Anne Barbour Read online

  Sleep would not come, however. Which, she concluded, was natural after all she had been through. I am a cloud. She formed the words determinedly in her mind. I am drifting high over the earth, serene and silent. There is nothing to disturb me here.... But the soothing phrases, culled long ago from a magazine article on how to defeat insomnia, failed in their purpose on this occasion.

  Amanda tossed restlessly on the puffy mattress and had just punched her pillows for the fifth or sixth time when the bedroom door opened once more, this time to admit the master of the house. Serena trailed behind him, twittering anxiously.

  Jeremiah Bridge strode into the room, and to Amanda it seemed less of an arrival than the advent of an elemental force of nature. He was not a tall man, but he was constructed along the lines of a gravel truck and wore an air of power like a medieval warrior might bear his armor.

  Continuing his progress, he arrived at Amanda’s bed and planted his feet in a wide stance. He bent to grasp her shoulder, shaking it roughly. “All right, missy, what have you got to say for yourself?”

  Sitting upright, Amanda, with great precision, removed the man’s fingers. “Just what is it you wish to hear?” she asked, unruffled.

  As had the doctor before him, Jeremiah straightened abruptly, glaring in outrage as though she had just chucked him under the chin.

  “You dare to speak so to your father?” he bellowed in a voice like freight cars derailing.

  Deciding on a more prudent course, Amanda tried out a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry—you must be my father, but I don’t know you. I don’t know anyone,” she said helplessly. “I am so confused—Papa.” She shot a glance at him from under the weight of her luxuriant eyelashes. Apparently, she had taken the right tack, for the glare faded, to be replaced by an expression of wary concern.

  “Now, don’t think to cozen me, missy,” he rumbled. “You’ve really torn it this time, and you’d better be prepared to face the consequences.”

  “Oh, Amanda, how could you?” moaned Serena in the background.

  Hugging her knees, Amanda gazed thoughtfully at her “parents.”

  “Perhaps if you tell me what I’ve done, we could discuss the matter more intelligently.” She paused as Jeremiah swelled ominously. “Look, sir, I’m as much at a loss as you are. I really, truly, don’t know what you’re talking about. So, suppose you drop the wounded walrus routine?”

  Jeremiah looked as though he might explode.

  “Dearest,” said Serena to her husband, pulling at his sleeve, “she is not our daughter!”

  Amanda gazed at her, startled, but relaxed when the woman continued tremulously. “Can you not see? Her behavior is completely unlike that of our little girl. Her speech, her manner... The doctor says he believes she is telling the truth. She has come down with some sort of brain fever, and has lost her memory.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “We can only hope it is temporary.”

  “Temporary?” shouted Jeremiah. “It had better be. What are we to do with her? I tell you, Serena, I’m not going to have everything I’ve worked for destroyed because your daughter has suddenly taken leave of her senses. What about Ashindon?” He concluded with a furious gesture.

  “Oh dear,” moaned Serena. “He said he would return later this afternoon. What are we going to tell him? Oh—ohh—perhaps we should just pack her away to the country before he gets here. Tell him she needs to recuperate from her, er, fall.”

  “Have you gone round the bend, too?” asked Jeremiah crudely. “The man is on the verge of making a declaration. I’m sure that’s why he came to the house earlier today. No, we’ll have to think of something else.”

  “We could tell him the truth,” interposed Amanda, beginning to enjoy herself. What a pair these two were! Why, she wondered, would she dream up parents that were so unlike her own loving mother and father?

  “What!” exclaimed Jeremiah and Serena in unison.

  “Well,” she said in a reasonable tone of voice, “I don’t see how we’re going to hide it from him.”

  “You could pretend—” began Serena, but was interrupted by Jeremiah’s irritated snort.

  “How is she to do that, for God’s sake? She can’t talk about any of their acquaintances, or the ball they went to last Tuesday, or—Oh, God.” Jeremiah sighed, sinking down on the bed as the enormity of the situation descended on him.

