Prologue
Charing,Kent,England
June1764
Amy Bridwell stood on the edge of the ballroom, watching James Fletcher make his way toward her, delighted that his eyes did not stray from her person despite the presence of other, more beautiful ladies. There was an intensity in his look that had not been there before yesterday’s kiss—their first. Her stomach gave a sudden swoop as she recalled his face bending toward hers.
He stopped at her side and bowed almost unaffectedly, careful not to reveal their attachment to anyone else. They had agreed upon this precaution, for such an announcement would not be met without opposition.
“Miss Bridwell.” His eyes were smiling. “I see your father has chosen to dress as a Roman citizen today.”
Amy covered a laugh with her fan. “At least he has forgone the idea of coming as a gladiator with shield and double-edged sword. I think I would sink from the shame. May this fantastical notion of masquerading be as short-lived as his attempt to train butterflies as message carriers.”
“Indeed.” James leaned in. “I have not stopped thinking about you since yesterday.”
“Nor I you.” She quickly averted her gaze and looked around at the crowd, willing herself not to blush. Their neighbor Mrs. Waiting threw lavish parties, and the milling crowds were dressed expensively with the women in gowns with wide panniers and powdered coiffures and the men in embroidered pastel silks with shiny nacre buttons. Her eyes landed on her father’s friend Mr. Erasmus Bromley, and sober thoughts doused her more pleasurable ones.
“But, James, there is something I must tell you. We will have to meet in our spot, for I do not wish to disclose it in such a public place.” She swallowed suddenly, a cold, nervous fear of the looming peril stealing her joy of the moment.
“Very well,” James replied promptly. “Tomorrow?”
If only they did not have to wait so long. She looked up, caught by his gaze and the candlelight reflecting in his deep blue eyes, and she pushed away her worries. All would be well, would it not? She could believe anything was possible when James was near. They would find a way to be together, and then she wouldn’t have to wed a man old enough to be her father. It was intolerable to think of giving her heart to anyone but James.
She had no opportunity to answer, for James’s father was quickly approaching them, his face set in uncompromising lines. Amy fell back a step. Here he was—the other great threat to their happiness.
“James, I wish to have a word with you.” Mr. Fletcher graced Amy with the briefest nod before turning.
“Of course, Father.” James followed with nothing more than a bow of farewell to Amy. They were accustomed to such discretion in their secret courtship.
Now alone, Amy searched for her own father. He was standing with Mrs. Waiting at the entrance to the ballroom and appeared to be regaling the widow with one of his latest ideas. Her heart sank to see that Mr. Bromley had joined the party. For some time now, her father had been hinting that he quite liked the idea ofher marrying Erasmus, for she would be well taken care of. In an artless aside, he added that she would also live so close to home as to seem almost not to have left it.
Her protests about marrying a man whose neck had begun to sag fell on deaf ears. Just that morning, Mr. Bridwell had renewed the sentiment with frightening enthusiasm she found difficult to counter. It was not that her father did not love her—he simply could not hold his attention long enough to see how little disposed she was to the idea. She needed James at her side as a bulwark against the tide of her father’s quixotic ambitions. She glanced again to where James stood with Mr. Fletcher, willing him to return.
James gathered that his father’s summons stemmed from his suspicion of James’s interest in Amy and that he wished to dissuade the attachment by separating them. He would quickly learn that his attempt came too late. So when, after Mr. Fletcher had pulled him from Amy, he led James to a private corner of the room instead of dismissing him, he felt some surprise.
“I would advise you not to be seen spending too much time in Miss Bridwell’s company. Her father is not respectable, and I do not want our name tainted by association. I have my position in the Commons to think of.”
“Miss Bridwell and I are friends,” James replied firmly. Friends of a dear nature, but it would be better to remain vague until he was ready to propose.
“You relieve my mind. I was beginning to fear...” His father glanced at the trio of Mr. Bridwell, Mrs. Waiting, and the other gentleman, a friend of Mr. Bridwell’s. Amy had drawn near to the party but did not join it. “I have it from Mrs. Waiting that there is to be an announcement today. The betrothal of Mr. Bromley and Miss Bridwell.”
“What?” James looked at his father in horror. People nearby turned to stare, so he lowered his voice. “Impossible. Amy andI are in love. She is to marry me.” Shock made his words fly out unheeded. But truly! The idea was impossible to countenance.
His father pivoted to face him, his expression livid. “That crackbrain fool’s daughter? Have you lost your senses entirely?” His dark eyes pierced James with disapproval, as though he were still a lad running into trouble at Eton. “What of your tour? What of your family’s wishes? I thought you were merelyfriends.”
James bristled, and it took all of his effort to reply with dignity. “We are very good friends. But we are also in love.” He squared his shoulders, meeting his father’s gaze. He had to be firm. For Amy. For their future. “I have not yet told her that my great-aunt is sending me on the Grand Tour for two years, but I will. And I plan to marry her once I return.”
“Well, you can break it off now or risk losing the association of all your nearest relations,” his father replied hotly. “What foolishness, entering into such an understanding without stopping to consult those wiser than you. You might only be a second son, but you have a duty to your family.”
James clenched his fists at his sides, attempting to control his temper. “Perhaps we might continue this discussion in a more private setting.” They had already drawn enough curious looks.
Mr. Fletcher grunted, flicking a dismissive hand. James bowed and moved away, drawing a sharp breath as he dwelled on the news he had just learned. How had this night gone from delight to disaster in a matter of moments?
With his mind in turmoil, he could scarcely smile and greet people the way the occasion dictated. He waited until he saw his father in conversation out of sight of an unattended Amy, then seized the opportunity to approach her.
“Come with me,” he said curtly.
He moved forward, confident that she would follow as soon as she could do so unremarked upon. He waited for her in a quiet corridor and, when she appeared, grabbed her hand and led her to the empty library.
