Anne Barbour Read online

  “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.”

  “What?” asked Amanda, astonished. “Of course! He has loved her all his life, and why do you call her a vixen?”

  “Because I’m too much of a lady to call her a bitch, of course.”

  Amanda gasped. “I don’t understand.”

  The countess looked at her for a long moment. “I’m not saying Ash does not think he is in love with Lianne, and I’m not even saying that Lianne does not harbor some tender sentiment for Ashindon, but—oh well, actually,” said the dowager grudgingly, “I suppose she’s not all that bad. She made a dreadful bargain in Grant, but once she wed him, even after she realized the mistake she’d made, she took it in good part and remained faithful to him. Although,” she added dryly, “if Ashindon had remained on the scene, I’m not so sure she would have maintained her virtue.”

  “But wasn’t she virtually forced to marry Grant?”

  “Pho! Lianne was never forced into anything she did not wish to do. She said she loved Ash, and she would have married him, I suppose, but when she had the opportunity to attach Grant, the title holder and heir to Ashindon Park, wild horses could not have kept her from him. She made a big to-do about family obligations, but it’s my opinion that it was her own self-interest that prompted her to abandon Ashindon and accept Grant’s suit.”

  “I cannot believe this,” murmured Amanda. Surely, she thought, the old lady was speaking from her own antipathy toward Lianne.

  “My advice to you,” concluded the dowager, “is to try very hard to believe it. Lianne Bonner, given half a chance, will snatch Ashindon from beneath your nose—whether you’re married to him or not.”

  Amanda stared disbelievingly at the dowager. “Are you saying—”

  “All I’m saying is that if you’re not careful, your papa will be paying for Lianne’s upkeep. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind that— God knows how young people disport themselves these days, but I believe I am not wrong in assuming such a connection would displease you.”

  Grudgingly, Amanda nodded. She opened her mouth to speak again, but was forestalled by the entrance of Miss Emily Wexford, Lady Ashindon’s companion. Amanda rose to greet her,
but the spinster gestured that she should not arise.

  “I hope you and Grandmama have been having a nice chat,” she said a little breathlessly.

  “Oh, yes,” said the dowager dryly, “it quite brightened up my dull life.”

  Amanda bit back a laugh as Miss Wexford attempted an embarrassed dispute. After a few moments of light chatter, she rose to leave, with the promise that she would visit the dowager again. “For,” she said, smiling rather painfully, “our conversation has been most instructive.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  At about this time, Ash had just come to the same conclusion regarding a visit he made that morning to James’s lodgings in Duke Street. It was not his habit to discuss his personal crises with others, but after his discourse with Lianne the previous evening and the shattering kiss with Amanda a few moments later, he felt in need of his friend’s good sense and clear-sightedness.

  “Mm, yes,” said James as Ash began his tale. “I thought I saw you sneaking into that little salon, and—”

  “I was not sneaking,” interposed Ash with great dignity. “I merely—”

  “Sneaking,” continued James as though Ash had not spoken, “in company with the lovely Lianne, who subsequently exited the room looking as though she’d just bitten into a green persimmon. A rift in the lute, Will?” His words were spoken lightly, but his gaze was sharp as he surveyed his friend.

  Ash stiffened. “I’ve told you repeatedly, Jamie, that there is no lute. Not anymore, that is. Oh, the devil,” he concluded. “All right, you were correct, just as you usually are, damn you. Lianne told me that she still loves me. She—she demonstrated the depth of her feeling for me in a manner that was profoundly touching. I—”

  “Offered to become your mistress, did she?” asked James coolly, and Ash felt his jaw drop in response.

  “How the devil did you know that?” he demanded.

  “Because it was the next logical step in her campaign.”

  “Campaign! What are you talking about?”

  James shifted in his chair. “Look, Ash. You were a boy when you fell in love with Lianne. Then you went away and did not see her again for years. It’s my opinion that sometime between your boyhood and the time you became a man you dropped your torch, but you were so used to carrying it you just never noticed.”

  “That’s preposterous! My love for her has—”

  “Your love for her was based, as love usually is, on an illusion.” James leaned forward. “It was an illusion carefully fostered by the lady herself, if you ask me.” He continued hurriedly before Ash could voice the protest that welled in him. “You thought of Lianne as loving and giving, and as dedicated to her family and her sense of duty as you were yourself.”

  “Well, of course—”

  “Did it ever occur to you that Lianne is simply a normal female, concerned primarily with her own interests?”

  “James, I don’t think I care to listen any further.” Ash made as though to rise, but James reached out to stay him.

  “You’re the one who initiated this conversation, my lad. For some time now, I’ve wanted to have this chat with you, but Lianne had you wrapped so firmly around her finger, I knew I couldn’t get through to you. Now just listen for a moment. Did it ever occur to you that it was Lianne’s desire to make as good a match for herself as possible, rather than her concern for her papa’s feelings and her mama’s nonexistent heart condition that prompted her to accept Grant’s offer? No, of course it didn’t.

  “Nor did you consider that Lianne is living on a shoestring right now, a situation extremely displeasing to her. It cannot have taken her long to realize that her erstwhile lover would become a very wealthy man on his marriage to Amanda Bridge, and being the mistress of a wealthy man would be much better than becoming the bride of an impoverished peer.”

