Mine Till Midnight (9 page)

As the carriage stopped before the porticoed entrance, Amelia wished the evening were already over. In these stately surroundings, the Hathaways’ faults would be magnified. They would appear no better than a group of vagabonds. She glanced over her siblings. Win had donned her usual mask of irreproachable serenity, and Leo looked calm and slightly bored—an expression he must have learned from his recent acquaintances at Jenner’s. The younger girls were filled with a bright exuberance that drew a smile from Amelia. They, at least, would have a good time, and heaven knew they deserved it.

Merripen helped the sisters from the carriage, and Leo emerged last. As he stepped to the ground, Merripen checked him with a brief murmur, an admonition to keep a close watch on Win. Leo shot him a vehement glance. Enduring Amelia’s criticism was bad enough—he wouldn’t tolerate it from Merripen. “If you’re so bloody concerned about her,” Leo muttered, “then you go inside and play nanny.”

Merripen’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t reply.

The relationship between the two men had never been what one could describe as brotherly, but they had always maintained a cool cordiality.

Merripen had never tried to assume the role of second son, in spite of the Hathaway parents’ obvious fondness for him. And in any situation which might have lent itself to a competition between the two boys, Merripen had always drawn back. Leo, for his part, had been reasonably pleasant to Merripen, and had even deferred to Merripen’s opinions when he had judged them better than his own.

When Leo had fallen ill with scarlet fever, Merripen had helped care for him with a mixture of patience and kindness that had surpassed even Amelia’s. Later she had told Leo that he owed Merripen his life. Instead of being grateful, however, Leo seemed to hold it against Merripen.

Please, please don’t be an ass, Leo,
Amelia longed to beg, but she held her tongue and went with her sisters to the brightly lit entrance of Stony Cross Manor.

A pair of massive double doors opened into a cavernous hall hung with priceless tapestries. A grand stone and marble staircase curved up to the lofty second-floor gallery. Even the most distant corners of the hall, and the entrances of several passages leading away from the great room, were lit by a massive crystal chandelier.

If the outside grounds had been well tended, the interior of the manor was nothing short of immaculate, everything swept and sparkling and polished. There was nothing of newness in their surroundings, no sharp edges or modern touches to disrupt the atmosphere of easeful splendor.

It was, Amelia thought bleakly, exactly the way Ramsay House should look.

Servants came to take hats and gloves, while an elderly housekeeper welcomed the new arrivals. Amelia’s attention was immediately drawn to the sight of Lord and Lady Westcliff, who were crossing the hall toward them.

Clad in precisely tailored evening clothes, Lord Westcliff moved with the physical confidence of a seasoned sportsman. His expression was reserved, his austere features striking rather than handsome. Everything about his appearance indicated he was a man who demanded a great deal of others and even more of himself.

There was no doubt that someone as powerful as Westcliff should have chosen the perfect English bride, a woman whose icy sophistication had been instilled in her since birth. It was with surprise, then, that Amelia heard Lady Westcliff speak in a distinctly American voice, the words tumbling out as if she couldn’t be bothered to think everything over before speaking.

“You can’t know how often I’ve wished for new neighbors. Things can get a bit dull in Hampshire. You Hathaways will do nicely.” She surprised Leo by reaching out and shaking hands in the way men did. “Lord Ramsay, a pleasure.”

“Your servant, my lady.” Leo didn’t seem to know quite what to make of this singular woman.

Amelia reacted automatically as she was accorded a similar handshake. Returning the firm pressure of Lady Westcliff’s hand, she stared into tip-tilted eyes the color of gingerbread.

Lillian, Lady Westcliff, was a tall, slender young woman with gleaming sable hair, fine features, and a raffish grin. Unlike her husband, she radiated a casual friendliness that instantly put one at ease. “You are Amelia, the one they fired upon yesterday?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I’m so glad the earl didn’t murder you. His aim is hardly ever off, you know.”

The earl received his wife’s impudence with a slight smile, as if he were well accustomed to it. “I wasn’t aiming at Miss Hathaway,” he said calmly.

“You might consider a less dangerous hobby,” Lady Westcliff suggested. “Bird-watching. Butterfly-collecting. Something a bit more dignified than setting off explosions.”

