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  An undignified snort escaped from Amelia’s mouth. “A gentleman? Good heavens, I’d hate to meet a common man.”

  “Very funny,” Tom replied, not amused in the least. “But perhaps I should introduce myself properly.” He bowed low before her and said, “Thomas Barclay, future Viscount Grantham, at your service.”

  ~*~

  Oh, blast my luck! He really was a gentleman, if not in action, at least in name. Amelia supposed she should have known. Now that she looked a bit closer, his clothing was made of expensive materials, and that finely chiseled jaw she’d noticed earlier most certainly spoke of aristocracy. But he appeared so wretched after his apparent night of debauchery she’d not been able to see past his dishevelment.

  She would not, however, let this new information ruffle her feathers. She refused to give him that satisfaction.

  Amelia turned her nose up and said, “Is that supposed to impress me?”

  “Not at all,” Tom replied. “Just inform you.”

  “Well, then, now that you’ve informed me you can be on your way.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  Something about those words—or perhaps the way he said them, with that low, gravely tone—made Amelia feel funny inside. Warm and fluttery, if she had to describe it more specifically, yet there was still something unspecific and unfamiliar about the feeling. Her face felt as though it had lit on fire, like it always did when she was nervous. It was something she’d have to work on if she wanted a career on the stage.

  Not that it seemed likely now. The man who’d answered the back door at Drury Lane had been more than clear that without a recommendation, she’d not be working there. Securing an audition would be even less likely, she assumed.

  She took a few deep breaths in an effort to calm her pulse and settle her nerves, but it was most certainly too late to hide her flaming cheeks from him.

  “I can do just fine on my own, Mr. Barclay.”

  “Oh, now it’s ‘Mr. Barclay?’” He chuckled and leaned against the desk, but Amelia stayed exactly where she was, staring straight ahead at all the little cubbies where the innkeeper kept the room keys.

  “It wouldn’t be proper of me to go on calling you by your Christian name, now that I know who you really are.”

  “And is it proper for me to call you Amelia?”

  No, it wasn’t. But she couldn’t tell him her real name. She barely knew him—she had no idea whether or not he’d be trustworthy. After a moment she finally said, “You may call me Miss St. George.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Is that your name?”

  “Would I tell you to call me that if it wasn’t?” Amelia snapped back, feeling defensive about the fact he thought her a liar. Even if she was a liar.

  “All right, Miss St. George. Now, if you would please accompany me back to the cottage, we shall figure out what to do with you from there.” He lowered his voice and moved closer to Amelia, making her heart race faster and her palms turn moist. “To everyone we meet in the meantime, you are my cousin who has just come into my care.”

  “Why?” Amelia was happy to play along, but she needed more backstory than that.

  “What do you mean why? Isn’t it enough to say you’re my cousin?”

  “I cannot play a convincing part with such little detail,” she returned. “Are my parents dead?”

  His lordship rolled his eyes. “Yes, fine, they’re dead.”

  “How?”

  “Bloody Hell! How should I know? They were your parents.”

  “Well, you’re the one who came up with this story for us. To make a story believable, one must have all the finite details worked out. You can’t fool an audience, you know?”

  Mr. Barclay threw up his hands and said, “Fine! Carriage accident.”

  Amelia’s hand flew to her heart. “Oh, how tragic! I didn’t even have time to say goodbye!”

  With a shake of his head and a loud grumble, Mr. Barclay pivoted on his heel and stalked out the front door of the inn. Amelia followed, though she had to half run-half skip to catch up with him.

  “Would you please slow down?” she said, panting as she fell into step beside him. “I thought you wanted to protect me, and off you went, leaving me in your dust. What if I had not followed?”

  “I’m not certain I would have cared at that point.”

  “What an odd thing to say after all this.”

  “You’re an odd creature.”

  “I’m a person, not a creature.”

