Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (22)

Traffic had the audacity not to comply with Great-Aunt Celia’s timetable. There were so many vehicles upon the street that by the time they arrived at the Worthington’s, even Great-Aunt Celia’s built-in buffer (fifteen minutes by carriage) left them with a six-minute black mark upon her previously unblemished late-record.

As they climbed the stairs, the poor woman kept muttering “Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight. She’ll never let us through the door.”

Though she did, of course. Lady Worthington welcomed them with all her usual grace, personally escorting the trio through the mass of her guests. People milled and thronged in every available space. If there had been room enough to swarm, they might have done that, too. As it was, they made do with crowding the hall, entrance, library, and anywhere else open to the public. But with Lady Worthington as guide, the little group made easy work through the crush. The current of bodies flowed one direction—toward the ballroom.

When Amanda had seen it last by the light of a single candle, the Worthington ballroom was a dim hint of grandeur. Now, it glittered, radiant as a diamond. Light sparkled from chandeliers, reflected on the gilt mirrors, glinted off gems and jewels draped upon ladies and gentlemen alike. Professionals strummed the instruments into life, a happy little minuet trumpeting their entrance.

Whispers began immediately. Unlike the wave which had nearly drowned her in the Tisdale’s ballroom, this gossip simmered, small bubbles popping at the surface in an indistinguishable hiss. Amanda couldn’t make out the words, but there was little doubt as to their focus. All eyes were on her, the words must be as well. Luckily, she didn’t have to wait long to discover what they were saying.

They’d been there less than three minutes when Sophie bounced towards them with unreserved delight. She wore a pale butter-cream gauze which had every intention of making her look innocent and feminine. Indeed, it succeeded in the latter, but the former… there was no mistaking Sophie Fraser for anything but a troublemaker.

“Hello, cousin Julie!” She kissed Julian soundly on both cheeks. “Before you say anything, you must know that I’ve worked it all out.” She ticked each G with a finger to thumb. “My Great-great-great Grandfather was your great-great—”

“I believe you,” Julian cut in, abruptly.

“Delightful! Because I’m not certain if I properly remember the connection. I’ve scribbled it all down, of course, in case there’s any question.” She gave Amanda a wink. “Have you heard the rumors this evening?” Sophie didn’t leave them in suspense long—barely two seconds. “By now, of course, it’s common knowledge that Mr. Abercrombie was just as vile as every doting mama has always claimed him to be from the moment they set eyes upon him. But, what has everyone talking is the valiant rescue of a fair damsel from his vile clutches!” Sophie beamed up at Julian, sparks of wonder lighting her eyes. “I heard that you caught Miss Pruett in your arms, plucking her from mid-air after foul Abercrombie pushed her off the bridge! Is it true?”

Julian began to shake his head. He took a breath—

“And that he’d kept Miss Pruett and her brother enchained in a dark, dripping crypt, yet you bravely broke down the door and let loose your hounds… But not before declaring your eternal love and devotion would prevail against his sinister plans!”

Sophie batted her eyes.

Julian sputtered.

Amanda tried desperately not to giggle. “I don’t believe Lord Denbigh reads Gothic novels.”

Sophie gazed upon him, wide-eyed and incredulous. “You don’t? Everyone else does! They’ll absolutely deny it if asked, but they read each bloodcurdling line of Walpole and Radcliffe. Only in the middle of the night, of course, by candle, with the bed curtains drawn so that no one can see… it causes the most delicious tingles down the back of one’s neck. Honestly, the crowd ate up every word of the tale of Lord Denbigh and the Enthurst Crypt. Perhaps I should put it to paper.”

The story was outrageous enough. There was a bit of truth in her tale, but enough fancy that Julian’s dash and daring increased with each telling. (No one wanted to recount a dull version of events.) Now Amanda knew what had enthralled those simmering whispers—a heartfelt declaration of love in the very face of evil.

If only that part were true.

Julian looked extremely uncomfortable. As soon as opportunity presented in the form of Lord Worthington, he excused himself (with a palpable relief) and turned to speak with the gentleman.

“I went too far, didn’t I?” Sophie asked, leaning closer.

Amanda shook her head and smiled. “It was practically perfect.”

“Practically?!”

“You missed the opportunity to add him charging in upon a fiery steed.”

“I knew there was something!” She waved a hand in the air. “Well, I’m certain someone shall correct the oversight. Though someone suggested a few ingenious methods of your escape. Along with several downright wicked rejoinders for the duel scene. I should like to speak with the devious minds who came up with those. Lady Palmer claimed that while dangling from his clutches over the bridge, our plucky and spunky damsel—(you)—tried to kick him in the—ah,” Sophie broke off abruptly. Amanda followed her gaze and immediately caught sight of Lord Darvel. A lump formed in her throat. “He looks as if he discovered what I did to his brandy.” He did, in fact, look grim. And when he caught sight of them, he began to move their direction.

“I feel a sudden urge for refreshment,” Sophie said.

“That wouldn’t have anything to do with the refreshment table being conveniently placed in front of giant screens suitable for hiding?”