  “Lord Ashindon is a reasonable man,” said Serena at last in a not-very-hopeful voice. “Perhaps, if we explain ...”

  “Explain that his prospective countess has gone dotty?” Jeremiah produced yet another snort. Then his expression lightened suddenly. “On the other hand, his precious lordship hasn’t much to say about it, has he? His creditors are yammering at his heels like a pack of beagles.”

  Hmm, thought Amanda. Had she created in Lord Ashindon a typical Regency rake, then? A desperate gambler? A guzzler of port and brandy and pursuer of unfortunate chambermaids? Somehow this image did not fit the fleeting picture she retained in her mind of the cool, self-possessed, prideful aristocrat who had escorted her to his carriage.

  She leaned back against her pillows. She was, she thought, rather looking forward to another meeting with this enigmatic peer and his steel gray gaze.

  Chapter Three

  Refusing what Serena referred to as “a nice tray in your room,” Amanda, dressed in a floating muslin gown of pale blue, descended to the dining room for luncheon. She peeked into the various rooms she passed, and again, she marveled at the detail of the setting she had grafted in her mind. Next to her own bedchamber lay another, larger one. This presumably belonged to Jeremiah and Serena. Doors led off to other smaller chambers.

  On the ground floor several large rooms gave off to a central entrance hall whose marquetry floor had been buffed to a blinding polish. One of the rooms was a library, and a cursory glance indicated the books therein had been chosen for show rather than for enjoyment. Another chamber was obviously a music room, for it contained a harp and a piano, both of rather overpowering dimensions. Amanda moved delightedly to the piano and ran her fingers over the keys. Perhaps in this most perfect of fantasies she would have time to catch up on her neglected piano practice. Perching on the bench, she flexed her fingers and rippled through a few bars of Eleanor Rigby before rising to continue her exploration. A reception room nearby was furnished rather fussily in Louis Quatorze mixed with classical Regency pieces. It was hung in an overpowering heavy gold damask, and hothouse flowers stood in huge vases on every available surface.

  Tiptoeing farther afield, Amanda eventually reached the dining room, a large chamber whose walls were covered with straw-colored silk. Two long windows, facing the street, were hung with matching fabric. A large sideboard occupied one wall, on which stood candelabra and a container that Amanda thought might be a wine cooler.

  Serena had arrived before her and was already seated.

  “But you needn’t have come down, dearest,” she said, holding a forkful of salad and cold meat suspended before her. “You should be resting for your interview with Lord Ashindon.”

  “Nonsense—Mama,” replied Amanda briskly. “I feel quite well.”

  This was true, Amanda reflected in some amazement. She could not remember having felt this good before. She was fairly bursting with vitality and a sense of well-being, and could hardly wait to go outside to explore the London she had created. She was determined to return herself to normalcy, but she could not resist enjoying, for the moment anyway, this delicious imaginary world.

  Jeremiah had not deigned to dine with his family, declaring that he would lunch at his club. He promised, however, that he would be home in time to greet Lord Ashindon on his arrival later in the afternoon.

  “Now then,” continued Amanda, “tell me about Lord Ashindon.”

  “He is Ash to his friends,” said her mother repressively. “To be truthful, they say he’s a rude, care-for-nobody who hardly ever smiles and hasn’t any friends—but he has always been everything that is most c
onsiderate to us.

  “Of course,” she continued, her color high. “Lord Ashindon’s, er, social behavior is none of my concern—and it is certainly none of yours.”

  “It seems to me, it is very much my concern.” Amanda munched on her salad. “I am, apparently, expected to marry the man, after all. Tell me,” she asked interestedly, “is this one of those famous marriages of convenience? If so, why are you marrying me off to a poor man?”

  Serena spluttered into her wine. “What a question!” she exclaimed when she had mastered her voice. Then, apparently recalling her daughter’s “brain fever,” schooled her features to an expression of patience.

  “It is your father’s dearest wish,” she said severely, “that you and Lord Ashindon marry. He is titled and possessed of a noble background, even if he is in low water financially—” She stopped short. “That is all you need to know,” she concluded with finality.

