Anne Barbour Read online

  Jeremiah seemed determined that his offspring bring him the social acceptance he craved so badly. Would he cut his recalcitrant daughter off without a penny when she ultimately refused to marry the impoverished earl? How would she earn her own way in this alien environment?

  She smiled sourly. If only she had known she was about to find herself in this situation, she would have boned up on her Regency minutia. It would be a very handy thing to know right now who would be the winners of upcoming prizefights, or parliamentary elections. She could make a small fortune at the track—provided she could find a way to circumvent the absurd restrictions on female activity currently in vogue.

  Her academic skills would certainly be of no use to her here—unless, perhaps she could hire on in one of the ladies’ seminaries that seemed to dot the Regency landscape. But no, a knowledge of literature was not required of young ladies of the ton. Perhaps she could teach music, although except for the piano, her expertise in that field was limited.

  Well, she was a raving beauty. Perhaps a career on the stage. Mmm. Her experience in “the theatah” was limited to a performance as Tiny Tim in the fourth grade, but with a little luck and a lot of chutzpah, maybe—

  She brought her hands down on the keys with a discordant jangle. This was getting her nowhere. What she really needed to do was find a way to get back to her own time. Despite the advantages of a whole beautiful body and the bloom of youth, she did not belong here. Her former life had not been wholly satisfactory, but she had carved a niche for herself there. She had acquired the security of a good career, and she enjoyed her work. There would be no Lord Ashindon in 1996. The thought flashed, unwanted, in her mind, and she was obliged to suppress very firmly the pang she experienced as a result. Good grief, dark-haired earls with eyes like a winter sea had no place in her life. No, there was no question in her mind that she wished to live out her life in her own time.

  Now then, if her earlier calculations were correct, her former self was six feet under by now, but if who or whatever was responsible for bringing her here had such a facility with time, surely she could be brought back to her own century in time to fix her aneurysm or whatever it was that had done her in.

  She shook her head. This was really confusing. If only she could connect up again with the person in the spectacles. If she did encounter him/her, she would grab hold and not let go until she got some answers.

  Why in the world, she wondered, had Ash been so upset at the idea of getting as much money as possible out of Jeremiah before the big breakup. The old fool had plenty and it might as well be put to some use besides gratifying his own selfish wishes.

  With this laudable thought in mind, she went up to her bedchamber for a thorough perusal of her jewel box.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the days following her instructive self-confrontation, Amanda endeavored to confine her activities to those befitting a proper Regency miss. She paid morning visits with Serena, she practiced her stitchery, for which she discovered she had absolutely no aptitude, and, under her mother’s tutorial eye, poured over volumes of The Lady’s Magazine and La Belle Assemblée, choosing bride clothes. She found herself in Serena’s black books only once when she went jogging early one morning in Hyde Park. It was her lack of anything resembling proper footwear, however, rather than her mama’s strictures that prevented a repetition of this activity.

  Lord Ashindon did not come near the house in Upper Brook Street, and by the end of the week Amanda was in a state of boredom bordering on the frantic. When the day arrived of the dinner party at Grandmama Ashindon’s, she welcomed it almost with relief.

  The earl was to collect his betrothed and his future in-laws shortly before the whole party was expected at Lady Ashindon’s, and in her bedchamber Amanda fretted and jittered as Hutchings performed her tasks.

  “Now, miss,” said the maid, “if you do not hold still, you’re going to look as though you were pulled into this gown backward. And it is so lovely, you will not wish to ruin the effect.”

  Indeed, thought Amanda gazing once more in bewildered awe at her reflection in the mirror, Serena had outdone herself, for the gown was her mama’s choice. It was gold satin, of a shade that almost exactly matched her hair, and it fell in heavy folds to her feet. Atop drifted a tunic of palest gauze, embroidered with gold acorns, and with it she wore a topaz necklace that gleamed richly against the creamy smoothness of her skin.

  Hutchings had foresworn the usual curls this evening, instead sweeping Amanda’s hair into an old-fashioned polished coil that lay smooth as taffy on her neck. A few tendrils escaped to frame her face in a tantalizing filigree. Amanda longed for a camera to capture this fleeting moment of beauty that would vanish like the golden glory of a dawn sky should she ever manage to assume her own shape in her own time.

