Bewitched (9 page)

“By all means, Mr. Stapleton. Though I have to say you appear much sturdier than you let on.”

“Self-defense, Miss Bourne. Pure self-defense.”

Grinning like fools and both slightly out of breath with merriment, they caught up with their museum guide and tour group in the next room, which was filled with more—though less scandalous—artifacts from Greece. Indeed, Isabella appeared almost recovered, even though she was still leaning heavily on Lord Munthorpe’s arm. Not that he seemed to object too terribly: judging from his expression, he felt exactly the same as any worthy knight who had killed a dastardly dragon.

Amy’s lips curled. Quickly, she averted her gaze before another bout of hilarity could overwhelm her, and she concentrated her attention on their guide instead. His voice had taken on a higher pitch than before, undoubtedly due to frayed nerves.
Poor man
, she thought.

“…red-figured
hydria
… er… water jar. Signed by the artist.” He gulped. “Meidias. One of the objects of the collection Sir William Hamilton s-sold to the museum and… and…”

“And this one?” boomed one of the gentlemen of their group. “Charming bull’s head.”

The guide ran his tongue over his lips. “Another water jar, decorated using the black-figure technique,” he said desperately. “With a bull’s head flanked by two swans. It was actually used as… as…”

Everybody stared at him expectantly.

He blinked several times. “An urn,” he whispered. “For a man called Dorotheus. His name is incised above the bull’s head, here.” He pointed. “And the next object”—he made a sweeping gesture—“the so-called Portland Vase, property of Lord Portland. The fourth duke was kind enough to lend it to the museum. A most wonderful example of a cameo glass vessel, depicting a mythological scene on the subject of love and marriage. As you can see—”

“Ooooh,” Isabella moaned.

Lord Munthorpe’s nostrils flared. Like an irate bull, he turned on the hapless museum attendant. “More people in the nude? How can you leave such indecent objects standing around for all to see?” And, in a gentler tone while turning to Isabella, “Come, Miss Bentham, allow me to lead you out into the hallway.”

Isabella’s eyelashes fluttered. “Oh, Lord Munthorpe, whatever would I do without you?” she choked out.

Amy rolled her eyes. Heavens! Isabella should take to the stage instead of trying to grab a husband. Surely, she would be able to earn a fortune in drama!

Once more, Amy and Mr. Stapleton lagged behind as everyone else hastily left the room. It allowed them to step up to the vase and admire the intricate white carvings on the otherwise black glass: a woman sitting between two men, with a small Amor overhead. From beneath the woman’s arm a bearded snake wriggled forth and raised its head.

“How very curious,” Amy said softly.

“A strange
ménage à trois
indeed for a depiction of marriage,” Mr. Stapleton agreed.

“Perhaps the older man is her father.”

“They certainly all look at the other chap. A strapping young lad, that.”

From the corner of her eyes, she saw his lips quirk. Oh, so he was thinking of turning the tables and was now teasing her? How utterly delightful! “Hmm.”

“Rather fetching.”

“Well,
she
certainly thinks so!” With a cheeky smile, Amy turned her head to look up at him.

She found his gaze resting warmly on her. As their eyes connected, the teasing glint disappeared from his, and his expression turned serious—even intense. “My dear Miss Bourne.” He took her hand and, very slowly, very gently, unfastened the buttons of her glove and drew it off. She should remind him how improper such behavior was; truly she should. Yet as his thumb whispered over her palm, Amy felt her stomach give a funny lurch and all she could do was stare at him as if mesmerized. “My dear Miss Bourne,” he repeated and then bent his head, and his lips touched her skin, making her nerve ends sizzle. When he looked up, a strand of hair fell into his face and gave him a sweetly boyish appearance.

How she yearned to reach up and stroke it out of his face, to cup his cheek in her hand! Amy bit her lip. No, she mustn’t,
mustn’t
.

“Dearest, loveliest Miss Bourne. Amelia…” Again, his thumb whispered over her palm and sent thrill after thrill through her body.

“Yes?”

His lips curved, and she mused on how dear his smile had already become to her. So very dear.

“Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Then she did reach up to cup his face in her hand. “Oh yes,” she murmured. And louder, laughing as joy exploded in her veins, “Oh,
yes
!”

