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  “Amanda,” he repeated, as if tasting it on his lips as he had her kiss. “It fits. Fair and pretty.”

  “Hardly that,” she managed to say, trying very hard not to be delighted at the sound of it on his lips, at his praise.

  “That and more, my sweet Amanda.”

  Oh, this was worse than she’d imagined. Having Jemmy kiss her was one thing, but to have him holding her so and whispering endearments into her ear and asking her to stay—

  Not when—

  “I can’t,” she said, pushing at his chest.

  “Can’t what? Stay?” He nestled her securely in place and then kissed her forehead. “I don’t know how or why, but you’ve brought the light back into my life. Never fear, I’ll take care of Her Dragonship and all this betrothal ball nonsense in the morning. And then we’ll find some way to—”

  “No!” she told him, wrenching herself free. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I can’t stay here.”

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  “I just can’t.” How foolish she sounded. But what else could she tell him? The truth?

  “Is it me?” he asked. “I know I’ve been a little forward and all, but, demmit, I haven’t felt this way…well, ever.”

  “No, it isn’t you.” She glanced heavenward. Never you.

  “Then what is it?” he demanded. “Is there someone else?”

  “No!” Amanda told him.

  “Then why won’t you stay?” he asked, catching her before she realized what he was doing. He didn’t even hesitate, but caught her mouth in a passionate kiss. A hot, demanding kiss that sent her heart fluttering anew. By the time he tore his lips from hers, she was gasping for air. “Stay with me, Amanda. Brighton will always be there.”

  “Yes, but I won’t be,” she whispered as she tore herself out of his arms and ran for the door.

  “Stay with me, Amanda,” he beseeched. “Be my life, my heart.”

  She paused at the doorway, clutching the latch and gulping back the sobs that tore at her heart, then confessed the secret she’d tried so hard to keep locked away.

  “I can’t stay with you because I haven’t a life to give you. I can’t stay with you because I’m dying.”

  Six

  The next morning Jemmy was still berating himself for not immediately following Amanda into the house and demanding an explanation.

  Amanda dying? The woman who had breathed life back into his existence about to lose her own? It was unfathomable.

  And what had he done? Stood in the garden gaping after her like a floundering trout. And by the time he’d gained his senses he’d found the side door locked, as well as the front door.

  Short of the impossible—climbing the trellis to her window—he’d had no choice but to wait until morning to discover what could be done for her.

  “I won’t allow it,” he muttered as he stalked into Finch Manor the next morning, past the usually unflappable Addison.

  “Allow what, sir?” the butler asked.

  Jemmy ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing, Addison. Is everyone at breakfast?”

  “Up and gone, I daresay,” the butler told him. “Your mother arose very early, and is now in the ballroom with Miss Smythe and the dancing master.”

  Jemmy started for the stairwell.

  The butler shot a puzzling look at him. “Have you forgotten something, sir?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he replied, and stalked up the stairs to the ballroom, any thoughts of breakfast left behind.

  Even as he made his way to the first landing, he could hear someone playing a waltz on the pianoforte. Mrs. Radleigh, most likely, for she was about the only one in the house who had such talent. The passionate and tempting music sent a ripple of anticipation all the way down to his toes.

  It made him want to dance. Dance with Amanda.

  Ridiculous notion, he thought, gripping the handrail. As ridiculous as the idea that she was dying. With resolute determination to get to the bottom of this nonsense, he finished climbing the stairs.

  He entered the room expecting to see Amanda gracefully dancing across the floor, but what met his searching gaze was organized chaos. Footmen scurried about carrying massive arrangements of greenery, roses, and orange blossoms—Jemmy wondered what his father would say about his precious orange trees being raided for their sweetly scented blooms. A maid, her arms laden with linens, dashed around him. It seemed the entire household occupied the ballroom, what with their cleaning and decorating the long unused room. The Holland covers were gone, the long curtains on the windows were flung back. Even the doorways to the balconies were open, and he wondered wryly if, like Amanda’s windows, they’d had to be chiseled open.

