Dashing ... yes, that was an appropriate word for Lady Westcliff.
"Miss Hathaway," the countess said to Amelia in a tone of friendly concern, "the earl says Ramsay House has been unoccupied for so long, it must be a shambles."
Mildly startled by the woman's directness, Amelia shook her heard firmly. "Oh no, 'shambles' is too strong a word. All the place wants is a good thorough cleaning, and a few small repairs, and..." She paused uncomfortably.
Lady Westcliff's gaze was frank and sympathetic. "That bad, is it?"
Amelia hitched her shoulders in a slight shrug. "There's a great deal of work to be done at Ramsay House," she admitted. "But I'm not afraid of work."
"If you need assistance or advice, Westcliff has infinite resources at his disposal. He can tell you where to find?
"You are very kind, my lady," Amelia said hastily, "but there is no need for your involvement in our domestic affairs." The last thing she wanted was for the Hathaways to appear to be a family of cheapjacks and beggars.
"You may not be able to avoid our involvement," Lady Westcliff said with a grin. "You're in Westcliff 's sphere now, which means you'll get advice whether or not you asked for it. And the worst part is, he's almost always right." She sent a fond glance in her husband's direction. Westcliff was standing in a group at the side of the room.
Becoming aware of his wife's gaze, Westcliff's head turned. Some voiceless message was delivered between them?and he responded with a quick, almost indiscernible wink.
A chuckle rustled in Lady Westcliff's throat. She turned to Amelia. "We'll have been married four years, come September," she said rather sheepishly. "I had supposed I would have stopped mooning over him by now, but I haven't." Mischief danced in her dark eyes. "Now, I'll introduce you to some of the other guests. Tell me whom you wish to meet first."
Amelia's gaze had moved from the earl to the group of men around him. A ripple of awareness went down her spine as her attention was caught by Cam Rohan. He was dressed in black and white, identical to the other gentlemen's attire, but the civilized scheme only served to make him more exotic. With the dark silk of his hair curling over the starched white collar, the swarthiness of his complexion, the tiger eyes, he seemed completely out of place in these decorous surroundings. Catching sight of her, Rohan bowed, which she acknowledged with a stiff bow of her own.
"You've already met Mr. Rohan, of course," Lady Westcliff commented, observing the exchange. "An interesting fellow, don't you think? Mr. Rohan is charming and very nice, and only half civilized, which I rather like."
"I..." Amelia tore her gaze from Rohan with effort, her heart thrumming erratically. "Half civilized?"
"Oh, you know all the rules the upper class has devised for so-called polite behavior. Mr. Rohan can't be bothered with most of them." Lady Westcliff grinned. "Neither can I, actually."
"How long have you known Mr. Rohan?"
"Only since Lord St. Vincent took possession of the gambling club. Since then, Mr. Rohan has become a sort of protég? of both Westcliff's and St. Vincent's." She gave a quick laugh. "Rather like having an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. Rohan seems to manage them both quite well."
"Why have they taken such an interest in him?"
"He's an unusual man. I'm not certain anyone knows what to make of him. According to Westcliff, Rohan has an exceptional mind. But at the same time, he is superstitious and unpredictable. Have you heard about his good-luck curse?"
"His what?"
"It seems no matter what Rohan does, he can't help making money. A lot of money. Even when he tries to lose it. He claims it's wrong for one person to own so much."
"It's the Romany way," Amelia murmured. "They don't believe in owning things."
"Yes. Well, being from New York, I don't altogether understand the concept, but there you have it. Against his will, Mr. Rohan has been given a percentage of the profits at the club, and no matter how many charitable donations or unsound investments he makes, he keeps getting massive windfalls. First he bought an old racehorse with short legs—Little Dandy—who won the Grand National last April. Then there was the rubber debacle, and?
"The what?"
"It was a small, failing rubber manufactory on the east side of London. Just as the company was about to go under, Mr. Rohan made a large investment in it. Everyone, including Lord Westcliff, told him not to, that he was a foot and he would lose every cent?
"Which was his intention," Amelia said.
"Exactly. But to Rohan's dismay, the whole thing turned around. The company's director used his investment to acquire the patent rights for the vulcanization process, and they invented these little stretchy scraps of tubing called rubber bands. And now the company is a blazing success. I could tell you more, but it's all variations on the same theme—Mr. Rohan throws the money away and it comes back to him tenfold."
