Anne Barbour Page 15

  A woman of many talents, his betrothed, mused Ash, watching from the back of the room as Amanda left the piano to seat herself next to her mother. Most men, he reflected sadly, would consider themselves fortunate to take her to wife. A wave of bitterness swept over him. If only he had never known Lianne, perhaps there might have been a chance that he would come to love his wife. But Lianne had always been a barrier between him and every other woman he had subsequently come to know. She was as much a part of him as his breath, and he would never be free of her memory. Even now, he had but to close his eyes and her image rose before him as clearly as though he held her in his arms. He could almost feel her soft, dark hair tickling his chin, and the magic of her green eyes stirred him to his depths. Oh, God, if only...

  His thoughts trailed into oblivion as he became aware of a familiar scent assailing his senses. He turned, and his heart lurched as he observed the object of his reverie seating herself beside him.

  “She plays beautifully,” said Lianne a trifle wistfully.

  “Yes.” Please, my love, do not sit so close. For God’s sake, I cannot bear it. Please just go away.

  Instead, she placed a small hand on his sleeve. “Ash, I must speak to you. Now, while everyone is occupied—see? Cousin Arabella is going to sing, and she will go on forever. Please, let us slip away for a moment.”

  “Lianne—” But at the expression in her eyes Ash was unable to complete his protest. Reluctantly, he rose to follow her as she left the room and slipped into a chamber a few feet down the corridor. When she turned to face him, her face was wet with tears.

  “Oh, Ash,” she sobbed, “I am so unhappy!” Without waiting for a reply, she hurled herself into his arms and buried her face in the folds of his cravat.

  “Lianne,” he began again, “my love, do not torture yourself.” Gently he removed her arms from about his neck and bent to kiss her gently on the lips. When she would have pressed against him for more, he pulled away. “We must not,” he concluded, his breath harsh in his throat.

  She stepped back, her gaze stricken. “Dear God, Ash, it is as I feared. You do not love me. She has won you over.” She averted her face. “I suppose it was to be expected. She is so very beautiful—and charming—and rich.” She spoke the last word with loathing.

  “You are wrong,” Ash growled. “You know how I feel about you—but there is no future for us, my darling. I have chosen duty over love—as you were forced to do once before. I must get on with my life now, and so must you, for there is nothing left for us.”

  “Oh, but, Ash, there might be.” Once more Lianne lifted her arms, this time to place her hands on his lapels in a supplicating gesture. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I have thought and thought about us, my love.”

  “And... ?” whispered Ash softly.

  “I don’t think I can bear to say good-bye to you. When I married Grant, you left right away and for years we did not even see each other. I was not forced to—to look at you all the time and know that what we felt for each other could never be. But, now— I am part of your family, and we shall constantly be forced into each other’s company.”

  “Yes,” groaned Ash, “I know, and that’s why—”

  “Can you tell me, dearest, that you will be content with, ‘Good day, Lianne. Is your mother well? Have you been to the Opera lately?’ Will you be able to greet me day after day, month after month, year after year without—this?” She stood on tiptoe and brushed his lips with hers, lingering until his breathing deepened and became rough. Unthinking, his arms went about her, tightening into an embrace that left him shaken with guilt and longing.

  “My God, Lianne!” Ash pulled away and stared at her, honor-stricken. Deep in the green depths of her gaze, he thought he detected the ghost of a smile, but the next moment, all he could see was the mirror of his own passion.

  “It isn’t fair, my darling, that we should have to give up the only happiness each of us will ever know.” Once more, tears glittered like rain in a forest. “Will you at least visit me once in a while?”

  “Lianne, I do not think—”

  “If I can share just a small portion of your life, perhaps I could—manage to live my own.” Once more, a shuddering sigh escaped her full, red lips. “But I will understand if you feel you cannot.” She glanced at him from beneath the thick forest of her lashes.

  “My dearest...” Ash’s voice was almost metallic in his intensity. “You cannot have considered… You know what it might lead to.”

