The Notorious Scoundrel Page 18

  And yet Amy’s thoughts so often returned to the scoundrel of St. James. He was at sea, patrolling the coast of Africa. She had heard tales of sickness and savages, fierce battles with determined rigs unwilling to give up their slave cargoes. The images of Edmund wounded…sinking…fighting for survival filled her head. She had learned to quash the dark reflections whenever they pressed upon her. She had learned to ease her troubled heartbeat with a few measured breaths.

  “Are you all right, Lady Amy?”

  “I was just thinking about your brothers at sea. Do you ever worry about their welfare, Your Grace?”

  “All the time, I’m afraid.” She sighed. “I’ve learned to live with the underlying anxiety.” She rubbed Amy’s hands. “But don’t you fret about the Hawkins brothers. They’ve been through scrapes and catastrophes, and they’ve weathered them all. I’ve learned that about my brothers, too.” She gestured toward the ballroom. “You should be thinking about your come-out party, Lady Amy. How do you like your new position as a woman of consequence?”

  Amy’s employment at the Pleasure Palace had trained her to perform in front of strangers, and while she wasn’t dancing on a stage anymore, she still had to summon every ounce of her theatrical savvy to mingle with the critical haute monde. She wasn’t one of them. Not really. She had the same blue blood, but she still had to wear an invisible veil to conceal her true thoughts and feelings, her past.

  Her wretched past. It was impossible for her to escape it. Even now the spacious room was filled with myriad “strangers,” and yet she recognized many of the male faces. The gentlemen now had lofty titles and accomplishments that went along with their familiar features; however, she remembered them without their polished veneers. She remembered them when they had salivated at her feet, bombarded her with requests for private rendezvous.

  Amy shuddered. It hounded her almost every moment of the day, the dreaded prospect that her sinful spell as Zarsitti might be revealed. She often imagined the horrid news spreading across the city, shaming her parents.

  Amy sighed. “It’s overwhelming, Your Grace.”

  The duchess patted her arm. “Yes, it is, my dear. I was thrust into the position of duchess without much knowledge about the post or the duty. Give it some time. You’ll be fine.”

  Amy simpered at the much-needed encouragement. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  The duchess smiled in return, but her features quickly gathered in bewilderment. “What are you doing here, Eddie?”

  Amy bristled.

  Edmund?

  Impossible. The man was at sea. And yet she sensed his familiar figure at her backside, warming her very bones with his presence. Her heart thumped with greater energy, every pulsing beat unraveling her delicate pretense.

  He was home…On land…Here…Beside her.

  “I’ve come to ask Lady Amy to dance,” he said in a low voice.

  Slowly she turned around and confronted the handsome scoundrel. The noisy din from the other guests, the animated candlelight intensified. It all seemed so much more palpable. She was sure everyone inside the ballroom was privy to her scandalous thoughts, her flickering heartbeats.

  She licked her lips as she perused him, noting every detail. He was dressed in formal evening wear, the dark, finely tailored ensemble hugging him with precision, setting off his most admirable features, like his wide shoulders and his sinewy legs. She fanned herself with the silk accoutrement secured at her wrist, eyeing his smooth cheekbones, his square chin. She yearned to rub her fingers over his mouth, so sensual, so inviting.

  She dashed the unfitting thoughts. He was safe, untouched by danger…and yet that wasn’t true. He had evaded serious injury, even death at sea, but danger still manifested from his pores, tempting her, coaxing her from her prim position as a lady, bidding Zarsitti into the light.

  Amy pinched her bottom lip between her teeth as he looked at her with fierce regard, the smoldering stare imploring: Dance with me, Zarsitti.

  Mirabelle interjected, “But you’re supposed to be at sea for another six months!”

  He kissed his excitable sister on the flushed cheek. “We returned home early, Belle.”

  “Why?” she snapped.

  “I’ll visit with you tomorrow,” he promised. “I’ll tell you the story then. Why don’t you dance with your husband?” He set his fine eyes on Amy again. “I’m presently engaged with Lady Amy.”

