The Secret History of the Pink Carnation (44 page)

‘Ow!’ he pulled away in mock offence.

Amy blushed. ‘Not little. Perfect, I mean. At least, I think I mean—’

She looked so charmingly befuddled that Richard decided there was only one humane thing to do. He stopped her mouth with a long, passionate kiss.

Arms, legs, and lips intertwined, they slid sideways towards the pillow. Richard’s hands roamed the length of Amy’s body, igniting urgent prickles of sensation wherever they touched. He ran his tongue along the rim of her ear, and Amy squirmed, murmuring incoherently. She squeezed him tighter, clutching the warm skin of his shoulder blades, pressing up against him so close that she could feel the groan that welled up in his chest. She touched her own tongue delicately to his ear and was rewarded by a shudder that ran through his entire body. She heard the sharp hiss of his indrawn breath, and then…

Amy frowned in confusion. ‘Why are you counting in Greek?’ she asked.

‘So I don’t’ – Richard’s hand slid up the inside of her thigh, toying with the dark tangle of curls at the base of her legs – ‘explode.’

‘Oh,’ said Amy, who didn’t quite understand, but didn’t at all care, because one of Richard’s nimble fingers had slipped past her curls into the moist core of her, and, oh goodness, was it
possible
for anyone to feel like that? He was touching her the way he had touched her that night on the Seine, only this time, with Richard’s naked body pressed against her, his unmasked face taut with passion above hers, it felt ten times better and Amy wasn’t sure she would live through the experience. She cried out as he slipped a finger into her slick sheath.

‘Oh, bloody hell,’ groaned Richard. Pulling away, he tugged at the buttons of his breeches. One popped off and ricocheted off the wall. Amy half-giggled, half-sobbed, her hands joining his in peeling off the tight buckskin. ‘Damn!’ cursed Richard as the trousers bunched around his ankles. Frantically kicking them off, he rolled back towards Amy, grabbing her up in his arms and kissing her with
a passion unabated by stubborn articles of clothing.

‘Where were we?’ he wheezed.

Taking his hand, Amy showed him. Richard’s blood went from overheated to boiling in the space of a second. He would have started counting in Greek again but he didn’t think it would do any good. Feeling her begin to squirm again beneath him, he slowly eased his hand away and replaced it with the tip of his shaft, biting down hard on his lip in the effort not to plunge straight in.

Amy quivered as the unfamiliar fullness eased between her legs, her body straining upwards, desperately wanting more. ‘Please…’ she breathed.

‘This…might…hurt.’ Richard’s words emerged in a series of pants.

Amy’s nails dug into the hard muscles of his upper arms, the pressure of his arousal against her sensitive nub driving her half wild with unfulfilled desire. ‘Oh, Richard…’

It was more than flesh and blood could bear. With the sound of his own name whistling in his ear, Richard plunged, checking only slightly as he felt the barrier of her virginity giving way. Amy stiffened beneath him. ‘Should I stop?’ Richard asked, steeling himself to withdraw.

Amy bit down on her lip and shook her head. ‘Don’t.’ She lifted her face to his. ‘Don’t stop,
please.’

Richard wasn’t sure he could have if he wanted to, but he tried to move more slowly as Amy’s body adjusted to his, his tongue sliding through her lips in unconscious imitation of the movement of their bodies. Slowly, clumsily, she began to rock her hips in small circles against his, whimpering as her passion built to a crescendo. She locked her legs around his back, drawing him deeper inside, pushing, straining, begging for more.

Richard abandoned all attempts at restraint. With a primal cry he drove deeply into her. Kissing him frantically, nails clawing into his back, Amy bucked against him. She cried out her pleasure as a thousand diamond sparkles exploded across the back of her eyes
and bathed her body in effervescent splendour. A moment later, as she quivered beneath him, Richard gave a hoarse cry and collapsed against her.

Still incapable of speech, Richard rolled Amy over so that she was lying half on top of him.

Amy revelled in the feel of Richard’s warm, wonderfully male body under hers. Her leg snuggled comfortably between his thighs, and her breasts squished against his side. She flung an arm across his chest, and rubbed her cheek in the perfect hollow between his shoulder and neck, a space clearly formed with Amy’s head in mind.

‘Mmm,’ she murmured, rubbing her fingers idly through the damp hair on his chest. ‘So happy.’

‘Mmm,’ Richard agreed, blowing away a strand of dark hair that had decided to invade his nose. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to keep my hands off you when we get back to London.’

