Anne Barbour (18 page)

“Come in, come in,” called a clear voice from the center of the group. “Don’t just stand there gawping.” Amanda focused on a small figure swathed in black and seated in a large wing chair. Her snow white hair was swept into an imposing coiffure and topped with a feathered turban, and round her thin neck twined several feet of jewel-encrusted gold chains. Her feet, which would not have reached the ground, rested on a tapestry footstool and a glimpse of frivolous satin slippers peeked from beneath her heavy bombazine skirts.

Slipping a hand beneath Amanda’s elbow, Ash drew her toward this absurdly august presence and Serena and Jeremiah followed in meek procession.

“Grandmama,” Ash said easily, “may I present Mr. and Mrs. Jeremiah Bridge and their daughter, Miss Bridge.”

“Yes, yes.” The dowager waved her hand impatiently. “I know who they are.” She fixed Serena with a glittering stare. “I remember you. Polly Marshfield’s gel, ain’t you? Married to disoblige your family, didn’tcher?” She swung her glare to Jeremiah. “And look how it all turned out.” Her grimace erased any doubt as to the inference that might be drawn from this statement, and Serena wilted perceptibly.

Once more, Amanda waited for the explosion that should have resulted. Jeremiah’s heavy jowls reddened, but he said jovially, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, your ladyship.” In the awkward silence that followed, he looked about him and rubbed his hands. “Nice place you have here—everything bang up to the echo.”

Amanda cringed inwardly and Lady Ashindon sniffed. “How would you know?” she asked baldly, and before Jeremiah could respond, turned her attention to Amanda. “Come forward, gel,” she ordered. “Let me look at you.”

Amanda felt she should extend her arms and turn slowly about, but she stood motionless, her gaze calm as the dowager’s snapping black eyes surveyed her from head to toe.

“Mmf.” The countess sniffed again. “Never did care for simpering misses with yaller curls.”

“That’s unfortunate,” replied Amanda, smiling. “For there’s not much I can do about the yellow hair. However, I try to keep my simpering to a minimum.”

A collective gasp rose from those gathered around the dowager, whose eyes gleamed with the light of battle. Once more her gaze traveled the length of Amanda’s form. “You need more meat on your bones. I greatly deplore the tendency of our modern misses to starve themselves for fashion. Look at those hips. Too narrow by half for breeding.”

An explosive, embarrassed giggle escaped from a tall woman who stood at the dowager’s side.

“Do you think so?” asked Amanda reflectively, her gaze surveying the old lady in turn. “You seem a bit on the scant side yourself, my lady, but I understand you presented your husband with—what was it?—eight children?”

The group shuddered as one and all eyes turned toward the dowager, who uttered a sharp bark of what might have been laughter. She leveled her jeweled lorgnette at Amanda’s décolletage. “At least, you’ll be able to suckle your young ‘uns by the looks of those bubbies.”

At this, a gurgle of vocal embarrassment rippled through those gathered behind the dowager, and Amanda felt Ash’s fingers tighten on her arm. She had earlier, in the privacy of her bedchamber, protested at the expanse of bosom displayed by the gold satin gown, and knew she was blushing at the old woman’s outrageous remark. Nevertheless, she straightened—thereby emphasizing her mammary capabilities even further—and looked the dowager in the eye.

“Why, thank you, my lady. It is always reassuring to be told that one is well fitted for what must surely be a woman’s primary purpose in life.”

She heard Ash’s indrawn breath and felt the amusement that shook him silently. The dowager bent a sharp look on her guest and expelled another gust of laughter. “Well,” she wheezed, “at least you ain’t one of those niminy-piminy milk-and-water misses.” She turned and glared at her nearest and dearest, still assembled behind her. “Come forward and introduce yourselves instead of herding together like a pack of sheep. Emmie, stop that insane giggling and introduce yourself.”

The tall woman, who was by now crimson-cheeked, stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “I am Emily Wexford.” She smiled hesitantly. “I am Ash’s aunt. I live with Grandmama as her companion.” She ignored the audible snort that issued from the old lady. “And this,” said the woman, turning to the person on her right, “is Ash’s cousin, James Brinkeley, who is married to my niece, Hortense.”

The rest came forward then, and the next few minutes became a blur of assorted aunts, uncles, cousins, and a few friends, who all expressed themselves delighted to welcome dear Miss Bridge, and of course, her mama and papa into the family.