“I will bring you back a trifle.”

“I will do my best to waylay him,” she said, but Sophie had already disappeared into the crowd.

Amanda felt an uncomfortable prickling along her chest as he approached. She’d been so very certain of his guilt. Instead, the poor man was an innocent pawn, entirely ignorant of what Abercrombie was doing. He’d thought to improve his circumstances in a gamble with what remained of his china legacy. He had no idea that if he hadn’t agreed to Abercrombie’s scheme he might have been killed, too.

Tonight, Lord Darvel wore the simplest dandified ensemble Amanda had ever seen. No adornment, no gaudy stickpin, only color. His expression was no longer hassled or frantic. He seemed resigned. George Henry Ruthven had finally made the decision to retrench. And to stop gambling. The second decision was by far the harder.

When he’d made it to her side, Darvel cast a nervous glance Julian’s direction only to find that he still spoke with Lord Worthington and paid them no notice. So Darvel took one of Amanda’s hands in his and met her gaze earnestly.

“My dear, the entire room is abuzz. Even though I know that your father and I left things raw between us, I was sincere when I told you to come to me in his absence if anything awkward were to happen. Forgive me for being blunt, but if this alleged union with Lord Denbigh is not what you want, come to me. My influence may have waned because of my foolish vices, but I still have some. Do not make the same mistake as I did. If you need support, know that you have mine.”

Amanda smiled kindly at the man and placed her free hand atop his. He had nearly lost everything, but he offered her aid. Lord Darvel did deserve her pity and the only way she could apologize would be to try and mend his rift with her father.

“Thank you,” she said. “You may ease your mind. This is what I want, with all my heart.”

Darvel met her eyes. He watched her a moment, then returned her smile and shook their joined hands. With a gentle nod, he walked away. He passed the card room, though it was a very near thing. Luckily, Lord Auburn and Lord Worthington met him just at his moment of hesitation with an offer to play a rousing round of billiards. It was the first time in quite a long while that Lord Darvel accepted help.

Amanda turned to Julian. Without his host as distraction, he was now in deep conversation with Great-Aunt Celia and Lady Worthington. So deep that he purposefully avoided meeting her gaze. She caught his blue eyes once, the shutters slammed, and he immediately turned his attention back to Great-Aunt Celia’s favorite recipe for trout.

What had happened? What upset him so?

Sophie’s rumors? They held a deal of truth to them. Perhaps not a great deal, but they had prevented a number of uncomfortable questions.

Amanda worried that it was the second half that bothered him. The dramatic declaration of love and devotion half.

If she could somehow interrupt the detailed instructions for sautéing fish to express a little of the emotion nearly bursting from her, perhaps she could find a way to break through to him.

Instead, she now knew to turn the filet when the crisp skin made a sound somewhere between a pop and a hiss. For all the good that would do her. But the discussion of sound (and cooking sounds) made her realize that the simmering whispers all around suddenly rumbled, roiled, then stopped.

An expectant air replaced it, a tension, as all eyes focused on the doorway and the woman standing framed beneath the lintel.

Candace Armytage entered the ballroom draped in apricot silk and pearls, a striking combination against her tawny hair and blue eyes. For once, she wasn’t the tiny shadow to an overbearing husband. She sparkled. She was the star. And one man present made a wish.

If Sophie’s rumors had left any doubt that this was a love match and the family approved wholeheartedly, Lady Denbigh’s presence squashed it. She scanned the room and began walking when she saw them. Eager to see the interaction, the crowd parted for her.

She stopped in front of Amanda, slippered toe to slippered toe, then pulled her into a warm embrace. That set the crowd bubbling again!

“Mother!” Julian greeted. “I hadn’t expected you to come.” His shoulders relaxed and there was a lightness about him that indicated his pleasure that she had.

Lady Denbigh smiled and kissed her son’s cheek. “I’ve been overdue for a turn around the dance floor. What better night than this?” She beamed at the couple. “Have you made the announcement already?”

“No.”

His brusque tone told everyone that he’d retreated again.

Lady Denbigh raised a dainty eyebrow. “Leave them in suspense for a little while, eh? Announce the news at the most opportune moment? Well, now that I have arrived—dare I be presumptuous to say with such a dramatic entrance—now might be that moment.”

“I… erm… well…” Julian stuttered. “Excuse me.” He pushed his way through the crowd before Amanda could react. She stood, speechless, and watched him disappear into the throng.

There was a tug on her arm. She ignored it as she tried to master her feelings. He’d left her there. To deal with this alone?

Tug. Tug. Again, persistent.

For Heaven’s sake, now what?!

Oh, brave Amanda, tempting Fate again, are we?

Great-Aunt Celia frowned at her.

“What? What have I done?” Amanda asked.

Her stomach churned at the thunderous expression upon her aunt’s face.

“It’s what you haven’t done that’s the issue.” Celia shook her head at the chandelier. “Girls these days! No sense about them. There’s a strapping lad who’s just rescued you from a flooded cell filled with hungry vermin, then risked his life…” She turned to Lady Worthington, “…what was it, Jane, swords or pistols?”

