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As she riffled through to the end of the book, there seemed to be a myriad of variations on that theme and she remembered again exactly what hopelessness felt like.
After his death she had not trusted anyone except for her father. After Gerald the world of possibility and expectation had shrunk into a formless mist, her big mistake relegated to that part of her mind which refused to be hurt again, but even thirteen months later the horror had left an indelible mark.
The business of making money had been healing, saving her from the ignominy of venturing back into the pursuit of another mate. Oh, she had gone to Gerald’s funeral and attended his grave, placing flowers and small offerings because it was expected. She had also worn her mourning garb for the obligatory year because she could have not borne the questions that might have occurred otherwise. Even in death she had not betrayed him.
A single tear dropped upon the sheet below, blurring the careful writing.
A blemished bride. Then and now. Granted, she came to this next union with a dowry that was substantial and with the means to save a family on the brink of devastation. It must count for something.
But the kiss Daniel Wylde and she had shared was worrying because in it were the seeds of her own destruction.
Not like Gerald Whitely. Not like him at all.
The voyeur inside her who had been watching others for years was threatened, the safe distance she had fostered shattered by a hope she had never known, for when Lord Montcliffe had taken her hand and then her lips something in her had risen and his gold-green eyes had known it had.
Looking back, she could not understand just what had led her into the mistake of marrying Whitely in the first place. Loneliness, perhaps, or the fact that the years were rushing by. Certainly it had not been a blinding love or even a distilled version of affection. No, she had married Gerald because no one else had ever given her a second look and she was starting to feel as if spinsterhood was just around a very close corner.
Her father’s respect for his business acumen might have also made a difference. Amythest wanted to marry a man whom Robert would regard with fondness and Gerald had arrived at the warehouse with glowing references and a comforting confidence. A man who at first brought her flowers and pretty handkerchiefs and professed that he had never in his whole life seen anyone as beautiful as she was.
When the nasty side of him had surfaced a month or so before their marriage she should have cut her losses and run. Her father would have understood and there was no one else whose opinion she cared much about. Yet still she had persisted in believing that she could calm Gerald’s anger and gently soothe all the problems he seemed to have with others.
Marriage had changed that. The admonishments had been verbal at first, just small criticisms of her dress and her hair. Then he had used his fists.
Fear had held her rigid and distant, the shame and the anger at her stupidity buried under a carefully constructed outer mask. She could not believe that she had been so gullible and foolish as to imagine a wonderful life with a man she had barely known. When he had died sixteen months later Amethyst had not seen him for a good handful of weeks before that and her heartfelt relief added to the guilt of everything.
* * *
Four mornings after the kiss she had shared with Lord Montcliffe she felt full of anxiety. Her intended was waiting downstairs in the Blue Salon and he had brought a friend with him. To see what trap the Earl had tumbled into, she supposed, the sour taste of trade balanced by a wife who was at least wealthy enough to save Montcliffe.
After nights of poor sleep and lurid dreams Amethyst felt exposed; pinned to a board like a butterfly in some scientific laboratory, wings outstretched and colours fading into dust. No possible defences. No protection against the disdain he surely must be feeling.
At least the wig felt like armour and the dark purple bombazine in her gown was sturdy enough to withstand any amount of derision. As she opened the door of the salon they had been directed to, the smile on her face was tight.
‘My lord.’ She did not allow Daniel Wylde to take her fingers or to touch her as she inclined her head.
‘Miss Cameron.’ There was a slight hesitation in his greeting. ‘I hope your father has had a few comfortable nights and is feeling better after his fall.’
‘He is, my lord, thank you, though he is under strict instructions to stay in bed for a few more days yet. Your doctor was most insistent about that. Perhaps I should have informed you,’ she added as an afterthought, suddenly uncertain of the rules around being unchaperoned even in her own house.
‘We will not stay long. May I introduce my good friend to you? Lucien Howard, Earl of Ross, this is Miss Amethyst Amelia Cameron, my intended.’