"I wouldn't call that a curse," Amelia said.
"Neither would I." Lady Westcliff laughed softly. "But Mr. Rohan does. That's what makes it so amusing. You should have seen him sulking earlier in the day when he received the latest report from one of his stockjobbers in London. All good news. He was gnashing his teeth over it."
Taking Amelia's arm, Lady Westcliff led her across the room. "Although we have a sad lack of eligible gentlemen tonight, I promise we'll have quite an array visiting later in the season. They all come to hunt and fish—and there's usually a high proportion of men to women."
"That is good news," Amelia replied. "I have high hopes that my sisters will find suitable gentlemen to marry."
Not missing the implication, Lady Westcliff asked, "But you have no such hopes for yourself?"
"No, I don't expect ever to marry."
"Why?"
"I have a responsibility to my family. They need me." After a brief pause, Amelia added frankly, "And the truth is, I should hate to submit to a husband's dictates."
"I used to feel the same way. But I must warn you, Miss Hathaway... life has a way of fouling up our plans. I speak from experience."
Amelia smiled, unconvinced. It was a simple matter of priorities. She would devote all her time and energies to creating a home for her siblings, and seeing them all healthy and happily married. There would be nieces and nephews aplenty, and Ramsay House would be filled with the people she loved.
No husband could offer her more.
Catching sight of her brother, Amelia noticed there was a peculiar expression on his face, or rather a lack of expression that indicated he was concealing some strong or private emotion. He came to her at once, exchanged a few pleasantries with Lady Westcliff, and nodded politely as she asked leave to attend to an elderly guest who had just arrived.
"What is it?" Amelia whispered, looking up as Leo cupped her elbow in his hand. "You look as though you'd just gotten a mouthful of rotten cork."
"Don't let's trade insults just now." He gave her a glance that was more concerned than any he'd given her in recent memory. His tone was low and urgent. "Bear up, sis—there's someone here you don't want to see. And he's coming this way."
She rolled her eyes. "If you mean Mr. Rohan, I assure you, I'm perfectly?
"No. Not Rohan." His hand went to her waist as if anticipating the need to steady her.
And she understood.
Before she even turned to see the man who approached them, Amelia knew the reason for Leo's strange reaction, and she went cold and hot and unsteady. But somewhere in the internal havoc, a certain resignation lurked.
She had always known she would see Christopher Frost again someday.
He was alone as he approached them—a small mercy, as one would have expected him to have his new wife in tow. And Amelia was fairly certain she couldn't have tolerated being introduced to the woman Christopher had abandoned her for. As it was, she stood stiffly with her brother and tried desperately to resemble an independent woman who was greeting her former love with polite indifference. But she knew there was no disguising the whiteness of her face—she could feel the blood shooting straight to her overstimulated heart.
If life were fair, Frost would have appeared smaller, less handsome, less desirable than she had remembered. But life, as usual, wasn't fair. He was as lean and graceful and urbane as ever, with alert blue eyes and thick, close-trimmed hair, too dark to be blond, too light to be brown. That shining hair contained every shade from champagne to fawn.
"My old acquaintance," Leo said. Although his tone held no rancor, neither did it evince any pleasure. Their friendship had been shattered the moment Frost had left Amelia. Leo had his faults, certainly, but he was nothing if not loyal.
"My lord," Frost said quietly, bowing to them both. "And Miss Hathaway." It seemed to cost him something to meet her gaze. Heaven knew it cost her to return it. "It has been far too long."
"Not for some of us," Leo returned, not flinching as Amelia surreptitiously stepped on his foot. "Are you staying at the manor?"
"No, I'm visiting some old family friends—they own the village tavern."
"How long will you hang about?"
"I have no firm plans. I'm mulling over a few commissions while enjoying the calm and quiet of the countryside." His gaze strayed briefly to Amelia and returned to Leo. "I sent a letter when I learned of your ascendancy to the peerage, my lord."
"I received it," Leo said idly. "Although for the life of me, I can't remember its contents."
"Something to the effect that while I was pleased for your sake, I was disappointed to have lost a worthy rival. You always drove me to reach beyond the limits of my abilities."