‘Do you have to?’ Amy lifted her head, looking gratifyingly distressed by the notion.

‘Until we’re officially married.’

‘How long can that possibly take?’

‘Weeks! Months!’ howled Richard. ‘All of those…
things
that go into a wedding,’ he added with disgust.

‘Drat,’ said Amy. ‘Maybe we should just stay on the boat.’

‘Not a bad idea.’

‘Do you think it might storm?’ The words plucked at Amy’s memory and she smiled to herself as she remembered the last time she had uttered something similar, on another little boat making its way across the Channel.

Richard’s eyes fastened on hers. ‘I know one particularly rough crossing that took four full days.’

Amy lifted herself up on one elbow and gazed down into Richard’s face. ‘Do you have a distinct sense of
déja vu
?’ she asked conversationally.

‘Hmm. There are,’ Richard mused with mock seriousness, ‘some crucial differences.

‘And those might be?’

‘Last time’ – Richard’s hands slid up Amy’s ribs to her breasts – ‘you were fully clothed.’

‘That’s only one difference.’

‘But a crucial one, don’t you agree?’

‘I’ve thought of one,’ Amy said, when she could speak again.

Richard considered. ‘I’d still have to pick your not being fully clothed.’

Amy shook her head. ‘Think.’

‘I give up.’

‘
This
time, I love you.’

Chapter Forty-One

O
nslow Square looked much prettier in the sunlight. Or it would have, had I not been in the grip of a massive hangover which turned the sunlight glinting off iron railings and car windows into a direct affront. I huddled into the entryway of Mrs Selwick-Alderly’s building and contemplated the buzzer. Part of me was inclined to pop two more Tylenol, call Mrs Selwick-Alderly with dire tales of bubonic plague, and flee home to my darkened flat.

Of course, that meant getting back on the Tube. The Tube is not the place for a queasy stomach.

If it had just been a matter of an unsettled stomach, I might have braved the Tube. But I was weighted in place by the bundle in my arms. In a capacious Waterstone’s bag, I carried the bulging, plastic-wrapped package of manuscripts. I had promised Mrs Selwick-Alderly that I would return it today, so return it today I must.

Last night…what had I been thinking? I resisted the urge to bang my head against the intercom. I had made an absolute ass of myself in front of Colin Selwick. Oh God. I hadn’t fallen over, had I? Or sung anything? I desperately searched my mental archives, wincing as I flipped through last night’s collection of embarrassing memories. No falling and no singing. I could always call Pammy tonight and make sure. I didn’t think there were any big black spots in my memory, but that’s the problem with black spots, isn’t it? You can’t know they’re not there because you can’t remember them in the first place. Urgh.

What I did remember was bad enough. Why in the hell did I
have to hit him with that glow stick? And the glow stick was minor compared with grabbing him and yanking him across the room. Not that any of it mattered, I reminded myself for the fiftieth time. If anyone ought to be ashamed, it was Colin Selwick. What was the idea of letting me think his sister was his girlfriend? To be fair to him, I was the one who had leapt to the conclusion that she was his girlfriend. But he might have disabused me of the notion. The only reason I could come up with to explain why he hadn’t done so was that he was afraid I would fling myself at him if I thought him girlfriendless. Not exactly flattering. Do I look that desperate?

I really hoped Colin Selwick had gone back to Selwick Hall. Or out to a movie. Or anywhere. I didn’t care where, just so long as it wasn’t 43 Onslow Square.

OK. Enough dithering. I would return the manuscript, have a cup of tea with Mrs Selwick-Alderly, and go home. Nothing to make a big deal about. I pressed the buzzer.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me, Elo—’

‘Come right up, Eloise,’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly called down, only in the way of buzzers, it came out, ‘Grrr grrr grrr, rrrr.’ The metallic crunching noises reverberated through my skull.

Hauling my aching head up to the first landing, I was trying to arrange my face into a suitably amiable expression when I caught sight of the open door. And its occupant.

So much for the attempt to smile.

‘Feeling a bit rough?’ inquired Colin Selwick from his spot against the doorframe.

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ I muttered. It wasn’t fair. He’d been out last night, too, tossing down the champagne, and there wasn’t so much as a dark shadow under his eyes. All right, so I’d had a four-glass head start on him, but still. He had no right to look quite that bright and alert and well rested.

Since I couldn’t express any of that, I vented some of my disgruntled emotions by shoving the plastic-wrapped pile at him.
‘Here. I’ve brought your aunt’s manuscripts back.’

