The Wedding Escape (30 page)

“This article refers to a statement made by my father. Are you suggesting that he is lying in order to trick me into coming home?”

“I'm just saying we should take a day or two to determine what the facts are.”

“My mother may not have a day or two,” she countered vehemently. “I cannot believe you hold my family in such low regard that you think they would resort to such a cruel ploy in order to bring me home.”

“I'm not suggesting your mother isn't ill.” Jack realized he was treading a fragile path. “But your family has been desperate to find you for weeks now. This may be a trick to bring you to them. If you give me a couple of days, I can have someone in London investigate—”

“Don't trouble yourself.” Her voice was cold. “My mother needs me and I'm going to her. There is nothing more to discuss.”

Anger reared within him. “If you return to London, your family will never let you go,” he said with absolute certainty. “They will force you to marry Whitcliffe or whatever other pompous little prick they have bought for you, so that the scandal of your disappearance and the shame you have brought them these past weeks will be neatly swept beneath the sanctity of marriage.”

“I have no intention of marrying anyone,” Amelia assured him flatly. “All I want to do is see my mother and relieve the unbearable anxiety she must be suffering, not knowing what has become of me. I want her and my father to know I am well, and that I have managed to take care of myself. I want them to see that I actually have some talent which has enabled me to earn a living, modest though it may be.”

“Do you really think once they have heard about how you have been working in a third-rate hotel and living in a small, badly furnished house in Inverness with a collection of former thieves and pickpockets, they will simply wish you well and let you return? That you will just get on a train and come back?” His voice was harsh as he finished, “Do you honestly believe you will even want to come back?”

The chiseled line of his jaw was set and his brow was furrowed with anger. But it was his eyes that captured Amelia's attention. For in their steely gray depths she saw a flash of something she had not seen since the night she had so willingly given herself to him.

The night he had thought she was leaving him.

“What are you afraid of, Jack?” she enquired softly.

What could he tell her? Jack wondered helplessly. That he was afraid she would leave him and never return? That even if her parents didn't try to force her to marry Whitcliffe, Amelia would probably decide on her own that her little dalliance with what she must have considered virtual poverty was over? The allure of London, with its brilliant balls and parties, would seem glorious compared to the drudgery of her life in Inverness. Once she returned to her parents' home and started wearing three Parisian gowns a day while servants dashed about bringing her everything she could possibly desire, the novelty of rising at six o'clock each morning to don her plain outfits so she could toil long hours as a lowly employee at the Royal Hotel would swiftly fade. She would become the beautiful, pampered Amelia Belford once again.

And he would lose her forever.

Amelia watched as he struggled with his answer. Jack Kent was not the kind of man who would admit to being afraid of anything. A childhood spent on the streets fighting to survive, coupled with years of enduring the scorn of others, made it impossible for him to show weakness—even to her. And what did she expect? That he would profess his undying love and beg her to stay? His world was the sea and his ships, and building the wealth he believed he needed in order to secure his place in society and earn the respect of others, however grudging it may be. He had helped her escape a life she despised, and had generously opened his home to both her and Alex. But he had never promised to make her his wife, despite the incredible passion that had flared between them.

She swallowed and looked away.

Jack clenched his fists in frustration. “I'm asking you to trust me, Amelia. If in two days I can confirm that your mother is indeed ill, I will take you to London myself.”

“In two days my mother could be dead. If you truly feel you must protect me, then come with me to London tomorrow.”

He thought of Great Atlantic and their plan to destroy his company. The
Shooting Star
was due to set sail in four days, which meant its cargo was currently being loaded. Any sabotage to the ship now would result in staggering losses and the cancellation of his contract, which he simply could not afford. He had to spend the next few days arranging for the security of his ships, before Great Atlantic struck again. At the same time he needed to start implementing his strategies to knock the company off its brittle financial pedestal and send it scurrying to stay viable.

“I cannot leave right now,” he told her. “I have some important business matters to attend to.”

“Then we have nothing more to discuss. Good night.” She turned away, not wanting him to see how much he had wounded her.