  “I am so tired of considering, and I can see no other way for us to be together.” Another sob escaped her as she spoke. She ran her fingers lightly over Ash’s cheek, and he shivered.

  “My dearest love,” he whispered, sweeping her hand away to clasp it in his. “We will see each other frequently, and every moment will give me pain. If we were to be alone together, I don’t see how I could not—”

  Lianne smiled sadly. “I understand, Ash. Truly, I do.” She shook herself a little. “We must return before we are missed. Perhaps you are right. I must have been mad to importune you in such a manner. Please try to forget that I so lost myself. I wish I could say that I shall be brave, but I’m not sure I can do that. I shall just…” Her breath caught, and as though she could not bear to speak further, she turned and whirled from the room.

  Slowly, every movement seeming to require more effort than he was capable of, Ash followed her.

  Amanda watched him as he entered the room again. She had noticed his departure, as well as that of the young countess, and now her eyes widened a little. Lord, Ash looked as though someone had just kicked him in the stomach. She did not attempt to speak to him, however, and they did not come together again until much later, when Ash brought his betrothed before the dowager to say farewell.

  “You play very well, gel,” said the old lady. “Come see me again, Amanda. Perhaps later this week. There is a matter I would discuss with you.”

  The ride home was enlivened by Serena’s glowing predictions of Amanda’s future as the wife of the Earl of Ashindon.

  “For the dowager likes you, my dear,” she said blissfully. “Mark my words, by next week you shall have your vouchers to Almack’s.” Her cup obviously running over, Serena continued in this vein at some length.

  “And then,” interposed Jeremiah with sour satisfaction, “mayhap we’ll see the inside of some of the grand places in Grosvenor Square—and Berkeley, as well. I’ve always wanted to visit Devonshire House,” he finished with relish.

  Amanda glanced at Ash, but he was a chill silhouette against the carriage window. What had happened, she wondered, between him and Lianne during their brief absence from the drawing room? Right now, she could feel distaste and a sense of despair radiating from him, and she immediately clamped down on the desire to reach out her gloved hand to touch him. It was uncanny, she reflected, how attuned to his moods she seemed to be, and she wasn’t sure she cared for that one whit. She had no desire to increase the intimacy between herself and this man, for there could be no future for her with him.

  Watching his face, her heart skidded in her breast. Dear God, what was her future to be? And why did the thought that whatever that future might hold, it would not contain William, Lord Ashindon, cause a knife-edged pang to shoot through her?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Later that evening, Ash sat alone in the sitting room of his chambers in Jermyn Street. Sipping meditatively at the brandy placed at his side by his valet, he reviewed the events of the evening. It was done, then. Amanda had been accepted by his family—most particularly by its matriarch, which somehow, despite the signings and handshakes earlier with Jeremiah Bridge and his attorneys, made the betrothal truly official. All that remained now was Serena Bridge’s announcement ball and the notice in The Morning Post.

  He sighed heavily, waiting for the familiar sense of despair to descend on him. Instead, his lips curved in a smile as a picture rose before him of the confrontation between his fiancée and his grandmothe
r. There was no question Amanda had routed the old dragon, foot, horse, and artillery. “Bubbies,” indeed. He laughed aloud. Most women he knew would have simply dissolved in a paroxysm of embarrassment, but Amanda had remained cool and possessed. He drew a rather unsteady breath as he thought of the splendor of her bosom, displayed to such advantage in the low-cut gold gown that swept on to cling tantalizingly to hip and thigh.

  Good Lord, he thought, startled. He was not in the habit of harboring such thoughts about a woman other than Lianne. Well, no, that was ridiculous. He had not lived like a monk, after all, in the years since her marriage to his cousin, but his liaisons were generally with a different sort of woman, carried out as a giving and taking of transitory pleasure. He was not used to assessing the charms of unmarried ladies of breeding, with whom, in the normal course of things, he had little social contact. Of course, few ladies of his acquaintance possessed the blinding attributes of Amanda Bridge.

  He paused in thought, his glass halfway to his lips. But it wasn’t merely Amanda’s beauty that drew him to her, was it? No, he found the inner woman equally compelling. Her artless, frank conversation was fascinating, and even when she was at her most infuriatingly unconventional he had to admire her wit and her intelligence.

