The Regency Season: Convenient Marriages: Marriage Made in Money / Marriage Made in Shame

‘This afternoon.’

‘And your cousin?’

‘Was long gone and had left no word of her return.’ His eyes flicked towards Amethyst, the startling depths of hazel guarded and questioning. ‘The ton is abuzz with your news, Montcliffe. Rather hasty, I might add, given that when I saw you last week you made no mention of a would-be wife.’

Lucien laughed. ‘The call of rich and beautiful is a strong one, Francis, as I am sure you must appreciate. Were you not on exactly the same mission in Bath?’

The words were both familiar and strange to Amethyst. Lord Ross could hardly think her beautiful, but she was rich. And was this Francis trying to find his own wealthy intended?

Of a sudden the hazel eyes of the stranger softened and he bowed his head towards her.

A mark of war lashed the newcomer’s left cheek in one cruel and unbroken line, leaving her to wonder at the pain that such a wound must have inflicted. If he noticed her looking, he made no reaction to show that he cared.

‘We were all at school together and followed each other to the battlefields,’ Daniel explained. ‘Overfamiliarity sometimes breeds a contempt of manners, but I am certain my friend will remember his soon.’

This time a true smile creased the ruined face. ‘I beg your pardon for my rudeness, Miss Cameron. My name is Lord Francis St Cartmail, Earl of Douglas, and I am more than interested to know if you have sisters?’

‘I have already explored that avenue, Francis,’ Christine quickly informed him. ‘For my brother, you understand. But sadly she is an only child.’

‘Then we still have to find our own fortunes, Luce.’

Laughter ensued, mirth that was neither embarrassed nor apologetic. The sort of laughter that told Amethyst these were friends who were in it for the long haul, thick or thin, good or bad. And it seemed that each warrior before her was also facing financial ruin.

The war, she wondered, or the war wounds? It cannot have been easy for them to come back into the glittering perfection of the ton from the hell of a Peninsular Campaign. Who would understand what they had been through and what they had seen, save for those who had returned with them. Forging bonds, closing the ranks. There was an ease in shared sorrow.

Compared to these three, the other men here looked effeminate and affected. She also saw the interest of many of the ladies in the assembly stray in their direction, some glances hopeful and shy whilst others were more bold and direct. When Daniel’s arm unexpectedly touched hers she looked down, his large fingers encased in a glove, the fabric of his jacket contrasting against her shimmering gown. A connection, amidst all the movement and chatter, the spark of a vibrating energy running into her fingers. Almost burning.

He must have felt it too because he pulled away, the contact lost, but not before she saw shock in his eyes.

A waltz began to be played by a string quartet stationed at the head of the room. A Viennese waltz played quickly. She had danced to this in her room in Mayfair as a practice. Back-two-three. Back-two-three. Her heart raced even faster when Daniel turned and asked her to dance.

* * *

Daniel found it difficult to know exactly what to make of Miss Amethyst Cameron as she came into his arms, her wheat-gold curls piled beneath yellow rosebuds and the gown of a darker hue sending the shade of her eyes to a burnished velvet.

She did not look as if she belonged here amidst the ton and the ballroom and the vacuous pursuits of those with little else save social soirées to occupy their time. She was so much more than that—an interloper who would bide here for a while just to watch it all.

It was the strength in her that made the others look weaker, he decided, for women who needed men to survive had a certain brittle incompetence that was shown up by Amethyst’s independence. His arms tightened about her.

‘Thank you for coming.’

‘You thought I might not?’

He smiled and led her into the dance. ‘I watched you practising the waltz the other night from the street. Your shadow had fallen against the curtain.’

Her breath stilled, puzzlement making her pull back a little. ‘Why were you there?’

‘I was walking. I walk sometimes when I cannot sleep and when the sense of life is questionable. My wanderings brought me to Grosvenor Square.’

‘Then, given our unusual marriage contract, you must have found yourself exercising a lot of late, my lord. I might add that practice does not make one perfect so I hope my lack of prowess as a dancer doesn’t disappoint you.’

The imbalance was back, clawing into reason, her eyes full of laughter tonight and as close as they had been when he’d kissed her. He wanted to again. God, how he wanted to.

‘This marriage is not all about the money, Miss Cameron. Your father’s offer was unexpected and generous, but...’ He stopped and looked away.

‘You did not have to take it?’

Shaking his head, he brought her closer, but wrapped together in the arms of a crowded room there was so little space to be honest.

He liked the way she smelt and felt, he liked how her head fitted just beneath his chin and how the warmth of her skin came through the gossamer lace of her gloves.

Perfect.

Hell, he was turning into a man he did not recognise, the soldier in him submerged beneath another force. He could feel her breath against his throat, too, and the small intimacy held him in thrall.

‘Your hair looks nice.’ He could have phrased it better, he supposed, could have talked of the colour or the curl or the way it matched her skin, could have used the flowery words that women were supposed to like. But she answered before he could dredge up more.

‘Christine hid the shortness in the flowers.’ Her eyes met his own. ‘It must be exhausting to be a constant part of an assembly such as this, my lord? So much attention upon us and so much expectation.’