Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

I f I can get out of the townhouse unseen, I can make it halfway across Mayfair… Amelia bristled with nervous excitement as she hurried along the frosted pavement, darting between the hazy glow of streetlamps, sticking as close to the shadows as she could.

The freedom that struck her as she walked alone, unchaperoned, in the dark of night, with not a soul breathing down her neck was unlike anything she had ever experienced. And though she did keep her head down, it was not the same as usual; she was keeping her head down to hide her identity, not because it was ‘unseemly’ to look anyone directly in the eye.

Oh, how ironic it is, though! How I wish my brother and father could see me like this, how I wish I could see their disgust! She imagined it instead, smiling to herself as she pictured their repulsed expressions, entirely identical.

“You have gone too far!” she whispered, imitating her brother’s voice. “If it would not shame us further, I would have you imprisoned for this insult!”

She chuckled to herself, pulling the sides of the borrowed greatcoat tighter around her body, focusing on her gait. To convince anyone who might see her that she was actually a man, she needed to walk like one. No dainty steps, no elegant gliding, no hesitancy. Men strode, men marched, men made no apology when they walked the streets or entered rooms.

I must do the same tonight. My very life depends upon it.

“Good evening, Sir,” a voice said, startling Amelia out of her thoughts.

The voice belonged to a driver, perched upon his bench, apparently waiting for someone.

“Good evening to you,” she replied in her deepest, gruffest voice, raising a hand in acknowledgement as she walked on.

When the driver did not question her or stare strangely after her, she allowed herself a morsel of triumph. It was just the encouragement she needed for what was to come, for that would be the real challenge.

Within a matter of some fifteen minutes, she had made it to the grand Crescent where all the wealthiest of England had their London residences. Ahead of that elegant curve was an oval park, for the private use of only those residing on the Crescent. The well-kept lawn glinted with frost, the winter-stark trees standing like yawning sentinels, stretching out tired limbs.

Number four. She slowed her pace as she wandered along the curve, counting the numbers on the doors.

Coming to the right door, she prayed that her sources were correct. After returning inside the Assembly Rooms, she had turned the ceaseless gossip about the Earl of Westyork to her advantage, and no one knew more details about a person than the desperate mothers of the ton . One with an unwed daughter of seven-and-twenty was the gossip who had let it slip where the Earl resided when he was in London.

And come morning, he will be inundated. But I doubt anyone would be brazen enough to come tonight.

At least, that was what she was counting on. That , and the fact that the mysterious Earl had not made an appearance at the ball at all, suggesting he had chosen to stay at home instead.

It was a reckless plan, a dangerous plan, and one that could end very badly indeed, but she had no choice: if ever there was a time for her to throw all caution to the wind, it was now, before she found herself with the unfortunate title of Baroness of Hervey. Reeking forever of cigar smoke.

Taking a breath, she headed up the porch steps to the door of number four. Taking another breath, she raised her hand up and, on the exhale, she knocked.

The butler, Mr. Phipps, entered the drawing room with an air of unease, wringing his thin hands. “My Lord, I apologize for the intrusion.” He paused. “I understand the lateness of the hour, and that you are weary from the evening’s exploits, but?—”

“What is the matter, Phipps?” Lionel Barnet, Earl of Westyork, interrupted, before the poor man suffered an apoplexy.

The butler cleared his throat. “There is a… visitor, My Lord. A young gentleman. He is… quite insistent that he must see you this evening, though I did try to tell him that it was not at all appropriate. I explained that you were due to retire for the night, and?—”

“Phipps, you do not have to explain. You are in no trouble.” Lionel took a sip of his nightly tea, wondering who on earth would be calling upon him at, admittedly, such a late hour.

The clock on the mantelpiece was not far from chiming one o’clock in the morning.

“Is the man known to me?” Lionel asked, perplexed.

“I do not believe so. Shall I attempt to send them away again, My Lord?” Mr. Phipps replied, looking like he dreaded the prospect.

Lionel took another sip of his tea and rose unsteadily to his feet, grimacing as a dull pain shuddered up his right leg. It always bothered him in the colder months, but it was nothing he could not bear.

“No need, Phipps. You may send him in.”

The butler bowed his head. “Very good, My Lord.”

Walking up and down in front of the settee as he waited, Lionel adjusted to the ache in his leg until it became little more than a distant bother. He did not limp as he once did, but sometimes it took a minute or two for his gait to return to normal.

By the time it had straightened itself out, the unexpected visitor had entered the drawing room.

