Anne Barbour Page 4

  “Now you, on the other hand”—Ash’s tone contained nothing beyond a bland curiosity—“seem to have forgotten everything that you ever learned in your whole, admittedly rather short, life. You were about to leave the house hatless and coatless, like the veriest hoyden—behavior quite unlike your very proper self, and you seem to have forgotten how to tie a bonnet properly. You are, apparently, totally unfamiliar with the terrain of Mayfair, an area in which you have resided for several years. I am wondering how to account for this.”

  “How very fortunate,” said Amanda in some exasperation, “that you are so knowledgeable about mental aberration. I know nothing of what I should or should not be able to remember, my lord.” How strange, thought Amanda. Calling this man “my lord” was not so difficult, after all, particularly when he phased so beautifully into his stone effigy mode. “It is as I said to my mother this morning, my mind is like that of a newborn child—except of course, that I have not lost the gift of language.”

  “How very fortunate,” murmured the earl.

  “Please believe me, Ash, I am not feigning all this. The whole thing is very confusing to me, and a little frightening, as well.”

  She looked at him straightly, and for the first time Ash was aware of the beauty of her eyes. It was the first time he had not thought of china teacups and porcelain dolls when he looked into them. Now, he was put in mind of amethysts and sapphires and tropical skies. Her jeweled gaze was clear and, it seemed to him, honest. He continued to stare, almost mesmerized, and knew an urge to pull her to him, to kiss her until those lovely eyes clouded with passion.

  Lord, he thought, suddenly appalled, where had that thought come from? It was as though the Amanda Bridge he knew had been stolen away, like a princess in a fairy tale—and now in Amanda’s face he saw the gaze of an enchantress. He shook himself at his ludicrous fancy, aware that she was speaking once more.

  “Tell me about yourself, Ash. I suppose we must be very well acquainted if, as my father has told me, you are on the verge of asking for my hand. Yes, I know I am being inexcusably forward,” she added as the earl stiffened, “but I plead temporary insanity. Please, could you not pretend that we just met?”

  For a moment, Ash stared at her. It seemed to him that the afternoon had taken on a dreamlike quality, that he and the magically transformed Amanda Bridge were enclosed in an enchanted bubble that floated, separate and serene, from the rest of the world.

  “I’ll try,” he said, pleased that his voice remained steady, “though you will undoubtedly find my story a dull one.” He bent forward in a parody of a bow. “Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Bridge. I am William Wexford, and I am one-and-thirty years of age. My father was the second son of the fourth earl of Ashindon, and when he and my mother died in an inn fire, I was taken by his brother, the fifth earl, to be raised at Ashindon Park in Wiltshire, along with my younger brother and sister. I was four years old at the time, and grew up with my cousin, Grant, heir to the earldom. Grant was two years older than I and we were as brothers. In fact, I rather idolized him.” Ash paused for a moment before continuing, and Amanda caught a fleeting expression of pain in those cloud-colored eyes.

  “I chose the military as my profession and served under Arthur Wellesley. You have heard of him, I trust—the Duke of Wellington? Yes, well, a year or so before he died, my uncle purchased a captaincy for me, and I rose to the rank of colonel before selling out.”

  Amanda frowned slightly before recalling that selling out, in this time, did not have an unpleasant connotation, but merely referred to the selling of one’s commission preparatory to leaving the army.

  “The reason I sold out—just after the Battle of Toulouse, a little over a year ago—is that my cousin died in—in an accident.” She really did not need to know the details of Grant’s death, thought Ash. “Although I loved the Park more dearly than any place on earth, I had never involved myself in the management of the place. Well,” he said, stung a little at the look of surprise and, he thought, contempt, she threw him, “it would have been considered unbecoming in me, since the Park, in the natural order of things, would go to Grant on his father’s death.

  “When I awoke one morning to be informed that I was the sixth earl of Ashindon, it was as though a weight had suddenly descended on me. In addition to my grief over my cousin’s passing, I felt myself completely unequipped to maintain the consequence of a peer.” He laughed shortly. “As it turned out, that was the least of my problems. You see”—he reached forward unconsciously and took Amanda’s hand in his own—”when I left Ashindon Park, some ten years ago, it was a thriving estate, but when I came home last year, it was to discover the place in ruins.”