  Mr. Barclay stopped short and whipped around to face her. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. Amelia’s breath caught in her throat as he stood there, staring at her. His expression was unreadable—a mixture of frustration and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. All she knew was how it made her feel—as if all the butterflies in Herefordshire were beating about in her belly—and that feeling frightened the living daylights out of her.

  Then he whirled and started down the lane again, forcing Amelia to run to catch up…again.

  “What?” she pried.

  “What what?” he replied.

  “What were you going to say to me?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “But it does. I want to know what it was and why you couldn’t say it.” He was still walking so fast that Amelia was skipping to keep up.

  “It wasn’t that I couldn’t say it, it’s that I thought better of saying it.”

  “Would it have been insulting?” she pressed. “Because I’m almost certain you couldn’t get anymore insulting than you’ve already been.”

  Mr. Barclay gave her an annoyed glance and then faced forward again.

  “Well, I can’t figure it,” Amelia continued. “If you didn’t mean to insult me, yet you couldn’t say what you meant to say—”

  He stopped so abruptly and grabbed her by the upper arms that Amelia didn’t even realize what was happening. He pressed his warm lips firmly against hers while he held her face steady with two rough hands. Her eyes went wide only to find Mr. Barclay’s face mashed up against hers, his eyes closed tightly and his brow furrowed.

  The kiss didn’t last long, though Amelia had enough time to think about how she’d not wanted him to be her first kiss the night before when he attacked her in the street. Now, however, she found she didn’t quite mind it at all. Of course, he’d only done it to silence her—she did have a habit of chattering on nonsensically sometimes. Ms. Denby had told her so more often than not. But still, as far as first kisses went, Amelia thought this one was perhaps not so bad. As a matter of fact, if she was being honest, she quite liked it.

  When Mr. Barclay finally pulled away, he removed his hands from her person and backed up several paces, as if he’d discovered she was some kind of siren that might capture him in a web and drown him in the depths of the ocean. That assumed he thought Amelia was beautiful enough to be a siren in the first place, which she was very aware she was not so beautiful. Her wild dark hair and overly large brown eyes might have made her slightly exotic looking but definitely not beautiful by English standards.

  “Well,” she said at last when the silence dragged on far too long for her comfort. “Thank you for that. Shall we journey on?”

  “Journey on?” Mr. Barclay spat as his eyes narrowed and a disgusted look came over his face.

  “Yes…cousin,” she replied. “I think we ought to be getting back to the cottage, out of the public eye, don’t you?”

  There wasn’t really any public to have seen them this far along the tree-lined lane, but still, one never knew when one might be caught in a compromising position.

  “Yes, of course, cousin,” he finally agreed. “Let us journey on. The sooner I can be rid of you, the better.”

  Five

  Tom wasn’t being terribly kind. Hell, he was being downright surly. But he still had a headache and his stomach roiled from the copious amounts of beer he’d had the night before, and his blasted sto
waway was really getting under his skin. If she opened her mouth one more time he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

  He grumbled to himself as he stalked ahead of her. Hopefully he had put a stop to her chattering. Something had to. He thought the kiss would have done it, but she didn’t seem fazed in the least.

  How about that! It was probably the first time she’d ever been kissed and she replied with a trite, “Shall we journey on?” Odd creature indeed. Most women could hardly find their voices after he’d kissed them, let alone make such an inane and diplomatic suggestion as to journey on.

  “You’re not a very nice person, you know?” Her tittering voice from behind him caused Tom’s every nerve to stand on end.

  “No, I’m not. And you ought to remember that next time you open your mouth to speak.”

  She gave a dry chuckle and said, “You might be a bore, but I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Well, you should be.” To be honest, he had trouble swatting at flies, but he just wanted to be rid of her.

  “If you were going to hurt me you would have done so long ago,” she said.

  Why did she think that? What frame of reference did she have about people hurting her? “Perhaps I’m just buttering you up for later.”

  Now she laughed in earnest. “This is buttering me up? Insulting me and telling me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “I never said to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Not in so many words, but it’s obvious I’m bothering you. You’ve made that more than clear.”