“Both,” Lady Worthington answered immediately. “He used the sword’s blade to shield her from the shot.”

“My son?” Lady Denbigh looked impressed. “He was always good at rackets. Tell me that he carried the blade between his teeth! What happened next?”

“Ah, yes, then he risked his life to win a swashbuckling duel, ending the plight with a harrowing dive into a pond to save your chained body from sinking to its inky depths, and you’ve let him walk away without going after him?”

Lady Worthington tsked.

Lady Denbigh sighed.

Great-Aunt Celia shook her head, sadly.

“I… Erm.” Amanda blinked, looking from one to the next. They each watched her with the same expectant expression. “I think I’ve lost an earring. I should go search.”

Great-Aunt Celia was only slightly mollified. She rolled her eyes. “If that’s the excuse you’re going to use, best take one out first. And do hurry. The music’s about to start and I’d like a dance with my future nephew.”

“I might try the sitting room first,” Lady Worthington offered, helpfully.

“He can be mule-headed and vexing, best to be relentless! And twice as stubborn…” Lady Denbigh said to Amanda’s back. She was halfway across the room.

The mass of people thinned as she made her way down the hall to the Worthington sitting room. It was closed to visitors (including distant relations).

But not locked.

Amanda slowly turned the handle to let herself into the room where she and Julian first met. Very well, technically they’d first met in the misty moonlight, so this was the room where they were first introduced. The sconces high on the wall were snuffed, but the fireplace filled the room with an intimate glow. Plush tufts from the lovely cream Axminster carpet muffled her footsteps as she crossed to the looming figure pacing back and forth before the fire.

“I can’t do this…”

He paced.

Stopped.

Shook his head.

“You must. It’s not such a difficult thing.”

He uttered a harsh laugh. “Announcing it to a room full of people? Devilishly difficult!”

He spun around.

And saw her.

His blue eyes were crystal clear. She could read every raw emotion. It took her breath away.

“It’s not as it appears…”

Amanda gave him a gentle smile. “It is exactly as it appears.”

It appeared as if he’d run off because the talk about declarations of love was something he found daunting. It appeared that he was working up his nerve to address a crowd he worried might faint at his feet. It appeared as if the moment he caught sight of her in the room, his eyes had lit in wonder and longing. Trepidation and joy.

It little mattered to Amanda that he couldn’t form the words. He’d constantly told her the way he felt. Heavens, he showed her all the time! By protecting her and protecting her brother. Giving her choices when she had none. It was all in deed, not word.

She shook her head and cupped his cheek. “Impossible man. You aren’t doing this alone, you know. As you so often remind me, we’ll do this together.”

His shoulders relaxed (the slightest dip in his posture) and he smiled. His arms settled about her waist. “Then so we shall.”

She nodded. “Good. Though it might behoove us to work on synchronizing our efforts,” she teased. “We generally have the same goal, but our paths too often diverge.”

“Woman, I will draw you a roadmap!” He kissed her, quick. “A simple guide to follow. After I’ve thoroughly discussed it with you.”

“That sounds like the perfect plan.”

“Just don’t go off on one of your own, willy-nilly, harebrained schemes—” She sputtered in protest. “—without me. Which is a prime reason we should go make the announcement right now.” His arms hugged her closer. “I can do this. It’s not such a difficult thing. I can, because I do.”

Amanda laughed. “What an amazing bit of luck, for I love you, too.”

It was some time later that they emerged from the Worthington sitting room and, together, informed the crowd of their pending nuptials. Lady Fortescue put a hand to her forehead and her knees went wobbly, but with lack of a convenient couch (or anyone willing to catch her), she refrained from fainting.

The ensuing boil of whispers was enough to put Miss Sophie Fraser off gossip entirely! (For a week.)

Atop all the daring exploits, the room was atwitter over Julian Armytage’s obvious (unfashionable and enviable) devotion to his betrothed and Amanda Pruett’s obvious (equally unfashionable and just as enviable) adoration of hers.

“Now, maybe I can get some rest,” Great-Aunt Celia said, tapping her blackthorn cane upon the ballroom floor.

“No such luck. As you told me, Aunt: no rest for the wicked,” Amanda said, “and I believe you owe your future nephew a dance.”

Great-Aunt Celia thrust the blackthorn cane into Amanda’s arms. She barely managed to wrap her fingers around it before the woman dragged Julian to the floor.

“Tread light upon the toes, boy. Head up. Shoulders back. I know some lords with terrible habits, but one would hope they’d teach you proper posture in the Army. Can’t have standards slack just because a little Corsican decided to invade Europe. But remember if you thought Napoleon bad, I am ten times more fierce.” She looked up at him. “Though I doubt you’ll cause Amanda any grief with the way you keep staring at your betrothed when you’re supposed to be dancing. I expect to see that same expression on your face at eighty. Three great-great nephews or nieces would be nice.”

No one dared gainsay her.

(Though Michael and Andrew made faces whenever their parents kissed and little Celia sniffed at being called “little” while Aunt Celia merited not one, but two Greats.)