His smile widened and seemed to fill her whole field of vision. She felt his free hand snake around her waist. He drew her against his body, their joined hands clasped to his heart. “My dear Miss Bourne…” And then the joy of it all caught up with her and, laughing aloud, she flung her arms around his neck to hold him to her and never ever let go.

Chapter Five

For the rest of the afternoon Amy walked about on a cloud of pure bliss. As soon as the gentlemen had accompanied the two young ladies back home, Stapleton requested a private talk with her temporary guardian. Meanwhile Amy, Isabella, and Mrs. Bentham awaited the outcome of the talk in the drawing room over a cup of restoring tea. Mrs. Bentham had forced poor Lord Munthorpe to stay with them, perhaps under the assumption that the evidence of so much premarital happiness would somehow induce him to rush to Mr. Bentham’s study too, in order to make an offer for Isabella.

“You will have the most illustrious connections, my dear,” she informed Amy. “Just imagine: sister-in-law to an earl!”

Delicately, Isabella wrinkled her nose while seeming to concentrate on choosing a cream tart. “But married to a
younger brother
of the earl.” She picked up a tart, then turned to Lord Munthorpe, a radiant smile on her face. “Tell me, my lord, does Mr. Stapleton not live in rented rooms in Albany?”

He flushed a little under her gaze, but manfully squared his shoulders. “Indeed he does, Miss Bentham. A most worthy institution, Albany is.” At this, Isabella’s smile turned into a dark glower, which clearly disconcerted the poor man. “B-Byron had rooms there,” he mumbled. “And Mr. Angelo—”

Mrs. Bentham’s brows rose. “The fencing man? How utterly ghastly, my lord!”

At a loss, Lord Munthorpe looked from one lady to the other. The inhabitants of Albany had probably considered it splendid to have the famous fencing academy on the premises. It was, after all, a legend in its own right. Hadn’t one of the Angelos even taught the present king himself?

“What I am
saying
is,” Isabella continued scornfully, “how very uncomfortable arrangements are going to be with Mr. Stapleton having no estate of his own. Is that not so, my lord?” She gave Munthorpe a sharp look.

He gulped. “Yes, Miss Bentham.” Though it came out more as a question than a statement, it obviously satisfied Isabella, who nodded.

“Indeed.” She shot Amy a pitying look. “Wherever are you going to live, my dear? You must be dreadfully worried!”

How very typical of Isabella to try and dim Amy’s happiness! But, truly,
nothing
could dim it, nothing at all! For was she not engaged to the most handsome man, with the most adorable sprinkle of freckles on his nose? A man who felt most wonderful in her arms-though it was probably improper that she knew of these things, even if they were now engaged. Yet … oh, how could she not think of that divine moment when his arm had closed around her, pressing her against his body, so she had been able to breathe in his scent. No, she hadn’t yet identified its components, but given further opportunity, she had no doubt she could. And would! Just as she would count those freckles on his nose one day. Soon! And kiss that most precious speck of cinnamon on his earlobe.

She felt her cheeks heat a little at her thoughts. However, before anybody could notice how flustered she was, the door opened and Mr. Stapleton-Sebastian-came striding through, wearing the most blissful expression imaginable. “All is settled,” he announced. He walked to Amy, took her hands, and drew her to her feet. “I am delighted to inform you, Miss Bourne, that your guardian has graciously agreed to let me have your hand in marriage.” His smile widened, and it seemed to Amy his freckles glowed with joy. “I hope you are quite overcome by happiness, because I most certainly am.” And with that he raised her hands—her ungloved hands—to his mouth and pressed tiny little kisses all over her knuckles.

Mrs. Bentham pointedly cleared her throat. “What delightful news, Mr. Stapleton,” she said, her face as sour as any lemon. “Congratulations.”

He turned to her, still smiling, still holding Amy’s hands. “I thank you most sincerely, Mrs. Bentham. Your husband has furthermore agreed to accept an invitation for Amelia to Rawdon Park, my brother’s country estate, for the weeks before Christmas.”

“Ohh,” Amy breathed.

He shot her quick glance and pressed her fingers more tightly. “I hope this is not going to inconvenience you and your plans for the season.” He turned back to Mrs. Bentham. “Especially as the invitation is extended to your daughter.” He gave Isabella a smile, which however seemed to leave the girl utterly cold, judging by her stern frown. Perhaps she regretted that she would have to leave Lord Munthorpe behind if she accompanied them to Rawdon Park. Fleetingly, Amy wondered whether Isabella felt any real affection for Munthorpe, or whether her regard was all for his earldom. In the face of her own happiness, however, such practical, commonsensical notions were quickly brushed aside. Who cared about a title and a vast estate when one could have Sebastian instead? Was he not all she had ever dreamt of? Perfect in every way?

