Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (15)

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She slapped him.

“You boorish, brute of a man!” she shrieked. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded rough and harpyish. “How dare you lay hands on me?! You!” She pointed at one of the approaching men. “You there! Go fetch the watch! Fetch a constable! I want this scoundrel arrested!”

At the mention of authorities, the men stopped in their tracks. A window opened and a head popped out. Amanda’s shout attracted attention from every corner. The two men glanced at each other. One briefly shook his head while the other touched his forelock.

“Straight away, ma’am! Come on now, man, stir your stumps!” He grabbed his friend and they ran off.

Lord Denbigh took hold of her elbow. “It’s time we should leave.” His voice was curt, clipped. Amanda didn’t dare look at his face.

She’d just struck the man. He likely had the notion to wale her black and blue.

The head poked further from the open window. A puffy, white mobcap covered the equally puffy, white hair of the wrinkly woman hanging out.

“You needn’t go with ’im, love. You come and stay inside with me until the watch get ’ere.”

The woman had obviously shared Amanda’s thought and now offered protection. What a kind gesture! Her cheeks flared with a guilty blush. “Oh, thank you, I assure you it’s not necessary! You see…”

“She’s my wife.” Lord Denbigh squeezed her elbow.

“Oh! Oh, I see.” The eyes beneath the mobcap widened. A man had full authority over his wife. She looked them both head to toe, then the woman gave a wheezing chuckle. “Not every spat can be fixed with that, young man, you mark my words.” She nodded, hooking her finger around the window latch. She popped right back out to impart her last wisdom: “Though it don’t hurt none to try,” she said with a wink, shutting the window snug.

Lord Denbigh tugged. “Come along. Before anyone else gets designs on us.”

She let him lead her the rest of the way like a recalcitrant child. They continued in silence. Once or twice, the stone bit into Amanda’s foot. He slowed when he noticed her struggle, but they did not stop again.

He was angry with her. Furious, likely. He had a violent temper. Servants fled from his house!

You picked a fine time to rile him, Amanda Mildred! On the dark streets of London with pickpockets, cutpurses, and the worst villain of all beside you!

Another wave of guilt swept over her. The worst villain was Sir Sinister, and Lord Denbigh was nothing like him. She nearly coughed to expel the drowning shame of when she’d thought he was.

He hadn’t killed a man in cold blood in her library. He’d approached her and even offered to work together to find the culprit when he could have easily ignored both her and her wishes entirely. He’d argued against the plan to besmirch her good name. He’d helped his friend open his apothecary. He’d pulled her close, protecting her against nefarious street thugs. He’d brought her brother books.

And what had she done? She’d slapped him.

Amanda wanted to explain. Apologize. But she’d apologized beforehand, hadn’t she? She’d warned him. And she was really just reacting because… because…

“I… I thought you were going to kiss me,” she laughed.

“I was.”

Amanda stopped dead in her tracks. She risked a glance at his face. Harsh lines and shuttered eyes, but he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t bursting with rage. He was… controlled. He’d been about to kiss her, she’d slapped him instead, and he seemed about as moved by the turn of events as he would about receiving lukewarm tea.

Even less, perhaps!

And that riled her.

“Kiss me?! Well, what sense does that make? No passerby wants to get involved in an argument! But a kissing couple is a welcome target! Distracted by… well… each other, they’re unlikely to notice who might do what to them!”

“You have a great deal of experience being distracted in such a way, do you?”

She flushed. Briefly touching lips behind the hay bails of the neighbour’s farm when she was six did not count as a proper distraction. Moreover, it was none of his business, thank you.

“Shall I call out Sir Robert now? Meet him at dawn?”

Amanda glared at him. He was a boorish, brute of a man and he had the audacity to almost look amused. If he was attempting to tease her with that desert dry humor of his, this time it wasn’t amusing.

He turned and continued on, forcing Amanda to skip to keep up, all while muttering darkly under her breath.

At last, they’d reached the mews behind Lord and Lady Tisdale’s rear garden gate. Beyond this wall, the end of their adventure. Lord Denbigh tucked her into the shadows of the archway and rapped against the door, once again sheltering her from view with his frame.

The proximity caused shivers to race along her back and up her neck. Tucked beneath his shoulder, she found herself staring at the rough, darkened outline of his chin. She could smell his cologne once again. That delightful mixture which had haunted her dreams. The man had almost kissed her in that alley. Pressed up against the wall. Practically the position they were in right now… Her breath rushed. She needed to get away from him, his scent. She needed space to think.

