The Regency Season Collection: Part Two. Кэрол Мортимер
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with you then, Miss Cameron, and hope your father has a good night.’ He met her eyes only briefly and her countenance was one of worry, no glimpse at all alluding to the kiss they had shared less than an hour earlier. He was pleased for it.
‘I appreciate your help, Lord Montcliffe.’
So formal and distant, he thought, as she escorted him to the front lobby, one of the servants finding his coat and hat. Her hair looked odd too, the front of it hitched askew in a strange fashion. Nothing about this woman seemed to make sense to him and he was relieved to slip through the door and into the coolness of the night air.
* * *
Leaning against the portal and closing her eyes for just a moment Amethyst listened to the Montcliffe carriage pull away. ‘One second, two seconds, three seconds,’ she counted, holding the world back from all that was crashing in upon her. Her mama had taught her this years before, a small space of time in which to collect one’s thoughts or feelings. The feeling of Daniel Wylde’s kiss snaked into her consciousness even as she tried to shut it out.
When at length she gathered herself, Amethyst caught her reflection in a mirror opposite and horror and laughter mingled on her face in equal measure.
Her wig had been snagged at some point and was sitting at an angle on her head, the right side dragging the left down and giving her an appearance of someone out of sorts with the world.
With care she readjusted the hairpiece. Had this just happened or had Lord Montcliffe seen it as well? The whole evening had been tumultuous; her father’s strange malady counterbalanced against the Earl of Montcliffe’s unexpected kiss.
Wiping her forefinger along the lines of her lips, she then held it still, the impression of flesh sending small shards of want into a sense that had long been dormant.
She was known for her composure and her unruffled calm. She seldom let things bother her and always managed people with acumen and honesty.
Unflappable Amethyst. Until Lord Daniel Wylde.
He made her think of possibilities that would not come to pass. She was ruined goods and she was plain. Without the Montcliffe financial problems and the collection by her father of the extensive Goldsmith debts, he would never have given her a second glance.
She could not allow herself to be one of those pathetic women who didn’t see the truth of their loveless marriages and held on for year after year for something that was impossible.
Two years was what she could give him. Two years in which her father would not be sad or worried or unhappy. If he even lived that long, which was doubtful.
The Earl of Montcliffe would not love her and she would not let herself love him. But together they could manage. The kiss had thrown her, that was all, an unexpected chink in the armour she had long pulled about her.
Liar. Liar. Liar. The words ran together as a refrain as she hurried back to her father.
* * *
Lucien Howard, Earl of Ross, sat beside Daniel in the card room of White’s an hour later. Smoke swirled around in curls and the smell of strong liquor filled any space left as some patrons won a little and others lost a lot.
‘I hear you bought those remarkable Arabian greys at Tattersall’s?’ There was a good measure of curiosity in his friend’s query.
‘You know enough about my present circumstances, Luce, to know I could never afford them.’
‘Then why are they in your care?’
‘Have you heard of the trader, Mr Robert Cameron?’
‘No. Who is he?’
‘A man who sells timber to the world.’
‘Lucrative, then?’
‘Very. He wants me to marry his daughter.’
Brandy slopped against the side of the glass as Lucien lurched forward. ‘You agreed?’
‘The matching pair of greys came as a sweetener. Montcliffe Manor is bankrupt and it will only be a matter of months before the rest of the world knows the fact.’ He raised his glass and then swallowed a good part of the contents of the bottle he had ordered. ‘If I do nothing, it will all be gone.’
Lucien was quiet for a moment, but then he smiled. ‘What does the daughter look like?’
‘Passable.’
‘Your bastard of a father must be laughing in the afterlife then. At least he was a man of his word. I remember him insisting that you wouldn’t inherit a farthing of his fortune and he meant it.’
‘The curse of the Wyldes?’ Daniel’s thoughts fell into words.
‘How long do you have left, do you think, if you sat it out and did nothing?’
‘It will only be a matter of weeks before the first creditors arrive.’ Leaning back against soft leather, he ran his hands through his hair. ‘I have had word that they are already circling.’
‘I’d lend you money if I had any, but my situation is about as dire as your own.’
‘Your grandfather wants to disinherit your side of the family again? I heard about it from Francis before he left for Bath.’
‘Where he has gone to try to sort out his own financial woes, no doubt. Seems he has a cousin a few times removed there causing him some trouble.’
Daniel smiled. ‘The three of us have our problems then, though mine could be solved before the month is up.’
‘You will go through with it? This betrothal?’
‘Marriage or bankruptcy? I have little choice.’
‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were all going to travel to the Far East and make our fortunes, remember? God, that sort of innocence seems so long ago.’
‘The naivety of youth.’
‘Or the hope of it. Marriage is a big step, Daniel. Is this bride-to-be at least intelligent?’
‘Undeniably.’
‘Does she simper?’
‘No.’
‘An heiress who has brains and is not prone to whining? Perhaps you have made more of a match than you imagine. What colour is her hair?’
‘A dull mouse.’
Lucien began to laugh. ‘And her eyes?’
‘Brown.’
‘Is she fat?’
‘Thin.’
‘Short?’
‘No.’
‘Mama was always certain you would marry the moody but beautiful Charlotte Hughes. She is back, you know, from Scotland and without the husband.’
‘Spenser Mackay died by all accounts.’
‘But in doing so he left her a fortune which she probably needs about as much as you do. The ton likes to think you were heartbroken when she left, Daniel.’
‘A good tale is often more interesting than a truthful one.’
‘Have you told the Countess about your upcoming nuptials?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘But you will?’
‘No. The wedding is in a few weeks’ time. Mother would need at least a month to get ready for it and even that might not be enough. Would you be the best man, Luce?’
‘I would be honoured to.’
‘Francis will be the usher, I hope. I sent a message to Bath yesterday telling him of the plans. The announcement will be in The Times next week.’
‘A