Their delight, thought Amanda, seemed more than easily restrained, for their greetings to the Bridges were blatantly condescending. Next to her, she felt Ash stiffen, and she smiled her most brilliant smile at the gentleman bowing over her hand.

“Lord Meecham, so nice to meet you. And Lady Meecham, you are the daughter of whom? Ah, I see, another cousin. Yes, indeed, I had no idea that Ash’s family was so large.”

In the background, Serena twittered determinedly and Jeremiah, for once at a loss for words, loomed at her side, silent and distressed.

“Bravo, Amanda!” said a familiar voice in her ear, and Amanda turned to behold the younger of the two countesses of Ashindon. Her gown of soft gray silk embroidered in silver brought out the emerald splendor of her eyes. “I don’t believe Grandmama has absorbed such a set-down since she tried to out-insult the Tsar’s sister last summer at the Peace celebrations.”

“Oh,” said Amanda, startled. “I did not mean—”

“Of course not,” interposed Ash easily. “Grandmama was merely testing your mettle. She will ride roughshod over anyone who allows it, but she loathes those she can bully. I believe you can consider yourself vetted, my dear,” he said to Amanda, and on hearing the laughter in his voice she looked at him quickly to see it reflected in his cloud-colored eyes.

Lianne’s glance flickered between them and she said rather pettishly, “Well, we all know you can twist Grandmama about your little finger, Ash. How nice that your bride will be able to do the same thing. Oh, there is Melissa waving at me. Melissa Wexford,” she said to Amanda. “Cousin George’s wife. I have
not
spoken with her for this age.”

Her smile, as she hurried away with a waggle of her fingers, seemed a little strained to Amanda and she turned to Ash.

“I think talk of twisting about fingers is a little premature. Your grandmama did not actually bite me, but I hardly think she considers me granddaughter-in-law material.”

Amanda thought she saw a hint of admiration in Ash’s returning smile. “You spoke up to her and lived to tell about it. Believe me, the fact that she did not bite you bodes extremely well for your future relationship with her.”

After that, there was little chance for private conversation with her betrothed, for they found themselves virtually surrounded by curious relatives until the butler entered to announce majestically that dinner was served.

Jeremiah had been placed on the dowager’s right, and it became immediately obvious that he and her ladyship had not hit it off. She flayed him with stiletto-like barbs and slashing insults until Amanda fully expected him to start dripping blood all over the pristine table cover. She had no love for the bully who was her father, but she watched, sickened, as he simply clamped his jaws shut and bowed his massive head under the onslaught. Next to him, Serena sat silently, her face screwed into an expression of pained helplessness.

Ash sat on the matriarch’s left and joined with Amanda in
an
effort to divert his grandmother from her malicious pleasures.

“I have spent a pleasant week, Grandmama, in instructing Amanda in country dancing.”

“Instructing!” exclaimed the countess. “Good God,
gel, don’t
you know how to dance?”

“Of course, she does,” said Ash hastily, looking as though he wished he had chosen another subject. “I told you of her recent, ah, accident and her subsequent loss of memory. She recalls the waltz, but—”

“Is that what they’re calling it?” asked the old lady with a great show of indignation. “In my day we had another name for it. If you ask me, carrying on in such a manner in plain view of everyone else in the room is nothing short of—well, enough said. I don’t know what’s happened to old-fashioned decency these days. I hear they’re even doing it at Almack’s.”

“I would not know about that,” said Amanda, serenely cutting her fricando of veal. “I have never been inside Almack’s.”

“Eh?” The dowager’s voice cracked in surprise. “Do you mean to—”

“The thing is,” interposed Serena nervously. “We—Amanda has not—as yet—received vouchers.”

“Ump,” growled the old lady. “Patronesses snubbing you, are they? Spiteful cats.” She glared at Jeremiah, placing the blame for this circumstance clearly where it belonged. “Well,” she continued at length, “we shall see what we shall see. I have chosen to retire from the social scene, but I believe I am not quite without influence.”

Amanda thought privately that the dowager could probably topple governments if she were so inclined. Serena perked up considerably at her words and beamed impartially upon the countess, her husband, her daughter, and her future son-in-law.

By the end of the meal, it had become apparent to all those present that the dowager countess of Ashindon had decided to approve of Amanda, and the atmosphere warmed noticeably.