Jack stood frozen, staring at the proud, straight line of Amelia's back. The back that had been forced to grow ramrod straight through the use of some torturous device she had been strapped into as a child. He was losing her, he realized. It did not seem to matter that he didn't deserve her, and couldn't possibly give her the life to which she had been born. Didn't matter that he was the bastard of a poor maid turned whore and an irresponsible earl who could never publicly acknowledge him. Didn't matter that he had lived a life of such filth and violence and desperation that if Amelia ever learned the truth of it, she would shrink from him in horror and disgust. Nothing mattered except for the fact that she was leaving him.

She was leaving him, and he didn't think he could bear it.

A terrible desperation gripped him, stripping away the flimsy mantle of control he had maintained since she had returned. He grabbed her by her shoulders and spun her around, forcing her to look at him.

And then he crushed his lips to hers, driving his tongue into the dark heat of her startled mouth.

A cry of outrage escaped her throat as she lurched against him, beating him with her small fists as she struggled to free herself from his savage grip. But he only kissed her more deeply as he hauled her up and carried her to the bed. His hands tore at the buttons of her simply tailored outfit, which was so unlike the sumptuous gowns she had worn as Amelia Belford. She was better than he, there was no question of that, yet the realization only made him more determined to have her. Away came the mountainous layers of her gown, petticoats and corset, until finally she lay naked beneath him, her wrists pinned into the softness of the plaid beneath her and her breasts heaving with fury against his chest. She said nothing, but only looked at him with those magnificent eyes that reminded him of a summer storm, now glittering with fire and challenge.

I will make you mine,
Jack vowed feverishly as he lowered his head to suck hard upon the wine-stained peak of her breast. A moan of reluctant pleasure spilled from her lips and she closed her eyes. He growled and moved lower, roughly kissing the creamy flat of her belly before flicking his tongue deep into the hot rosy petals between her thighs. She gasped and went still, her body hovering between outrage and swiftly blooming need. He tasted her again, tormenting her with pleasure as he slowly dragged his tongue across the apricot-sweet folds of her in a long, hungry caress. He would touch her and taste her and fill her until she was lost, he vowed darkly. He would bring her to the brink of the most exquisite ecstasy she had ever known, until she was quivering and pleading with him for release. And then he would carry her over it, irretrievably binding her to him, and utterly ruining her for any other man.

Amelia held her breath, frozen, the last vestiges of her control snapping like taut silken threads. Her body was melting beneath Jack's erotic assault like a wisp of snow upon fire. Blood surged hotly through her flesh, pooling in her lips and breasts and into the slick wetness between her thighs, making her restless with need. She wanted Jack with a desperation that stunned her, obliterating the ragged traces of whatever virginal propriety she might once have had. And so she surrendered herself to his tender assault, enjoying the rough feel of his cheeks grazing the insides of her thighs while his tongue delved and probed and his hands roamed with rough determination across the hills and valleys of her body. Her flesh grew hotter and more liquid, until finally she could bear no more. She grabbed Jack by his shoulders and pulled him up, then began to claw in frustration at the fastenings of his trousers. He rose above her and wrenched off his clothes, hurling them to the floor. Finally he stretched naked over her, a sleek hard wall of bronzed muscle, covering her with his strength and heat.

Jack cradled his hands against Amelia's cheeks, studying her. She returned his gaze steadily, the magnificent turquoise of her eyes shimmering with desire and an emotion he did not recognize. There was so much he wanted to tell her, yet he feared that whatever he said would be wrong, for he had never been adept at articulating his feelings. Only bitterness and anger flowed easily from him. But in that moment his heart was filled with a tenderness and fear so excruciating he felt as if he were being torn apart.

“Do not leave me,” he ventured, his voice caught somewhere between a command and a plea. And then, because he knew in the pit of his soul that she would, he added with almost shattered desperation, “Please.”

Amelia wrapped her arms around his neck and covered his lips with hers. She felt him hesitate, as if he were unsure of her answer. Her hands slid down the muscled expanse of his back to grip the tightly molded contours of his hips. Then she pulled down upon him as she raised herself, sheathing him deep within.