“Stop looming,” she said, nudging him back. He didn’t budge.

“I don’t loom.”

“You loom. One might think we’re trying to open a clothiers.”

“That was not funny.”

“You try being bullied about by scurrilous men in a darkened alley and tell me how witty you are afterwards.”

There. The moment was gone. He’d raised a tawny eyebrow and glared at her.

Over her shoulder, he pounded the door again. Silence. She could hear her heart and her breathing. Then the weary sigh that escaped his lips. She focused on his lips. Not thin, not full, a happy medium. There was a spot he’d missed while shaving. Would that have tickled if he actually had kissed her? Her breath caught. Silly, because, of course, he hadn’t, he wouldn’t, and it shouldn’t matter. Did he have a valet shave him? No, he liked his control, he probably did it himself. Though it would likely feel different kissing a man freshly shaved… than…

Stop thinking about kissing. For Heaven’s sake! Look at his nose, or eyebrows, or anything else!

Her gaze dutifully moved up his strong jaw when she noticed his shuttered eyes studied her. She gasped at being caught looking, but he was looking, too! His gaze didn’t sweep her face, but held her stare directly. Piercing blue curtains.

“You didn’t answer me before, so I’ll ask again: if there were another way to circulate your gossip and save your reputation, would you take it?”

Amanda’s body sunk, limp, against the door. All the emotion and rush she’d just built up ebbed to pool at her feet. They felt leaden. A sudden cold seeped from the wood into her shoulders. He’d asked an impossible question. Would she take a miracle? The slim chance to save herself, her reputation, her future with a man who might protect her, shelter her, kiss her in the mist on a night such as this?

She closed her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered.

The latch behind her clinked and she straightened just before the door opened. Lord Denbigh twisted himself to block most of her face from the wedge of the opening door, but Sophie’s voice reassured them as to the occupants of the other side.

“Of course it’s them, Duncan, who else would it be?”

“I merely suggested that you ask before throwing the door open to some strange knock. Denbigh. Miss Pruett,” Mr. Urquhart greeted, “It could have been thieves.”

“A thief who knocks? To such a polite burglar, I might offer an invitation to tea. Or at least the service. It’s pure silver and must be worth a pretty penny. A fine reward for such fine manners.” She bustled them inside, then faced Amanda, excitedly. “Now, tell me, what poison was it? Nightshade? Aqua tofana? Wolfsbane? Or Socrates’ elixir?”

Amanda was not at all concerned over her friend’s knowledge of deadly arts.

Not at all.

“It wasn’t a poison. Well, it was, but it wasn’t what killed him.”

“Then—”

A high titter of laughter followed by a manly guffaw and remarkable snort indicated several partygoers nearby. The door they’d entered was hidden behind a large bush, but that didn’t mean they were secluded. In fact, the more hidden a location, the more desirable.

Sophie’s eyes gave a hassled roll. “We’ve been juggling groups since you left. When a cluster comes by, one of us will hide behind the bush and say we’ve all gotten separated in the maze. It’s fooled people so far—though it’s not even a good excuse! It’s such a small maze. Yet three people claimed to have seen all of us together lost somewhere near the center fountain! How silly, when it’s just left, right, straight, two rights, three lefts, a right, and straight. I wasn’t sure how much longer the trick would work…”

“Then it’s time to show ourselves together.”

“Most definitely.”

The laughter grew closer until Lord Stourton, the misses Carter, and three young bucks stumbled around a hedge. “Ah, you’ve found them!” Stourton cheered. The young bucks cheered. The misses Carter giggled. Someone snorted.

“As you see,” Mr. Urquhart said.

Stourton hiccoughed. “We’ve had enough of that blood… bloom… the maze. As the blasted rain’s coming, we’re set for billiards and dancing. Not necessarily in that order. Join us!”

Stourton linked arms with a young buck who formed an unwilling chain with Mr. Urquhart. So it was with a blended and quite respectable (if boisterous) group of people that they returned to the ballroom.

The temperature had dropped rapidly, moist air formed into thick mist, parting in swirls around the ladies’ skirts. Halfway up the stairs, a fat rain droplet plopped upon Amanda’s skull, proving Lord Stourton’s prediction of the weather.

