all the family secrets,” Ash added gloomily.

  “Ah, and what secrets might those be?”

  “Well, that’s just it—we don’t have any. Not really, at least.” Ash rose and began a restless perusal of several cards of invitation to various balls and soirees tucked into the mirror above the mantelpiece. A fire burned in the grate, for the day was cloudy and cool. The rooms were comfortable and spacious, furnished with items kept aside at the time of the sale of Ashindon House. Ash turned abruptly to face his friend. “Amanda asked me if I was in love with Lianne.”

  James lifted one shapely brow. “And are you?”

  “Good God, you know I got over her years ago. I’ve scarcely seen her since she and Grant were married.”

  “It looks as though you will be seeing a great deal of her now, though,” James said meditatively.

  “I suppose—but purely in a social context. I do not plan to visit her again.”

  “I’m pleased to hear you say that, old man, for it would be the devil of a trick to serve on Miss Bridge.”

  “Of course it would,” snapped Ash. “What do you take me for?”

  A sardonic gleam flashed in James’s expressive eyes. “A man with a problem.”

  “What problem?” Ash growled. “It’s all very simple, really. Lianne is free, but I cannot marry her. I am going to marry, instead, the Brass Bridge’s daughter, thus fulfilling my familial duties.”

  “And Lianne is going to be content with that arrangement?”

  “There is no arrangement—at least as far as Lianne is concerned, as I have told her.”

  “And yet, Lianne usually gets what she wants.”

  Ash advanced on his friend. “What do you mean by that?”

  “At the time she married Grant, your family was still reasonably solvent, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it was Grant, not you, who was to inherit the title.”

  “By God, James, if you’re implying ... Lianne had no choice, any more than I do now!” Ash’s face was white, his fingers clenched into fists.

  “No need to cut up stiff, old fellow. I only meant that Lianne may have something more in mind for the two of you than a brother/sister relationship. Particularly if her love for you was as strong as you say. No, no,” he concluded with a slow smile at the protest almost visibly forming itself on Ash’s lips. “I don’t mean to come to cuffs with you.” He unfolded his length from the comfortable wing chair in which he had been ensconced. “I must bustle off. I have an appointment with a fellow at the British Museum. Says they’ve just acquired some Roman artifacts unearthed near Gloucester.”

  After James had departed, Ash remained standing, pacing the floor abstractedly. He was forced to admit at length that, yes, he did have a problem. Despite the aching joy he had felt at the sight of Lianne, he wished wholeheartedly that she had not elected to return to London. He was determined that he would not allow himself to succumb to the feelings for her that still tore at him, but her proximity would be like living in a garden of poppies for an opium eater.

  She had mentioned something about hope for them. Surely, she did not mean ... The idea slid into his mind, sly as a thief at midnight. Almost every married man of his acquaintance kept a mistress, and many of those women had not been raised to be harlots. Some of them were gently bred, and not a few of them were ostensibly respectable widows. A vision flashed into his mind of Lianne greeting him at the door of a discreet house in, say, Chelsea. She would be dressed only in a filmy peignoir, beneath the folds of which her piquant little body would be almost wholly revealed, her full breasts thrusting toward his touch.

  He shook himself suddenly, almost gasping in revulsion. What kind of swine was he, indulging himself in lascivious fantasies? Particularly since the fulfillment of those fantasies would be paid for by the father of the woman he planned to take to his bosom in matrimony. God, how could he even think such a thing? And surely, Lianne would never be a partner to such a despicable liaison.

  In addition, even if Lianne’s nearness were to drive him into the frenzied madness of passion, he had been truthful with James at least in saying that he would not serve Amanda such a trick. Dammit, he liked her. He had not expected to—he was not sure he had even wanted to like her, but he did. She was not the pretty little widgeon he had first thought her. She was a person—a lady, and deserved his regard, even if he could not give her his love.

  He shrugged. Many successful marriages of the ton were launched with less chance of staying afloat. All he had to do was steer clear of Lianne and continue to treat his betrothed with the respect due her. That sounded simple enough, didn’t it?

  With a sigh, he flung himself into a chair and stared at the drying dregs of wine in the glass from which he had drunk in fellowship with James.

  * * * *

  “Miss Bridge! You did come. How delightful!”

  Lady Ashindon rose to greet her visitor, and as she moved forward, Amanda felt large and awkward next to her petite loveliness.

  “And you have come alone,” continued Lianne.

  Amanda became aware that she had committed a slight solecism in paying a call without her mother. “You did say you wished to be private,” said Amanda, smiling. “And I am not, after all, a schoolroom miss.” (Really, she was getting quite good at tossing off these little Regencyisms.)

  Lianne uttered a charming tinkle of laughter and settled her guest in a comfortable chair by the fire. Having ordered tea, she sank gracefully into a chair nearby.

