One Dance with a Duke

Page 7

Author: Tessa Dare
She drew a deep, steadying breath. “Here is what will occur. We will alert the house staff to awaken Lily and ask her to dress. By the time she comes down, I promise you, she will be prepared for the worst.”
Any woman, when awakened in the dead of night, prepared herself for the worst. How many times had Amelia stumbled downstairs, tripping over feet numb with dread, certain that disaster had befallen another of her loved ones? Only to discover it was Jack, staggering in from an evening spent carousing with his “friends.”
“When she comes down,” she continued, “I will speak with her alone. You gentlemen wait in Lord Harcliffe’s study, and I will inform Lily of her brother’s death.”
“Lady Amelia—”
She silenced Bellamy by raising an open palm. “It is not a task I relish, sir. But I will not leave it to the three of you. Forgive me for speaking frankly, but after the past quarter-hour’s conversation, I am unconvinced that any of you possess the sense or sensitivity to impart the news in any respectful fashion.”
“My lady, I must insist—”
“No, you must listen!” Her voice squeaked, and she pressed a hand to her belly. “You must understand, I have lived through the very experience that Lily is about to endure. And the three of you together, you’re a fearsome group. I’m not even certain how I’m able to stand before you without melting into the mist … except that this has been a most unconventional evening, and I’m no longer certain of much at all.”
Dear Lord, now she was babbling, and they were looking at her with that strange combination of pity and panic with which men regard a woman on the verge of hysterics.
Pull yourself together, Amelia.
“Please,” she said. “What I’m trying to say is, allow me to break the news delicately. If Lily gets one look at you, she’s going to instantly know—”
With a gentle creak, the door swung open behind her.
Amelia pivoted, meeting face-to-face not with a servant, as she’d anticipated, but with Lily Chatwick herself. For the first time in … oh, it must have been two years. Since Hugh’s funeral, perhaps. They’d been friends as girls—not the closest of friends, as Lily was a few years older. But after the fever that left Lily without hearing, they’d seen one another less and less. She did not come out in society often.
“Amelia?” Lily swept a lock of dark hair from her face. With her other hand, she clutched the neck of her dressing gown closed. “Why, Amelia d’Orsay, whatever are you doing here at this—” Her sleepy, dark-fringed eyes went to the men.
Amelia squeezed her hands into fists. Lily couldn’t have heard her remarks, she reminded herself. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to break the news gently.
“Oh, dear God.” Lily’s hand went to her throat. “Leo’s dead.”
“I knew it,” Lily said some time later, staring blankly at her folded hands. They sat in the parlor. A cup of brandy-laced tea rested on the table, untouched and long gone cold. “Somehow I just knew it, even before you arrived. I’d retired early. I was so very tired last night. But then I woke with a start not an hour later and haven’t been able to sleep since. I just knew he was gone.”
Amelia moved her chair closer to her friend’s. “I’m so sorry.” Such worthless, feeble words. But really, in such a situation, there was nothing helpful to be said.
“I wouldn’t have been able to believe it, had I not felt it in my own heart. As it is, I’ve been growing accustomed to the idea for several hours now. We’ve always known when the other was in danger. Because we are twins, I suspect. Our bond has always been close. During my illness, he took the mail coach all the way home from Oxford, even though no one had written him. I don’t know how I’ll—” Lily bent her head to her folded hands. “It’s just so hard to imagine existing without him, when I never have.”
Her slight shoulders shook as she cried, and Amelia smoothed the black plait of hair running down the grieving woman’s back. The casual observer would never have guessed that she and Leo were twins. Their appearances could not have been more different. Leo had golden-brown hair, bronzed skin—an aura of health and energy radiated from him. By contrast, Lily was fair and dark-haired, of serene and contemplative disposition. The moon to her brother’s sun. Amelia had heard it suggested, in gossipy settings, that the twin birth was a fortunate thing for their mother’s reputation—for no one would believe Leo and Lily to be children of the same father, had they not emerged from the womb within minutes of one another.
Amelia squeezed her friend’s shoulder lightly until Lily lifted her gaze. “It’s hard to imagine Leo gone, even for me. More than anyone in my acquaintance, he always seemed so … so alive. He will be greatly missed.” She gentled her touch, stroking reassuringly. “But you needn’t be anxious. For as many people as there were who loved Leo, there will be equally many eager to assist you, in any way.” She threw a sideways glance toward the doors that connected this parlor with the library. “Just in the other room, you have three of England’s most powerful men, each of them prepared to swim the Channel, if you asked it.”
The corner of Lily’s mouth curved. “Mr. Bellamy is responsible for the presence of the other two, I am sure. Sometimes I think that man will smother me under his good intentions.”
She must have caught Amelia’s fleeting look of skepticism.
“Oh, do not mistake him,” Lily said. “Julian is a gifted performer. His favorite, and most successful, role is that of the incorrigible roué. But he has been a steadfast friend to Leo and no doubt views it his duty to assume brotherly guardianship of me now.”
“Are you certain his interest is entirely brotherly?” Amelia recalled Mr. Bellamy’s behavior in the coach, and his impassioned defense to any remark that might be construed as even mildly disparaging to Lily.