Cool garden glass and hot ballroom air had steamed the balcony windows, but the chandeliers cast dancing silhouettes against the panes. It took chaotic effort for the huge group (arms still linked, of course) to siphon up the garden stairs and through the ballroom doors, full of giggles and glee at their narrow escape from drenching downpour. Safely under cover of the balcony, Sophie and Duncan were next.

“Miss Pruett…” Lord Denbigh held out a halting hand, but never touched her.

“Lord Denbigh?”

“Amanda,” he nearly whispered. “Do you…”

She turned on the stair to face him. They were almost eye-to-eye and close, as close as they’d been all night. As close as the night he’d carried her home. Much like that night, mist twisted around her feet and her heart raced. But tonight it was so very different. She could hear the gentle, trilling flute of a Wilson quadrille playing in the ballroom behind her. Laughter and lively conversation. While the air was crisp and cool, her blood rushed. In the distance, above the garden and its fountains and hedges, through a break in the clouds she caught the unmistakable twinkle of stars. And her heart was not racing in fear.

“Are you attached to Sir Robert?”

Another droplet fell on Amanda’s nose.

Attached? Amanda pictured his dark raven locks and how silken they must feel. When he danced with her, she floated on air. When he looked at her, his eyes twinkled and she melted. She’d follow him into mischief. She enjoyed his company. She enjoyed his attentions. He was handsome and charming and he cut a fine figure on the dance floor.

But she didn’t know him. She’d had the frivolous fantasy that she might like to get to know him, but truly they weren’t suited to each other. She sought him out because he was full of warm, fuzzy emotions that were intentionally uplifting. He was a flirt, a lothario. A card-cheat. He’d set her heart aflutter.

But somehow… somehow not as much as the man who stood before her now. She’d known this man just as long and yet she knew him better. He’d lifted her, sheltered her, encouraged her brother. He’d berated her and angered her and… and he made her breath catch.

Her feelings were full of contradictions, a combination of sudden and slow. Confusion and clarity. He’d been gentle with her and harsh. Protective and stern. He’d demanded and requested. He’d managed to do all the right things in all the wrong ways. Now he asked her, on the stairs to the ballroom where word of her societal ruin likely already circulated, if she was attached to Sir Robert. What could she do? How could she answer?

Sir Robert had made her heart aflutter.

With Lord Denbigh, with Julian, her heart was not aflutter. It pounded.

She shook her head.

 

“No, I—”

Then he kissed her.

He leaned forward, his lips met hers. Rich and firm and supple. His touch was Heaven. His kiss velvet. His heat shocked against her cool skin, but she didn’t break away and he didn’t push. He gave her time. To decide. Asking, as he’d asked her opinion at each step.

So she fell into the kiss.

At her response, he surged. His hand flew around the nape of her neck and his body rushed to share the stair upon which she stood. An arm encircled her waist, pulling her close against him. The arms that held her safe, secure. She could feel the hard chest that yielded against her touch. The chest that nestled her when she fell. He filled her senses, cinnamon and amber, warm and protected. She breathed in and wanted more of him.

Her hands flew to his lapels, pulling him closer. He’d somehow pressed her back against the cool terrace wall, but she felt nothing but flame. Heat rushed across her skin, little trails of fire sparked everywhere he touched. Her hip felt every fingertip, her neck every caress. She lost herself in the silk of his hair, the scruff of his cheek. His thumb stroked her chin and shivers shot down her spine, warmth and tingles emanating to every limb.

In a flurry of fingers, he’d reached for her laces. And then…

“When I said to cause a little bit of a scandal, this was not what I had in mind!” Sophie hissed.

Their kiss broke.

Amanda looked up, dazed. Her lips were swollen, her cheek burned from where his spot of unshaved whiskers scratched. She could see Sophie framed in the doorway. Behind her, Lady Worthington and another woman stared out the door, mouths a perfect pair of Os. Her pounding heart caught in her throat.

The tiny bundle that made up Sophie Fraser stormed down the balcony staircase. “What happened to our plan?” Her finger threatened to poke Julian in the chest. “We had a plan! It was a good plan. This was not part of the plan!”

“This was the plan!”

“Excuse me, what plan?” Amanda blinked. She was still pinned to the wall by Julian’s body, reeling from his kisses, but somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind she knew and said, “This was not my plan!”

Sophie waved a hand at her. “This was your plan. With one slightly-altered step. I did warn you that we needed a little scandal for the rumor to spread.” She nodded. “But nowhere in the slightly-altered step part of the plan did it say anything about manhandling her!”

