Amethyst (27 page)

Still…it was worth a try. "I—I know we have to leave tomorrow, but…"

"But what?"

"Do you think you could take me to London?" she asked in a rush, before she lost her nerve. "I have no clothes at all, not anything, you know, and—well, it would take me naught but a couple of days to purchase everything I need, and then—"

"I'd be happy to take you to London first for a few days. We'll find you a chaperone there, and—"

"—I'd prefer not to arrive in France with nothing—"

"Amy." Colin leaned forward and planted a warm kiss on her forehead. "I said I'd be happy to take you."

"Oh." It had worked. She could hardly believe it. A few more days with Colin—it was a dream come true.

"We'll stay at the family town house," he said.

Amy's heart galloped with excitement. "Thank you," she breathed.

"My pleasure, love." He lifted her chin to lock his lips on hers, and she melted into his arms.

RETRIEVING HER BOOK
from the study, Amy dragged her trunk to the front door and sat on it to watch through the narrow window. She unfolded the note and read it again.
Amy
, it said in Colin's bold printing,

I have gone with Benchley to retrieve the carriage. Please ready yourself to leave. We will breakfast on the way to London.

Greystone

That was it. No "Dear Amy." No "Love, Colin." Amy told herself nothing was wrong—Colin simply wasn't demonstrative on paper—but she knew she was fooling herself. The Colin who had made love to her three times during the long night had vanished.

She looked up from the note to see the carriage pass under the portcullis and onto the little circular drive in the courtyard. When Colin opened the door, she was standing by her trunk, book in hand, the note tucked safely away.

"Good morning, my lord," she said as cheerfully as she could manage.

Colin winced at the formal address. "Good morning," he muttered back, avoiding her gaze.

He lifted the trunk—more carefully than he had before he'd known what it contained—and carried it to the carriage. Amy trailed slowly. Colin waved her inside and returned to lock the door, then climbed in opposite her, and they were off.

"Breakfast?" he asked, pulling Kendra's basket from under his seat and setting it on the floor between them. He reached in, selected an apple, and polished it on his shirt before taking a bite.

Amy dug out another apple. Any minute now, she expected him to smile and tease her or start pointing out the features of his estate, but as time crept by she realized it was less and less likely.

They drove a mile or so in akward silence, the only sounds those of the wheels on the rutted, slushy road, the steady clip-clop of the horse's hooves, and the juicy crunch of apples being chewed and swallowed. Colin fetched a napkin from the basket and deposited his apple core in it, then held it out for Amy to do the same. Their eyes met, Amy's questioning, Colin's hooded and indecisive.

The core-filled napkin dropped from his hand to the basket. "What happened changes nothing," he blurted out. "I'm still betrothed to Priscilla."

Amy stared at him sitting stone-faced across from her. Unbidden tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

He hunched over, his elbows resting on his spread knees, his head in his hands. "Don't cry, Amy," he said to the floor. "I don't think I could stand it."

She blinked back the tears. "I know you're betrothed. I haven't been thinking anything had changed, my lord. Have I said something to make you think I have?"

"Well, no…" He hesitated, then moved over to her side and placed an arm around her shoulders. "No, you said nothing." He stared out the window. "But as much as I wish to spend every minute with you in London, there are those who would take note of it and make both our lives miserable."

"I know no one important in London."

"What about your former clientele?"

Amy bit her lip. He had a point. They may not have been her friends, but the fact remained she was acquainted with many of London's elite.

Could he possibly be suggesting they share the town house but not the same bed? Having already surrendered her innocence to Colin, she couldn't imagine living in celibacy with him, even for only a few days. Why should she, anyway? In his circle all the women were promiscuous. People would assume the two of them were sleeping together whether they were or not.

"It would be worth it," she said, turning in his arms, her eyes sending the message she was too shy to put into words. "I'll be in Paris the rest of my life, in all probability. What London thinks of me couldn't possibly matter."

Colin scooted as far away as the bench would allow, his hands resting on her shoulders as he looked into her eyes. "You don't know what course your life will take, Amy." He dropped his hands to his lap, and his voice took on a flat, emotionless tone. "I'll set you up at the town house, but I won't be spending nights there myself. A carriage and driver will be at your disposal. I'll let you know where you can reach me so you can send word when you've purchased all the items you need."

"Where will you stay?"

"That depends upon who's in town. But I'll make sure everyone knows we're not sharing the town house." Distancing himself from her already, he moved back to the opposite bench.

The implication was obvious. He wouldn't risk anyone finding out they'd been intimate, as a relationship with the likes of her could only be an embarrassment to him. She didn't believe for a second he was protecting
her
reputation.

Colin stretched his legs and crossed them, then retreated behind his book. Miserable, Amy withdrew into one protective corner of the carriage. There was no point in continuing the discussion. He had made his intentions clear, and he hadn't asked for her opinion, anyway.

He was so unfair!

She'd never asked to stay with him, or even hinted at it—she knew plain Amy Goldsmith didn't belong with the Earl of Greystone. She had her own life and obligations to fulfill. All she wanted was a few more days with him, a few more days of happiness, a few more days when she could pretend she wasn't alone in the world.