Jack kissed her hard as he began to move inside her.
I love you,
he confessed silently, trying to bind her to him with every aching thrust.
I will take care of you,
he pledged, hoping that she could feel the enormity of his feelings for her in the hunger of his kiss, the yearning of his caress, the relentless rhythm of his body moving inside her.
I will try to make you happy,
he promised, even though he did not believe he had ever made anyone happy in his entire life. In and out he moved, faster and farther and deeper, filling her and stretching her and reaching within her, until their flesh and bone and skin were melded and it was impossible to know where his life ended and hers began. He wanted to stay like that forever, buried deep within the strength and sweetness and light that was Amelia. He tried to slow himself, to fight the rising crest of passion, but her breath was coming in shallow gasps and her body was tightening as she writhed against him. Again and again he drove himself into her, feeling as if he were losing part of his soul to her that he could never reclaim.

Suddenly she cried out and wrapped herself around him, kissing him feverishly as pleasure stripped away the last shreds of her restraint. Fighting the sob rising from his chest he drove himself into her, filling her with every fragment of his strength and need and fear. He gave himself wholly to her as he tried to take some small part of her for himself, so that when she finally left him, he just might be able to endure it.

When their breathing had slowed and their bodies began to cool, he raised himself onto his elbows and brushed a soft strand of hair off her forehead. He was acutely aware that she had not answered his plea. It did not matter.

Whatever promises she made, she would never be able to keep.

He lowered his head and captured her lips with his, kissing her with aching tenderness as his hands began to rouse her once more. When she was shifting and flexing beneath him he joined himself to her once again.

And for one brief moment he felt as if she actually loved him, and his soul was filled with glorious light.

Chapter Thirteen

A
MELIA RAISED HER HANDKERCHIEF TO HER NOSE
and inhaled a few shallow breaths. The comforting scent of Eunice's plain laundry soap and Scottish sunlight filled her nostrils, temporarily quelling the nausea churning within her.

From the moment her train had chugged into the city of London she had felt as if she couldn't breathe. She had assumed that as she approached the more fashionable West End and Mayfair, the air would be more pleasant. To her surprise, the suffocating stench of coal fires, manure, sewage, and insufficiently washed bodies persisted even into the most elegant district of the city. In Inverness the air was always cool and clean as it blew off the Moray Firth and the pristine mountains of the Highlands. When she had first arrived there she had thought the small Scottish town unbearably remote and provincial. Yet as she drove through the noisy, polluted streets of London, she wondered how she had ever enjoyed living in such a crowded, dirty place.

“We're here, Mrs. Chamberlain,” announced the driver, opening the carriage door.

Amelia slowly stepped down from the carriage and faced the imposing stone façade of her parents' rented town house. The windows were not covered, which would have meant there had been a recent death in the house. Her mother was still alive.

Desperate to see her, she raced up the stairs and through the front door.

“Here now—what do you think you're doing?” demanded a shocked butler who was puttering with an enormous vase of flowers in the entrance hall. “You cannot simply charge in here—”

“I'm Amelia Belford. Where is my mother?” Amelia was not surprised that the former butler was gone. Few servants managed to survive her mother's exacting standards for long. “Is she in her bedroom?”

The man stared at her, stunned. “You're Miss Belford?”

“Yes—where is she?”

“Mrs. Belford is in the dining room,” he began, valiantly trying to recover his composure. “If you'll just follow me…”

Amelia sped past him along the hallway and burst into the dining room.

“Good God, Amelia—is that really you?” Her father was startled as he looked up from his newspaper.

Rosalind Belford was seated at the breakfast table, dressed in a magnificent gown of coral-and-gold brocade, with several ropes of pearls draped around her neck. A massive diamond pin gleamed from her left shoulder, and she wore huge ruby and diamond earrings that were far too extravagant for day wear. Her gray-threaded hair was elegantly coiffed and her lips were carefully rouged.

She appeared the epitome of robust health.

“Thank heaven you're back.” Relief had flooded her face, softening her features as she stared at Amelia. “You cannot imagine how worried we have been about you—are you all right?”

“I thought you were ill.” Amelia was unable to believe her family had gone to such lengths to deceive her. Her voice nearly broke as she finished, “It said in the newspaper that you were dying, Mother.”

Rosalind carefully set down her teacup, averting her eyes from her daughter's accusing gaze. “Unfortunately, Amelia, we couldn't think of any other way to get you to come home.”

“Amy! You're back!”

Amelia turned to see Freddy hurrying toward her, a glass of port in one hand. She turned her back on the rest of her family to wrap her arms tightly around him.

“Dearest Freddy,” she murmured, fighting the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, “tell me you weren't part of this awful deception.”