“Lord Rawdon thought Miss Bentham’s presence might make my Amelia feel more comfortable among the hordes of Stapletons,” he continued.

Now it was Amy’s turn to press his fingers, for how could she ever have felt uncomfortable in the presence of his family? He gave her a warm smile, one of the sort that made his blue-gray eyes light up with tenderness.

“How very kind of you, Mr. Stapleton,” Isabella said frostily.

From the corner of her eye, Amy caught Mrs. Bentham prodding her daughter rather urgently.

“I will of course gladly accept your invitation,” Isabella continued, though it sounded as if she had gritted her teeth. “And congratulations on your engagement to our dear Amelia.”

Her well-wishes, however ill-meant, acted as the cue for Lord Munthorpe, who jumped up, clapped Sebastian’s shoulder, and pumped his arm. “Congratulations, my dear fellow. Congratulations. I am most glad I had the opportunity to share this happy day with you. Miss Bourne.” He let go of Sebastian’s hand and sketched her a bow. “My best wishes for your upcoming nuptials.”

Amy curtsied. “Thank you so much, my lord. I am sure we will be most happy.” She looked up at Sebastian,
her
Sebastian, and smiled.

No, nothing could disturb these moments of bliss. Not Isabella’s jealousy, nor her ungracious well-wishes, nor either woman’s sour expression. Not even the fact that when Amy later was alone in her room and tried to pen a letter to her aunt and uncle, the spell was still intact: everything she wrote vanished on the spot; the ink bled out of the paper until it was white and pure once more.

It was vexing, and she had to ask Mr. Bentham to write a letter to her uncle in her stead. Not that Mr. Bentham knew of the spell, or of
any
spells. She told him it would be more proper if the letter came from him, her temporary guardian. It would lend the happy news more weight, to be sure.

She wrinkled her nose.

Yes, it was vexing. One might have expected the spell to end with her forming a permanent attachment. After all, had this not been the reason for the exercise, that she should find a husband?

Oooh, and what a husband she had found for herself! Charming and witty and utterly, utterly gorgeous to behold.

And thus, all gray clouds completely fled her mind.

~*~

Once again Bentham sat in his club, drinking and brooding, as he did so often these days, hoping the brandy would silence his conscience.

With trembling fingers, he raised his glass to his lips. Yet even though the alcohol rolled down his throat and exploded hotly in his stomach, his thoughts would not quiet. He sat and brooded and wondered.

“Ah, Mr. Bentham.”

He gave a violent start and his glass slipped from his nerveless fingers.

“Tut-tut, not so careless, dear Mr. Bentham.” Thin lips curved into a cruel smile, the stranger held out the glass he had caught-and not one drop was spilled. “Surely you don’t wish to create a scene.”

By now Bentham’s hands were trembling so violently that he had to take the offered glass with both, even though he wanted nothing more than to hurl it away like a poisonous snake. But—oh, God—he was the rabbit caught by the snake. A snake that could swallow him whole, if it so wished.

He shuddered.

The stranger pursed his lips, as if amused by his discomfort. “But I forgot: It is impossible to create a scene in a venerable institution like an English gentlemen’s club, no? Has it ever struck you how much they resemble a Catholic confessional? Most curious.”

Sweat formed on Bentham’s forehead. “What do you want now?” he snapped—and flinched as he heard his own words. Careless, careless.

The stranger obviously thought the same; he raised dark blond brows and cocked his head to one side to study Bentham more closely. Yes, as a snake would study a rabbit.

Stupid, stupid rabbit.

Bentham searched his pockets for his handkerchief, yet could not find it. Had the stranger made it disappear to watch him squirm? The notion seemed fantastic, but had he not seen effects of that strange powder? It had changed Miss Bourne completely: Gone was the rebellious gleam that had so often lit her eyes. Indeed, she had been transformed into a model of feminine sweetness. Could a normal drug effect such a thing? Bentham doubted it. Hell, if he only had more brandy! But his glass was almost empty, so terribly empty again, and once more he could not suppress the shudder that wracked his body.