After dinner, when the gentlemen had joined the ladies in the drawing room, the assembly was treated to musical performances by various of the attendant females. Cousin Susan Wellbeloved played two selections on the pianoforte, and Aunt Jane Wexford produced a lengthy étude on the harp. Aunt Melissa Gentry sang several country ballads in a sweet soprano.

“Grandmama,” said Ash at length, “perhaps you could prevail upon Miss Bridge to play for us. She is truly a gifted pianist.”

To her surprise, neither Serena nor Jeremiah demurred, her mother only lifting her brows a little. “Have you anything prepared, dearest?” she whispered across Ash. Amanda experienced a small start at this evidence that young Amanda must have possessed a musical talent, and she nodded uncertainly.

“Let’s hear you, gel,” said the dowager autocratically, and smiling with a confidence that was belied by the trembling of her fingers, Amanda rose to take a seat at the rosewood piano.

She began with a short series of Hayden variations, and having accomplished this without mishap, followed it with Mozart’s Turkish Rondo. She was greeted by such an enthusiastic burst of applause that she launched into the passionate third movement of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” She was not sure if this particular piece of music had been written yet, but at least Ludwig was alive now and had been composing for some years. She concluded with Bach’s “Sheep May Safely Graze.”

A woman of many talents, his betrothed, mused Ash, watching from the back of the room as Amanda left the piano to seat herself next to her mother. Most men, he reflected sadly, would consider themselves fortunate to take her to wife. A wave of bitterness swept over him. If only he had never known Lianne, perhaps there might have been a chance that he would come to love his wife. But Lianne had always been a barrier between him and every other woman he had subsequently come to know. She was as much a part of him as his breath, and he would never be free of her memory. Even now, he had but to close his eyes and her image rose before him as clearly as though he held her in his arms. He could almost feel her soft, dark hair tickling his chin, and the magic of her green eyes stirred him to his depths. Oh, God, if only...

His thoughts trailed into oblivion as he became aware of a familiar scent assailing his senses. He turned, and his heart lurched as he observed the object of his reverie seating herself beside him.

“She plays beautifully,” said Lianne a trifle wistfully.

“Yes.”
Please, my love, do not sit so close. For God’s sake, I cannot bear it. Please just go away.

Instead, she placed a small hand on his sleeve. “Ash, I must speak to you. Now, while everyone is occupied—see? Cousin Arabella is going to sing, and she will go on forever. Please, let us slip away for a moment.”

“Lianne—” But at the expression in her eyes Ash was unable to complete his protest. Reluctantly, he rose to follow her as she left the room and slipped into a chamber a few feet down the corridor. When she turned to face him, her face was wet with tears.

“Oh, Ash,” she sobbed, “I am so unhappy!” Without waiting for a reply, she hurled herself into his arms and buried her face in the folds of his cravat.

“Lianne,” he began again, “my love, do not torture yourself.” Gently he removed her arms from about his neck and bent to kiss her gently on the lips. When she would have pressed against him for more, he pulled away. “We must not,” he concluded, his breath harsh in his throat.

She stepped back, her gaze stricken. “Dear God, Ash, it is as I feared. You do not love me. She has won you over.” She averted her face. “I suppose it was to be expected. She is so very beautiful—and charming—and rich.” She spoke the last word with loathing.

“You are wrong,” Ash growled. “You know how I feel about you—but there is no future for us, my darling. I have chosen duty over love—as you were forced to do once before. I must get on with my life now, and so must you, for there is nothing left for us.”

“Oh, but, Ash, there might be.” Once more Lianne lifted her arms, this time to place her hands on his lapels in a supplicating gesture. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I have thought and thought about us, my love.”

“And... ?” whispered Ash softly.

“I don’t think I can bear to say good-bye to you. When I married Grant, you left right away and for years we did not even see each other. I was not forced to—to look at you all the time
and
know that what we felt for each other could never be. But, now— I am part of your family, and we shall constantly be forced into each other’s company.”

“Yes,” groaned Ash, “I know, and that’s why—”

“Can you tell me, dearest, that you will be content with, ‘Good day, Lianne. Is your mother well? Have you been to the Opera lately?’ Will you be able to greet me day after day, month after month, year after year without—this?” She stood on tiptoe and brushed his lips with hers, lingering until his breathing deepened and became rough. Unthinking, his arms went about her, tightening into an embrace that left him shaken with guilt and longing.