  It was not by a long shot, thought Amanda, all she needed to know. Again, she wondered why things were not clearer to her, if this were all a creation of her own mind. It was almost as if she really had been dropped into an alien situation in another time. She caught herself, a chill settling in the base of her spine. What a ridiculous thought! But perhaps not unexpected. When faced with something one does not understand, she mused wisely, the mind will often supply all sorts of weird explanations.

  It was obvious she would get no more out of Serena concerning the mysterious earl, so promising herself a private conversation with her “mother” after luncheon, Amanda tucked into her greens.

  Privacy was not forthcoming, however, for the ladies had no sooner retired to the drawing room after their meal—Amanda making a minute, wondering inspection of the room, much to Serena’s discomfiture—when a servant entered to inform them of Lord Ashindon’s arrival.

  “My lord!” cried Serena effusively as he was ushered into the room. “What a happy circumstance. We were not expecting you so early.”

  “The Regent canceled his appointments for the afternoon,” replied the earl with a grimace. “He is closeted with his tailor and cannot be disturbed for something so trivial as negotiations with his allies.” His glance swept the room cursorily, coming to rest on Amanda, who stood near the window, watching him in interested appraisal.

  She had been correct in her original assessment. He was a very tall man, and he was surrounded with an aura of power, similar to that of Jeremiah Bridge. However, whereas Jeremiah displayed his authority in bluster and swagger, the earl’s air of command fitted him as naturally as his superbly tailored coat and pantaloons. He did not conform to anyone’s idea of a poor man, being instead the consummate aristocrat, cool, disdainful, and infinitely self-assured. Amanda took him in instant dislike. No wonder Amanda Bridge had fled from him. Who would wish to be married to this long, lean stone effigy of a man?

  She met his eyes, and, noting the disinterest in his gaze, lifted her chin and returned his insulting stare. After a moment, his brows rose slightly and a faint smile curved his surprisingly sensuous mouth.

  “You seem quite recovered from your earlier indisposition, Miss Bridge,” he said, bowing slightly. “The bloom has returned to your cheeks and the sparkle to your eyes.”

  “Why, thank you,” Amanda replied dryly, and once more she caught a flicker of surprise in the earl’s gray gaze. “Unfortunately, memory has not returned to my brain—my lord.”

  “Memory?” The earl’s dark, thick brows lifted in puzzlement before snapping together an instant later. “Are you saying—?”

  “Precisely,” said Amanda, seating herself composedly on a settee of straw-colored satin placed below the window. “I still have no memory of who I am—or who you are, for that matter.” Amanda watched him appraisingly as he advanced on her across the room.

  From a chair in the corner of the room, Serena whimpered and raised a hand in fluttering protest. “Amanda, dearest, why not wait until your papa . . . ?”

  Amanda did not respond, nor did the earl, also seating himself on the settee. “I can’t think,’’ he began, “what you hope to accomplish by this charade, Miss Bridge. Or perhaps,” he continued in an insulting drawl, “you have succeeded in your purpose? Has your papa forgiven you for your rash behavior?”

  “Why does everyone keep talking about Papa and his wrath?” snapped Amanda impatiently. “Is he in the habit of beating me?”

  Serena gasped once more. “Of course, he does not beat you! But—but he can be most severe in his punishment, nonetheless.”

  Amanda did not think she liked the sound of this. She swung to the earl. “Now then, my lo—what do I usually call you, anyway? Have you a first name?”

  The earl looked somewhat taken aback. “My given name is William, but you,” he said stiffly, as though he were a headmaster chastening a schoolgirl, “as a properly bred young woman do not use it. You have always called me, ‘my lord,’ or Lord Ashindon. However,” he added, as though aware of how pompous he sounded, “my friends call me Ash.” He bent an awkward smile on her, tinged with an incongruous sweetness.

