Angel Alley. Whitechapel.
She sucked in a breath. No wonder he’d taken the time and effort to track her down. This was more than important! Akhenaten was one of the most mysterious and enigmatic of all the pharaohs. If she could acquire those jars, what a gem that would be for the Ashmolean. As impressive as the golden griffin. But tonight of all nights?
She deflated into the chair. Of course she couldn’t go. Notwith Edmund’s big announcement, one he’d specifically asked her to attend. He valued her. He’d said as much. Leaning aside, she dropped the envelope and the card into the small wastebasket.
Being there for him in the present was more important than chasing a relic of the past.
25
A blend of too many perfumes hung on the air, thick as a November fog and about as pleasant. Edmund tugged at his cravat, struggling to breathe in the crowded ballroom. His election announcement and following dinner couldn’t happen soon enough for his liking. Anything to escape this press of humanity, particularly the clinging vine in an emerald gown who had attached herself to his sleeve the moment he’d stepped foot past the threshold. To be fair, though, at least Violet had calmed down since this morning.
As had her father. Stationed next to Edmund, Lord Bastion stood like a monarch, fingers curled around his lapels, his hawkish eyes surveying the room with aristocratic authority.
Edmund preferred to scrutinize the scene behind them, which he did frequently, hoping to spy a glimpse of some outlandish peacock feathers. Where was Ami? She’d missed the grand reception nigh on an hour ago. Even her father had appeared—albeit late as well—and was now engaged in what appeared to be a lively conversation with two matrons and a retired brigadier off in a corner. Had something happened to keep her up in her room? Or was she too mortified to appear in public after this morning’s fuss at breakfast? He’d tried allday—unsuccessfully—to speak with her, to let her know that despite the humiliation of such a public declaration of love, it was entirely true. Hewasin love with her. So much so that he’d reworked the first stanza of his poem and would—if given the chance tonight—share it with her. Once again he tugged at his cravat, the very thought of being so vulnerable cutting off his air supply.
And yet somehow he knew to the marrow of his bones that Ami would never treat him as Louisa had.
A rap on his arm pulled his attention back to Violet’s frowning face.
“You are very preoccupied, Edmund.”
“To be expected, daughter.” The viscount looked down his nose at her. “The man’s life is about to change tonight, eh, Price?” Chuckling, Bastion cuffed him on the shoulder.
And that’s when he saw her. Not entering from the front foyer, as expected, but sweeping in from a side door, Ami created quite a stir from those around her. Or rather the peacock feathers draping down her marvelous backside did. Edmund couldn’t help but grin as she ignored the stares with a defiant—and adorable—tilt to her chin.
“You are right, my lord,” he murmured. “This is an auspicious evening, and as such, I must beg your pardon and part ways for a few minutes.”
“Oh, Edmund, now?” Violet pursed her lips into a grand sulk. “Of all times!”
“Let him go, Violet.” The viscount freed her grip from Edmund’s sleeve and tucked her hand into his crooked elbow, then speared him with a sharp look. “But see that you return shortly, Price. Remember, I shall make the announcement at eight o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”
He dipped his head as he pivoted away. While shouldering through the crowd, he met Ami’s gaze across the room, pleasure surging in his chest that she’d known he would seek her out. With a quick jerk of his head, he signaled for her to follow,then turned toward the front foyer. It wouldn’t do to attract attention. Not with her. Not now.
He handed out empty greetings and tight smiles as he worked his way to the master staircase, mind filled with a certain eccentric Egyptologist. He’d not had a word with her since the breakfast debacle. Which grieved him. Hopefully she’d not fretted about the situation overmuch.
He trotted up the stairs to fresher air and a quieter background—only a dull drone instead of the raging buzz of merrymakers. Crossing the landing, he paused at the entrance to a side-shooting corridor just long enough to make eye contact with Ami as she hiked her skirts up the stairway.
The din grew even quieter in this passage. He strode to the very end, where a cushioned window seat graced a curtained alcove. A perfect spot for reading—or an impromptu meeting without prying eyes and gossiping tongues.
Arriving ahead of Ami gave him time to appreciate her figure as she floated toward him. The closer she drew, the more his pulse raced. Her hair was done up, for once flawlessly pinned and curled into the latest fashion. Not a smudge of resin or dust marred her face. And though her colourful gown was unorthodox, it hugged her curves in all the right places. Her free spirit sparkled in eyes more green than blue or brown in this dim light, and her lips curved into a playful smile—one that hinted of shared secrets.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Stopping in front of him, she glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. “After this morning’s newspaper article, if anyone should see us alone, I would think that would only add kindling to the rumour fire.”
Grabbing her arm, he pulled her close, then yanked one of the draperies halfway, hiding them both. “There.” He smirked. “Problem solved.”
“Just like old times.” She grinned. “Mr. Problem Solver.”
Her nickname for him warmed his heart, but she was entirely wrong. This was nothing like the first time he’d met her on those college stairs. He’d been oblivious to her charms thatday, and now ... well, now he could see—he couldwant—no other woman but her.
Slowly, he traced his fingers along the gauzy fabric of her sleeve. “I’m sorry to have left you to navigate the day on your own. Bastion sequestered me in that fusty study of his, and there was just no getting away.”
“I wasn’t weeping into my pillow all day if that’s what you’re worried about. Oh bother!” Reaching, she pulled out a hairpin and gave her head a little shake, freeing a length of hair to cascade down the side of her neck. “I am no frail flower except when it comes to puncture wounds on my skull.” She waved the hairpin in the air. “Nasty little torture devices.”
He grinned. “I could accuse you of many things, but never of being a frail flower.”
“Oh?” Her eyes twinkled. “Then what charges would you hold against me, sir?”
“For one, you have an impossibly keen mind that keeps me on my toes. For another, you are irrefutably true to yourself and to others, not caring a mite for popular opinion, which speaks highly of your character. And lastly...” He stepped toe to toe and breathed in her ever-present cinnamon scent. Surely that’s what heaven would smell like. Unbidden, his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “I would indict you with filling a man’s mind so that he can think of none other.”