  “I am sorry my aunt is not here to greet you, but she should be home shortly. I know she will love you—she is the dearest old thing. Now”—an impish smile curled her lips—”you must Tell All. How did you and Will—no, Ash—h
ow did you and Ash meet? Was it love at first sight? Did he spy you from across the room and lose his heart instantly?”

  Amanda’s returning smile was less than wholehearted. Despite Lianne’s insouciant manner, Amanda sensed a hint of mockery behind her words.

  “Oh, it was nothing so romantic, I’m afraid,” she said, silently cursing her inane stiffness. She spoke carefully. “Lord Ashindon was looking for a wife, and a mutual friend introduced him to my father.” Amanda saw no reason to mention that the “friend” was Ash’s solicitor. “When we became acquainted, we decided that we would suit. Nothing has been announced yet,” she added hastily. “My mother wishes to wait until next week, when we are giving a ball.”

  Lianne’s green eyes twinkled. “Yes, but that is not what is going to make your betrothal official. Did you not receive an invitation from Grandmama Ashindon to her dinner party, to be held Tuesday next? No? Ah, well, mine came only this afternoon. Yours will no doubt be awaiting you when you arrive home.”

  “Perhaps,” said Amanda carefully, “you should tell me a little about Grandmama Ashindon.”

  Lianne laughed aloud. “She’s three-and-eighty years old. She is small and feeble and frail and the entire family goes in terror of her.”

  “Why?” asked Amanda, drawing in a startled breath.

  “Because there’s nothing at all feeble about her mind, and she has a tongue like a whip thong.”

  “Oh.”

  “She loathes almost everyone in the family, with the possible exception of Ash, which is something of a mystery, because he is sometimes insufferably rude to her. I’m sure she will like you—if only for Ash’s sake.”

  “Oh.”

  Amanda cast about in her mind for a subject with which to change the conversation. “Ash tells me you are recently returned to London from your home in Wiltshire.”

  “Yes, this is my first visit since Grant—passed away.”

  “I—I’m sorry,” said Amanda faintly, wondering how genuinely the widow grieved.

  “Don’t be,” said Lianne with a brave smile. As though she had read Amanda’s mind she added, “I am done with grief. I have put off my blacks, and although I shall be in half-mourning for a few more months, I plan to get on with my life.”

  And the pursuit of the Earl of Ashindon? wondered Amanda uncharitably. “I understand,” she said after a moment, “that you and your husband knew each other as children.”

  “Oh, yes. Grant and Ash and I grew up together. That is, for a while. Grant was two years older than Ash and I—I was much younger than Ash, so Grant seemed quite the sophisticated young man to me.”

  I don’t think so. Amanda’s worse side continued to hold sway over her thoughts. From what Ash had said, Lianne was only slightly his junior. The little widow must be inching up on thirty.

  “You and Ash were—much attached to each other as children.” Amanda hated herself for the little game she was playing, but she seemed driven to discover how much Lianne and Ash meant to each other.

  Lianne sobered. “Has Ash told you nothing of our—relationship?”

  “He said that you and he intended to marry. I’m sorry—” Amanda began again, but Lianne lifted her hand as though she could not bear to hear more.

  “Yes, it’s true.” Tears bedewed her thick lashes in crystalline drops. “Even as children we knew we were destined for each other, and when our families conspired to destroy our happiness, it broke my heart.” She dropped her gaze to her lap. “I had no choice but to marry Grant. I had a great affection for him, but it was nothing to the love I bore Ash. Ash, too, was devastated.”

  Her voice caught. “We saw each other only a few times after I married Grant, but he came to see me last week—almost immediately after my arrival here. Even after all this time”—she sighed—”our hearts still beat as one. When he k—that is, it took but one look from him to tell me he still—”

  Lianne looked up suddenly, an expression of alarm in her eyes. “Oh, dear God, I cannot imagine what came over me to speak so. I should not be saying these things, but I feel you have a sympathetic heart.”

  Despite her tendency toward the purple in her speech, Lianne’s anguish seemed genuine. “No,” replied Amanda gently. “I appreciate your confidence, for I wish to hear the truth—if it is not too painful for you.”

  Lianne sighed. “My family is of the gentry, so to speak, my father being the third son of a lord, but he thought the marriage of his daughter to an earl would be of great advantage. He knew Grant’s inheritance would be relatively meager, however the title is old and prestigious, as was the estate that went with it. The Park at that time was one of the largest estates in the country, though it had not been well managed. Father thought that, under his guidance, Grant would bring the place back to its former prosperity. Things did not work out that way,” she concluded dryly.

  “Ash told me,” said Amanda hesitantly, “that Grant was something of a... spendthrift.”