You…

Lionel stared in quiet disbelief, uncertain of whether or not he could trust his eyes, even with his spectacles. The ‘gentleman’ standing just inside the doorway, head bowed graciously though he had not removed his hat, was no gentleman at all.

How could Phipps be so easily fooled? As far as Lionel knew, the butler still had excellent eyesight. Perhaps, he had not looked much further than the visitor’s attire and hat. Or, maybe, it was because Lionel had seen her so recently, her face freshly etched into his keen memory, that he knew her without doubt.

“Are you aware of the hour?” he asked, deciding to play along for a moment or two, curious to hear what had brought her to his townhouse in the middle of the night. Dressed like that.

“I apologize, My Lord,” she replied in a reasonably convincing tenor. “I am aware, but what I have to say could not wait until tomorrow.”

Lionel wandered over to the fireplace. “It must be very urgent if you would intrude upon a gentleman at such an unsociable time.”

As if to punctuate his point, the carriage clock chimed out one stroke.

“Might you introduce yourself?” Lionel prompted, noting a slight quake in the woman’s shoulders, beneath the greatcoat. He reasoned she had used something to pad the shoulders, though her height was undeniably her own.

The ‘gentleman’ cleared her throat. “I am Martin Thorne, My Lord. Eldest son to the Duke of Lisbret, with the honorary title of Viscount of Peterfield.”

She had introduced herself incorrectly, her ‘masculine’ voice wavering here and there. Lionel had never had the ‘pleasure’ of being properly introduced to the real Martin Thorne, but he had witnessed the fellow speaking to the lady who now stood before him.

Surely, he has not sent her in his stead. It would be obscene. It was obscene, though Lionel was more concerned about how to navigate speaking alone with an unchaperoned woman.

“I have it on good authority that you are in want of a wife,” the woman continued. “I would like to offer my sister’s hand to you before the rest of ton descend on you tomorrow. Her name is Amelia Thorne, and… I think you could do far worse than her as your wife. She is quiet, she causes no trouble, she… knows how to behave.”

So, that is your name. Amelia Thorne. It did not take much to put those pieces together, but the rest of the puzzle eluded him. What was she doing there, risking her reputation in order to… offer her own hand in marriage to him?

He had not heard the conversation between the brother and sister, and he would not make assumptions.

“You think that these actions and that description would be enough to place your offer above those that might come, at a reasonable hour, tomorrow?” he replied drily, hiding his baffled amusement.

She floundered, toying with one of the buttons on her greatcoat. “I believe it shows determination and a greater willingness, My Lord. I am certain many excellent offers will be made to you, but none other than me dared to visit you tonight. There is… gumption in that. One cannot go wrong with gumption.”

Lionel struggled not to smirk, knowing he should not be enjoying the performance nearly as much as he was. However, he did have to admire her gumption somewhat. It was no ordinary woman who dressed as a man, tricked a butler, and gained an audience with an Earl to offer her own hand in marriage.

He pushed away from the mantelpiece and walked slowly toward her, noting how she kept her head down. She had done that in the Assembly Rooms too, as if that was her natural state, her eyes perpetually downcast. Almost like she wore a heavy yoke upon her shoulders.

“Who are you really?” he asked outright.

She swallowed loudly. “I told you; I am Martin Thorne.”

“No, you go by another name.” Lionel stepped closer, until he was right in front of her. Quick as a flash, he pulled her hat from her head. “Reckless.”

Long, honey-colored hair tumbled down. As it did, it unleashed the most intoxicating scent: a waft of sweet perfume, like burnt sugar and lemons, with a hint of something spiced that he could not quite place.

His eyes widened at the sight of her wavy hair as it fell all the way past her shoulders to her waist, for he had assumed that her hair would be pinned up beneath the hat. If he had known it would be loose, he would not have removed the hat at all. It was not his place to see her hair like that, so informal.

Is it as silky as it looks? Some of the locks had fallen in front, over her chest, and his fingertips longed to brush them back over her shoulders. To wind one tendril loosely around his fingertips, bringing that outstanding scent to his nose, to savor it.

A gasp escaped Amelia’s lips as her head snapped up, her pretty blue eyes even wider than his. Indeed, she stared at him in fleeting disbelief, as if he was not what she had expected. Recovering quickly, she tried to lunge for the hat in his grasp, but he quickly put it behind his back.

“Lady Amelia, you should not be here, doing this,” he said sternly. “You should be afraid of this kind of situation. Do you have any notion of what it could do to your reputation if you were discovered?”

And I should not be entertaining this, but… She was entrancing in a way he could not explain, so full of quiet fire. And that long hair and those big blue eyes, combined with that astonishingly beautiful face made it nigh-on impossible to even think of sending her away.