  He shook his head in memory. “It was as though an evil fairy had put a spell on the Park. The fields were unkempt, the tenants’ cottages were in shambles, and the manor house itself was empty and cold and stark—all the life seemed to have been sucked from it. I could not—” He stopped suddenly, aware that he was saying things he had not spoken of to another human being. “You see,” he continued after a moment, “my cousin had a taste for the high life. He bought expensive horses, fine clothes, and the right friends, all with equal abandon. He drank and gambled as though the trees of Ashindon Park showered leaves of gold on him. And, of course there were the—the—”

  “Women?”

  “Yes, although I should not mention their existence to a gently bred female.”

  “Just for the time being,” said Amanda with a small smile, “let us also pretend that I am not a gently bred female, merely a woman who wants to hear the unvarnished truth.”

  “There is no such thing,” said the earl flatly. “Women like their truth softened and made palatable.”

  Amanda sat back, startled. The earl certainly had a jaundiced view of the female sex. On the other hand, she mused, from what she had read of this age of arranged marriages and discreet liaisons, perhaps his cynicism was understandable. She bit her lips against the retort she had been about to make.

  “But,” she said instead, “is your estate very large? Does it produce no income? I always thought that the landed nobility had it made. I mean, every year there are crops, and—”

  “If the land has not been properly cared for, the crops will be meager.” Ash’s voice was harsh.

  “My father spoke of creditors,” said Amanda in a low voice.

  “Did he?” The earl’s laugh was little more than a growl. “Yes, Miss Bridge, there are creditors. Now, are you satisfied? Do you know all about me that you wished to know? I certainly would not like to keep any morsels from you.”

  A sudden thought struck Amanda, and she wondered why it had not occurred to her before. “Jeremiah Bridge is a plain ‘mister,’ isn’t he? I’ll bet he isn’t even related to so much as a baronet. But he is wealthy, isn’t he, Lord Ashindon?”

  Ash’s lips tightened into a thin line, but he did not answer. Amanda rushed on, aware of a completely unwarranted sense of outrage. “He’s wealthy enough to barter his daughter to an impoverished nobleman. Which, of course, is where Amanda comes in. You didn’t succumb to Amanda Bridge’s blue eyes and golden curls, did you, my lord? You’re simply a common, garden-variety fortune hunter.”

  Chapter Four

  On their return to Upper Brook Street, Ash and Amanda found Jeremiah Bridge awaiting them. Ash’s mind was still on the bizarre conversation he had held with Amanda in the park, and he was aware of a peculiar churning in his stomach, part anger and humiliation at having given up so much of his private self, and part astonishment at how quickly the chit had drawn it all out of him.

  Withal, he had the oddest feeling that he had not been speaking with Miss Bridge at all. The woman who peered out from those great blue eyes was so much more of a person than the Amanda he knew. She seemed possessed of a wisdom and maturity far beyond her years, and it confounded him to realize that her expression of contempt had pierced him to a place he had forgotten existed within him.

  Sh
e had wanted him to talk about the war, for God’s sake, when previously the mention of so much as a skirmish would cause her to shudder delicately and ask that the subject be turned to a more diverting topic. Could a bump on the head have produced such a profound change in her? Or, perhaps his earlier surmise was correct. Years of domination by her determinedly proper parents had molded her into a pattern card of simpering missishness, and her loss of memory had released the real Amanda Bridge.

  If this was the case, it would be almost a shame, he reflected sardonically, to hope for a complete recovery on Amanda’s part. He grimaced. Particularly since he was virtually teetering on the brink of asking for her hand.

  He turned to face Jeremiah, who ushered him ceremoniously into a ground floor study.

  “I understand you have something you wish to discuss with me,” he said, his mouth spread in a sly, jovial smile. Ash would have given all he possessed—though that was perhaps an unfortunate phrase, given his present circumstances—to turn and leave the room. Bridge knew, by God, of Ash’s rage and humiliation at Amanda’s recent defection, and he was gloating over the fact that he had his lordship grasped firmly by the throat.