  “My God, James. I cannot believe what you are suggesting. Lianne loves me, and—”

  “I’m sure she does—in her fashion. I’m not saying she’s a bad person—she’s merely a realist, as most women must be. They are totally dependent for their survival on men, and it behooves them to make the best bargains of which they are capable.”

  Ash knew a moment of disgust, both at his friend for his coldblooded appraisal of what was the grand passion of his life, and at himself for the burgeoning, albeit unwilling, acknowledgement of the truth of James’s assessment.

  Was it true? wondered Ash. Had Lianne simply been using him? Had his own feelings for her changed without his knowledge? Despite himself, he was aware that what James had said made good sense. Whether he would be able to accept his friend’s cynical pronouncements was another matter.

  Feeling oddly empty, he sighed heavily. “I cannot accept what you’re saying, Jamie. Lianne would never—”

  “Did you take her up on her offer?” interrupted James.

  “Her—Oh. No, of course not. It took just about everything in me to refuse,” said Ash, somewhat less than truthfully. “I know what it must have cost her to make it, but, my God, I’m betrothed. I know I’m unfashionable, but I plan to be faithful to my wife.”

  James grinned crookedly. “What laudable sentiments. Are you sure they do not spring from disinterest in the lovely Lianne rather than your exalted sense of duty? And what of your bride? Surely you do not expect her to keep her vows. The notion of fidelity is quite alien to the female nature, particularly when the female in question is as beautiful as Miss Bridge and is entered in a marriage of convenience.”

  Ash felt his stomach tighten. “We will not discuss Amanda, James. While I value your advice, I think I do not wish to hear just now your jaundiced view of the female character.”

  James smiled. “A view formed over a lifetime of experience, my boy. Very well, then.” He rose lazily. “Shall we toddle over to Gentleman Jackson’s? Young Fisham has been issuing challenges to all comers, and needs taking down a peg, I believe.”

  Ash had no desire at the moment to try the mettle of young striplings, but feeling that a bout with the ex-champion Jackson might be just what was needed to relieve his scrambled sensibilities, he agreed willingly, and in a moment the two left the house in amity, walking sticks swinging.

  * * * *

  A few days later, an impressive party made its way through the green vales of Wiltshire. The Bridges rode in their own coach, and in another, the dowager countess made a stately progression in company with Emily Wexford, Amanda, and Lianne, whom the dowager, for reasons of her own, had insisted be included in the party. Amanda could tell nothing from Ash’s shuttered expression, but she assumed he must have seconded the dowager’s wishes. Lianne was obviously pleased to have been invited. Two more vehicles containing luggage and a retinue of servants lumbered behind. Ash rode his own mount.

  In consideration for the dowager’s advanced age, the journey had been a leisurely one. Today, conversation had been sporadic among the ladies, Emily being the quiet sort and Lianne perhaps weary of the dowager’s acid responses to her comments. Amanda, too, after three days of travel, found herself disinclined to chatter. She gazed, fascinated, at her first sight of the English countryside. Lord, it was beautiful, dotted with spinneys and villages. Why did anyone live in London? At her side. the dowager dozed fitfully.

  Suddenly, Lianne straightened. “Oh, look!” she cried, pointing. “There is the turnoff to Fairwinds. Oh, how I long to see Papa and Mama again, even though it has only been a few weeks since I left home.”

  “Then we must be nearing Ashindon Park.” Amanda glanced out the carriage window to where Ash rode beside them. Even after a long, tiring journey, observed Amanda, Ash sat tall and straight in the saddle, and he looked, as always, the complete aristocrat, exuding a male assurance that called to something elemental within her. As she watched, he gestured and pointed ahead with his riding crop. “We’re nearly there!” he called.

  A few minutes later, the procession turned from the highway and passed through a gate guarded by stone pillars. A lodge house stood uninhabit
ed, its windows staring emptily at them as they passed. Amanda noted missing roof tiles and areas of crumbling brickwork. They drove for some time through unkempt parkland, and glancing surreptitiously at Ash, she saw his distress in the clench of his jaw and the stiffening of his shoulders.

  “There!” cried Lianne as they rounded a long curve. “There is Ashindon Park.”

  Amanda looked, and felt something stir within her. a deep welling of helpless yearning that nearly overcame her. The house was not large, compared to the pictures of places such as Blenheim and Woburn she had seen, but it was surely older than either of those. Constructed of some sort of golden stone, it lay against a broad, green hill in a jumble of wings and courtyards. It looked as though it had grown there, nourished by the rain and sunlight of centuries, and Amanda felt as though the place reached out to cast a spell on her. It said “home” to her as had no other dwelling she had ever lived in. She ached to explore it, to know its nooks and crannies, to sleep within its walls and to raise children in its shelter.

  Amanda stared, enthralled, as they approached the manor house, and nearly gasped with pain as the evidence of neglect became apparent. Turrets crumbled and chimneys leaned drunkenly. A tangle of overgrown ivy covered windows and cornices, reminding Amanda of a tattered shawl worn to hide the blemishes of an aging Beauty.

  When the carriage halted before a stained, weather-beaten entrance, Amanda nearly fell out of the vehicle in her haste. She ran toward the stairs as to a waiting lover, but was halted by Ash’s hand on her arm.