“This was not my plan!” Amanda’s blood still rushed from the kiss making it hard to think, let alone clearly. “My plan… our plan was to imply I’d met with the man in the library.”

“Yes.” Sophie nodded. “With the slight alteration: the man was Lord Denbigh. We need people to gossip about the library, not who, specifically, was there. And without your father or any person of influence, Lord Denbigh’s name will protect yours. Until the inquest, that is.”

More conflicting emotion filled her. Confusion and understanding. Relief. Relief, yes. Some fury. But she needed to focus on the relief. If she focused on the fury… well, somehow through her rushing blood and tingling senses and bereft lips, her brain warned her that would ruin their attempts at not making a scandal of their little scandal.

In all fairness, Sophie had warned her, though Amanda convinced herself she’d be willing to take the brunt of any gossip. As for Julian… well, he had asked.

He simply hadn’t told her what question she’d answered.

“Our plan was better,” she mumbled.

“Our plan was worse,” Sophie argued. “The more I think on it, the more I realize that this way is by far superior! Well done, Lord Denbigh! Now no one will think twice of you two sneaking moments alone together.” Sophie clapped her hands. “But now we must get inside before the masses start inventing reasons for the delay.” Before she could protest, Sophie took her by the arm and dragged her into the ballroom.

The light and music was almost shocking after the contrasting stillness of night. Candle glare and smoke made her eyes water, thus Amanda didn’t notice… at first.

She blinked, rapidly, and her eyes cleared.

She noticed.

Watching the news of their kiss travel across the ballroom was almost like watching a wave crash upon the shore. A small ripple began at one end, reaching greater force as it moved its way across the room. She suddenly lost her breath.

There were ogles and stares, sly glances, cheeky whispers. Amanda’s hand flew to her lips. She could feel their fullness, their just-kissed-puff. She quickly dropped her hand to her side. The cluster of people near her didn’t bother with polite undertones. The words entrapment and fortune-hunter were quite clearly enunciated.

This was better?

Amanda was a fool. She shouldn’t have done this. If this was how they whispered with viscount Lord Denbigh’s support, what would they have said if they thought her a friendless flirt having a secret midnight rendezvous with a stranger? The whole thing was a mistake, an utter, complete mistake!

Willing to sacrifice some for the whole? Bah! Why hadn’t she been selfish? There was nothing ignoble in self-preservation! She wanted to hide.

“We should dance.”

Command or request, Amanda wouldn’t know. Julian had already taken her hand and led her to the floor. When she recognized the music, she nearly bolted.

A waltz!

Oh, this would only make things worse! If they thought her a fortune-hunter, dancing a waltz, their bodies so close…

Much too late. He’d pulled her in, warm hand fitting snugly upon her back. They spun, and the stares and whispers melded into a blur of faces.

His rich blue gaze looked down at her face, but for once, she couldn’t meet them. She didn’t want to know if they were shuttered or sparking.

“If I may be presumptuous, you don’t look comfortable,” he said.

A startled laugh escaped her. She remembered their first dance with his stiff, exacting posture and brittle appearance. Was that how she looked? Amanda risked a glance at him. He was still stiff. Uncomfortable. But the hand cradling hers was gentle. Reminiscent tingles radiated where he touched. His palm against her back firm and guiding. He wouldn’t let her stumble.

“I’m not,” she said, allowing a small smile. She made an attempt to relax her shoulders.

He swooped them in a circle, deeper into the flow of dancers. “Lady Worthington will silence with kind denial anyone who says you’ve forced my hand. But we must at least be seen to be civil to each other.”

“I think we can manage that,” she granted. “Still, you could have warned me.”

“I did ask you.”

“In the vaguest possible terms!” She could hear the frustration in her voice and pasted on a smile, hoping it would mask her emotions. “I thought you were speaking of a miracle! An impossibility!”

“Would you have preferred success with your original plan? The one you chose unilaterally, abandoning you without any support?” He swirled her, perhaps to hide tension. His fingers flexed against her back.

“You are mad at me,” she realized, astonished. She should be mad at him, not the other way ’round!

“Mad? Absolutely, yes. Infuriated.” Another tight spin. “We’d agreed to work together. There is strength in numbers.”

“We said that about the investigation. But this—”

“Was still about the investigation.” Blue sparks flashed. “As well as being personal. I told you I wanted no part in sullying your reputation. And yet here we are.”

