A Christmas Scandal. Jane GoodgerЧитать онлайн книгу.
Edward was at the moment feeling rather put out. He’d gotten himself so worked up at the thought of seeing Miss Pierce again, he’d barely been able to stomach breakfast, and she’d nearly dismissed him. No, it was worse than that. It was as if he were an acquaintance, and not a very well known one at that. While he’d been pining away, pathetically reliving every moment of their time together in Newport and New York, she’d been getting on with her life. He’d already become a small speck in her long and happy life, a distraction on a long-ago summer season. Perhaps even—humiliating as it was to think—simply a means to make another man jealous. All that rot about how she wanted to dissuade the Wright brothers from matrimonial pursuit when what she’d truly wanted was to make herself more desirable.
How nice to see you again, Lord Hollings, she’d gushed, then turned immediately away to exclaim in the same tone how wonderful Rand’s home was. What had he expected? That she’d throw herself into his arms? Perhaps not so much as that, but a warm look, a smile that said something other than “how nice to see you.” Or a blush that told him she’d been uncomfortable, something, anything that meant she remembered him.
He felt his entire body heat with mortification when he recalled how he’d taken her letters out and read them. And if her fiancé dared show his face here, why, he’d…he’d…Ah, hell. He’d probably act the gentleman and welcome the chap.
“May I come in?” his sister said, walking into his private sitting room without so much as a knock.
“No.”
She didn’t even pause as she sat down upon his favorite chair, perching herself on its edge so that she couldn’t begin to appreciate the comfort of the item. “I’m very disappointed,” she said. “Here I was thinking Miss Pierce was some lost love when it was clear that she is not.”
“I told you she was nothing,” he said rather shortly, and immediately wished he had not. His sister pounced on him like a cat pouncing on an injured mouse.
“But she is something to you, isn’t she?” This last was said with true tragedy.
“Amelia,” he said as a warning. “If you persist on this ridiculous fantasy I am going to have to closely monitor your reading material. Again.”
Amelia let out a huff of impatience. “You don’t understand what it has been like living with you these past months. Were you always this bleak? I remember you as a much happier person.”
Edward smiled gently at his pouting sister. Sometimes she seemed far younger than her nineteen years. It was hard to believe that Amelia and the duchess were nearly the same age. “The last time you spent any time at all with me was when you were eight and I was seventeen. That, as I recall, was a lovely summer.”
She put her chin on her fist and looked as if she were trying to remember that far back. She straightened abruptly. “That was the summer of Giselle.”
If Edward was shocked that his little sister remembered the daughter of one of his father’s friends, he tried valiantly not to show it. She’d been nothing more than a baby then, a lonely little girl with no one to play with, one who desperately missed her older sister. God, he hadn’t thought about his younger sister in months. She’d died when she was twelve, and Amelia had been inconsolable for months afterward. Certainly, Giselle and her extremely loose morals had helped him to forget his grief, a thought that filled him with a bit of guilt even now. No doubt following them around helped Amelia through the pain of missing Caroline.
“Giselle was very pleasant,” he said.
“You used to laugh all the time. It was as if everything she said was supremely funny. I never did like her very much.”
“I think I liked her rather well,” Edward said with a crooked smile.
“Which is why it is so important for you to fall in love.”
Edward let out a beleaguered sigh, then gave a small bow to his sister. “I vow I will make it my priority in the coming seasons to secure a proper wife,” he said, hoping his wily little sister wouldn’t notice his use of a plural in the word “seasons.” Of course, that was too much to ask for.
“Season,” Amelia said. “One that I should be participating in. I am nineteen, after all. If only I had a proper chaperone, an older, married woman who isn’t encumbered with a husband hanging about. One who, perhaps, would adore a chance to see—”
“Stop right there, you devious little schemer. Mrs. Pierce cannot be your chaperone. At the moment, she is Miss Pierce’s chaperone. Besides, I don’t believe they will be staying in England as long as all that. It’s only October now. The season doesn’t get into full swing until April or May. You know that.” Edward thought that would settle things directly, but he should have known better.
“We could ask. Perhaps they would enjoy extending their stay if it meant participating in the season. She can chaperone us both,” Amelia said, her face alighting with the knowledge that she’d solved a major problem.
“Both?”
“Why, don’t you think Miss Pierce would appreciate a London season?” She held up her hand to stem his objection. “I know she is here for the duchess. But once the baby is born, perhaps she would enjoy seeing London. No one likes to travel during the winter months. Just ask the duchess what she thinks of that idea. You recall how horrid her trip was on that awful cargo ship. Is that what you would wish for Miss and Mrs. Pierce? An ocean voyage on a dilapidated old cargo ship? And you can escort us everywhere. Steer her clear of the bad apples.”
Edward had, throughout Amelia’s monologue, tried to interrupt her torrent of ideas, but he was pointedly ignored. Just as he knew whatever he said to her now would be pointedly ignored. But he decided to try anyway, for the thought of steering Miss Pierce away from ardent suitors was about as palatable as eating a pile of rotting, steaming fish. “Absolutely not. I would never impose on Mrs. Pierce to do such a thing. Besides, Miss Pierce is engaged to be married. A season for her would be pointless.”
“Now you are simply being mean,” Amelia announced with assurance. “Think on it, will you? And don’t be such a poor sport. Just because Miss Pierce isn’t interested in you doesn’t mean you shouldn’t look yourself. Perhaps she could help you find someone.”
“Are you trying to make me angry?”
Amelia looked suitably shocked.
“Because I can tell you right now it is not working,” Edward said pleasantly, lying through his teeth.
Amelia stood. “Just think on it, Edward. After all, until you find someone of your own, you’ll have to dance with someone. Why not her?”
“Good-bye, Amelia,” he said, smiling in an effort to disguise his growing anger. His sister was about as transparent as a new plate-glass window, but he had to admire her tenacity.
“I truly would like a season, Edward. Even if it is just for a little while. Next year I’ll be twenty and have absolutely no prospects. I know how tedious it is for you. And I also know that Auntie cannot escort me this year. Not with Janice being so sick lately. Please think on it.”
The only thing worse than his sister’s needling was her sincerity—and she was being excruciatingly sincere at the moment. Janice reminded them both too much of Caroline, who seemed to simply fade away before their eyes before finally dying. “All right. I’ll think on it.”
Amelia brightened and Edward watched her walk in her singularly bouncing way with a feeling of pure inevitability. He owed a season to his sister, and damned if Mrs. Pierce wouldn’t be the absolutely perfect chaperone for her. His list of suitable female chaperones was woefully short, especially with his step-aunt being unavailable. And if Mrs. Pierce was chaperone, Miss Pierce would certainly tag along. And he’d end up escorting her to balls and the opera and watching other men fawn over her, perhaps even fall in love with her. He almost thanked God she was engaged, because he didn’t think he could bear watching her fall in love with someone