  As he made his way through the busy throng, he found his mother in the middle of the ballroom directing the mayhem like a field marshal sending her troops into a do-or-die battle.

  And there was no sign of Amanda until he heard a despairing cry from the other side of the room.

  “Non! Non! Non, mademoiselle!”

  The lovely music ended abruptly, Mrs. Radleigh’s fingers hovering over the keys. Jemmy’s head swiveled in that direction, and to his delight, there by the pianoforte stood Amanda.

  His breath caught at the sight of her. Her glorious hair was coming down in a shambles of curls, while her cheeks were pink from dancing. There she was, so lovely and vibrant, so very much alive, that he couldn’t believe she had the right of it— she couldn’t be dying.

  “I am so sorry, monsieur,” she was saying. She held her skirt up so her slippers peeked out from beneath the hemline. “I fear when I lose sight of my feet, I never know where they may land.”

  “My toes, mademoiselle! Your foot landed on my toes,” the fussy little man said. His hands went to his hips as he complained further, “How many times must I say it, my toes are not for dancing upon.”

  The flurry of activity in the ballroom paused at this petulant display.

  Lady Finch bustled forward. “Bother your toes, Monsieur Suchet. She only needs to dance well enough to leave her chosen groom able to walk down the aisle unassisted.” Then she shot a glance around the room at her eavesdropping staff, and in an instant they were once again in motion, loyal servants hard at work to see their mistress’s demands met.

  Amanda hadn’t noticed him as yet, and Jemmy watched her intently. How could she be dying? The flush of pink to her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes belied her doomful prediction.

  “I’ve never been very good at dancing,” she said to Lady Finch. “My apologies, monsieur.”

  “You must listen to the music,” Monsieur Suchet was saying, tapping his finger to his ear. “Listen, mademoiselle.”

  “I do,” Amanda said, “but while my ears hear one song, it always seems that my feet are dancing to another.”

  Jemmy wanted to laugh at the incongruity of her logic. He suspected that being contrary was very much a part of her.

  “Start the music again, Mrs. Radleigh,” Lady Finch said, waving her handkerchief at the pianoforte.

  The lady picked up where she’d left off. The dancing master heaved a loud sigh, then began counting aloud to the beat. After a few false starts, he and Amanda began twirling around the room.

  The waltz didn’t last long, for very quickly there was another stumble on the floor. The pair broke up, and the fastidious dancing master erupted into a flurry of angry French.

  This time when Amanda glanced up from examining the damage to the dancing master’s boots, her gaze met Jemmy’s. In an instant, the passion from the night before glowed with recognition.

  He wanted nothing more than to march across the room and kiss her until the fires he’d ignited last night rekindled… convinced him that he’d misheard her.

  That she couldn’t be dying.

  “One last time, mademoiselle,” the dancing master said between clenched teeth.

  “Yes, I would love to,” she said, but her words were for Jemmy and for him alone.

  Mrs. Ra
dleigh began to play, and the dancing master took Amanda in his arms. Slowly, he moved her through the steps of a waltz.

  Instead of watching her feet, Amanda watched Jemmy. And he, her. Airy and light, she swung about the room, her gaze never leaving his. He’d held her less than a handful of times, but he knew every curve of her body, could almost predict the way she moved.

  Please, let her live, he prayed silently. But most of all, let me love her.

  Just then the last notes twinkled from the pianoforte, and Amanda and the dancing master came to an elegant stop.

  “Monsieur, you’ve done it!” Lady Finch declared, clapping her hands and grinning, as did all the servants—probably from relief that this critical step in finding Amanda’s match was finally concluded.

  The dancing master made his bow to Lady Finch, then departed, limping and muttering a litany of complaints as to his poor beleaguered fate, lost and adrift in the graceless ballrooms of England.

  In the meantime, Jemmy’s mother had been taken aside by the seamstress and was consulting on laces, while Amanda stood frozen in place glancing shyly at him. After a few moments she started for one of the chairs.