“You haven’t! That’s not why you kissed me. You didn’t kiss me to sully my reputation at all.” She looked at him, trying to read his eyes. The inscrutable curtain had fallen. “You kissed me to help save my reputation.”

He was silent for several turns. Then his gravelly voice said, “That’s not why I kissed you.”

They moved around the floor in silence after that. Amanda couldn’t bring herself to ask his true reason. They circled once, then again, his hand never moving them to an inappropriate closeness, but she could feel the heat of it burn her skin, even through the intervening layers. She thought they would finish the dance in silence. But as he guided her around for the final spin, his grip adjusted, their proper circle compressed, and he said, for her hearing alone, “I kissed you because I wanted to.”

By the time the waltz stopped, they were a respectable distance apart. But his revelation kept her spinning. Her mind rushed, her heart swelled, the world had tilted and she flew, but he was right beside her to hold her steady.

Perhaps it was the dance. Perhaps it was something to do with her starry, dazed expression as she looked at him. But the whispers had changed.

How did she catch him?

They’d grown speculative.

Their aunts are friends. Was it arranged, you think?

Hmph.

It was a start, and certainly a great deal better than her snapping him up in a parson’s mousetrap or claiming her a poor Smithfield bargain.

Gracious Heavens! Now I am speaking cant. Is no one in the family free from a vulgar tongue?

“I haven’t seen you so relaxed in company for an age!” Lady Worthington greeted them with a kind smile.

Despite her whirling emotions, Amanda returned it. If this lady were to think her a fortune-hunter, she might shrivel to the ballroom floor. Her own aunt, however… Great-Aunt Celia’s beaming smile did not reach her eyes.

She had to be disappointed in her. Celia had dropped everything to come to London, suffering broken carriage wheels and window-breaking villains to help Amanda through her Season and Amanda had just thrown the lot back in her face. If anyone were to be disappointed, it would be Great-Aunt Celia. Such disappointment would be strong and effusively worded.

Amanda desperately searched the ballroom for Sophie’s support. She and Mr. Abercrombie were just returning from the refreshment table.

Walk faster! Run if you have to…

Then Julian was at her elbow, keeping her afloat.

“Our dandies are at clashing odds tonight,” he said, quietly distracting her. Mr. Abercrombie had stopped right next to Lord Darvel.

True enough, however, Mr. Abercrombie appeared almost dashing standing next to Sophie. Amanda could see how he might woo a great deal of young misses, despite his leery-glances. His merlot-colored coat over sapphire vest with bright yellow silk underneath was almost the same as Lord Darvel had worn in her garden. While the colors thrown together might have been an eyesore (as Darvel’s had been), the tailoring was richly masterful. It wove the fabric into a subtle pattern that radiated luxury and style. After lesson learned with her ridiculous reticule, Amanda promised to give a more discerning eye to color, and Mr. Abercrombie’s tailor had created a masterpiece.

Lord Darvel, however… Plum and champagne might have worked. But there was something off. Something wrong.

Her companion spotted it exactly. “An old coat, cheaply dyed. It used to be cream, you can see at the seam there. The left sleeve is frayed. His cravat limp and under-starched. No valet with any self-respect tied that monstrosity. For a man with such personal vanity to appear in so sorry a state, his finances must be on the brink.”

She could see that. As he spoke with Lady Worthington, the man had an edge to him. A frantic desperation shone from his eyes as he turned to greet them. His intensity threatened to burst from his skin.

“Miss Pruett, I was just asking this dear lady,” Lord Darvel indicated Great-Aunt Celia’s not-quite-smiling person (who also appeared more unhappy to be considered dear to the dandy), “if you would be interested in joining us for a scientific study I am hosting tomorrow morning. A small affair, and terribly last-minute…”

If Lord Darvel were hosting, it would have to be a small affair. Anything more and the man might be forced to dye his coat black and wear it thrice. As it was in the morning, not evening, the man wouldn’t have to pay for a dinner or supper. He must be desperate.

Was he in desperate enough state to kill a man? Julian suspected it was someone Amanda knew. Someone with connections to both Father and Uncle.

Had Victor tried to peddle him some false information? Or something of great value to rid Lord Darvel of his troubles? Even if that were the case, how could the two have even known each other?

From the same cause that put him in his current financial position. From gambling. All manner of people could be thrown together in the dark underbellies of a gaming hell.