  She was alone in the drawing room when Ash made his appearance, and his gray eyes darkened to the shade of embers shot through with lingering traces of fire.

  He said nothing, but bowed over her hand, his lips brushing her fingertips with a sensuous warmth that she felt down to her toes. She was breathless, suddenly, and welcomed the bustling entrance of Serena a moment later, followed by Jeremiah.

  Her father immediately instituted a machine gun burst of conversation, and Amanda realized with some surprise that he was nervous.

  “Evening, Ashindon. Fine evening, eh? Well, don’t you look pretty as paint, Amanda? I reckon her ladyship will welcome you with open arms tonight. Don’t you think, my lord?” He plowed ahead without waiting for an answer. “Of course, my Serena is well acquainted with many of the nobs who will be at your grandmama’s house tonight. Her grandfather was the Earl of Brashing, you know. Will you take a glass of Bordeaux, Ashindon? It’s a LaFitte, and prime stuff, I assure you.”

  This, however, the earl declined with suitable expressions of regret, remarking that Lady Ashindon was expecting them shortly.

  “And if there’s anything that sets Grandmama’s back up it’s tardiness,” he concluded.

  Amanda glanced at her father, but the expected heightening of color and belligerent stance did not appear. Instead, Jeremiah ceased all conversation, bellowed for Serena, who appeared at his side just as he opened his mouth, and bustled his family anxiously into the hall, calling for outer garments and the carriage, which was already waiting at the curb.

  The Dowager Countess of Ashindon resided in one of the smaller domiciles of Grosvenor Square. “The old girl may have been forced to economy,” Ash whispered to his betrothed, “but she says she’s damned if she will live in some shabby-genteel neighborhood in the wilds of Knightsbridge or Kensington.”

  The little party was greeted at the door by a butler of such supercilious mien that Amanda could be forgiven her initial assumption that he must be a visiting duke who happened at the moment to be passing through the entrance hall. A liveried footman escorted them up the elegant, curved staircase to the drawing room above. The servant announced their presence in stentorian tones and Amanda found herself almost flinching as a phalanx of quizzing glasses and lorgnettes were raised to catch the glitter of candlelight.

  “Come in, come in,” called a clear voice from the center of the group. “Don’t just stand there gawping.” Amanda focused on a small figure swathed in black and seated in a large wing chair. Her snow white hair was swept into an imposing coiffure and topped with a feathered turban, and round her thin neck twined several feet of jewel-encrusted gold chains. Her feet, which would not have reached the ground, rested on a tapestry footstool and a glimpse of frivolous satin slippers peeked from beneath her heavy bombazine skirts.

  Slipping a hand beneath Amanda’s elbow, Ash drew her toward this absurdly august presence and Serena and Jeremiah followed in meek procession.

  “Grandmama,” Ash said easily, “may I present Mr. and Mrs. Jeremiah Bridge and their daughter, Miss Bridge.”

  “Yes, yes.” The dowager waved her hand impatiently. “I know who they are.” She fixed Serena with a
glittering stare. “I remember you. Polly Marshfield’s gel, ain’t you? Married to disoblige your family, didn’tcher?” She swung her glare to Jeremiah. “And look how it all turned out.” Her grimace erased any doubt as to the inference that might be drawn from this statement, and Serena wilted perceptibly.

  Once more, Amanda waited for the explosion that should have resulted. Jeremiah’s heavy jowls reddened, but he said jovially, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, your ladyship.” In the awkward silence that followed, he looked about him and rubbed his hands. “Nice place you have here—everything bang up to the echo.”

  Amanda cringed inwardly and Lady Ashindon sniffed. “How would you know?” she asked baldly, and before Jeremiah could respond, turned her attention to Amanda. “Come forward, gel,” she ordered. “Let me look at you.”

  Amanda felt she should extend her arms and turn slowly about, but she stood motionless, her gaze calm as the dowager’s snapping black eyes surveyed her from head to toe.