  In her corner, Serena was twittering again. “Oh, my lord, I hope you will forgive my little girl’s forward manner. Indeed, she is not herself, and—”

  The earl waved a hand. “There is nothing to forgive, Mrs. Bridge.” His glance caught Amanda’s again, and she was aware of a disturbing glint deep in their cool, gray depths. “It is expected that her behavior might be a little unusual after such an ordeal,” he concluded smoothly.

  A little unusual did not cover it by half, thought the earl in some astonishment. This was the first time he had actually seen Amanda behave like a human being instead of a pretty porcelain doll. Could a bump on the head have caused this metamorphosis? Or was this her natural mien and she was simply tired of maintaining her posture of girlish rectitude? Whatever the case, it was a welcome change. He gazed at her assessingly. Her candy box prettiness, he thought, was decidedly improved by that militant sparkle in her eyes.

  “I wonder, Miss Bridge,” he said smoothly, “if you would care to go for a drive. While the promenade hour is not yet upon us, perhaps a short foray into Green Park...?”

  “I’d love it!” exclaimed Amanda immediately, ignoring the succession of gasps and gurgles from the corner. She rose from the settee, her eyes alight with enthusiasm. “Let’s go.”

  She moved to the door and into the corridor, laughing over her shoulder at him.

  “But you cannot go without your bonnet and pelisse, my dear.” Serena Bridge had followed them, and now spoke rather breathlessly. She was attempting to communicate with her daughter via a series of winks and gestures, and when these failed in their purpose, blurted, “Ring for your maid, Amanda.” The older woman gestured toward a nearby bellpull.

  “But it’s a beautiful day. I don’t need a—oh, all right,” she concluded at her mother’s agonized expression. She strode to the pull and gave it a vigorous tug.

  A few minutes later, Ash led a bonneted, coated, and gloved Amanda down the front stairs of the Bridge town house to his waiting curricle. She examined the vehicle in some fascination, and when a diminutive figure took his place atop the rear wheels, she uttered the word “Tiger!” in satisfied accents, as though she had displayed some arcane, specialized bit of knowledge. She seemed to experience some difficulty in mounting the vehicle, even with his assistance, but once seated, she glanced about her with every indication of enjoyment.

  For some minutes, she said nothing, but stared as though she had never seen Upper Brook Street before. Her evident fascination with other persons in the street, the various vehicles they passed, and the street names emblazoned on buildings increased with each passing block.

  What the devil was going on? he wondered. She seemed as unfamiliar with her surroundings as though she had just been dropped here from the moon. Was she really telling the truth about her loss of memory? If not, she was certainly presenting an impressively detailed deception. He rather thought she had not the i
ntelligence to carry out such a complex charade. Or perhaps, he mused sardonically, it was her vapid innocence that had been the charade.

  Having reached the leafy expanse of Green Park, Ash pulled the curricle to a halt under a spreading linden tree. Instructing the tiger to indulge himself in a walk, he turned to face Amanda.

  “You know,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed, “when I was serving in the Peninsula, one of our lads took a crushing blow to the head and suffered a temporary bout of amnesia.”

  “Good Lord,” cried Amanda. “Of course. Napoleon is rampaging around Europe right this minute, isn’t he? Ash, you were in the war? I should very much like to hear of some of your experiences—that is, if they are not too painful to recall.”

  He was startled, as much by the sound of his nickname on her lips as by her unexpected digression, but he continued smoothly. “Some other time, perhaps, Miss Bridge. To return to our unfortunate warrior, the poor fellow could not remember his name, did not recognize the faces of his comrades, and had no knowledge of his family back in England.”

  This time Amanda made no response, merely inclining her head courteously.

  “Oddly enough,” Ash went on, “he had no difficulty in remembering the ordinary details of his everyday life. He knew that England was at war with Napoleon, and he knew that the Regent is reigning in place of his poor, mad father. The lad had not forgotten how to ride a horse, and he was able to distinguish English uniforms from those of the French.”

  Amanda, sensing the direction of Ash’s comments, began to squirm in her seat.