“You know me better than that, Amy,” her brother chided, gently lifting her chin with his finger. “I told them not to do it—I knew you would be horribly distressed by the thought of Mother dying.”

“We never wanted to have to resort to trickery to lure you home, Amelia,” her father assured her. “At first we thought you would quickly come to your senses and return home on your own. But as the weeks dragged on and it became evident that you wouldn't, your mother and I decided it was time to take more drastic measures. After all, we couldn't just let you stay in hiding forever.”

“Where the devil have you been, anyway?” William regarded her curiously. “There have been sightings of you all over the world, and you wouldn't believe the parade of scum that has shown up trying to claim your reward.”

“I've also received more than a dozen letters from blackguards who claimed to have kidnapped you,” added her father, scowling. “If not for Freddy's assurance that you left with that scraggly old fellow at the ball of your own free will, I'd have damn well paid out my entire fortune by now trying to get you back.” His expression was angry, but there was an unmistakable thread of anguish in his voice as he gruffly demanded, “Have you any idea how worried we have been, Amelia?”

“I'm sorry to have put all of you through that, Papa.” Feeling genuinely guilty, Amelia bent and kissed his cheek. “But as you can see, I'm fine.” She squeezed his hand.

“You don't look fine.” Rosalind rose from the table and moved toward her daughter, needing a closer look to be sure she was truly well. “You look dreadful. Pale and exhausted and—dear Lord, whatever have you done to your beautiful hair?”

“It's just a temporary color.” Amelia self-consciously tucked a stray dark hair under her hat. “It washes out.”

“You look older.” Her father's brow was furrowed with concern. “Were you ill?”

“I'm wearing cosmetics, Papa, to make me look older so people won't recognize me.”

Holding fast to her hand, John continued to study her. “It's more than that, Amelia—there's something different about you.”

“I
am
different, Papa,” Amelia told him earnestly. “I've learned so much while I've been away—things I never knew about. I've even been learning how to cook.”

“Wonderful.” William put down his knife and fork and shoved his plate away, unable to fathom his sister's extraordinary behavior. “I can see the headlines now:
‘American Heiress Reduced to Scullery Maid.'
God, Amelia, haven't you dragged our name low enough already?”

“Don't worry, William,” said Freddy cheerfully. “You'll get your turn soon enough.”

“If anyone is going to further embarrass the family, it will be you, Freddy,” William retaliated. “All of London knows you're a drunk—”

“That's enough out of both of you!” commanded his father. “By God, I've grown sick of you two and your constant sniping. If you can't be civil to one another, then keep your mouths shut, do you hear?”

William glared at Freddy.

Freddy raised his glass ever so slightly to William in a mocking toast, then downed his port in a single swallow.

John Belford shook his head, unable to fathom how he had sired two such sons, both of whom were complete enigmas to him. Freddy was pleasant enough, but he was utterly lacking in the discipline and ambition that had driven John his entire life. While William was ambitious, he was also humorless and intolerant, characteristics that kept him from enjoying the life his father had worked so hard to give him. Sighing, he turned to study his lovely daughter, trying to understand the changes he sensed in her. “Where have you been, Amelia?”

“I've been staying with friends,” she replied evasively. “And they have helped me and taken good care of me, but I've also been learning to take care of myself.” Her voice was filled with pride as she solemnly announced, “I've even got a job.”

Rosalind gasped, horrified.

“Really?” Freddy regarded her with fascination. “Doing what?”

“Organizing some special affairs.” Amelia knew she had to be careful about how much she revealed to her family. “It's actually very satisfying, and I've found I'm quite good at it.”

“Oh, wonderful,” drawled William. “If Whitcliffe finds out he'll think you've gone mad and want nothing more to do with you.”

“There is no shame in working to support oneself,” countered John sternly. “I've worked my entire life, and it wasn't always by sitting in some damned office all day the way you do, William. When I was barely more than a boy I was loading and unloading fish and produce in New York harbor. Even your mother worked when she was young, selling produce in her father's grocery store. Her fingers were stained from stacking all that damned fruit.”

“John, please!” Rosalind nervously fingered her pearls, terrified that one of the servants might have overheard him. She abhorred any reference to her working-class background. She had fought long and hard to achieve a modicum of respectability in society, but she wasn't so naive that she didn't realize that everyone who knew of her humble beginnings secretly despised her for them. In the eyes of both servants and society, she was nothing more than a lower-class shop girl dressed in expensive clothes.

