A year ago she would have been hopeful and excited. As scattered and harried and upset as her thoughts were, she knew that. She’d wanted to please her mother, to be the young lady she’d been raised to be. Winning Hurst would have allowed her to prove to herself that she wasn’t a failure.
Her mother came away from the window. “Be grateful, Amelia-Rose. I understand it can be thrilling to have a handsome, virile man’s attention. But ask Lady Aldriss if that is enough to make a good marriage. I’ve saved you. And this is the last time.”
“I never asked you to save me.” She wanted to say more, wanted to yell that for a day and a night, for an afternoon, she’d been happy. She’d been able to see a future with love and warmth and humor, with a man who encouraged her to speak her mind and surrounded by family who’d welcomed her even with all the trouble she’d caused them.
“I’m your mother. I’ve done it regardless. Lord Hurst will come by to escort you on your shopping expedition this afternoon, and you will chat with him, you will be pleasant, and you will comport yourself as a woman engaged to be married, because that is what you are.”
With that Victoria left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. Amelia-Rose set down her brush. Everything had happened so fast last evening. She could put things in terms of one emotion or another, surprise, horror, disbelief—but it was so much more tangled and roiled together than that.
She’d tried always to be honest with herself, and for that reason she had to admit that yes, at one time she would have welcomed a suit from Lionel West. Even at the beginning of her first Season, when she’d realized that she would be marrying a title, whoever happened to own it, she’d decided that he would be the least objectionable. Over the course of her two Seasons they’d barely spoken a dozen words together before last night. It seemed more important that he was pretty and seemed kind, and lived close by London.
She would never have called Niall pretty. His looks weren’t feminine in the least, despite his long lashes. Those eyes with their impossible color and the laughter in their depths, his strong jaw, the arched brows and brown-red, untamable hair, the lean, hard strength and grace of him—he was entirely, unmistakably, masculine perfection. Her warrior. Her lover.
Did it matter that she’d known him only a handful of days? She’d known Lionel West, if she combined all the minutes together, for perhaps an hour. Of the two, she knew Niall much better, and preferred him indescribably more.
Yes, she’d danced around her feelings for Niall. She’d said that she cared for him, that she valued his friendship, that she wanted to be close by him and kiss him and share his bed. But she hadn’t said the last, most important thing—and she hadn’t done so because she’d somehow known they wouldn’t end up together. Because she’d wanted it too much, and admitting to it would break that future into pieces.
Well, she hadn’t said the words, and everything was broken, anyway. She’d waited for the perfect moment, for some promise of ever after, and now it was gone. She’d had it all pulled out from under her, and she’d allowed it to happen. He would know that she’d allowed it to happen, because she hadn’t fled or thrown herself out a window or whatever it was that damsels in need of rescue did.
Even that, though, couldn’t change one thing. The thing she’d known since probably the afternoon of Lady Margaret’s picnic, when she’d been meant for someone else and he’d supposedly been attempting to endear his brother to her. She loved Niall MacTaggert. She loved the way he didn’t give a damn what other people thought—except for her, apparently—and the way he looked at her as if nothing mattered to him as much as what she might have to say. She loved his mouth, his body, his brogue, the way she felt stronger just knowing he found her important.
In all this mess she’d done one brave thing. She’d asked Hughes to inform Niall, if he should call, that she would be standing by her schedule for the day. If the butler had passed on that information, Niall would know precisely where she would be this afternoon. Would it make a difference? Would he consider her a lost cause, now? She had no idea what she would say to him if he did appear. Or worse, what she would do if he didn’t.
Her door cracked open. “Miss Amy?” Mary said, peering in. “Your mother says I’m to help you dress to go out shopping.”
“Come in, Mary. Yes, please fetch my light-blue muslin with the puff sleeves.”
“Your mother wished you to dress more grandly, you being newly engaged and all.”
“It’s a small rebellion, Mary. The blue gown, if you please.”
“Yes, Miss Amy.”
Whatever happened this afternoon, she had two wishes. First that Niall wouldn’t give up on her, and second that someone owed him a miracle. Because on her own, she couldn’t think of how this could possibly end well for either of them.
Niall headed south and east toward Pall Mall. When Coll and Aden, a street or so behind him and attempting to remain unseen, fell behind a trio of coaches and an ice wagon, he sent Kelpie into a swift trot north until he’d managed to put enough space between himself and his brothers that they wouldn’t be able to track him, then edged west toward Bond Street.
They wanted to help. He understood that, and he also knew that there were occasions when three large, opinionated Highlands men together caused more mayhem than was warranted. So while he badly wanted to beat Lionel West, Marquis of Durst, into the ground and shovel dirt over him, he would fare better without his two shadows digging the hole for him.
He needed to speak to Amelia-Rose Hyacinth Baxter. Until he heard from her, the doubts kept swirling. Admittedly he wasn’t a man accustomed to being turned down by a lass, but this wasn’t about his bruised pride. They’d had a plan. Aye, a nebulous plan filled in mainly with phrases like “we’ll see to it” or “I’ll convince them,” but she’d wanted to remain in his life. He still damned well wanted her there.
None of it would matter, though, if he’d merely seen what he’d hoped to see. If she’d allowed him to court her because no one more acceptable to herself or her parents happened to be waiting behind the curtains. If she’d merely been grateful that he’d saved her from embarrassment that night at the ball.
Cursing under his breath, he handed Kelpie and a shilling off to a lad who promised to keep the bay standing in an alley. Beneath his anger and frustration and … pain, he knew he could help her. He could fix this. He excelled at fixing things. When a cotter or anyone else had a problem they couldn’t settle on their own, they came to Niall. If that made him a peacemaker, or a charmer, then so be it. Today he meant to use all those talents to get Amelia-Rose back in his arms, or to determine once and for all that she’d never wanted to be there in the first place.
He took a position beside a lamppost where he could see most of Bond Street. If he’d wanted to go completely unnoticed he likely shouldn’t have worn his kilt, but who he was had become as much a part of this as where she wanted to live. Even with his six-foot-three-inch height and his kilt, he managed to stay out of most everyone’s way, though lasses seemed determined to flutter their lashes at him or drop handkerchiefs practically down his front. After the first half a dozen he ignored them, and they lay like wilted, fluttering butterflies at his feet.
After nearly an hour it occurred to him that Hughes might have been lying about Amelia-Rose’s schedule, or she might have lied about it to Hughes. It would be an effective way to see Niall well away from Baxter House in the case they meant to acquire a special license, find the nearest church, and wed.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He should have sent Aden to shadow the house.
Niall straightened. In all this, even with the doubts he made himself conjure about her sincerity, he knew—he knew—that Amelia-Rose cared for him. This had been done to her, not by her. And so he meant to stop it. She wouldn’t have lied, because she didn’t lie.