  He clasped her hand with confidence and guided her toward the dance floor. She released the fan, let it dangle from the cord at her wrist, as the desire to move her hips and undulate her belly welled inside her. She wanted to dance with Edmund. She wanted to dance for him.

  She looked at his strong, robust hand. It was wrapped around her slim fingers. She wedged the appendages deeper between his palm, seeking a firmer, unbreakable connection. He responded to her probing pokes, gripping her more tightly before he clinched her waist in a snug embrace.

  The heat from his touch, the security that radiated from his presence, lured her into a forbidden entanglement. She breathed with greater zest in his arms. It was as if he was the one missing piece from the ball preventing her from thoroughly enjoying herself, and now that he had arrived, her spirit danced.

  But as soon as Amy detected the Duchess of Wembury’s audible groan, the enchantment shattered, and her muscles stiffened at the prospect that she was making a spectacle of herself with Edmund.

  She struggled, a cold sweat coming over her. “We can’t do this, Edmund.”

  “Yes, we can,” he said suavely as he whirled with her across the ballroom. “We’ve danced before.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” she said, almost frantic. “It’s improper. I’m—”

  “Shhh…I’ve missed you, Amy.”

  And with those whispered words the defiance in her soul passed away, like an ailing body taking its final breath after a hardy battle with death. And without the defiance in her soul, there was only the pleasurable feeling of being trapped between the scoundrel’s arms…and savoring the delicious sensation.

  “What are you doing here, Edmund?”

  He tsked, his sensual lips snapping. “Is the music too loud? I said, I’ve come to dance with you, Amy.”

  “I’m not deaf, but you’ve not traveled the ocean for a waltz.”

  He fingered her spine like a violin player. “Perhaps I have.”

  “Bullocks,” she mouthed.

  He smiled at her tartness, his eyes teasing, and she shivered in her bones, charmed by the coy expression that so often hung from his churlish brow.

  “What about your naval duty?” she charged.

  “Our patrol ended early; the captain was injured.”

  As his lush lips thinned, her heart swelled in her breast. “Is William all right?”

  “He will be,” he returned with confidence.

  “What happened?”

  “He was shot in battle.”

  Amy gasped. “Shot?” She glanced at the duchess in distress. “You have to tell your sister!”

  “I will. Tomorrow.”

  “What are you doing here, dancing?” She glowered at him. “Why aren’t you at home, nursing your brother?”

  He snorted. “I’m not needed at the house.” The bitterness in his voice was thick. “James is there.”

  “Are you still at odds with your brother?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him. I’ve come to see you, Amy.” The heat in his words charred her innards. “Are you happy?” he murmured. “Is it everything you dreamed it would be?”

  “Why do you ask me that?” She sensed every pair of eyes on her, ogling her, cutting into her like a hundred pinpricks. She added peevishly, “To rest your mind?”

  He frowned. “You’re unhappy then?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she snapped, “but I belong here. Happiness isn’t a consideration.”

  “Do you dislike your parents?”

  “No, of course not.” She huffed. “I love my parents.
I’ve always loved my parents.”

  “The balls. The dresses. The respectable company. It is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t say I was unhappy.”

  He twirled with her across the polished wood floor with aplomb. “And yet you are unhappy.”

  “I’m overwhelmed.”

  “You’re not overwhelmed,” he said, thumbing her spine, rubbing the knobs of bone in slow and teasing movements. “My sister might believe that rubbish, but I know you better than that, Amy. You’ve been dreaming and preparing for this event for most of your life.”

  Flustered, she stammered, “I-I’m afraid then.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of disappointing my parents.”

  “Perhaps. But there’s more to it than that.” He eyed her with stern reproach. “Why are you lying to me?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me why you think I’m unhappy.” She twisted her lips. “You know me best, don’t you?”

  As he guided her with ease, mixing effortlessly with the other couples, he maintained his sharp blue eyes on her, ruminating. “I think there’s something missing from your life.”