"Yes," Leo said sardonically, "I was a great loss to the architectural firmament."
"You were," Frost agreed without irony. His gaze remained on Amelia. "May I remark on how well you look, Miss Hathaway?"
How odd it was, she thought dazedly, that she had once been in love with him, and now they were speaking to each other so formally. She no longer loved him, and yet the memory of being held by him, kissed, caressed ... it tinted every thought and emotion, like tea-dyed lace. One could never fully remove the stain. She remembered a bouquet of roses he had once given her... he had taken one and stroked the petals over her cheeks and parted lips, and had smiled at her fierce blush. My little love, he had whispered?'Thank you," she said. "In turn, may I offer my congratulations on your marriage?"
"I'm afraid no felicitations are in order," Frost replied carefully. "The wedding didn't take place."
Amelia felt Leo's hand tighten at her waist. She leaned against him imperceptibly and looked away from Christopher Frost, unable to speak. He isn't married. Her thoughts were in anarchy.
"Did she come to her senses," she heard Leo ask casually, "or did you?"
"It became obvious we didn't suit as well as one would have hoped. She was gracious enough to release me from the obligation."
"So you got the boot," Leo said. "Are you still working for her father?"
"Leo," Amelia protested in a half-whisper. She looked up in time to see Frost's wry, brief grin, and her heart twisted at the painful familiarity of it.
"You were never one to mince words, were you? Yes, I'm still employed by Temple." Frost's gaze moved slowly over Amelia, taking measure of her brittle guardedness. "A pleasure to see you again, Miss Hathaway."
She sagged a little as he left them, turning blindly toward her brother. Her voice was tattered at the edges. "Leo, I would very much appreciate it if you could cultivate just a little delicacy of manner."
"We can't all be as suave as your Mr. Frost."
"He's not my Mr. Frost." A pause, and she added dully, "He never was."
"You deserve a hell of a lot better. Just remember that if he comes sniffing around your heels again."
"He won't," Amelia said, hating the way her heart leaped behind her well-manufactured defenses.
Chapter Seven
Just before the Hathaways had arrived, Captain Swansea, who had spent four years serving in India, had been regaling some of the guests with an account of a tiger hunt in Vishnupur. The tiger had stalked the spotted deer, brought it down with a pounce, and clamped the back of its neck in its jaws. Women and even a few men had grimaced and exclaimed in horror as Swansea described how the tiger had proceeded to eat the chital while it was stilt alive. "The vicious beast!" one of the women had gasped.
But as soon as Amelia Hathaway entered the room, Cam had found himself entirely in sympathy with the tiger. There was nothing he wanted more than to bite the tender back of her neck and drag her to some private place where he could feast on her for hours. In a crowd of elaborately dressed women, Amelia stood out in her simple gown and unadorned throat and ears. She looked clean and winsome and appetizing. He wanted to be alone with her, outside in the open air, his hands free upon her body. But he knew better than to en tertain such thoughts about a respectable young woman.
He watched the tense little scene involving Amelia, her brother, Lord Ramsay, and the architect, Mr. Christopher Frost. Although he couldn't hear their conversation, he read their postures, the subtle way Amelia leaned into her brother's support. It was clear some kind of history was shared between Amelia and Frost... not a happy one. A love affair that had ended badly, he guessed. He imagined them together, Amelia and Frost. It provoked him far more than he would have liked. Tamping down the surge of inappropriate curiosity, he dragged his attention away from them.
As he anticipated the long, bland supper to come, the interminable courses, the mannered conversation, Cam sighed heavily. He had learned the social choreography of these situations, the rigid boundaries of propriety. At first he had even regarded it as a game, learning the ways of these privileged strangers. But he had grown tired of hovering at the edge of the gadjo world. Most of them didn't want him there any more than he did. But there seemed no other place for him except at the periphery.
It had all started approximately two years earlier, when St. Vincent had thrown a bank passbook at him in the casual manner he might have used to toss a rounders ball.
"I've established an account for you at the London Banking House and Investment Society," St. Vincent had told him. "It's on Fleet Street. Your percentage of Jenner's profits will be deposited monthly. Manage them if you wish, or they'll be managed for you."