  Tom was being rude and being obvious about it too, but hearing the slight sting of hurt in her voice made him feel like a cad. Again. Damn her. She’d get along splendidly with Victoria. Were all women conspiring to make him feel badly about himself?

  “Look,” he said at last, spinning on his heel and coming face-to-face with her. “This isn’t ideal for either of us. I’m sure you have a life waiting for you, and I—”

  He looked down the lane in the direction of the sleepy village, then back the other way toward the lonely cottage he was being forced to inhabit. He had no life to speak of at this point. Though he could use a long nap in a comfortable bed.

  “And I need to get some sleep.”

  “I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” Miss St. George promised, though that wasn’t exactly what Tom was hoping to hear.

  “I know you will be—because you’ll be on a coach headed for London, far away from me.”

  For the first time since they’d met, Tom saw Miss St. George’s guard go down. It was only for a moment—only a slight sag to her shoulders and a flash of concern in her eyes—but then she drew herself up again and shoved her pert little nose in the air.

  “Fine,” she said with a curt nod. “I’ll just head back to the inn, then. I’m sure they’ll be far more helpful than you’ve been.”

  “I fed you breakfast, didn’t I?” Tom said, silently damning the guilt that churned in his gut.

  Miss St. George held up her reticule and gave it a good shake. Coins clinked together, and she said, “I could have bought breakfast for myself, Mr. Barclay. And you’re right. I have a life to return to that doesn’t involve rude, self-serving prigs. Good day.”

  She spun on her heel and started back in the direction they’d just come from. For the first time Tom noticed her shape. Definitely far too womanly for a “schoolgirl.” Her hips were full and her bottom nicely rounded. And she walked in such a way to drive a man wild. No wonder he’d accosted her in the street last night.

  Though in the light of day, her wiles had no effect on him. None at all. As a matter of fact, he cared so little about the blasted chit that he too pivoted on his heel and started for home. If she had so much money and worldly wisdom, she certainly didn’t need him. And God knew he didn’t need her.

  ~*~

  Amelia let a minute or two pass before she dared turn around. She wanted to see if he stood there, staring at her, waiting for her to come back and join him at the cottage. But when she did dare to look, all she saw was his back, walking away from her, far in the distance.

  Bastard.

  Well, then, if that was the way he wanted it, that was the way it would be. It was better that way, anyhow. Amelia didn’t need him prying any further into her situation. He’d surely turn her in to Father—or Ms. Denby, which would eventually lead her back to Father anyway—and that was simply not an option. Especially not now. Surely she’d cause a great deal of trouble for everyone once they found out she’d run away, and then Father would truly—

  Amelia shook her head. She would never go back. She would never, ever allow him to do that to her again. If Amelia Harding had to die, she would, and Amelia St. George would gladly take her place, no matter what.

  When she arrived at the inn, the innkeeper’s wife stood at the desk and welcomed her back with a warm smile.

  “But what’s happened to your brother?” the woman asked, her tone tentative. Perhaps she hoped Amelia would come out and admit he’d been her lover—her beady eyes looked hungry for a bit of gossip.

  “Cousin, actually,” Amelia replied, uncertain why she felt the need to keep up the ruse, now that she and Tom had parted ways.

  But now what was she to say? Should she admit the truth? It all sounded so convoluted and strange, didn’t it? And if they were truly cousins, and she was truly in his care, why would he abandon her in the middle of nowhere?

  In the end, she decided she didn’t owe the innkeeper’s wife any explanation. She just needed to find out when the next stagecoach to London would come through.

  “I need to return to London, and I’m afraid my cousin cannot accompany me.”

  The woman’s brow furrowed as if she was confused, but she leaned further over the counter, clearly desperate for more details.

  “Has he taken sick?” the woman asked in a breathless tone. “Oh, dear me. It’s not something we served him, was it?”

