The Wedding Escape (11 page)

His brow puckered with displeasure, Percy stepped away.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, surprised and slightly hurt.

“Everyone is watching us, Amelia. There is an appropriate distance that must be maintained when one is dancing. You were moving beyond it.”

“I suppose I no longer care much what others think is appropriate,” Amelia replied, telling herself that her betrothed's preoccupation with what was socially correct was part of what she adored about him. “After all, just yesterday I crawled down a church wall and ran away from my own wedding. Somehow I don't think that fits in with most aristocrats' idea of proper etiquette.” She gave him a mischievous smile.

“You're right. It doesn't.” His tone was disapproving.

“I did it for you, Percy.” She disliked intensely the way his mustache was twitching. And why did he insist upon waxing those feathery tips into those ridiculous little curls? “I ran away from Lord Whitcliffe, my family, and everything I have known, at great risk to my own well-being, just so we could be together. You might be somewhat more sympathetic to what I have endured, instead of acting as if you are embarrassed.”

“Forgive me, my dear. I did not mean to insult you.” He managed a small but contrite smile.

She regarded him blankly, thoroughly distracted by the jumbled crookedness of his bottom teeth. They were yellow and stained, no doubt from the vast amounts of wine and tea he consumed.

When on earth had that happened? she wondered, slightly disgusted.

“In fact I have been most worried about you.” Percy's gaze was sorrowful as he tentatively added, “As have your parents.”

She stiffened. “How would you know whether my parents have been worried or not?”

“Amelia, my darling, your parents have been utterly sick with concern from the moment you disappeared yesterday. After all, they had no way of knowing whether you had run away of your own accord, or if you had been abducted. Surely you can appreciate their suffering.”

“If they were truly concerned for my well-being, then they never would have tried to destroy my relationship with you while forcing me into a marriage I could not bear,” Amelia countered passionately. “All they care about is marrying their daughter to a duke, to gain prestige for the family and ensure that their grandchildren are born and raised as aristocracy. I am but a means to an end for them, nothing more.”

“You judge them too harshly. Your parents only want what is best for you.” He hesitated a moment before cautiously pointing out, “Lord Whitcliffe can offer you a life that I cannot, Amelia.”

Prickles of anxiety rose along her spine. “I don't want a life with Lord Whitcliffe. I want to spend my life with you.”

“And I with you,” Percy assured her, still gliding her in elegant circles around the ballroom. His expression grew wistful. “Unfortunately, my love, it was not to be.”

Her anxiety hardened into alarm. “What do you mean?”

“The flame of our love burned brightly for a moment, sweet Amelia.” Percy paused, giving her time to appreciate what he felt certain was an enviable poeticism. “Unfortunately, my love, that time has now passed. We must accept our respective fates, however tragic and painful that may be.”

She nearly tripped over the train of her gown. “Are you trying to tell me that you intend to go ahead and marry Edith Fanshaw?”

“I have pledged my troth to Miss Fanshaw.” Percy regarded her mournfully, as if the matter was far more distressing for him than for her. “I cannot break my word.” His eyes grew even more watery. For a moment he looked as if he might actually shed a tear.

“You pledged your troth to me also,” Amelia pointed out, her emotions swinging between outrage and hurt disbelief. “Or does the love you professed for me count for less than that which you have experienced in the arms of Miss Fanshaw?”

“Amelia—”

“Tell me, Percy, did you hold her close and tell her she was like a beautiful orchid that you wanted to protect forever from the world?” she demanded. “Or did you skip that part and go straight into assuring her that you had never known a woman who could touch your heart as she could? Did you kiss her on the mouth and tell her that the press of her lips set your world afire? Or have you not managed to pry her away from the constant guard of her parents?”

“Now you're being common.” His weepy eyes had dried with annoyance. “I expect you to handle this with more dignity.”

“But I don't have any dignity, Percy. I'm American, remember? We don't know the first thing about restraining our emotions. That was part of what you said you found so refreshing in me—the fact that I was honest and open.”

