It was the kiss.The kiss, et cetera. She must admit it to herself even if she would go to the stake before she said as much to others. It had been so brief, so rudely ended – but she simply could not put it from her mind. She lay in bed and relived it every night, from the moment when he first brushed the back of her hand so softly with his lips to the moment Sophie’s voice had cut off their embrace, though he had not released her for a second or two. He had held her so tightly as they’d kissed – he had most memorably said that if they’d continued, he would have pulled her closer yet – and she had liked it. Loved it. His arms had been strong and his chest broad and muscular under the layers of fabric that had separated them. Her nipples had hardened against him, and hardened again whenever she dwelt on the moment. She had shockingly buried her hands deep in his silky, auburn locks, and she could feel its texture under her fingers still; she’d liked that too, and wondered if he had. His lips had opened under hers and his mouth had been warm and inviting. She thought his tongue had just crept out to caress hers, and hers – shockingly – had known to come and meet it. She’d wanted to climb him like a ladder and wrap herself about him. He was strong; she was sure he could cope with it. She even remembered the smell of him – fresh linen and orange spiced soap and clean man – and the feel of his skin, a little rough, against hers.
He had left her wanting more. She was tantalised almost to screaming pitch by wondering what might have happened next. Her imagination provided her with several suggestions as she lay in her lonely bed – not her cold and lonely bed, because it could grow quite hot, she found.
And when she was in Lord Thornfalcon’s company, when he took her gloved hand in his to help her into or out of a carriage, or when she danced with him, moving together in a rhythm that bewitched her… Well, he had been right, damn him. All her senses were in turmoil, because, yes, he tempted her. She had no idea if she tempted him, if he relived the moment too, and remembered how she felt in his embrace, and it wasn’t at all a helpful thing to think about. Nor was the notion that between the two of them, with her unassuaged curiosity and the frustration that she must assume came from his eight years unkissed, they were like a powder keg primed to explode. The truth was, she wanted that explosion, however dangerous it might be. What had she unleashed in herself?
It occurred to her, and once she’d thought of it, she could not shift it from her mind, that if for some reason they were shut up in a room together again now, or even a closed carriage, they’d find themselves in each other’s arms as they had before, and if this time there should be no interruption, there was no knowing what might happen. This new Amelia washungryfor him. She did not want to stop at kissing; she did not want to stop at all. She had felt his lips on hers, exploring her mouth, they had brushed the skin of her hand all too briefly, and she could easily imagine them pressed to the pulse point in her wrist, her neck… Even more shockingly, she who had seen no more of his bare flesh than his face and hands, and did not suppose that she ever would see more, could vividly imagine him without his jacket, his waistcoat, even his shirt. She could imagine her lips on his warm skin too – his strong throat, his chest… She could imagine touching him. She wanted that. It frightened her how much she wanted it.
But – she could not afford to forget this again – they were not truly betrothed and were not, despite Lady Keswick’s best efforts, going to be married in a week or two or three. And was it not just as well? He might, for all she knew, still have strong feelings for another woman. Probably he did. Their engagement was nothing more than a sham, and their marriage was never going to happen. He was not going to come to her bedchamber in fulfilment of all her fantasies and smile at her – that rare smile of his, like the sun breaking through a cloud – and tease her and fall into her arms, pressing his body to hers…
She thumped her pillow and turned it over to see if the cool other side of it would soothe her fevered nerves. It didn’t.
Perhaps Amelia was distracted then, and that explained what happened. Perhaps if she’d been paying attention, she might have prevented it, and saved herself all manner of trouble and distress.
19
There was a sad crush at the ball that evening in one of the grandest mansions in Mayfair, and Amelia was uncomfortably aware of the pressure of bodies around her. She could not help but fear for her silk again, and hope that she would not see another gown ruined. It was an uneasy sensation, to suspect that people who did not wish her well might easily be close enough, in this crowd, to reach out and touch her, and cruelly ironic that their enmity was based on a false belief. Privately, she was quite as miserable as any of them could have wished.
It was a coming-out ball: one among many, of course, but more lavish than most. Sir Humphrey Aubertin’s guests waited to be announced at the top of a broad but shallow staircase that swept down into the enormous ballroom, so that the people already present could have the pleasure of examining them thoroughly and judging them as they entered. The powdered and liveried major-domo who called out their names seemed to take great pleasure in the task, Amelia thought, and would not be rushed. Each party of people must descend the ten or twelve stairs completely before he would proclaim the names of the next group who stood with varying degrees of patience beside him at the top. He dragged out each syllable for longer than one would have believed the human throat could manage; he could have been an operatic tenor. It was all very proper, no doubt, and impressive, but it meant that a dangerous pressure built up at the head of the stair, of persons who had been admitted to the house but could not yet enter the ballroom because of this bottleneck.