The man who stood by the mantelpiece watched her carefully. With hair as pale as Daniel Wylde’s was dark, he held the same sort of stillness and menace. She also thought she saw a hitch of puzzlement in his eyes.
‘Montcliffe has told me all about you, Miss Cameron.’
‘I should not think there would be much to say, my lord.’
Unexpectedly Lord Ross laughed. ‘Actually, I am more surprised by all he didn’t.’
Glancing over at Daniel, Amethyst wondered how much honesty he would allow. She decided to test him.
‘It is a truism that great wealth holds a loud persuasion. As a good friend of Montcliffe’s you must realise this.’
The stance of relaxed grace did not change a whit, but Lord Montcliffe had moved closer and Amethyst felt that same sharp jolt of shock with an ache. She did not look her best today, she knew it. The wig itched unremittingly and the red around her eyes from poor sleep did her no favours whatsoever. She had tried to assuage the damage with some powder she had asked her maid to fetch from the pharmacist yesterday, but the application was difficult and she wondered if instead of hiding the problem she had accentuated it. She wished now that she had simply wiped the powder off before entering the room.
‘Miss Cameron runs the books for the Cameron timber company, Luce. According to her father she is irreplaceable in her knowledge of the trade.’
Was the Earl criticising her? His words did not seem slanted with distaste so mayhap this was another example of her not comprehending the ways of the ton. His friend’s face was carefully schooled to show as little emotion as Montcliffe’s did, allowing her no way of understanding the truth.
‘I have heard it said that you have a knowledge of horseflesh too, Miss Cameron? Your father’s pair of greys were the talk of the town a few weeks back and, when I went in to look them over, Tattersall mentioned your name on the ownership deeds.’
‘Papa and I generally consult on new purchases, my lord. That particular pair was procured on a trip we made to Spain together three years ago.’ She stopped, thinking perhaps she sounded boastful.
‘I see. Montcliffe raised horses when we were younger too. Before the war took us into Spain and they were lost to him.’
‘You were in the army, as well?’
‘It is the curse of an estate of great title, but little in the way to support it, Miss Cameron. ’Twas either that or the church and the stipend in religion is miserable.’
As he said the words Lucien Howard turned and the light from the window directly behind him fell across a large swathe of scarring at his neck. Averting her eyes, Amethyst hoped he had not seen just where her interest lay, though when she glanced over at Daniel she knew a momentary consternation. The easy-going lord of the realm seemed replaced by another, hard distance coating his every feature, memory overlaid by anger.
War wounds. She had seen the soldiers from the Peninsular Campaign as they had stumbled up the quayside of all the ports between Falmouth and Dover the previous year in the final days of January. She had been in the south with her father, checking on a new timber delivery, and the filthy, ill and skeletal men had been a shocking sight. Thirty-five thousand men had crossed the Spanish frontier to march against Napoleon and eight thousand had not returned. Lord Montcliffe and his friend Lord Ross had no doubt been amongst those on the crowded transports in the Bay of Biscay storms. She could barely imagine what nightmares such a journey would have brought.
Daniel was a stranger to her, all the pieces of his past unknown and the sum of his whole unchartered. The cold thought clawed into consciousness but she shook such a musing away, colouring as she realised her guests were looking at her as though expecting an answer to a question.
‘I am sorry, I did not hear what you asked.’
‘Lucien wished to know if you would allow his younger sister to help you get ready on your wedding day.’
‘Oh.’ Amethyst did not quite know how to answer this. She had always been surrounded by men in the business of trading timber and had seldom had the time to foster any relationship with women.
The Earl of Ross took up the conversation now. ‘Christine lost her betrothed in the march up to La Corunna and she is a little depressed. Helping in the preparation for a wedding might be just the distraction she needs.’
‘I should imagine your sister would find me most dull.’
‘She loves hairstyles and dresses and decorating homes.’
Amethyst’s heart sank.
‘And she can make an occasion of anything.’
Hard to make an occasion with the two participants pressed into a union neither wished for. Placing a false smile on her lips, Amethyst nodded.