“There is a time to be open, and there is a time to behave with appropriate decorum,” Percy informed her curtly. “When eight hundred people have their eyes upon you, that is a time to exercise correctness and control. You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself and your family in front of the finest of London society, would you?”

Amelia's breath froze. “What do you mean, my family?”

He tilted his head toward a corner of the ballroom.

Amelia followed his gaze.

And was horrified to see her parents and her two brothers, William and Freddy, flanking Lord Whitcliffe. Her bridegroom glared at her, looking only marginally less enraged than he had the previous afternoon when she had peered at him through the window of Jack's carriage.

It was impossible, she told herself frantically. How could they have known she was in London, and that she would be attending the Wilkinsons' ball that evening?

Understanding cut through her in a swift, agonizing stroke.

“I did it for you, Amelia,” Percy said, watching as her expression shifted from disbelief to sick dismay. “I knew that you did not want really to be estranged from your family, and that once you understood that it is now impossible for us to marry, your best course of action would be to reunite with your parents and accept your betrothal to Lord Whitcliffe—”

“You did this so you could collect the reward.” Amelia's voice was hollow. “That's why you wanted me to come here tonight—to meet you in front of all these people. You believed that I would be forced to go quietly with my family, that I would not be common enough to make an embarrassing scene for you.”

“I arranged for you to come here because I felt it was the best way for you to make amends with your family and Lord Whitcliffe,” Percy retorted, sounding thoroughly offended by her accusation, “and to demonstrate to everyone that you are prepared to accept your responsibility and take your place in society as the Duchess of Whitcliffe. I was only thinking of you, Amelia.”

She stared at him a long, anguished moment.

And then she slapped his pompous, lying little face as hard as she could.

“Mind if I cut in?” Jack shoved the heavy tray he was carrying at Percy, who stood paralyzed with shock. “Shall we, Miss Belford?” Without waiting for a response, Jack pulled Amelia into his arms and began to swirl her around the dance floor away from Lord Philmore.

“How dare you!” Amelia protested, struggling to get away from him. “Let go of me at once!”

“For God's sake, Amelia, stop thrashing about,” Jack ground out, holding her firm. “I hate dancing as it is, and you're not making it any easier.”

Amelia looked at the aged face of the man holding her in astonishment. The wig and makeup were ingeniously applied, and the threadbare gloves he wore effectively hid the strong hands that were now gripping her. But there was no mistaking the hard silver-gray of those eyes.

“Jack!”

“I think you will agree that this is a trap,” Jack said, swiftly scanning the perimeters of the room. “Your parents are over in that corner with Whitcliffe, and two other men whom I recognize from your wedding.”

“They are my brothers,” Amelia informed him miserably. “William and Freddy.”

“How nice that they all came to welcome you home together,” Jack observed dryly. “In addition, there are at least four footmen standing guard at every exit leading from the ballroom. They may or may not have been instructed to keep you from leaving. Regardless, if you try to charge past them I'm certain they will decide to be heroic and stop you once your parents sound the alarm.”

She regarded him mournfully, her eyes sparkling with tears. “I'm sorry.” She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

“Amelia, if you want to get out of here I need you to stay strong and keep your wits about you,” Jack said brusquely. “But if you've changed your mind and want to go to your parents and Whitcliffe, tell me now.”

“There is no way out.” She felt as if her world was collapsing. “I'm trapped.”

“Do you want to stay here and marry Whitcliffe?”

“I have no choice.” She felt as if she could barely breathe. “I've nothing now—nowhere to go—”

“Amelia!” He gave her a hard shake. “Do you want to marry Whitcliffe—yes or no?”

