The Perfect Bride (9 page)

For
a fleeting moment Amanda thought they would both go crashing to the floor. But
the earl's arms closed around her, drove all thought from her head. His solid
strength kept her safe, righted them both. Amanda inhaled the faint smell of
sandalwood as his warmth banished the drafty chill. Something undefinable but
purely masculine made its way into her senses, triggering an disconcerting
feeling that vaguely resembled a stomach ache but was infinitely more pleasant.

That
feeling tugged at her memory, knocking on doors that she had firmly shut years
ago, until it made itself known as the foe she had long thought vanquished in
that fumbling, humbling experience with Julian LeFevre.

Desire.

Easily
identifiable, now that she thought about it, and truly appalling.

Amanda
gave a quick, nervous smile, hoping to cover her discomfiture as she reached
for the crutches he had caught with the hand that was not wrapped securely
around her waist.

"I
do beg your pardon, my lord," she said.

He
did not immediately release her.

Instead,
and to her great surprise, he tucked the crutches under one arm and lifted her
quite effortlessly. Ignoring her startled gasp, he carried her down the hall to
a door that was partially ajar. With the toe of his gleaming Hussar boots, he
pushed it open. Inside the room, he set her on a divan, placed the crutches at
her side, and turned toward a small table that held several decanters.

He
had said not a word.

Amanda
glanced quickly around the room, which appeared to be his study. A massive oak
desk surrounded by dozens of book-laden shelves occupied one end of the room,
while the divan and two comfortably worn leather chairs framed a small
fireplace at the other. The tone of the room was decidedly masculine, but it
was just as appealing as the parlor they had seen earlier.

As
he handed her a glass of sherry, Amanda felt exceedingly foolish. He had twice
been called upon to rescue her from an ungainly accident. Now she — the chaperon,
no less — sat alone with him in his study drinking spirits. Perhaps he thought
her so desperate for masculine attention that she hurled herself at every man
within reach — even her cousin's intended.

To
cover her awkwardness, Amanda took a sip and discovered a woody taste and bracing
warmth that were quite extraordinary. Perhaps there was something to be said
for ancient castles after all.

"Thank
you for your kindness, my lord. I must confess that it is mortifying to find
myself in need of rescue so often. I am an independent woman accustomed to
doing for myself.”

His
expression was nothing if not dubious.

"Truly,"
she insisted. "I cannot remember when I last fell down the stairs. As for
the accident with the chair in Felicity's room..."

Her
voice trailed off. She was chattering like a magpie. His expression was flat
and unreadable. Undoubtedly he was a man who did not suffer fools. Or giddy
women.

Abandoning
all pretense of conversation, she took another sip of sherry and
surreptitiously studied him over the rim of her glass.

Even
his clothing made no concessions to frivolity. His dark green jacket had a
rolled collar that gave it a vaguely military air, tailored against the
constrictive fashions of the day to allow room for easy motion. His Hussars
rose to a slight point to protect the shins, again without restricting
movement. Amanda guessed that like other military boots, they were shod with
iron.

Iron
was a perfect metaphor for the man, Amanda decided, recalling the finely
sculpted muscles that lay beneath that heavy superfine. Clean-shaven, his face
bore a slight indentation near his mouth that might have been a dimple, had not
the possibility been unthinkable in such a man. The only thing at odds with the
controlled image was the unmanageable shock of red hair that suggested a
tantalizing wildness beneath his restraint. With that fierce mane and
crystalline gaze, the Earl of Sommersby was a man to make any woman swoon.

Except
her. Sternly, Amanda told herself that this would not do.

"Lord
Sommersby," she began again, her tone brisk. "I fear we may have
gotten our acquaintance off on the wrong foot, so to speak. Our initial meeting
in Felicity’s, er, room, was somewhat...awkward."

She
felt her cheeks warm, but pressed on. "I also realize that my blunt
comments about your weapon collection may have given offense, for which I do
apologize. I hope you will allow us to start anew, as surely we both have
Felicity's happiness in mind."

His
impassive expression did not alter. "Is it your habit to climb upon wobbly
chairs or to endeavor to navigate a slippery stone staircase on crutches
unassisted?"

Indignation
surged. "I am a woman, my lord, not some frail creature. I can take care
of myself — "

"Miss
Fitzhugh,” he said, regarding her steadily, “I am at a loss as to how to
prevent you from harming yourself in my home. This castle is a relic that years
of neglect have only worsened. It does not boast the staff that is needed to
assure the comfort of every guest, and for that I apologize. Refurbishment is
one of my goals, but it is a piecemeal task at best. For now, I must insist as
your host that you exercise more caution. While you are under this roof, you
will call upon Jeffers or myself if you need assistance."

It
was a command, from one accustomed to issuing them. Amanda was aghast at the notion
of summoning the earl or his manservant to move her from one place to another.
She was here to help Felicity, not to be a burden.

“I
am not an invalid,” she protested.

The
barest hint of a smile flitted over his features — yes, perhaps that was a
dimple after all. "Not yet. But I’ll not wager against your chances."

Amanda
sighed. "Touché, my lord. I suppose I have given you reason enough for
that."

Lord
Sommersby eyed her thoughtfully, then abruptly sat in the chair nearest the
divan. "I wonder if you will permit me to ask your advice on a delicate matter."

Amanda
eyed him in surprise.   “Certainly, my lord.”

"I
am accustomed to solving problems in the most efficient way possible," he
began. "Wasting time appalls me. I prefer to have a plan and to follow
it."

The
earl drained his own glass, set it on the table, and shot her a pained look.

"I
am more comfortable on the battlefield than in society, but I have been dealt
this hand and must make the best of it." He hesitated. "I would not
trouble you with this matter, but I have no other females to consult."