  “He was—and not ‘something of.’ He was an out and out wastrel, and even if he had been inclined to listen to Father, he was never home long enough to do so. He spent most of his time in London.”

  “But he—he died at home?”

  “Not exactly at home,” replied Lianne bitterly. “He peltered down to Wiltshire on one of his periodic repairing leases and on his first night back rode over to The Barking Dog, a disreputable ale house in the village. He drank and gambled there, and fell into a dispute with John Binter, a local farmer. Grant was so drunk he could hardly stand when he and Binter went outside to settle their differences. Binter felled him with one blow. Grant hit his head on the edge of a watering trough and died instantly.”

  “Dear God,” breathed Amanda.

  An awkward silence fell in the small salon at the back of Lady Ashindon’s house, and Amanda was vastly relieved when Lianne rose to greet an older woman who entered the room.

  “Aunt Biddy! You have finished your errands? Excellent, for you are just in time to meet Ash’s betrothed—or, at least, almost betrothed.” She shot an apologetic glance at Amanda. “Miss Bridge, this is Miss Beatrix Bonner, my father’s sister. She was good enough to leave her pursuits in the country to act as my companion.”

  Amanda dropped an uncertain curtsy and Miss Bonner nodded regally. The nickname bestowed upon her by her niece was, thought Amanda, singularly appropriate, for she was the very personification of a Regency “ape leader,” and looked like a well-bred, but cantankerous horse. She seated herself in a satin-covered chair near her niece and accepted a cup of tea from her.

  “Miss Bridge,” said Lianne with a slight tremor in her voice, “was just going to tell me about her family.”

  “Er,” said Amanda. “Yes. My father—”

  “Yes,” interposed Miss Bonner. “I have heard of him. Jeremiah Bridge.” She sniffed. “He is a wool merchant, is he not?”

  Amanda knew a spurt of irritation at such blatant snobbery, but she answered calmly. “Yes, among other things. My mother—”

  “Yes, I remember Serena Blythe. Such a to-do when she married your father.”

  “So I understand,” replied Amanda through clenched teeth. Good grief, if Lianne considered her aunt to be “the dearest old thing,” what must Grandmama Ashindon be like?

  After another fifteen minutes or so of conversation, during which Miss Bonner oozed genteel venom all over Lianne’s parlor, Amanda made her escape. With expressions of pleasure at the opportunity to converse with the countess and to meet her delightful aunt, and a declaration that she would be counting the days until the dinner party at the home of the dowager countess, Amanda fled the house and flung herself into the haven of the Bridge town carriage.

  On the way home, she contemplated all that she had learned in her conversation with the widowed countess. It was obvious that Lianne and Ash were still deeply in love. Silently, she renewed her determination not to continue in her empty betrothal to Ash. She still could not understand how Ash could deny his love for Liann
e merely to seek an advantageous marriage for himself. He simply did not seem the type. Ah well, she thought wisely, if a bit dispiritedly, the call of the almighty dollar—or in this case, pound—was often loud enough to drown out the sound of a man’s conscience.

  She looked out the carriage window and saw, to her relief, that she had arrived home. Odd, she was having less and less difficulty in referring thus to the house in Upper Brook Street. She could never think of Jeremiah and Serena Bridge as her parents, but she felt, somewhat to her dismay, that she was beginning to put down roots here among the alien corn.

  Chapter Eleven

  Amanda entered the house to discover Ash standing in the entrance hall. Jeremiah had evidently come out of his study to greet him. “Ah, Amanda, we have a visitor.” He rubbed his hands briskly. “What can I do for you, my lord? Have you come to discuss the marriage settlements?”

  Ash’s face stiffened for a moment before his lips curved into a pleasant smile. “Actually,” he said, “I have come to instruct your daughter in the performance of one or two country dances.”

  Jeremiah’s jaw dropped open unbecomingly.

  “I have quite forgotten how to do them, Papa,” said Amanda hastily. “My—unfortunate accident, you know.”

  Jeremiah glowered suspiciously but was seemingly unable either to find a reason for Amanda’s lying about such a thing, or to fault her proposal to spend an unexceptionable hour with her betrothed in a genteel pastime under her papa’s roof. Throwing his hands over his head, he stamped out of the room.

  “Perhaps we ought to start with a reel,” said Ash a few minutes later as they entered the music room. “This is going to be somewhat difficult,” he continued, “without the presence of several more dancers, but we will make do. Can you hum?”

  Amanda searched his face, but there was nothing there that spoke of a kiss shared in a scented garden. She suppressed a stab of disappointment. “Hmmmmmm—mm-mmm—hmmm,” she thrummed uncertainly, phasing after a moment into the only reel song she could think of, The Irish Washerwoman.