From the look on his face as he accepted the package, it didn’t look like his aunt had ever got around to informing him about the manuscript loan. The only word to describe him was nonplussed. Fortunately, Mrs Selwick-Alderly appeared before Colin could regain his powers of speech.

‘Eloise! Welcome!’

‘I’ve brought the manuscripts,’ I repeated, for lack of anything better to say. Colin, fortunately, seemed to have passed from alarm to resignation without passing rage; or, if he was angry, he was holding his tongue as he passed the manuscripts silently to his aunt. ‘They’re all there,’ I added, for Colin’s benefit.

‘I’m sure they are.’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly ushered me into the parlour, Colin following silently behind. Damn, I had been hoping he would go away. How could I ever speak freely to Mrs Selwick-Alderly with Colin lurking there? I couldn’t look at him without wincing.

The parlour looked much the same as it had the day before yesterday, right down to the tea tray, only this morning the fire was unlit. And there were three cups on the tray instead of two. Damn, damn, damn. I sank onto the same side of the sofa I had occupied on my last visit, Mrs Selwick-Alderly to my left. Colin flung himself into the overstuffed chair next to my side of the sofa.

‘How’s your sister doing?’ I asked pointedly.

Colin didn’t miss a beat. ‘Much better,’ he said promptly. ‘She thinks it was a dodgy prawn sandwich she ate for lunch yesterday.’

‘What’s all this?’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly looked up from the tea tray in some concern. ‘Is Serena ill?’

Colin explained, while I accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Selwick-Alderly and browsed among the biscuits, searching for something plain. ‘You’ve won an admirer for life, Eloise,’ he finished, stretching his long legs out comfortably in front of him. ‘She was singing your praises in the cab home.’

This was not what I had expected. I cast a suspicious sideways glance in his direction.

‘That was very kind of you, dear,’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly said approvingly. ‘Biscuit, Colin?’

Colin took three.

Since he clearly wasn’t going anywhere, I decided to just go on as though he weren’t there. Putting my teacup down on the coffee table, I leant towards Mrs Selwick-Alderly, effectively cutting Colin out of the conversation.

‘What did happen after Richard and Amy returned to England?’

Mrs Selwick-Alderly tilted her head to one side in thought. ‘They were married, of course. Both Jane and Miss Gwen returned briefly from France for the occasion – Edouard as well. The Bishop of London performed the ceremony at Uppington House, and the Prince of Wales himself attended the wedding breakfast.’

‘Good old Prinny,’ commented Colin. ‘Probably hoping to revive the droit de seigneur.’

I ignored him. Mrs Selwick-Alderly had more effective tactics. ‘Colin, dear,’ she asked, ‘would you fetch down the miniatures?’

Colin loped across the room to fetch. Carefully, he freed the two small portrait miniatures that hung above the trunk from their tiny hooks and brought them over to Mrs Selwick-Alderly.

‘These were painted shortly after their wedding,’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly informed me, as Colin dragged his chair closer. Planting an arm against the side of the sofa, he leant over my shoulder to look at the miniatures. I scooted closer to Mrs Selwick-Alderly. ‘This’ – she passed me the first painting, a man in a high collar and intricately tied cravat – ‘is Richard.’ I had expected him to look like Colin. He didn’t.

Lord Richard’s face was narrower, his cheekbones higher, and his nose longer. The colouring was similar, but even there Lord Richard’s hair was a shade lighter, and his eyes were, even in the tiny portrait, a distinct green. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising after two hundred years for a family resemblance to have died out. It was Amy’s comments about blond hair and a supercilious expression that had led me astray. I considered the latter. Hmm, maybe the family resemblance hadn’t entirely died out after all.

‘And this’ – Mrs Selwick-Alderly handed me the second miniature, as I settled Lord Richard carefully in my lap – ‘is Amy.’

Amy’s dark hair was pulled into ringlets at either side of her face, like Lizzie’s in the BBC’s
Pride and Prejudice,
and she wore a plain, high-waisted, white muslin gown. In her hand, extended as though towards the occupant of the other miniature, she held a small flower, shaped like a bluebell, but of a deeper hue. Purple, in fact. Despite my lack of horticultural knowledge, I had a feeling I knew which species of flower Amy was holding. Cute. Very cute.

Amy herself was more cute than pretty, with her bouncing curls and her rosebud lips scrunched into a barely repressed grin. She looked like the sort of girl who would lead a midnight kitchen raid at a slumber party. Or burgle Napoleon’s study.