Amelia expected the earl to frown at this irreverence, but he only looked amused. And as his wife’s attention moved to the rest of the Hathaways, he stared at her with warm fascination. Clearly there was a powerful attraction between the two.

Amelia introduced her sisters to the unconventional countess. Thankfully they all remembered to curtsy, and they managed polite responses to her forthright questions, such as did they like to ride, did they enjoy dancing, had they tried any of the local cheeses yet, and did they share her dislike of slimy English fare such as eels and jellied hog loaf?

Laughing at the droll face the countess had made, the Hathaway sisters went with her to the receiving room, where approximately two dozen guests had gathered in anticipation of going in to supper. “I like her,” she heard Poppy whisper to Beatrix as the two of them walked behind her. “Do you think all American women are so dashing?”

Dashing … yes, that was an appropriate word for Lady Westcliff.

“Miss Hathaway,” the countess said to Amelia in a tone of friendly concern, “the earl says Ramsay House has been unoccupied for so long, it must be a shambles.”

Mildly startled by the woman’s directness, Amelia shook her head firmly. “Oh no, ‘shambles’ is too strong a word. All the place wants is a good thorough cleaning, and a few small repairs, and…” She paused uncomfortably.

Lady Westcliff’s gaze was frank and sympathetic. “That bad, is it?”

Amelia hitched her shoulders in a slight shrug. “There’s a great deal of work to be done at Ramsay House,” she admitted. “But I’m not afraid of work.”

“If you need assistance or advice, Westcliff has infinite resources at his disposal. He can tell you where to find—”

“You are very kind, my lady,” Amelia said hastily, “but there is no need for your involvement in our domestic affairs.” The last thing she wanted was for the Hathaways to appear to be a family of cheapjacks and beggars.

“You may not be able to avoid our involvement,” Lady Westcliff said with a grin. “You’re in Westcliff’s sphere now, which means you’ll get advice whether or not you asked for it. And the worst part is, he’s almost always right.” She sent a fond glance in her husband’s direction. Westcliff was standing in a group at the side of the room.

Becoming aware of his wife’s gaze, Westcliff’s head turned. Some voiceless message was delivered between them … and he responded with a quick, almost indiscernible wink.

A chuckle rustled in Lady Westcliff’s throat. She turned to Amelia. “We’ll have been married four years, come September,” she said rather sheepishly. “I had supposed I would have stopped mooning over him by now, but I haven’t.” Mischief danced in her dark eyes. “Now, I’ll introduce you to some of the other guests. Tell me whom you wish to meet first.”

Amelia’s gaze had moved from the earl to the group of men around him. A ripple of awareness went down her spine as her attention was caught by Cam Rohan. He was dressed in black and white, identical to the other gentlemen’s attire, but the civilized scheme only served to make him more exotic. With the dark silk of his hair curling over the starched white collar, the swarthiness of his complexion, the tiger eyes, he seemed completely out of place in these decorous surroundings. Catching sight of her, Rohan bowed, which she acknowledged with a stiff bow of her own.

“You’ve already met Mr. Rohan, of course,” Lady Westcliff commented, observing the exchange. “An interesting fellow, don’t you think? Mr. Rohan is charming and very nice, and only half civilized, which I rather like.”

“I…” Amelia tore her gaze from Rohan with effort, her heart thrumming erratically. “Half civilized?”

“Oh, you know all the rules the upper class has devised for so-called polite behavior. Mr. Rohan can’t be bothered with most of them.” Lady Westcliff grinned. “Neither can I, actually.”

“How long have you known Mr. Rohan?”

“Only since Lord St. Vincent took possession of the gambling club. Since then, Mr. Rohan has become a sort of protégé, of both Westcliff’s and St. Vincent’s.” She gave a quick laugh. “Rather like having an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. Rohan seems to manage them both quite well.”

“Why have they taken such an interest in him?”

“He’s an unusual man. I’m not certain anyone knows what to make of him. According to Westcliff, Rohan has an exceptional mind. But at the same time, he is superstitious and unpredictable. Have you heard about his good-luck curse?”

“His what?”

“It seems no matter what Rohan does, he can’t help making money. A lot of money. Even when he tries to lose it. He claims it’s wrong for one person to own so much.”

