Isabelle Goddard - One Night with a Regency Lord - Reprobate Lord, Runaway Lady / The Return of Lord Conistone

Brielle blinked with surprise at this passionate outburst. ‘You’re far too hot at hand, my dear. I’m not surprised you’ve emerged from your first Season unwed. A fiery temper is not perhaps the best asset a young woman can possess.’

‘Forgive me, ma’am, I didn’t mean to be discourteous, but I owe Fanny so much.’

‘Including a dress by the look of it,’ her grandmother remarked drily, looking askance at the miserable heap of cloth lying abandoned in the corner. ‘I was about to send a message to your father to assure him of your safety—I will ask him to despatch Fanny to you. We must hope that he hasn’t already discovered her perfidy and sent her packing.’

Amelie smiled her pleasure and then gently stifled a yawn. She hoped Brielle would take the hint and leave her to sleep. So far she’d managed to evade all mention of her stay at the George. But as she’d foreseen, her grandmother was not so easily satisfied. The stagecoach had left the White Horse Inn in London over a week ago—so where had Amelie been in the interval?

‘The stage had an accident,’ she lied, ‘and we had to find accommodation at a local inn. One of the passengers was hurt and I stayed to look after them. As soon as they were better, I finished the journey to Bath.’ How glib that sounded and how very far from the truth!

‘And were you the only two passengers at this inn?’ Brielle questioned shrewdly.

‘There were only a few other people on the stage. And they lived a short distance away and were able to finish their journey on horseback.’ More lies, she thought guiltily.

‘Who was this passenger you were so devoted to? Wasn’t there anyone else who could have offered their services?’

‘I felt obliged. They’d been very kind to me.’

‘But who was this person?’

This was the question Amelie had been dreading. ‘An elderly gentleman.’ Age is relative, she told herself. ‘You wouldn’t know his name. He was actually on his way to Bristol, so he’s not local.’

‘A gentleman? You were looking after a gentleman? Surely that cannot be right.’

‘I had to help. There was no one else who could devote the time to nursing him. The doctor called a few times and the landlord assisted when he could.’

Her grandmother was silent for a moment. ‘Just how old was this gentleman?’

‘I’m not very good at ages,’ she prevaricated. ‘A good deal older than me.’

‘And who else was at the inn with you?’

‘The landlord and his wife, and some of their serving staff. I shared a bedchamber with the kitchen maid.’

Brielle looked relieved at this information and decided not to probe any further for the moment. Amelie was looking tired and distressed. She sensed her granddaughter was not being entirely truthful and was determined in the next few days to get to the bottom of whatever mystery there was.

‘You must sleep now. Tomorrow we’ll begin to make up the deficiencies in your wardrobe. I understand from Horrocks that you arrived with only a cloak bag.’

‘I’m afraid so. It will be wonderful to wear a dress other than Fanny’s.’

‘I should think so indeed,’ Brielle lightly scolded her. ‘After breakfast, we’ll start our campaign. In the meantime I’ll make sure that Repton looks out a dress from my younger years—not too old fashioned, I trust—and alters it to fit you.’

‘Thank you. You’re too kind—I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’

‘I’m sure I shall think of something,’ Brielle replied, her mind firmly fixed on the man she intended to present once the girl was looking her best.

Amelie stayed awake longer than she expected. Her body was exhausted, but her mind continued to plague her. How was she to avoid telling her grandmother the true nature of her stay at the inn, for she knew that Brielle would not be content to leave the matter to rest? She smiled at the description she’d given of Gareth—he was neither elderly nor a gentleman!—but somehow she must maintain this fiction. Her smile died as suddenly as it had come—she must not think of him ever again. It had been foolish of her to allow an early attraction to melt her usual reserve and flourish unchecked. She’d grown far, far too close to him. She had never before felt such longing, such desire, and was left now bruised and baffled.

The insults he’d flung at her should have crushed such troublesome emotions. But apparently that wasn’t so. As she drifted half in and half out of sleep, his powerful frame invaded the room. It was as though he were there with her. If she reached out, she could trace the outline of his smile with her finger. If she reached out, she could know the raw strength of his embrace. Shaken by her need for him, she buried her head in the pillow and tried to sleep.

Gareth was also finding it difficult to sleep. His anger still burned brightly, but he knew that he’d offended Amelie beyond pardon. His fury over her wild escape and his deep suspicions of her relationship with Glyde were justified, he was sure. But to call her a doxy had been inexcusable. She was no such thing, as he knew to his cost. He smiled mirthlessly as he considered the countless women of his acquaintance who perfectly satisfied that description. No, she was not a doxy, but she was just as cunning and manipulative as any other of her sex. He’d learned his lesson well; a woman was worth only the pleasure she gave. Amelie had given him pleasure, it was true, but not as he’d expected: it had been something altogether deeper, more exciting and more disturbing—a dangerous delight. It was as well that she’d left when she had. There was no place in his life for loyalty, tenderness, love, even if he could be sure of her. And he couldn’t.

He would leave her in peace to find a new situation and be on his way. Within the next day or so his ankle would be strong enough to begin travelling, but where he knew not. He was close to Bristol; a journey to the port would take half a day at most and once there he could book a passage to France. It would not be difficult to resume his old life at the tables of the slightly less respectable gaming houses or take whatever menial work was offered. That way he would never touch a penny of the inheritance so long denied him.

But why shouldn’t he enjoy his legacy? Would it not be sweet revenge to plunder the fortune his grandfather had so carefully conserved? Perhaps he would travel back to London after all, deal with Mr Spence and his formalities, and ensure a constant flow of funds to his pocket over the coming years as he wandered Europe. That would certainly spare him the discomfort of living off his wits. But what an existence! The one thing that had sustained him in seven long years of exile was the excitement and intrigue of a life on the edge. Take that away and what was left? A tedious round of places you didn’t know, people you would never see again, plans that held no interest.

One way or another, though, he would leave England and this time willingly and for good. There was nobody to mourn his departure—except perhaps Lucas Avery. He’d been his one true friend. He knew him to be living in Bath, a short distance away, with a wife and children that Gareth had never met. He wondered if he could risk a meeting or whether Lucas might have changed his mind about his old friend in the years since that fateful evening. The unknown wife, too, might not easily welcome a convicted card cheat. But he would have liked to have bid him a final goodbye.

And Amelie, he suspected, was also in Bath. If he chose to make the journey, he might even see her there. If he chose! In his heart he knew that the decision had already been made. Of course he would make the journey, of course he would see her. Be truthful with yourself, he thought savagely. She was dangerous to him; a threat to his plans and to his peace of mind, but somehow he couldn’t keep away. He might try to justify the trip to Bath in a dozen ways, but he was going there for one reason alone. He’d willed himself to forget this girl, but he could not: she was a constant refrain singing in his mind. London or France would both have to wait.