Amelia tilted her chin up in a small gesture of defiance. “It would be no worse than my current fate, My Lord.” She hesitated. “I am here this evening in order to change it. My fate, that is.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, genuinely curious, though his voice did not betray him. He kept his tone cold and indifferent.

“It means that I am in a dire situation, and I have come to… offer my hand because I cannot bear the alternative,” she replied shakily, her face paling. “I know you are seeking a wife, so I thought I would do all I could to ensure that that wife ended up being me.”

Lionel frowned, putting a few more pieces into place. He was aware that something had been said between Amelia and Martin that had made her turn ghostly white, frozen in her chair—a fear that he recognized all too well—but he still did not have all the details. Perhaps, they were not necessary. Perhaps, her fear was enough.

If she has done all this to avoid something, then it must be terrible indeed. A woman’s reputation was, often, all she had. To risk it entirely was a sure sign of desperation.

“I require a bride of convenience, Lady Amelia,” he said stiffly. “I suspect that your situation has an element of inconvenience.”

She shook her head effusively, those blue eyes so wide and imploring that a man could drown in them if he was not careful. “Easily remedied, My Lord. No inconvenience to you at all.” She sucked in a nervous breath. “But I can be that bride of convenience.”

He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head to get a better look at her. There was an innocence about her that, despite his reason and logic, made him want to keep that protected. She was someone in obvious need, someone desperately pleading to be rescued from something, and though he had left battlefields far behind him, he knew a wounded soldier when he saw one.

Is this madness? He suspected it might be, but she was offering him something he needed in return. And it would save him from attending endless balls and gatherings, which was not an unfavorable notion. Moreover, she was of good standing if she was a Duke’s daughter, so the match would not be outlandish by any means.

Still, he needed to know just how serious she was.

“You were foolish to come here in this manner,” he began, watching her face fall. “Did you think it would be so simple? Do you think I believe that you can be a bride of convenience when you have already inconvenienced me tonight?”

Her eyes flared, as he had hoped they might. “It is not foolish to save oneself from misery, My Lord. And I do not see how it can be an inconvenience when I have delivered exactly what you require to your door, without you having to exert any effort at all. As for thinking it would be simple—there is nothing simple about what I have done tonight, to meet with you.”

He was impressed, but he hid it. “Why should it be you? Why should I not wait for tomorrow, when the influx of mothers will come?”

She bit her plump lip, reddening the skin to a color so tempting that he almost let his resolve crumble, if only to stop her from doing that. Her blue eyes clouded over in thought, while her fingertips decided to make him jealous, toying with a lock of her hair, twisting it around as she contemplated his question.

“Because it is the fair thing to do,” she answered presently. “You are a gentleman of business, are you not?”

He nodded. “I am.”

“Then, you understand the sanctity of first come, first served,” she said, with that same quiet, compelling fire in her eyes. “It should be me because I am here and no one else is. If that does not show my sincerity and determination, I can say nothing more to convince you.”

He could not help it; he liked her gumption, and he was rather captivated by her chosen response. Not many would have been so direct, nor had he expected her to be after what he had witnessed at the ball.

“Very well,” he said coolly. “I am willing to accept your proposal, but only because I cannot bear the notion of drinking pots and pots of tea with the mothers of high society.”

Her eyes lit up, sparkling with something that might have been tears or just relief. “Oh, thank you. My Lord, thank?—”

“I am not done,” he interrupted sharply. “I will accept your proposal, unorthodox as it is, as long as you remember that this will only be a marriage of convenience. And as long as your actual brother and father are in agreement. If there is a hint of difficulty due to whatever brought you here in the first place, I will rescind the offer.”

She nodded, her hands clasped as if in prayer. “I will give you no reason to, My Lord. I assure you.” She paused. “May I thank you now?”

“I think not.” He gestured to the door. “Indeed, I think you should put your hat back on and leave before someone else sees through your flimsy disguise.”

In a flustered display that tested every shred of his willpower, holding himself back from helping, Amelia stuffed her long, beautiful hair back into the top hat and set it on her head. Still flustered, her cheeks bright red, she backed out of the drawing room as if he were royalty.

“Thank you,” she said quietly as she departed in her awkward fashion.

“Do not thank me yet,” he replied under his breath, wondering what on earth he had just agreed to. And, more bizarrely, why.

In his two years rebuilding his family’s fortune, he had learned one very valuable lesson—a lesson that he had just soundly disregarded for a complete stranger who had appeared on his doorstep in the middle of the night: never take the first offer.