  Dear Lord, his mother had probably pushed Amanda’s frail health to the very brink.

  “Addison, please get some tea for Miss Smythe,” he ordered as he passed the butler on his way to her side.

  The man nodded and went to fetch a tray, while Jemmy crossed the room, taking in every detail of the lady. How stray tendrils of her hair curled around her ears, how her brow furrowed as she rubbed her feet. He would have kissed that crease away if his mother and the entire staff hadn’t been in the room.

  Oh, damn them all, he’d kiss her anyway.

  “What are you doing—” she began to say as he knelt before her.

  “Shh,” he told her, taking her foot in his hands and rubbing it. “Don’t tax yourself.” He looked into her eyes and nearly drowned in those beautiful green depths. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

  She said nothing, just looked away.

  “How long?” he managed to ask. Gads, he who had longed and prayed for death in his narrow cot in Spain now found himself angry and willing to fight any battle to snatch Amanda away from its cold clutches.

  “Days, maybe weeks,” she whispered, still unwilling to look at him.

  “And you are going to Brighton to see a doctor?”

  She shook her head. “No. For the sea.”

  He wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her correctly. “Sea bathing will save your life?”

  At this she smiled. “No, nothing will do that, but I would like to hear the waves and surf once before I die. And perhaps,” she said, pulling her foot free from his grasp, “put my toes in the water.”

  His heart constricted. Of all the possibilities he’d considered for why she wanted so desperately to go to Brighton—employment, a lover— never once had he considered some fanciful dream to stand on the shore.

  And as much as he intended to be the one who made sure her every wish was granted, he also wanted something else. Something more.

  He took her hands in his. “I’m going to take you to London. I’ll find you a doctor. Someone who knows of these things, someone who knows of a cure.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve already seen the doctor. And he was quite positive that there is nothing to be done. Well, except to wait.”

  Wait? Wait for her to die? Jemmy wasn’t going to stand for that. “Are you sure?”

  Nodding, she bit her lip and looked away. “I was ill all winter. A decline, my mother called it. Recently I just couldn’t get out of bed, and she feared I was about to die, so she summoned the doctor. All the way from London and at great expense.”

  Now it was Jemmy’s turn to nod. “She must have been overcome with worry. No wonder she sought out someone so qualified.”

  To his shock, Amanda laughed. “Not for the reasons you would think.” She looked away again, and this time when she glanced back at him, her eyes brimmed with tears.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What other reasons would there be to call a doctor other than to see you live?”

  Amanda swiped at her cheeks and forced a small smile to her lips. “My mother’s reason had nothing to do with me and everything to do with my sister.”

  “Your sister? Is she ill as well?”

  She laughed again. “No, not at all. Actually, she is due to come out this Season. My mother feared that if I died before then, it would put the family in mourning and my sister would have to put off her debut until next year. My parents hope to see her well-matched and heard rumors the Earl of Symmons was coming to London to look for a bride this spring. My passing would have put a terrible crimp in their plans.”

  Jemmy dropped her hands and stared at her. He’d never heard anything so outrageous in his life. No wonder she didn’t believe in him—with such a family to look after her.

  Across the room, an overburdened maid collided with a footman, and the vase she carried smashed to the floor. Lady Finch hurried into the fray, directing the mess to be cleared and soothing the flustered servants.

  Jemmy rose and ran a hand through his hair. “First of all, I am going to put a stop to all this nonsense. Then you and I are going to—”

  Her hand caught his arm. “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “No. You cannot call this off. It is giving your mother a great deal of pleasure to put on this ball. Let her have her moment of glory.”

  “But you cannot be wed. Not to anyone else but—” He stopped over the last fateful word. Me. His near confession caught his heart. Marry Amanda?

  If someone had told him just two days earlier he was going to meet the woman of his dreams, let alone marry her, he would have scoffed at the notion as pure tomfoolery.