  The smile died. Amanda had declared her intention of ending their betrothal. Coming from any other woman he would have seen her offer as some sort of ploy—an indication that she had set her sights on a richer prize. A duke, possibly—one that was not impoverished? Or perhaps she was still harboring a tender sentiment or two for that hedge-bird Cosmo Satterleigh. But—no, he was convinced her only thought was to free him so that he could marry the woman he truly loved. A charming, if somewhat impractical aspiration.

  Not that he wasn’t tempted, of course. To marry Lianne was the summit of his dreams, was it not? He allowed himself to slip into the familiar daydream of life with Lianne. He thought of the two of them, living in the quietude of Ashindon Park, working together to bring the place back to its old glory.

  He frowned as he recalled her words earlier that evening. Visits from the Earl of Ashindon to his cousin’s widow in the presence of the widow’s very proper maiden aunt would surely be considered unexceptionable. Yet somehow he felt this was not what Lianne had in mind. Her demeanor had suggested clandestine assignations without benefit of chaperon. Good God, such a situation would be only slightly less forbidden than if she were his mistress. He could not believe Lianne had made such a suggestion. It warmed him, naturally, that she would turn her back on the standards of a lifetime, but the prospect appalled him, nonetheless.

  He had thought Lianne unchanged from the lissome girl she had been when she married Grant, but he was mistaken. She certainly had not aged noticeably—she was still achingly beautiful— but her voice seemed a trifle more shrill, her expression just a little harder than he remembered. He chastised himself immediately. Of course she had changed. Six years of marriage to Grant was bound to change anyone for the worse, but she was still his love, the woman he would give his soul to possess.

  It was not to be, however, and he may as well face that fact. He would have to persuade Amanda to face it, as well. Amanda Bridge was shortly to become the Countess of Ashindon, his wife, the mother of his heir. A guilty surge of pleasure shot through him at the thought of getting a son on that golden beauty, and his throat tightened as he wondered how the silken sweep of her hair would feel splayed across his chest.

  He shook himself. My God, this had to stop. How could he love one woman and think so lasciviously of another? His jaw tightened. He would do well to remember that it was not just Amanda he was marrying. He could talk of separating himself and his bride from the Bridges, but he would be inextricably wed to her family, all the same. It was a prospect almost too dreadful to contemplate. Serena could be borne, but the thought of being bound to Jeremiah Bridge socially and emotionally for an interminable stretch of years weighed down on him like death itself.

  Ash rose from his chair, and stiffening his shoulders, he set his glass down on the table beside him. It would be all he could do to maintain his fortitude for the immediate future, for Serena Bridge’s confounded ball loomed before him, and that was enough to cut up any man’s peace.

  Cursing softly, he took himself off to bed.

  * * * *

  Amanda woke early the next morning, though the events of the previous evening had kept her staring wide-eyed at the canopy above her bed for some time the night before. She was rather surprised to discover that, for the most part, she had enjoyed herself. She had found the confrontation with the dowager countess exhilarating and rather thought she and the old lady might become friends. Since she had been asked to return, it might be assumed the dowager felt the same.

  It was too bad the meeting between the old countess and Jeremiah had not been so felicitous. Couldn’t the man see that groveling was not the way to the dowager’s esteem? How could he have brought himself to behave so? It was perfectly obvious by now that groveling was as foreign to his nature as it was to hers. How sad that he so desperately wanted the approbation of the ton. Particularly since, even with his daughter married to an earl, he was so unlikely to achieve anything close to social acceptance by “the nobs.”

  Amanda shrugged. Jeremiah Bridge was what he was, and as such was not deserving, in her opinion, of much sympathy. She addressed herself to the chocolate and biscuits brought a few minutes earlier by Hutchings. She smiled wryly. It had not taken her long to become accustomed to being waited on hand and foot. If and when she ever made it back to the twentieth century, she’d have a hard time combing her own hair.