  Amelia bit down on the inside of her cheek. Part of her wanted so desperately to engage the woman and play into the gossip. It would be the perfect way to sharpen her dramatic skills.

  “Well,” she began, “that’s yet to be seen. He did seem a bit green about the gills when I left him off at the cottage.”

  “Oh, goodness me!” The woman put her hand to her heart. “May the good Lord keep him?”

  Ha! As if the Lord would want anything to do with that reprobate.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Amelia said, unable to keep up the ruse any longer. She was far too annoyed with Mr. Barclay to pretend to care about him. “Can you tell me when you expect the stagecoach to come through?”

  “Oh, not for a couple of days, miss,” she replied, and Amelia’s spirit sank.

  What would she do for two days while she waited? Sure, she had pin money, but paying for a room and board for two nights would wipe her out almost entirely. Besides, it would surely raise suspicions if she asked for a room rather than going back to her “cousin’s” cottage.

  “I see,” Amelia finally said. “Well, I will come back then, I suppose.”

  She took the rest of the details from the woman and then stepped out into the cool, spring air again. She hadn’t even noticed the weather before—she’d been too preoccupied with her “protector.”

  Amelia scoffed. Protector indeed. All that malarkey about not being able to sleep at night wondering if anything had happened to her. As a gentleman, it’s my duty to look out for you. Ha! A fine job he was doing of that now.

  Well, there was nothing for it. She couldn’t stay here, and she couldn’t go begging for Mr. Barclay to take her in now. But she did remember seeing a small stable beside the cottage. It was currently unoccupied, so she could hide there unnoticed until it was time to catch the stagecoach back to London. Yes, it was a perfect plan.

  Her mind made up, Amelia set off, once again, down the lane toward Mr. Barclay’s cottage.

  Six

  Amelia woke the next morning with hay, well, everywhere. Stuck to h
er clothing, her hair, there were even a few strands stuck to her face. All in all, hay was not her bed of choice, but at least it was dry and free of charge. She couldn’t ask for much more at this point. Except maybe a warm blanket.

  Her stomach rumbled loudly as she lay, staring up at the rough wooden beams of the stable. One would think the sharp scents of rotting wood and old forage would squelch one’s appetite, but once again, she’d gone without luncheon or supper. Nothing could spoil her appetite now. She wouldn’t be able to last much longer, so she prayed with all her might that Mr. Barclay stayed abed until later so she might eat at the inn in peace.

  She stood from the bed of hay and did her best to brush herself off, though it wasn’t easy with no mirror to check her work. A quick glance out the tiny window at the back of the stable revealed it was still rather early, so she confidently, yet quietly, made her exit from the barn and then ran to the other side of the hedgerows, hoping Mr. Barclay didn’t catch a glimpse of her through his window as she slipped through the gate.

  It was a lovely morning, though with dark rain clouds in the distance she’d have to make quick work of her breakfast. So she ran to the inn and ate as quickly as she could, then ran back to her temporary domicile. Only this time she’d very smartly saved some of the bread, cheese and grapes for later, tucking them discreetly into the folds of her skirts.

  When Amelia had been in attendance at school, she’d thought there could be nothing duller than Ms. Denby’s lessons in etiquette. However, after spending half a day in a stable, alone, she now knew the meaning of true boredom. The hours ticked by so slowly, she thought she might die there, and in her eulogy they would write: Amelia Harding, beloved daughter and friend, perished as a direct result of boredom.

  With a sigh she pulled a book from her satchel—a play, really—Antigone was one of her favorites. She’d read it cover-to-cover several times, and she’d thought to use one of the famous monologues for her audition at Drury Lane, had she been able to secure an audition, that is.

  Amelia opened the play and began to read from the beginning, but only two pages in, the clip-clop of horse’s hooves caught her attention and drew her to one of the stable windows. She peered out, curious to see who was passing by. Though she could still hear the carriage, she couldn’t see it, which was odd, since the road ran parallel to the stable and—