  But now he understood how love happens. As his father would say, one moment there is merely a tiny seed, and then you turn around and something spectacular and unexpected has blossomed, seemingly out of nothing.

  Nothing more than a wrong turn on a country lane. A storm that drove her to seek shelter. A morning ride to visit a friend. A bargain with a matchmaker.

  A bargain he intended to see broken. Just as he intended to find a way to see Amanda live a long and happy life.

  “Miss Smythe! Miss Smythe, where have you gone to?” his mother was calling.

  “I’m here, my lady,” she replied. She leaned closer to Jemmy. “Do not disappoint her. For my sake.”

  What could he do but agree when she turned her pleading gaze upon him? His heart melted, and if this was what Amanda wanted…but that didn’t mean he was going to let her be married off.

  He caught her hand in his once again. “We’ll slip away just before midnight,” he told her. “There will be so many people coming and going, we’ll be able to elude our determined constable.”

  “You’d do all that, risk so much for me?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Until then,” he promised, pressing a quick kiss onto her fingertips.

  “Jemmy, quit pestering Miss Smythe,” his mother said, crossing the room. As she passed the butler who had just arrived with a tea tray, she said, “Addison, tea! How perfect. Please put it in the music room and then find Mrs. Maguire for me. I want her opinion on Miss Smythe’s ball gown.” With the tray set aside and the butler dispatched, the lady turned her attention to Amanda. “Come along, my dear. Mrs. Hanley is here for your fitting. She might not be some fancy imported mantua maker, but I’d put her handiwork and taste up against the best Bond Street seamstress. I think you’ll find the gown she’s designed exquisite.”

  “Mother, I—” Jemmy called after them.

  Amanda swung around, her eyes wide with alarm and betrayal.

  He had to put a stop to this nonsense—didn’t she see that? But one more pleading glance from her green eyes stopped him.

  “What is it, Jemmy?” his mother snapped, her patience wearing thin. He suspected the old dragon had the day planned out to the
last second to see this wretched ball pulled off without a hitch.

  Amanda shook her head, her lips forming two words. No, please.

  “Jemmy, I haven’t all day,” his mother was saying.

  “Yes, well, I wanted to say…that is, I wanted to ask…” He took a deep breath and spit out the first stray thought that came to mind. “I would like the honor of dancing with Miss Smythe in the opening set.”

  “Then ask the gel and be done with it,” his mother said. “But one dance, and that is all you get.”

  Amanda’s eyes sparkled and her mouth curved in a sly smile. “I would be honored, sir.”

  “Bah! What nonsense,” Lady Finch said, waving her hand at her son. “Now go make yourself useful, Jemmy. Your father has wandered off again. Go see to it that he’s found and is reminded to be in attendance tomorrow night. I won’t have Lady Mitton spreading rumors again that I’ve nagged Lord Finch into exile.” With that, she had Amanda hustled into the music room where an impromptu dressmaker’s shop had been set up.

  Amanda turned and smiled at him. Thank you. But only too quickly the double doors were closed on this all too female domain, shutting Jemmy off from her.

  “Nelson, will you look at all the flowers? They add the right touch, now don’t they?”

  Jemmy spun around to find Esme standing in the doorway, a basket in hand and that odd cat of hers poking his head out from under the lid.

  “Her Ladyship is in the music room, ma’am,” one of the maids told her.

  Esme nodded and started off in that direction, but Jemmy stepped in front of her.

  “This match must be called off.”

  Esme glanced up at him, made an inelegant snort, and sidestepped around him.

  Jemmy wasn’t about to be ignored. “Amanda, er, I mean, Miss Smythe isn’t capable of making a marriage.”

  The matchmaker stopped and glanced up at him. As did all the staff in the room.

  Esme noticed their interested gazes and caught Jemmy by the arm, steering him out to one of the balconies.

  “What is this nonsense?” she demanded as she closed the door behind them.

  “As I said, Miss Smythe is incapable of making a match.”