“…but with all of these grenouilles flooding across the Strait after the war, they’re bringing with them ideas and inventions. We had the odd bit of exchange during the heat of it—Davy hopping over to get awarded those medals from Boney—Denbigh, you’d shown some interest in his fire safety lamp if I recall…”

“I did, indeed.”

“Yes, yes, I thought you had. We’ll have a discussion on that. Well, things of that nature. Won’t we, Mr. Abercrombie? You’ll read to us from one of your papers, what?”

“I say, that sounds a diverting prospect. I might pen a new essay for the occasion: The Technological Benefits of Ante-Bellum Co-operation.”

Darvel clapped. “Ah, capital! Capital. A right little party we shall make of it!” He laughed. It sounded sadly optimistic.

“Well, gentlemen, in preparation of tomorrow’s early morning, I think we shall depart. These old bones are not what they once were,” Great-Aunt Celia tapped her cane against the floor.

Amanda stared at her after such a pronouncement.

She may be forty-something, but didn’t look a day over thirty. Her lean figure rivaled Amanda’s, her flaxen hair glistened, and she held the complexion of youth. But her lips pursed and the corners of her eyes pinched.

Either she was tired—weary and exhausted from the days of travel, accompanying Amanda for party after party, the shocking destruction of a window, opening her townhouse, compounded by an endless evening on her weak leg—or she was furious over Amanda’s very public kiss, failing all her Great-Aunt’s valiant attempts as chaperone.

Amanda highly suspected the latter, anticipating a lengthy upbraiding full of dripping disappointment on the ride home.

They made such hasty goodbyes that Amanda didn’t have a moment alone with the two people she most desperately wished to. Sophie squeezed her hand in parting and gave her a little wink.

As for Julian…

Lord Denbigh was all politeness and courtesy. He thanked Amanda for the dance, bowed, and very properly asked Great-Aunt Celia permission to meet with them early in the morning for a walk in the park.

He spoke not another word to her.

She even risked a glance back as she followed Great-Aunt Celia through the throng (her cane had surprisingly little effect upon the shins so late in the evening). He had broken off into conversation with Mr. Urquhart and did not look at her.

She did see other eyes follow her, however. Someone approached the little group. A head bent, words whispered, Lord Darvel’s lips dropped in a gasp, and Mr. Abercrombie’s cool eyes narrowed on her retreating form.

Well, their gossip had now completed the full ballroom. The plan (whoseever it was) had been an amazing success.

She simply wasn’t happy about it.

Yet she wasn’t alone.

Before she lost sight of him completely, Amanda locked eyes on the dark green coat that she’d nestled against, danced with, and been sheltered by all evening. She whispered two words he could never hear, but were profoundly felt in that instant: “Thank you.”

Julian hadn’t left her to battle the tides of gossip alone. He’d joined her on the ship, sink or swim.

“There’s nothing to thank me for, girl,” Great-Aunt Celia huffed, practically hauling her out the door and into the carriage. “I got you out of there as quickly as I could, though it wouldn’t do any good to make a beeline for the door as if you’ve done something wrong, even if you have. What sort of brains do you have rattling around in that head of yours, kissing a man in public? Jane and I quelled a good bit of the gossip, but now you’ve gone and put your foot in—your lips on it—haven’t you? There’s nothing for it. You do realize the only way out of your total ruination will be an expedient offer? Imagine, a viscount making an offer to a little mousey nobody. Now you must wave goodbye to any prospects from anybody, but especially that handsome Sir Robert.”

She had not used the word “disappointed.” But Sir Robert?

“I thought you liked Lord Denbigh, Aunt.”

“Hmm. Well, yes, try explaining to the ton that it’s not entrapment or that anyone had a choice in the matter. I have no idea what I will tell your parents when they finally deign to show their presence. Running off to faraway Italian kingdoms in the midst of the Season. Maybe by the time they return we’ll find a way to weasel out of it without making you look like a jilt, as well as a hussy.”

With that ominous pronouncement, she tapped her cane against the floor of the carriage and stared out the window. She refrained from her customary doze to sit surly, quiet, and upset through every bump and jostle of the road. It was worse than disappointed.

Amanda faltered between wallowing at her description as a “mousey nobody” and reveling at the memory of a kiss which had proved to be a supremely improper distraction. Was Julian also in such turmoil? At the time he’d seemed so, but now? How could he be when he’d barely spoken to her? That doubt nagged at her heart like a pecking crow and made her dread their morning walk in the park.