  In a few minutes, the interview was over. Ash mouthed the traditional phrases, and Bridge responded in suitable accents of gratification. Settlement arrangements were discussed, and Ash breathed an unconscious sigh as the realization sank in that, though the cost had been almost too great to contemplate, he now had the wherewithal to bring Ashindon Park back to financial stability, and he had assured his siblings’ futures. For now, Andrew could pursue his studies, and Dorothea would have her Season.

  As prescribed, Ash was then escorted by a servant to the drawing room, where he would wait while Bridge apprised his daughter of her good fortune.

  Summoned to her “father’s” study, Amanda faced him impassively.

  “Have you come to your senses yet, girl?” he asked abruptly, and for a moment she simply stared at him.

  “My sen—Oh. If you mean have I recovered my memory, no, I haven’t.”

  “Well, here’s something that should bring you round. Ashindon has asked for your hand.”

  Although the announcement did not come as a surprise, Amanda felt her heart jump.

  “H-has he, indeed?” she replied faintly. “How very—nice.”

  “Nice?” growled Jeremiah. “Is that all you can say? Do you know what this means for us, Amanda?” He smiled suddenly, and Amanda was reminded of the grin of the Big Bad Wolf. “You’ll be a lady and you and your ma and me, we’ll be received in the finest homes and invited to all the fancy balls and dinner parties.”

  “My God, is that what you want?” asked Amanda curiously.

  “ ‘Course, it’s what I want. Have you forgotten—well, yes, I guess you have, but I haven’t—all the snubs and turned-up noses?” He turned, suddenly serious, to grasp her arm. “Amanda, I went to work in Horace Fitch’s woolen mill when I was nine years old. I worked fourteen hours a day. There was one difference between me and the other lads there—I was a lot smarter.”

  And a lot more ruthless, I’ll bet, thought Amanda—and not too concerned with morality and ethics.

  “I worked hard,” continued Jeremiah, his voice a flinty rasp, “and I saved every cent I could, so that when the right opportunity came along I was in a position to grab it. After that, I never looked back. Now I can buy and sell most of the nobs in Mayfair, but they’re all too good to give the time of day to Jeremiah Bridge. Now—now things will be different.”

  Amanda thought privately that hell might well freeze over before Jeremiah Bridge would see the inside of “the finest homes.” What hostess, highborn or otherwise, in her right mind would seek his company for so much as a walk across the street, let alone balls and dinner parties? On the other hand, she supposed that money talked as loudly in Regency England as it did in the twentieth century, so, perhaps, once the Bridges got a toe into the filtered waters of high society, they might well find themselves doing swan dives with assorted blue bloods.

  Having been dismissed with a wave of Jeremiah’s hand, Amanda returned to the drawing room, where Serena and the earl were conversing over tea. That is, Serena was conversing and the earl was listening with an obviously spurious air of attention. Serena smiled in relief as Amanda entered the room.

  To Ash’s surprise, Amanda appeared composed, indeed, she seemed almost oblivious to the solemnity of the occasion. She greeted her mother, and, with a casual smile at Ash, seated herself before the fire.

  “Well, my lord,” said Serena breathlessly, “I understand you have something to say to my little girl. I shall leave you two alone—but just for a moment,” she added with a coy smirk that set Ash’s teeth on edge.

  Frowning, he watched her bustle from the room, and crossed the room to seat himself beside Amanda.

  “Miss Bridge,” he began, taking her hand in his. Her fingers were cool and very soft. “Miss Bridge, I have just spoken to your father, and he has granted me permission to seek your hand in marriage.”

  Amanda said nothing, but gazed at him in wide-eyed expectancy. Ash ploughed ahead.

  “We have known each other only a few months, and”—despite himself, a note of irony crept into his voice—“though you apparently consider your heart given to another, I believe we can deal well together.”