“Amelia shouldn't feel ashamed for working while she was off on her little adventure,” John insisted. “She showed great resourcefulness, putting on a disguise and getting herself a job. She demonstrated what she's made of, and I, for one, am damned proud that my daughter was willing to work. That's the Belford spirit.”

“Unless you look at Freddy,” sneered William.

“At least I know how to enjoy myself with my friends,” Freddy retaliated. “You are such a snob, you don't have any friends.”

“Your friends are all bought,” William shot back. “If you didn't have money, they'd have nothing to do with you.”

“For God's sake, stop it both of you!” thundred John.

“Lord Whitcliffe must never find out about Amelia working,” Rosalind insisted. “The wife of a duke does not work—not even before they are married.”

Amelia regarded her mother in amazement. “Surely you don't think I am still going to wed Lord Whitcliffe?”

“Of course you are.” Her mother's tone was gently patronizing, as if any thought to the contrary was ludicrous. “And don't think for a moment that it was easy getting him to agree. Although your father and I have insisted to everyone that you were abducted, Lord Whitcliffe was thoroughly mortified by the disgrace of having his bride disappear from his own wedding. Then of course there is your bizarre behavior at the Wilkinsons' ball to be contended with, and the question of where and with whom you have been these past weeks…”

“Where have you been, Amelia?” asked Freddy.

“I've been staying with some very kind people outside of London.”

“They weren't kind in the least if they put a young, inexperienced girl of your breeding and station to work,” objected Rosalind, “and permitted you to hide from your family, who care about you and only want what is best for you. Who were they?”

“It doesn't matter, Mother.” Amelia had no intention of telling anyone about Jack and his family. “You wouldn't know them.”

Rosalind blinked, taken aback that her daughter was actually refusing to answer her question. “Well, I can only pray that you have not done anything further while you were away that will put us to shame. Your father had to increase your dowry by another fifty thousand pounds to get Lord Whitcliffe to consent to honor his betrothal when you finally returned.”

“I'm surprised he didn't ask for stock in father's company as well, given all that I have put him through,” Amelia reflected sarcastically.

“He did.” Her father scowled. “But I told him any stock that I granted would have to be in your name. He didn't like that, but he finally accepted. Told me that under English law what's yours is his anyway—the lazy swine.”

“We're just grateful that he didn't break the betrothal altogether, which he certainly might have, given the circumstances.” Rosalind wanted to make Amelia understand how perilously close she had come to destroying her future.

“It would have been better for him if he had,” Amelia told her. “Because I have no intention of marrying him.”

Rosalind stared at her in shock. “Have you gone absolutely mad, Amelia?”

“I never wanted to marry Lord Whitcliffe, Mother. He was your choice, not mine.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Rosalind could not understand what had come over Amelia. “You have always understood that a young girl of your station cannot possibly expect to make her own choice when it comes to her husband. You're a Belford, and every man who has offered for you has done so expecting to profit handsomely from that.”

“Including that damned fool, Philmore.” Her father snorted with contempt. “Filled your head with all kinds of foolish rubbish, and the next minute he was off chasing every other heiress in London.”

“Your father and I want what is best for you, and we have to protect you from being taken advantage of,” Rosalind continued. “Lord Whitcliffe is the only man who has offered for you who has something substantial to give in return—the title of duchess, a magnificent estate, and titles which will be passed on to your children and grandchildren. Your marriage to him will also open many business possibilities for your father both here and on the Continent. It is a perfect union.”

“It isn't perfect at all,” Amelia protested. “I don't love him. I don't even
like
him.”

“That is because you don't know him very well. He is a man of impeccable breeding with a solid education. I'm certain that after you are married and have had an opportunity to spend some time together, you will find that you are extremely well suited.”

“I'm sure we won't be well suited at all,” Amelia countered vehemently. “And the fact that we both come from privileged backgrounds is not the basis for a happy marriage.”

“Really, Amelia, what has come over you? For years we have told you that you would one day marry an aristocrat, and the idea always pleased you.”

“But I always believed I would meet someone wonderful—someone whom I cared about.” She regarded her mother imploringly. “Didn't you care about Papa when you married him?”