“It’s the Romany way,” Amelia murmured. “They don’t believe in owning things.”

“Yes. Well, being from New York, I don’t altogether understand the concept, but there you have it. Against his will, Mr. Rohan has been given a percentage of the profits at the club, and no matter how many charitable donations or unsound investments he makes, he keeps getting massive windfalls. First he bought an old racehorse with short legs—Little Dandy—who won the Grand National last April. Then there was the rubber debacle, and—”

“The what?”

“It was a small, failing rubber manufactory on the east side of London. Just as the company was about to go under, Mr. Rohan made a large investment in it. Everyone, including Lord Westcliff, told him not to, that he was a fool and he would lose every cent—”

“Which was his intention,” Amelia said.

“Exactly. But to Rohan’s dismay, the whole thing turned around. The company’s director used his investment to acquire the patent rights for the vulcanization process, and they invented these little stretchy scraps of tubing called rubber bands. And now the company is a blazing success. I could tell you more, but it’s all variations on the same theme—Mr. Rohan throws the money away and it comes back to him tenfold.”

“I wouldn’t call that a curse,” Amelia said.

“Neither would I.” Lady Westcliff laughed softly. “But Mr. Rohan does. That’s what makes it so amusing. You should have seen him sulking earlier in the day when he received the latest report from one of his stockjobbers in London. All good news. He was gnashing his teeth over it.”

Taking Amelia’s arm, Lady Westcliff led her across the room. “Although we have a sad lack of eligible gentlemen tonight, I promise we’ll have quite an array visiting later in the season. They all come to hunt and fish—and there’s usually a high proportion of men to women.”

“That is good news,” Amelia replied. “I have high hopes that my sisters will find suitable gentlemen to marry.”

Not missing the implication, Lady Westcliff asked, “But you have no such hopes for yourself?”

“No, I don’t expect ever to marry.”

“Why?”

“I have a responsibility to my family. They need me.” After a brief pause, Amelia added frankly, “And the truth is, I should hate to submit to a husband’s dictates.”

“I used to feel the same way. But I must warn you, Miss Hathaway … life has a way of fouling up our plans. I speak from experience.”

Amelia smiled, unconvinced. It was a simple matter of priorities. She would devote all her time and energies to creating a home for her siblings, and seeing them all healthy and happily married. There would be nieces and nephews aplenty, and Ramsay House would be filled with the people she loved.

No husband could offer her more.

Catching sight of her brother, Amelia noticed there was a peculiar expression on his face, or rather a lack of expression that indicated he was concealing some strong or private emotion. He came to her at once, exchanged a few pleasantries with Lady Westcliff, and nodded politely as she asked leave to attend to an elderly guest who had just arrived.

“What is it?” Amelia whispered, looking up as Leo cupped her elbow in his hand. “You look as though you’d just gotten a mouthful of rotten cork.”

“Don’t let’s trade insults just now.” He gave her a glance that was more concerned than any he’d given her in recent memory. His tone was low and urgent. “Bear up, sis—there’s someone here you don’t want to see. And he’s coming this way.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you mean Mr. Rohan, I assure you, I’m perfectly—”

“No. Not Rohan.” His hand went to her waist as if anticipating the need to steady her.

And she understood.

Before she even turned to see the man who approached them, Amelia knew the reason for Leo’s strange reaction, and she went cold and hot and unsteady. But somewhere in the internal havoc, a certain resignation lurked.

She had always known she would see Christopher Frost again someday.

He was alone as he approached them—a small mercy, as one would have expected him to have his new wife in tow. And Amelia was fairly certain she couldn’t have tolerated being introduced to the woman Christopher had abandoned her for. As it was, she stood stiffly with her brother and tried desperately to resemble an independent woman who was greeting her former love with polite indifference. But she knew there was no disguising the whiteness of her face—she could feel the blood shooting straight to her overstimulated heart.

If life were fair, Frost would have appeared smaller, less handsome, less desirable than she had remembered. But life, as usual, wasn’t fair. He was as lean and graceful and urbane as ever, with alert blue eyes and thick, close-trimmed hair, too dark to be blond, too light to be brown. That shining hair contained every shade from champagne to fawn.