  She sucked in a deep breath. “Like what?”

  “Fun.”

  She exhaled slowly. “I don’t have fun, remember?”

  “A pity.” He whispered, “You once had fun with me.”

  She bristled. The banter, the seductive repartee had to come to a surcease. If he persisted in the intimate manner, he’d ruin more than her reputation; he’d devastate her fragile heart with memories and promises of things that might have been…but would never be.

  “You have to leave the ball.”

  Now!

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “Because…I will never be happy so long as you’re in my life. You don’t belong here, Edmund.”

  He stiffened. “I see.”

  A darkness entered his eyes. It squeezed at her breast, the discomfort, the shame she had caused him, but it was the only way to disentangle herself from his bewitching spell. She had to part from him. She was promised to another man.

  “I don’t want to cause you unrest, Lady Amy,” he said in crisp fashion.

  As the music died, he coldly escorted her back to his waiting sister. There, the duchess was conversing with her youngest brother, Quincy. Perhaps grilling him, by the looks of their heated exchange. When the scamp noticed Amy’s approach, he smiled. She returned the convivial gesture; however, she felt nothing but a distaste in her soul.

  She felt like a cur.

  Edmund bowed. “You won’t ever have to see me again, Lady Amy.”

  Chapter 17

  Amy traveled through the rose-paneled passageway, making her way toward her private suite. She was fagged, the merrymaking at an end. As her bones ached, she wanted nothing more than to snuggle under the coverlets and dream—dream away the night’s events.

  The exchange with Edmund pressed on her thoughts. She imagined his sturdy embrace, his soulful blue eyes. She envisioned the twinkling smile that so often lurked beneath his sardonic expression. The sound of his deep voice still rumbled in her breast, the resounding timbre making her shiver.

  She sighed as the warm sentiments gave way to more disturbing reflections. The memory of her callous conduct still made her flinch. She had not desired to hurt Edmund, but he’d captured her imagination in an illicit manner. Musing about him—about a life with him—was a forbidden dream.

  She belonged to another man.

  “Amy?”

  She paused, bemused, her thoughts tumbling in discord. Retreating a few footfalls, she stepped through the study’s door frame and smiled in a weak manner.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “I’d like a word with you, Amy.”

  Her pulse quickened as she entered the large room. With fretful strides, she approached her father, his arms folded at his backside. He stood behind the wide and ancient desk, watching her closely as she traversed the long wool runner.

  George Peele, the Duke of Estabrooke, was a tall figure with a slim build. His brusque manner and rigid countenance offered the impression that the dignified gentleman was dispassionate. He was rational and prudent, a stern patriarch, yet he possessed passion. He concealed a passionate temper.

  Amy remembered the night in vivid detail. She had furtively sneaked belowstairs, knowing her mysterious fiancé had been summoned to the house. Desiring to meet the fellow she was intended to marry, she had witnessed a far more alarming exchange between the duke and her fiancé:

  “It’s been fifteen years, Estabrooke! Do you really expect me to honor the betrothal?”

  “I expect you to honor your word. Or will you shame your family name by breaking the contract?”

  “And if she had not returned? Did you think I would’ve waited for her forever?”

  “You haven’t wed another in that time, so the point is moot. You will honor the vow you made at her birth!”

  “I made that vow as a boy of one-and-twenty.”

  “You were of legal age and your father’s successor. You are duty bound to keep your promise. Do not think I’ve forgotten your past indiscretions, Gravenhurst. I hope you’ve learned from your former mistakes, that you will do what is right.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Amy chilled. The biting “Yes, Your Grace” still haunted her thoughts. The curt words had underlined her fiancé’s true feelings toward her, his repressed contempt, yet theirs was a necessary union, for she’d been apart from society for fifteen years. A hasty marriage to a respectable gentleman was of the utmost importance; it’d safeguard her reputation, protect her family from gossip.

  Amy peered at her father with solemnity.