Unable
to imagine any delicate female matter on which she could advise him, Amanda eyed
him with some alarm. "Yes, Lord Sommersby?"

Rising,
he poured himself another sherry, absently taking Amanda's glass and refilling
it as well.

"I
am told that a woman of refined breeding is entitled to a Season." This
time he sat next to her on the divan. "Yet it seems an utter waste of
time. If one has decided upon a wife, why spend months dashing about to parties,
dancing attendance on every female in the room and participating in the charade
of matching the flowers of London society, who must be paragons of virtue, with
their future husbands, who must be well-fixed and in possession of a title?"

"I
see. You would rather just carry her off and be done with it," Amanda
said, unable to keep the amusement from her voice.

But
he did not look in the least amused. "Yes, by Jove, I would."

The
image of Felicity slung over Lord Sommersby's shoulder like some prize he had
just won in battle made Amanda laugh out loud. "My lord, there must be
some concessions to polite society."

"Must
there? Sir Thomas has made it clear that Miss Biddle must have a Season, and so
I have promised to accompany her to town. But I do not see the point in it, if
we are agreed to have each other."

"She
has accepted your offer, then?" Amanda wondered why Felicity had not
mentioned the fact.

Lord
Sommersby shook his head. "I have spoken only to her father. Assuming Miss
Biddle agrees, we leave for town within a fortnight. I will spend the next
months escorting her to as many parties and balls as she wishes to
attend." He sighed. "But I simply do not understand the need for such
frivolous rituals."

Amanda
could well imagine why Felicity would enjoy being the center of attention in
the company of such an esteemed war hero as Lord Sommersby, but she could also
understand why a man of the earl's disposition would view such a prospect with
reluctance, if not loathing. She hesitated. "A young lady of breeding is
raised to expect a Season. It is an exciting time that marks her social
acceptance. Though it may well result in a suitable match, a Season is also
enjoyable in itself."

"Did
you have a Season, Miss Fitzhugh?"

The
question took her aback. "Yes."

"But
you achieved no `suitable match'?" He eyed her thoughtfully.

Amanda
managed a smile. "I think it is safe to conclude that I did not
take."

"There
was no one for whom you formed an attachment?"

"I
do not regret my single state, my lord," Amanda said. She was not about to
discuss her disastrous “attachment” to Julian LeFevre.

He
studied her. "It begins to sound as though you, too, have little use for
the rituals of society, Miss Fitzhugh."

"My
feelings are not at issue here, my lord. I believe we were speaking of
Felicity."

"Forgive
me, Miss Fitzhugh. It is just that I have much to do here at the castle, and
the prospect of absenting myself for weeks is unwelcome,” he said. “Workmen are
scheduled to report soon. Already, a young scholar has begun cataloguing the
weapons and the contents of my library. Servants must be hired, tenants dealt
with. There are other business matters to manage. Dancing attendance on a woman
who has already agreed to have me seems an absurd waste of time."

"Then
perhaps Felicity will refuse you, my lord," Amanda replied, suddenly feeling
quite out of sorts. "Perhaps you will truly have to work to win your
bride. I daresay it is not as difficult as winning a war."

Grabbing
her crutches, she rose unsteadily. "You will excuse me, sir. I feel the
need for some air."

But
the crutches, and perhaps the sherry, spoiled her grand exit. The floor was not
quite where she expected it. As she swayed precariously, Amanda felt a strong
pair of hands grasp her waist from behind to steady her. Lord Sommersby quickly
transferred his grip to her elbows, but the damage was done.

Amanda’s
stomach felt as if a thousand butterflies had taken wing. To her consternation,
she had to fight an urge to lean into that large, masculine frame.

"You
must not move so quickly," he admonished. "You will injure yourself
again."

But
she scarcely heard his warning in her dismay over those butterflies. Had the
experience with Julian left her so thoroughly beyond redemption that she could
feel weak with desire for a man soon to be betrothed to Felicity?

"Thank
you for the reminder, my lord," Amanda forced herself to say. "I will
just be on my way to the parlor, where I was bound when I, er, tumbled into
you."

"Allow
me to assist you."

Alarmed
to see that he was evidently prepared to carry her once more, Amanda shook her
head vigorously. "No, thank you. I can manage for myself." When he
seemed about to resist, she hurriedly added, "I promise to summon someone when
I need to take the stairs."

That
seemed to satisfy him and, with a sigh of relief, Amanda hobbled out of Lord
Sommersby's study. Long afterward, however, she felt the touch of his hands.

***

His
proposal to Felicity Biddle went smoothly. Although Simon had never before
offered a woman marriage, it had not proved difficult. One had only to state
one's admiration for the young lady, make a straightforward declaration of
intentions, and wait for an answer. Gracious and blushing, Miss Biddle
consented immediately. It all went precisely according to plan. His mission had
been successful. While tedious weeks in town lay ahead, Simon breathed a sigh
of relief that the future was now settled.

Miss
Fitzhugh had made him see the importance of the Season to Miss Biddle, and
Simon was prepared to endure London as he had endured any number of unpleasant
situations during the war — as minor inconveniences on the way to achieving the
larger goal. Miss Biddle would make him a fine wife. Their sons would have his
discipline and strength, their daughters her pretty violet eyes. Generations of
Thorntons would thank him for securing their future and their heritage.

That
knowledge, and the fact that his goal had been achieved in such a civilized
fashion, brought a smile to Simon's face as he stood at the dinner table and
offered a toast to his lovely bride. Sir Thomas beamed, Miss Biddle blushed
prettily, and Miss Fitzhugh smiled approvingly at him over the rim of her
glass.

It
was important not to be distracted by the amber flecks in Miss Fitzhugh's brown
eyes, or to be reminded of how her form fit so perfectly against his when she
had tumbled into his arms.