  “Mmf.” The countess sniffed again. “Never did care for simpering misses with yaller curls.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” replied Amanda, smiling. “For there’s not much I can do about the yellow hair. However, I try to keep my simpering to a minimum.”

  A collective gasp rose from those gathered around the dowager, whose eyes gleamed with the light of battle. Once more her gaze traveled the length of Amanda’s form. “You need more meat on your bones. I greatly deplore the tendency of our modern misses to starve themselves for fashion. Look at those hips. Too narrow by half for breeding.”

  An explosive, embarrassed giggle escaped from a tall woman who stood at the dowager’s side.

  “Do you think so?” asked Amanda reflectively, her gaze surveying the old lady in turn. “You seem a bit on the scant side yourself, my lady, but I understand you presented your husband with—what was it?—eight children?”

  The group shuddered as one and all eyes turned toward the dowager, who uttered a sharp bark of what might have been laughter. She leveled her jeweled lorgnette at Amanda’s décolletage. “At least, you’ll be able to suckle your young ‘uns by the looks of those bubbies.”

  At this, a gurgle of vocal embarrassment rippled through those gathered behind the dowager, and Amanda felt Ash’s fingers tighten on her arm. She had earlier, in the privacy of her bedchamber, protested at the expanse of bosom displayed by the gold satin gown, and knew she was blushing at the old woman’s outrageous remark. Nevertheless, she straightened—thereby emphasizing her mammary capabilities even further—and looked the dowager in the eye.

  “Why, thank you, my lady. It is always reassuring to be told that one is well fitted for what must surely be a woman’s primary purpose in life.”

  She heard Ash’s indrawn breath and felt the amusement that shook him silently. The dowager bent a sharp look on her guest and expelled another gust of laughter. “Well,” she wheezed, “at least you ain’t one of those niminy-piminy milk-and-water misses.” She turned and glared at her nearest and dearest, still assembled behind her. “Come forward and introduce yourselves instead of herding together like a pack of sheep. Emmie, stop that insane giggling and introduce yourself.”

  The tall woman, who was by now crimson-cheeked, stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “I am Emily Wexford.” She smiled hesitantly. “I am Ash’s aunt. I live with Grandmama as her companion.” She ignored the audible snort that issued from the old lady. “And this,” said the woman, turning to the person on her right, “is Ash’s cousin, James Brinkeley, who is married to my niece, Hortense.”

  The rest came forward then, and the next few minutes became a blur of assorted aunts, uncles, cousins, and a few friends, who all expressed themselves delighted to welcome dear Miss Bridge, and of course, her mama and papa into the family.

  Their delight, thought Amanda, seemed more than easily restrained, for their greetings to the Bridges were blatantly condescending. Next to her, she felt Ash stiffen, and she smiled her most brilliant smile at the gentleman bowing over her hand.

  “Lord Meecham, so nice to meet you. And Lady Meecham, you are the daughter of whom? Ah, I see, another cousin. Yes, indeed, I had no idea that Ash’s family was so large.”

  In the background, Serena twittered determinedly and Jeremiah, for once at a loss for words, loomed at her side, silent and distressed.

  “Bravo, Amanda!” said a familiar voice in her ear, and Amanda turned to behold the younger of the two countesses of Ashindon. Her gown of soft gray silk embroidered in silver brought out the emerald splendor of her eyes. “I don’t believe Grandmama has absorbed such a set-down since she tried to out-insult the Tsar’s sister last summer at the Peace celebrations.”

  “Oh,” said Amanda, startled. “I did not mean—”

  “Of course not,” interposed Ash easily. “Grandmama was merely testing your mettle. She will ride roughshod over anyone who allows it, but she loathes those she can bully. I believe you can consider yourself vetted, my dear,” he said to Amanda, and on hearing the laughter in his voice she looked at him quickly to see it reflected in his cloud-colored eyes.

  Lianne’s glance flickered between them and she said rather pettishly, “Well, we all know you can twist Grandmama about your little finger, Ash. How nice that your bride will be able to do the same thing. Oh, there is Melissa waving at me. Melissa Wexford,” she said to Amanda. “Cousin George’s wife. I have not spoken with her for this age.”