  Ash suddenly knew a moment of profound depression. As a declaration of undying devotion, his little speech left a great deal to be desired. It should have been different from this, he thought with a pang, but immediately thrust the notion from his mind. Amanda still had said nothing, but was gazing at him with what seemed to him vaguely contemptuous pity. He gritted his teeth.

  “Miss Bridge, will you do me the inestimable honor of becoming my wife?” he concluded, the emptiness within him almost thundering in his ears.

  Amanda Bridge dropped her lashes before lifting her head to gaze at him for a long moment. “Of course,” she replied at last, and Ash was startled at the offhandedness of her tone. Lord, he had just proposed to a woman who had that morning attempted to elope with another man. Even given that her mind was, theoretically, in total disorder, did she not realize the magnitude of what had just taken place?

  “Are you sure?” he asked harshly. “This is your future we are speaking of.”

  At that, Amanda laughed, an open sound of genuine amusement. “My future!” Her gaze transferred itself to the window. “But the future can be fleeting, my lord.”

  “I would have thought,” Ash replied, “that the certainty of the existence of some kind of future is one of the few constants in our lives, no matter how uncertain the fulfillment of that future might be.”

  She glanced at him quickly. “I suppose that is true.”

  “At any rate, you have made me a happy man, Miss Bridge.” The words almost stuck in his throat, and under Amanda’s disbelieving stare, he flushed. After a moment’s hesitation, he grasped her shoulders lightly and pulling her gently toward him, kissed her.

  Amanda stiffened in sudden surprise, then relaxed, realizing this must be part of the ritual. His lips were warm against hers, his fingers firm on her shoulders. She found this intimacy oddly unnerving and was relieved when, after only a few moments, he drew back. He took her hand once again.

  “Perhaps, we should—” Ash was interrupted as Serena bustled back into the room. Her glance was questioning, but observing the proximity of the earl and her daughter on the settee, she smiled broadly.

  “Oh, my lord!” she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her plump bosom. “Is it true what Mr. Bridge just told me?”

  Amanda sensed the surge of irritation that swept over Ash at the woman’s gaucherie, but he rose smoothly and bowed.

  “Yes, Mrs. Bridge, please wish us happy.”

  “Oh, my dears!” She hastened across the room, embracing first the earl and then clasping Amanda to her like a lifeline thrown to a drowning victim. “Gracious,” she continued, sinking into a chair covered in a tapes
try silk, “we shall have to start planning our ball, won’t we?”

  “Ball?” queried Amanda blankly.

  “Why, yes, to announce your betrothal. We shall invite only the best people, of course. Next month, I think—on Thursday, the sixteenth. Lady Federsham is holding her soiree that night, if I am not mistaken. We were not invited, of course, but I rather fancy that we shall see our rooms full to overflowing, for I shall put about the merest hint that those attending our function will be hearing a most interesting announcement concerning the Earl of Ashindon and our sweet Amanda.” She fell silent, a faraway expression in her faded eyes as though she were immersed in a rosy dream.

  Good Lord, thought Amanda, experiencing an urge to rush from the room, what a perfectly ghastly female. She studiously avoided the earl’s glance. The next moment she swallowed a chuckle. What earthly difference did any of it make to her? All these people were but figments of her imagination and after a good night’s sleep would be no more than an amusing memory.

  She turned to face the window. As fascinating as this whole hallucination thing had been, it was more than time to quit it. It had become surprisingly difficult during the course of the day to remember that the Bridges did not exist, nor did the Earl of Ashindon, nor even the little maid, Hutchings. She had found herself caught up in their doings. In fact, during her conversation with Ashindon in the park, she had not once thought of her real life in Chicago, which now seemed as far away as though it were on Mars. For a couple of hours she had become Amanda Bridge, and the earl had been a disturbingly real presence.

  She returned to the present with a start, realizing that Serena was still burbling on about the ball. Amanda chastised herself. How absurd she was being—as though these people had a life outside her imagination. She turned to face the group that gazed at her so expectantly. “Do I what?” she asked, realizing that Serena had repeated the same question several times, in growing exasperation.

  “Do you think we should invite Charlotte Twining and her mother? I know you and she have been bosom bows, but since your quarrel with her—”