‘Then I would be most thankful for her help.’
Montcliffe appeared as though he was about to laugh, but the arrival of the maid with an assortment of small cakes and lemonade put paid to that expression. Pouring three generous glasses, she handed one to each of them and invited them to sit down.
‘The speciality of the house is this lemon syrup. I hope you will enjoy it.’ The lemonade was cold and sour, exactly the way she and her father liked it, yet both men looked to be struggling with the taste. Even yesterday she might have been mortified to think that the beverage was not quite right, but today for some reason the fact made her smile.
The control she seldom lost hold of had seemed to slip of late and the small victory was welcomed. She knew, of course, that they would be far more at home with some alcoholic drink, but it was only just midday and the hour seemed too early to be serving something as strong without Papa present.
When Lord Montcliffe stood she was certain that he would be taking his leave, but he walked across to the window instead to observe a view of the park opposite.
‘This house is well situated. Do you take exercise there?’
‘Sometimes I do, my lord. More normally though I ride my horse in Hyde Park in the late afternoon.’
‘Will you be there tomorrow?’
He had not turned, but she felt a palpable tension as he waited for her answer.
‘I shall. I take a turn or two around Rotten Row most days.’
‘Good.’
At that Lucien Howard also stood and both men gave their leave and were gone within a moment. When the door shut behind them Amethyst remained very still. Had Daniel arranged a meeting between them for tomorrow or not? The two almost-full glasses of lemonade stood on the table and she picked up the one Daniel had used and sipped from it. Ridiculous, she knew, but he made her feel that way: girlish, breathless, terrified.
Her father’s bell was ringing. Papa was waiting for an account of the meeting, she supposed, but still she did not move. Would Daniel ride alone tomorrow? Her maid always accompanied her to the park, but stayed on a seat near the gateway. Would this allow them some privacy? Did she want it?
Gerald had been disappointed in her so very quickly. She had held his attention only briefly before he had ventured forth to find other avenues of satisfaction. He had found her gauche and stiff. He had told her that the night he had left for the last time, a wife who was nothing like he had imagined she would be, but she could not dwell on it. ‘I deserve to be happy, and so does Papa,’ she muttered to herself and caught sight of a small bird on a branch outside.
‘If I close my eyes and count to ten and it is still there, then all shall be fine.’
When she opened them the sight of an empty branch greeted her, the buds of new leaves shivering with the motion of its parting.
Signs. She looked for them everywhere now, good and bad, but the hectic tinkle of her father’s bell had her moving from the room and up the wide oaken staircase.
* * *
She absolutely had to tell him. Today. Now. This minute. The early evening light sending redness into his raven hair and the green of the oaks all about them.
I have been married before. My husband died in a brothel because he could no longer abide the pretence of me in his marriage bed. It was not a successful union and by the end of it we hated each other.
That was what she should have said. Out loud. With conviction. Let Daniel run before the knots tied them irrevocably together and the blame game began. But she stayed silent as she watched him rein in his steed and move beside her. The time to confess everything about her tawdry past was not quite right and she wanted just for this moment to enjoy his company. Next time. She would definitely tell him of her unfortunate mistake next time they met.
‘I did not think you were coming,’ he remarked.
‘Papa passed a fidgety night and I have spent the day reading to him as it makes him relax. I was not certain you would wait.’
‘Then we both have much to learn about the other, Miss Cameron, for I have the patience of a saint.’
He didn’t look like anything celestial with his wild black hair caught in an untidy queue and his snowy cravat highlighting the darkness of his skin. Nay, today atop the power of his steed he looked like a soldier who might rule the world and use it in whatever way he wished.
The wickedness of his smile and the dancing pale green in his eyes took her form in, a scorching languid perusal that made her glance away. If she had been braver, she might have laughed into the sudden breeze and used his words as a challenge. She might have even thrown back her own. But the days of her certainty had long gone and the battered ends of the mouse-brown wig flew against her face, making her eyes water.