  “How did you enjoy yourself tonight, Amy?”

  “I enjoyed myself very much,” she returned, maintaining a steady inflection in her voice. “It was a lovely evening, Father.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” The man’s gray eyes darkened. “I spotted you with that seaman on the dance floor.”

  Amy’s heart fluttered. “Yes, he came to the ball with the Duke and Duchess of Wembury.”

  She had emphasized the couple’s title, raising her voice, fashioning more pomp. If she reminded her parent that Edmund was related to such a prestigious family, he might frown at her less.

  “I see.” The duke’s lips firmed. “How very bohemian of the seaman to disregard convention, to attend the ball on his brother-in-law’s coattails.”

  She winced. “If it wasn’t for Mr. Hawkins, I might still be lost to you, Father.”

  “Yes,” he drawled. “About that, Amy.”

  The scoundrel’s kinship with the ducal couple had clearly failed to meet her father’s ostentatious standards. And as she had danced with the “bohemian,” she imagined her parent’s great displeasure, his ire at the improper spectacle.

  She lowered her eyes, avoiding the stern patriarch’s cutting stare. If he was disappointed in her for waltzing with the mariner, what would he think to know she was smitten with him?

  “I have a confession to make, Amy.”

  “What is it, Father?” she wondered quietly.

  He rounded the desk and approached her with steady steps. At length, she was compelled to meet his gaze as he settled right in front of her, his arms still secured at his backside.

  “After the kidnapping, I didn’t think I would ever see you again. Your mother, of course, believed you’d return to us, but, over the years, I waned in my dedication.”

  “I understand, Father.” She twisted her fingers together. “Fifteen years is a long time to wait.”

  “No, Amy, you do not understand.” He looked at her with intent, his eyes hard. “Parents should never give up on their children, just as the Lord Almighty never gives up on us.” He brushed her chin with his thumb, stroking it in a maladroit fashion. “But now you’ve returned to your rightful position, and tonight we’ve celebrated your homecoming with our dearest friends.”

>   A celebration? The ball had rivaled a street carnival with its fanfare. The guests had represented the finest crop of social dignitaries. It’d been an exhibit. Of her. A declaration. It’d announced her refinement, her respectability. It’d quashed any doubt she was a lady. Almost. There was one last test she had to endure: marriage to the marquis. She had to prove she’d make an upright gentleman a suitable wife. Then she would be welcome as one of them.

  “I am very proud of you, Amy. You’ve matured into a beautiful, charming young lady.”

  Her blood pounded in her head, making her dizzy. “Thank you, Father.”

  He placed his hand at his backside again. “I have every confidence in you, Amy.” He returned to the sturdy oak desk. “I trust that all my disappointments are now behind me, that we can move forward with our lives at last…the way we should have done before your kidnapping.” He looked at her pointedly. “Fate cannot be denied, my dear, only delayed.”

  She curtsied, her leg muscles weak. “Good night, Father.”

  “Good night, Amy.”

  She quickly departed from the study, her head feeling pinched. The fatigue in her soul had been trampled by her father’s stern sermon. She needed fresh air, not sleep. She needed freedom, not the cloistered confines of her private chambers.

  With light, swift steps, she scurried through the long passageway and, through the terrace doors, entered the blooming garden.

  The fragrant blossoms, an olfactory tonic, calmed her nettled senses. She breathed in the sweet night air, gazing at the delphiniums and lilies, the hydrangeas and irises. In the bright moonlight, the pink and white carnations formed a brilliant ring around the stone patio, the cool blocks comforting under her sore, silk-slippered toes.

  She sighed, looking beyond the flowers and trees toward the dark, towering structures on the horizon. She peered longingly at the full moon, so brilliant and low in the heavens. It seemed an inviting place to be, a faraway land where dreams flourished.

  She chastised herself for thinking such wistful rubbish. She had reunited with her family. She had reclaimed her rightful heritage. All her dreams had come to fruition. So why was she still gazing at the moon?