Even now, aloof as he was, she wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him, to lose herself in his arms.

As hard as he was trying to be cold and demanding, he'd melted when her tears threatened. She should take comfort from that, she told herself. The real Colin was in there somewhere, obviously just as confused as she was—if not more.

She opened her book and held it in front of her face, staring blindly at a page while she composed herself. If she had any hope of regaining their intimacy for a day or two, she wouldn't accomplish it by weeping and begging.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on the words, until she was caught up in the exciting end of Clélie's long tale. Three hours of silence later, just as they crossed London Bridge, she finished and, with a sigh of satisfaction, laid the book on the seat beside her.

Gazing out the carriage window, she marveled at the changes the fire had wrought in her hometown. Blocks and blocks were naught but charred vacant lots. The odd chimney or blackened stone oven stood like gravestones among the debris. Except for the clip-clop of horses and the creaking and crunching of wheels passing thought, it was hauntingly quiet. As Amy moved closer to the window, a small sound of distress escaped her lips.

Colin looked up from his book. "It won't be like this forever," he said gently.

She listened carefully. Here and there came rare, banging sounds of construction. "Some are rebuilding," she observed.

"Yes, but it's forbidden until owners clear the rubble and establish their claims to the land. It will take time."

Driving along Fleet Street toward Chancery Lane, they passed into the unburned area at last. Amy breathed a deep sigh of relief as the familiar smells of London hit her. Odors of tar, smoke from incessant coal fires, and the stench of tanneries were overlaid with a pervasive reek from the open sewer that the Fleet River, commonly called the Ditch, had become over the centuries. Though rank and foul, the stench was a comforting memory of another life.

And the traffic! Carriages, hackney coaches, carts, mounted riders, sedan chairs, pedestrians, and animals jostled one another in the noisy, crowded streets. After months in the quiet countryside, Amy's ears seemed assaulted with the cacophony of hawkers peddling their wares in pushcarts, wheelbarrows, and simple baskets, crying out in singsong rhyme of the superiority of their goods.

One man called out, "Rats or mice to kill!" and Amy smiled.

"The rats," she mused. "How could I have forgotten the rats?"

Colin smiled in return.

Thieves, pickpockets, and beggars were everywhere, but so were street singers ballading for pence. Amy caught sight of a familiar face and turned excitedly. "Oh, it's Richardson the fire-eater! May we stop and watch?"

Colin shrugged and knocked on the roof for Benchley to halt. Amy hung out the window, wide-eyed, as Richardson chewed and swallowed hot coals, then melted glass and, as a finale, put a hot coal on his tongue, heated it with bellows until it flamed, cooked an oyster on it, and swallowed the lot.

The audience burst into wild applause, and Colin dug in his pouch and handed Amy a coin to toss out the window before they moved on.

They finally reached Lincoln's Inn Fields, a fashionable residential neighborhood bordering a large, grassy square. It was quieter here, but only in comparison to other parts of London: Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre was here, known for spectacular moving scenery, and the square was often the scene of fights and robberies, as well as a place for public executions.

The carriage stopped in front of the Chases' town house, a four-story brick building on the west side of the square. Amy climbed out and gazed up at the distinguished facade. Giant Ionic columns held up a boldly projecting cornice and balcony. Triangular decorations crowned tall, rectangular windows.

Colin came out after her and stretched, yawning.

"It's Palladian," Amy breathed in an awed tone. "Was it designed by Inigo Jones?"

"Yes." He took off toward the front door.

Following him, Amy frowned, her exhilaration at being back in the City dampened by his attitude. Where were his usual chatty explanations? Colin loved showing his family's homes and recounting their histories.

Was he that unhappy with her, then?

The interior was every bit as impressive as the outside. The few aristocratic residences Amy had seen were paneled in dark, traditional Jacobean wood. Not this home; the comparison was like coal to diamonds. Her gaze swept up a wide, graceful curving staircase. Light, cheerfully painted walls were ornamented with classical motifs and festooned with a riot of carving: flowers, fruit, ribbons, palms and masks.

She couldn't wait to get a tour of this magnificent house.

Colin prodded her forward, toward where the servants waited in a neat row.

"This is Mrs. Amethyst Goldsmith," he said, pleasantly enough. "She'll be staying here for a few days. Ida?"

A slight, blue-eyed girl stepped forward, perhaps sixteen or so. "Yes, my lord?"

"Please see to Mrs. Goldsmith's comfort." The maid's blond curls bounced as she nodded, eagerly accepting the responsibility. Colin turned to Amy. "I'm taking a nap. I suggest you do the same."

With that, he was off, his long legs taking the stairs two at a time. Ida showed Amy to a chamber and pulled back the covers on the bed. Amy still wondered about the house, but she hadn't been anticipating a self-guided tour; she wanted Colin beside her, telling her all about it.

She lay down, and when she awakened from her fitful sleep, Colin was gone. On her way down to supper, Ida said something about him dining with Priscilla before making an appearance at some ball or other, but Amy listened with half an ear.

Although she'd had most of the day to get used to the idea, she still couldn't believe that Colin had left her alone.