This is me now, this person, small and damaged and scared. A man like this is not to be played with, not to be taken lightly. The weight of the Cameron fortune was heavy on her shoulders and her father’s sickness heavier again as she stayed silent.
‘Our marriage notice will be in the paper tomorrow morning. I just thought to warn you of it.’
‘Warn me?’ She could not quite understand his meaning.
‘Society has the habit of being ingratiatingly interested in those who gain a title.’
‘Unexpectedly, you mean?’
‘A new countess is everybody’s business, Miss Cameron. It is the way of the world.’
His focus suddenly centred on a small group of mounted women on the path, the stillness in him magnified as he muttered something under his breath.
‘It is probably prudent to say nothing of our upcoming nuptials at this stage.’ He stopped his horse and waited and she did the same. ‘The ton is a small group, but their propensity to gossip is enormous and one wrong word can set them into a frenzy.’
* * *
Lady Charlotte Mackay and Lady Astoria Jordan were exactly the pair Daniel had no inclination to meet. Dressed in the finest of riding attire, they looked the picture of well-heeled perfection as they slowed down to chat. Amethyst, on the other hand, seemed to have drawn into herself, lips pursed and eyes dull. The light on her hair did nothing to help her appearance either. For the first time since he had met her he wondered if she wore a wig, ill fashioned and dreary. The thought was surprising.
Charlotte’s beauty, on the other hand, seemed to radiate around her, the soft blond of her coiffure under the riding cap catching the light and falling in an unbroken line to her ample bosom. A tinkling laugh completed the picture.
‘Daniel. I knew it was you.’ His name curled from her tongue as an invitation, the intimacy that they had once shared drawn into the words. Her glance took in the woman he was with and his bride-to-be stilled perceptibly.
‘Lady Charlotte Mackay, this is Miss Amethyst Cameron.’
‘Amethyst. An unusual name, I think.’ A frown marred the space between Charlotte’s sky-blue eyes as she tried to place the family. ‘Are you of the Camerons from Fife in Scotland or those closer?’
‘Neither, Lady Mackay.’ Amethyst’s answer was quietly given and then she smiled, deep dimples evident in each cheek and a knowing humour across her face.
Strength and honour had its own allure, Daniel thought, watching her deflect the other’s interest with such acumen. Out here in the open with the promise of a ride before them and a beautiful summer’s evening foretelling a hopeful outlook, Charlotte looked overdressed and overdone. However, as if realising that she would have little more in the way of conversation from Amethyst, she turned her attention towards him.
‘I will be here tomorrow at the same time. Perhaps we might enjoy a ride alone.’ Her hand closed over Daniel’s sleeve and in her inimitable style she leaned across to him, the riding habit she wore cut as low as it could be. ‘For old times’ sake. For the world that was before it all turned different. For us,’ she whispered closely, the breath of her words across his face daring more.
Once he might have smiled back his assent and followed her to the ends of the earth. But that was then and this was now. Amethyst Cameron had looked away, her eyes on the trees far in the distance as the horse below her shuffled.
Tipping his hat to both ladies he disengaged Charlotte’s grasp and made his steed walk on. When they were out of earshot he tried to explain.
‘Lady Mackay is lonely and—’
Amethyst interrupted him. ‘I don’t require an explanation, my lord. I won’t be that sort of wife.’
He laughed, but the sound was not humorous. ‘Then what sort of wife will you be, Miss Cameron?
She did not answer, but the red flush of anger on her face was telling and what had been a comfortable and easy meeting was suddenly difficult. But he needed to explain to her honestly so that she did not imagine he would be a philandering husband.
‘We were lovers for three-and-a-half years between the stints of my army duty.’ Now she looked around at him. ‘I was twenty-seven when I met Charlotte and thirty when she ran off and married Lord Spenser Mackay. He was an extremely wealthy Scottish landowner, you understand, and I was a second son and a soldier.’
‘So she broke your heart?’
His laughter this time was much more genuine. ‘At the time perhaps I thought that she had.’
‘But now...?’