  Her smile, as she hurried away with a waggle of her fingers, seemed a little strained to Amanda and she turned to Ash.

  “I think talk of twisting about fingers is a little premature. Your grandmama did not actually bite me, but I hardly think she considers me granddaughter-in-law material.”

  Amanda thought she saw a hint of admiration in Ash’s returning smile. “You spoke up to her and lived to tell about it. Believe me, the fact that she did not bite you bodes extremely well for your future relationship with her.”

  After that, there was little chance for private conversation with her betrothed, for they found themselves virtually surrounded by curious relatives until the butler entered to announce majestically that dinner was served.

  Jeremiah had been placed on the dowager’s right, and it became immediately obvious that he and her ladyship had not hit it off. She flayed him with stiletto-like barbs and slashing insults until Amanda fully expected him to start dripping blood all over the pristine table cover. She had no love for the bully who was her father, but she watched, sickened, as he simply clamped his jaws shut and bowed his massive head under the onslaught. Next to him, Serena sat silently, her face screwed into an expression of pained helplessness.

  Ash sat on the matriarch’s left and joined with Amanda in an effort to divert his grandmother from her malicious pleasures.

  “I have spent a pleasant week, Grandmama, in instructing Amanda in country dancing.”

  “Instructing!” exclaimed the countess. “Good God, gel, don’t you know how to dance?”

  “Of course, she does,” said Ash hastily, looking as though he wished he had chosen another subject. “I told you of her recent, ah, accident and her subsequent loss of memory. She recalls the waltz, but—”

  “Is that what they’re calling it?” asked the old lady with a great show of indignation. “In my day we had another name for it. If you ask me, carrying on in such a manner in plain view of everyone else in the room is nothing short of—well, enough said. I don’t know what’s happened to old-fashioned decency these days. I hear they’re even doing it at Almack’s.”

  “I would not know about that,” said Amanda, serenely cutting her fricando of veal. “I have never been inside Almack’s.”

  “Eh?” The dowager’s voice cracked in surprise. “Do you mean to—”

  “The thing is,” interposed Serena nervously. “We—Amanda has not—as yet—received vouchers.”

  “Ump,” growled the old lady. “Patronesses snubbing you, are they? Spiteful cats.” She glared at
Jeremiah, placing the blame for this circumstance clearly where it belonged. “Well,” she continued at length, “we shall see what we shall see. I have chosen to retire from the social scene, but I believe I am not quite without influence.”

  Amanda thought privately that the dowager could probably topple governments if she were so inclined. Serena perked up considerably at her words and beamed impartially upon the countess, her husband, her daughter, and her future son-in-law.

  By the end of the meal, it had become apparent to all those present that the dowager countess of Ashindon had decided to approve of Amanda, and the atmosphere warmed noticeably.

  After dinner, when the gentlemen had joined the ladies in the drawing room, the assembly was treated to musical performances by various of the attendant females. Cousin Susan Wellbeloved played two selections on the pianoforte, and Aunt Jane Wexford produced a lengthy étude on the harp. Aunt Melissa Gentry sang several country ballads in a sweet soprano.

  “Grandmama,” said Ash at length, “perhaps you could prevail upon Miss Bridge to play for us. She is truly a gifted pianist.”

  To her surprise, neither Serena nor Jeremiah demurred, her mother only lifting her brows a little. “Have you anything prepared, dearest?” she whispered across Ash. Amanda experienced a small start at this evidence that young Amanda must have possessed a musical talent, and she nodded uncertainly.

  “Let’s hear you, gel,” said the dowager autocratically, and smiling with a confidence that was belied by the trembling of her fingers, Amanda rose to take a seat at the rosewood piano.

  She began with a short series of Hayden variations, and having accomplished this without mishap, followed it with Mozart’s Turkish Rondo. She was greeted by such an enthusiastic burst of applause that she launched into the passionate third movement of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” She was not sure if this particular piece of music had been written yet, but at least Ludwig was alive now and had been composing for some years. She concluded with Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze.”