And so, as the functionary intoned, ‘His Grace the Marchioness of Wyverne, Her Grace the Marchioness of Wyverne, Lady Amelia Wyverne, Lord Charles Wyverne, the Honourable Major Lord Thornfalcon, the Honourable Miss Thornfalcon…’ it was impossible to say who exactly in the crowd behind her reached out and pushed Amelia very hard in the small of the back. Sophie later said that she had the distinct impression it was a woman – a slim hand, fast and sure.
It hardly mattered. Amelia knew she was going to fall. Nothing could stop her. The steps were marble, highly polished, and her new silk dancing slippers with their thin, smooth soles could gain no purchase on them. She was toppling over – she could see the horrified faces of her brothers Rafe and Charlie, and Sophie, and Helena… but then strong arms seized her and held her. Marcus. Who could it be but Marcus?
He couldn’t prevent her from falling – she had too much momentum already from the push, and his desperate leap and the weight of him had only increased it. But he wrapped her tight, and with reactions faster than such a big man should have been capable of, he angled their entwined bodies deliberately so that his broad frame bore the brunt of the first contact with the unforgiving stone. They hit, with a jarring impact, and then tumbled down the rest of the steps, still joined, and came to a stop at the bottom, tangled amid a confusion of feet, which belonged to the guests who had preceded them and who had had no time at all to leap out of their path.
Amelia was not badly hurt – Lord Thornfalcon had made sure of that – but she was shocked, and all the breath had been driven from her lungs by the bone-shaking impact and, not least, by the tightness of his grip on her and his weight as they rolled. She couldn’t see; her face was buried in his chest. But she could hear a clamour rising around them. There had been screams, she thought hazily, but not from her.
He let her go, and she almost moaned at the sudden absence. Opening her eyes, she saw that a dozen willing hands were reaching out to help him to his feet, voices high and deep exclaiming in shock and admiration. But he wouldn’t go; he ignored them all. He was kneeling beside her now, careless of what must surely be his own grave injuries, taking her hand with great gentleness and saying urgently, ‘Amelia! My dear, can you hear me? Can you speak?’
‘I’m fine,’ she whispered, her head spinning. ‘Fine. You saved me, Marcus. You must be hurt, though.’
‘I’m not. I dare say I shall feel bruises tomorrow in a dozen places, but at present, I am perfectly well. If only you are not injured.’ His tone was neither amused nor grim, but tenderly concerned, as she had never heard him.
‘I promise I’m not… They’ll have to make a print of this, you know,’ she said, arming herself with humour. ‘The Hero of Grosvenor Square.’
She tried to struggle to her feet without his aid, but he would not suffer her to do so, and although she would never have admitted it, she was thankful for his support, and thankfulness was just one of the many emotions she experienced when he insisted upon sweeping her up into his embrace and carrying her away from the scene of her humiliation. The feel of his strong arms under her thighs, and his solid chest against her shaking body, did not make her any calmer.
A short while later – too short – she found herself lying on a sofa in some unfamiliar chamber, surrounded by people fussing over her. Various parts of her hurt, though she could not have said which, and the brightness of the chandeliers made her wince. Sophie, paler than she’d ever seen her, was engaged in bathing her forehead in lavender water – where had that come from? – and making a sad mull of it; Helena was chafing her hands with equal incompetence. Had chafing anyone’s hands ever actually worked?
‘Stop,’ she croaked. ‘I’m fine. Is Marcus well? Where is he?’
No doubt if Lady Keswick had been present, she’d have reproved her for using his first name again, and pointed out that if they’d listened to her, they’d have been wed already and none of this would have happened. But fortunately, she wasn’t, so nobody thought to scold Amelia, for which she was grateful.
‘He is fine, or says he is,’ his sister said with fond exasperation. ‘But I am sure he will be black and blue tomorrow.’
‘I should think he must have broken half his ribs,’ Sophie put in. ‘But you have seen that he is standing and talking and declaring emphatically that he has taken no ill from the fall. He thought you might appreciate a little peace and quiet.’
And so she might, if people would stop talking so much.
‘He’s gone to fetch you some brandy. Apparently, nobody else could be trusted to do it. He’s in shock, in my estimation. And Rafe is having the carriage brought round, but people are still arriving, and so there is a great confusion in the streets. Am I babbling? I’m babbling. I’m sorry.’
‘I was pushed, wasn’t I?’ Amelia said quietly. ‘I felt it.’ She became conscious that she had a crushing headache. She felt as though she had been thoroughly kicked by a horse. A very large, angry horse that hated her and wanted her dead.
They did not answer immediately, but looked at each other.Nowthey decided to be quiet.
‘Yes,’ Helena said reluctantly at last. ‘We think you must have been. You weren’t moving at all – none of us was – so how else could you fall? And Sophie thought she saw a hand reach out and shove you. But it wasn’t Lavinia. It can’t have been – she was already in the ballroom.’
‘Just one of her Friends,’ she said tiredly.