“Oh, yes,” Lily said. “On that point, I am quite certain.”
“I feel I should tell you, on our way here the three of them were arguing over … over who among them should be the fortunate one to marry you.”
“Marry me? I never thought to marry at all.”
“I told them that you would need time to absorb this news, time to grieve. I tried to persuade them against presenting you with such decisions tonight, but I do not know if I was successful.”
More accurately, she did not know if Mr. Bellamy’s threats had been successful in removing Morland’s reluctance. She hoped not. And not because she would be jealous. No, envy had nothing to do with this. Whatever her own physical attraction to the duke, Amelia was wise enough not to confuse it with esteem for his character. This evening alone, she’d witnessed more than enough evidence of that gentleman’s callous attitudes toward debt, death, society, friendship, and marriage to know she would not wish such a husband on any woman she called friend.
“Oh dear,” Lily said weakly. Her head sank to the table again. “Don’t tell me. This has to do with that absurd club Leo started, with the horse.”
“Yes.”
“What a ridiculous name he gave it. The Stud Club. I told him, he should have asked me for ideas. I could think of a dozen better things to call it. What’s wrong with the Stallion Society?”
Amelia bit back a laugh, then dipped her head to catch Lily’s attention. “If you like, I’ll send them away. I’ve stood up to them all once already tonight, and I’m not afraid to do it again.”
Pride strengthened her voice as she said this. And why should it not? At some point this evening, between surrendering her last few coins to Jack and claiming the Duke of Morland’s hand, Amelia had stepped outside herself, somehow. Or stepped outside that quiet, unassuming, plain, and proper shell she’d been inhabiting all her life. Scolding a trio of intimidating men was only part of it. She’d confronted a duke, even flirted with him during a sensual waltz. With no success, but still—it went beyond anything she’d dared before. Add to all this, she’d departed the ball under mysterious circumstances, and right now the gossips were probably debating precisely when that well-bred d’Orsay girl had become such a brazen adventuress.
Why, at the stroke of midnight, of course. That was the moment Amelia had ceased to be a pumpkin. And no matter what tomorrow brought, she was proud of herself for that.
“I’ll go chase them off now,” she said, pushing back from the table.
“No,” Lily said. “I’ll speak with them. I know they are grieving, too, and they mean well. Men do have that incurable need to try their hand at fixing things. Even things that can never be mended.”
“I told them you’d want to see Leo.”
“Thank you. Yes, I would.” Her voice was polite and remote. Amelia knew she had entered that numb void of unreality that followed a great shock. For all Lily insisted she’d sensed the truth hours ago and had grown accustomed to the idea in the interim, Amelia knew Leo’s death would not become real to her for some time yet. And when it did, the pain would be near unbearable.
She would not press Lily to confront that grief now. Let her float in that dark nothingness as long as she could.
“Shall I come upstairs with you and help you dress?”
“No, thank you. I’ll do. My maid is awake.”
“Then I’ll wait with the gentlemen until you’re ready. May I direct your cook to have a cold supper sent in? The beasts may prove more docile after a feeding. And if you can manage it, you should take some food, too.”
“Yes, of course. Direct the servants however you think best.” Bracing both hands flat on the table, Lily pushed back her chair and slowly stood. “I’m grateful you’re here, Amelia. You are so very good.”
An hour later, the array of cold meats and cheeses laid out on a serving cart remained largely untouched. The duke sat in a winged armchair in the farthest reaches of the library, impatiently leafing through the pages of a book. If he had looked up once in the past hour, Amelia had not noticed it. And, to her frustration, she found herself watching him a great deal.
The only one of the gentlemen to eat anything had been Lord Ashworth, and he now lay reclined on the divan, eyes closed and massive boots propped on the studded leather ottoman. His attitude of repose did not strike her as disrespectful, however. She might have described it as prudent. A military trait, she assumed. Ashworth was clearly a man who did not allow death to interfere with the unceasing work of survival. He would not waste an opportunity to eat, drink, or rest when it presented itself.
By contrast, Mr. Bellamy had not ceased moving since Amelia entered the room. He’d prowled the floor so many times, she feared he would wear a groove in the parquet. When the doorbell rang, he dashed to answer it himself. The caller was an investigator, Amelia gathered through scraps of overheard conversation, charged with tracking down the footpads who’d murdered Leo.
“Some news?” the duke asked, when Bellamy reentered.
“No. Nothing we didn’t know already. He was beset in an alley, somewhere in Whitechapel. The motive appears to have been robbery. Some urchins nearby heard scuffling and shouts, but they were too frightened to investigate. It was a prostitute who found his body and called for a hack, but she’s since disappeared.”
“How did they know to bring him to you?”
“When she came upon him, he was still alive, barely. He apparently gave her my address. A fortunate thing, too, or who knows what might have happened to his body. Sold to medical students, most likely. I’m surprised the whore didn’t think of that. She was probably hoping for a reward, saving a nobleman’s life.”
“Or maybe she simply had a conscience and a good heart,” Amelia said.