I settled Amy next to Richard in my lap. They looked quite pleased to be reunited; Amy’s eyes glinted mischievously over her oval frame at Richard, and Richard’s expression looked less supercilious, and more ‘I’ll see
you
later.’

I wondered if Amy had found life in England intolerably dull after her adventures in France. Did she, in the end, resent having to turn over the title of Pink Carnation to Jane? I hated to think of her becoming old and bitter, and resenting Richard for depriving her of the adventures she might have had.

‘Were they…happy?’ I asked.

‘Did they live happily ever after, do you mean?’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly clarified.

A sound suspiciously like a snort emerged from the chair to my right.

‘As much as any two persons of strong temperament could,’ Mrs Selwick-Alderly continued. ‘There is still a stain on the upholstery of one of the dining room chairs from a decanter of claret that Amy emptied over Richard’s head one night.’

‘He complained that she hadn’t used a better vintage,’ Colin put in through a mouthful of chocolate-covered biscuit.

‘He should have thought of that before he provoked her,’ I suggested.

‘Maybe that was why he did it,’ riposted Colin. ‘Get the bad wine out of the way.’

Something in that struck me as logically flawed, but I was too headachy to isolate it. ‘He could have just drunk it.’

‘Like last night?’ Colin murmured, with a smile that invited me to share in his amusement.

I pointedly turned my attention to my tea. Resting both elbows on the armrest of his chair, Colin tilted towards me and asked, ‘Now that you’ve found what you’re looking for, will you be returning to the States?’

‘Certainly not!’ He could be a little less obvious about wanting to be rid of me, I thought indignantly. ‘I have hundreds of questions that still need to be answered – Jane Wooliston, for example. Did she remain the Pink Carnation?’

I fixed Colin with a sharp look; I hadn’t forgotten his aborted ‘You think the Pink Carnation is Amy?’ He could have just told me that it was Jane who eventually became the Pink Carnation instead of letting me find out for myself this morning, as I slogged through the last of the manuscripts. But, no, that would have been too helpful.

I wasn’t taking any chances this time. ‘Is Jane the one who stops the Irish rebellion and helps Wellington in Portugal, or is it someone else using the same name?’

‘Oh, it’s Jane all right,’ Colin acknowledged affably.

‘What else did you want to know, my dear?’ asked Mrs Selwick-Alderly.

There had been an intriguing titbit in the last letter I had read, a letter from Amy to Jane (Jane was back in Paris by then) dated just after Amy’s wedding. Rather than letting their spying skills go to waste, Amy proposed opening a school for secret agents, based at Lord Richard’s estate in Sussex. But it had only been mentioned in passing, and might, like so many of Amy’s plans, never have come to fruition. Still, it didn’t hurt to inquire…

‘The spy school,’ I asked eagerly, ‘did it actually happen?’

‘Look,’ Colin broke in, sitting up straight, ‘this is all very interesting, but—’

‘The best description of the spy school was written by Henrietta,’ contributed Mrs Selwick-Alderly placidly.

‘Lord Richard’s little sister?’

‘The very same. Richard was furious with her, and insisted she leave it at Selwick Hall. They were doing their best to keep word of the spy school from getting around, you see.’

‘Is it here?’ After all, there were all those other papers in the trunk. The manuscripts that I had been given were a mere fraction of the folios and manuscript boxes I had glimpsed inside the trunk two days ago. They could just be nineteenth-century laundry lists, but…

‘All of the papers relating to the spy school’ – Mrs Selwick-Alderly tilted her head towards Colin – ‘are still at Selwick Hall.’

‘They’re in very poor condition,’ Colin countered.

‘I’ll follow proper library procedure,’ I promised. ‘I’ll wear gloves and use weights and keep them away from sunlight.’

If he wanted, I would wear a full-body hazard suit, disinfect my eyelashes, and dance counter clockwise around a bonfire under the full moon. Anything to be allowed access to those manuscripts. I could deal with talking him into letting me publish the information later.

‘Our archives’ – Colin dropped his teaspoon onto his saucer with a definitive clatter – ‘have never been open to the public.’

I wrinkled my nose at him. ‘Haven’t we had this conversation before?’

Colin’s lips reluctantly quirked into a faint echo of a smile. ‘I believe it was a letter, actually. At any rate,’ he added in a far more human tone, ‘you’ll find Selwick Hall an inconvenient trip from London. We’re miles from the nearest station, and cabs aren’t easy to come by.’

‘You’ll just have to stay the night, then,’ said Mrs Selwick-Alderly as though it were a foregone conclusion.