He was holding her tight against the wall of his body, shielding her with his powerful strength as he continued to guide her around the room. His carriage was tall and straight and sure, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his silvery gaze. It was obvious he didn't give a damn about what was an appropriate distance between a man and a woman. His eyes were darkly intense, searching beneath the layers of her panic and despair. It was as if he were trying to see deep into her soul, to understand the essential truth of who she was and what she really wanted. And in that awful, frozen moment, as she felt fear well up inside her with such ferocity that she thought she would suffocate, she was awed that this man she scarcely knew was holding her in his arms and asking her what she wanted.

As if he actually believed he might be able to give it to her.

“There is no shame in going back to Whitcliffe,” Jack assured her, watching as she struggled with her decision. “He will be more than happy to have you. In time, the scandal of your having run away will be almost forgotten. You can live the rest of your life amidst the wealth and privilege to which you are accustomed—as a duchess.”

Amelia glanced over at her family. Her mother was dressed in a garish fuchsia gown of French silk, heavily brocaded with a lavish pattern of an enormous sunburst outlined in pearls. The neckline was trimmed with diamonds and rubies, sewn onto it just for that evening, and a tall black ostrich plume waved about her painstakingly coiffured head. Rosalind Belford's face was a mask of firmly screwed composure, as if she dared not give so much as a hint of a smile or frown, for fear of what gossip might arise from it. A lifetime spent trying to rise above the poverty of her childhood had left her mother obsessed with maintaining appearances.

Her father, by contrast, looked openly grumpy and uncomfortable. Amelia knew he loathed these formal affairs, and was much happier back in New York, either in his office or, better yet, inspecting the railway yards himself, barking orders at everyone. He had intended to sail back to America the day after her wedding, with or without his wife, to escape what he called the damned idiocy of English society and get on with running his business. Amelia felt sorry for him as he stood glaring about the crowded ballroom. But for her, he would be on his way home right now.

Her brother William stood beside him. At twenty-four William was much like his father, from his prematurely graying hair to his substantial frame that betrayed his fondness for fine drink and rich foods. He looked thoroughly annoyed by the drama playing out before him. Her brother Freddy was slouched casually against a pillar, cheerfully sipping champagne as he curiously studied her and the strange old man with whom she was dancing. Freddy was only twenty-two and had been blessed with the same honey blond hair and blue eyes that she had, set against boyishly handsome features. He was an easygoing young man, who had inherited neither his mother's social ambition nor his father's work ethic. Freddy spent most of his time happily pursuing pleasure, which wasn't difficult, given his looks and the vast amount of money at his disposal.

Sandwiched in the center of the Belfords was old Lord Whitcliffe, his chalky, spider-veined face twisted into a hopelessly pained expression as he watched his runaway bride waltzing with a lowly servant. He was probably wondering if she was touched in the head, Amelia speculated, and worrying that her madness would be passed on to their children. His pudding-shaped form had been cinched into an evening coat and trousers that strained ominously against his girth, making it look as though the fabric might suddenly explode at any moment, revealing the sagging physique of the hoary ninth Duke of Whitcliffe. She was a virgin, but she had not been so sheltered that she didn't understand completely what was expected of her as a wife. Old Whitcliffe would want her to give him heirs. And that meant lying dutifully beneath him at night while he grunted and sweated and crushed her beneath his massive weight, trying to fill her body with the next duke.

“Amelia, do you want to marry Whitcliffe?”

She blinked and looked up at Jack, feeling sick. “I would rather die.”

Jack studied her, wondering if she understood the enormity of what she was saying. There was fear in the glittering sapphire of her eyes. He did not know whether it was fear of the unknown path she was choosing, or the possibility that she might be caught and forced to marry Whitcliffe after all.

He swore silently. His life would be far less complicated if Amelia would just capitulate to her family's wishes and marry the old duke. Whitcliffe didn't deserve her, but he struck Jack as marginally less contemptible than Philmore. At any rate, Whitcliffe was less apt to humiliate her with a parade of male lovers. He might indulge in a mistress or two, but that was considered entirely acceptable among his peers. Amelia could marry him and take her place in society, with both her wealth and her reputation safely intact.