  Later, over breakfast, Serena detailed plans for a shopping expedition that morning, adding with the air of one proffering a special treat, that Charlotte and Cordelia would be welcome as well. Amanda, always willing to add a new experience to her sojourn in Regency London, agreed.

  It was not long, however, before Amanda regretted her impulse; she had always found shopping tedious in the extreme, and changing time periods had not rendered it any more pleasurable.

  “Dearest, do you not agree that this would be perfect?”

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Amanda wearily. She was vaguely aware that they were standing in perhaps the sixth draper’s shop they had visited during the course of the morning.

  As soon as they had collected Charlotte and Cordelia, Serena had ordered the coachman to Leicester Square and during the short drive had volubly consulted the list she carried. Now, Amanda became aware that the footman trailing behind them staggered under a mountain of parcels to which not only Serena had contributed, but Charlotte and Cordelia as well. For the two damsels, each accompanied by excruciatingly proper companions, were also in the throes of choice for what Amanda was coming to think of as The Home Stretch Ball.

  “This blue satin,” replied Serena. “It is just what we have been looking for. It almost exactly matches the color of your eyes— and it is the dearest merchandise in the store,” she concluded with satisfaction.

  When Amanda made no response beyond an abstracted nod of her head, Serena shook her own sadly. “I don’t know what’s come over you, my dear. I suppose you are still suffering the effects of the blow to your head, but you are sorely cutting up my peace. You used to be in alt over the prospect of a shopping trip, particularly for a ball gown. Now—”

  Amanda was swept by a wave of compunction. She bent to examine the material under discussion. “Oh, Mama, this is lovely. I’m sorry if I have been somewhat distracted, but it’s not every day a girl becomes engaged. Please say you forgive my fidgets.” She hugged her mother briefly. “I agree, it’s absolutely perfect. Do we need a tunic, do you think? It seems a shame to cover even so much as an inch of this magnificent fabric.”

  “Mm,” said Serena judiciously, “I believe you are right, dearest. The gown we selected from La Belle Assemblée calls for an overdress of net, but the design ... Yes, it will do much better alone.” She turned to consult Char
lotte and Cordelia and their two minions, all of whom after due consideration agreed that the blue satin should stand on its own merits.

  “I do envy you,” remarked Charlotte. Was there a touch of spite in her tone? “Mama still will not allow me to dress in any other color beyond a proper pastel. I’m afraid that even next year, when I turn twenty, I shan’t be allowed anything more dashing— that is, something more colorful.”

  “Yes, of course,” replied Amanda sweetly, “but pale colors suit you so much better than they do me, don’t you agree, Cordelia?”

  Cordelia, apparently unaware of the pit that was being dug at her feet, agreed vehemently, and was rewarded by a flash from Charlotte’s watery blue eyes that promised future retribution.

  Before open warfare could break out, Serena hastily pointed out that all three damsels required material for scarves to complement the stuff chosen for their gowns. She drew Amanda to a display of gauzes.

  “I’m not sure what shade would be best...” But, Amanda’s interest had failed once again. Instead, her thoughts turned again to her predicament. If she was going to break officially with Ash, it seemed logical that she should do so before their engagement was announced. On the other hand, her original plan—that of squeezing as much juice from Jeremiah as possible before releasing Ash from the betrothal—held a great deal of appeal. On yet another hand, however, Ash seemed to consider that idea untenable.

  Men, from no matter what century, it seemed, had such ridiculous concepts of honor. The fact that Jeremiah Bridge was all but forcing his daughter into marriage with a man she did not love could scarcely bind said daughter into a perfectly medieval arrangement.

  She came to with a start, realizing that a clerk stood at her elbow. “No, there is nothing just yet,” she replied mechanically to his offer of assistance. “My mother will shortly—” She turned to face him and gasped in shock. There was nothing remarkable about the young man, whose brown hair was combed neatly, his suit pressed impeccably, and his shoes shined to a blinding gloss. Nothing, that is, except for the glittering spectacles that perched on the end of his short nose, and hard, round cheeks that glowed like little lollipops.