Amanda was humiliated beyond belief at his refusal, even insulted. Her eyes darted back and forth while her brain tried desperately to catch up. “But I was led to believe all aristocratic Englishmen want a widow to bed so you did not need to marry. Don’t you know this, you ill-tempered person?” She shoved his shoulder in her anger. “Oooh, you aggravating man! I cannot believe how pigheaded you are, and here I was expecting you to be happy! I was expecting you to be thrilled! You are spoiling everything!”

Fitzwilliam coming to court her at Penwood was unthinkable. It terrified her. Her mother-in-law would throw her out into the street and bar the door. There was slim chance of a secret liaison succeeding, let alone a marriage! He must be mad, she thought. Marriage?! A marriage would have to be grabbed in snatches. He would have to accept second place to her son. How soon would it be before he grew to hate her, grew tired of the lies, and asserted his lawful rights over her as his possession?

No, she would have to remain single and in control of her own life. But she wanted him so frantically. She loved him so very deeply.

She just wanted to kill him.

“Please control your temper, madam. Remember, we are in a church.” Fitzwilliam dragged her by the wrist to a more isolated area of the back of the church. When they had at last reached a secluded alcove, he paced back and forth in frustration, raking his hand through his already tousled hair.

“This must be some new ring of hell of which I was unaware,” he muttered, his tone gruff with anger.

In response to this, her arms crossed before her, and her foot rapidly tapped.

“Now, I take it that you doubt the possibility that we can adapt to a marriage that would accommodate your temporary problem with your mother-in-law’s custody of your child.”

He saw the hesitancy in her eyes as they quickly searched his. This is splendid, her heart began to soar. Perhaps he does understand. That is precisely the problem in a nutshell. “Well, yes. I am afraid that marriage is just not possible for me at this time.”

Grunting, he shook his head. For heaven’s sake, he fumed, he could not, in all good conscience, allow her to embark on a relationship with him that would harm her in any way. Her culture was not like his culture, and he realized what she did not, that her preferred course would only lead to tremendous emotional upheaval and guilt for her. He would protect her, even from herself. He loved her beyond all reason, beyond himself.

He just wanted to kill her.

Amanda had spotted the old priest walking toward them and sucked in her breath. She leaned toward Fitzwilliam. “You have possibly forty seconds left to decide. Oh, merciful St. Jude, Father Riley is scowling and is heading toward us. It is mistress or nothing, Colonel. Where do we meet and when?” Amanda’s heart stopped. She waited.

Fitzwilliam could hear the voice of the old priest getting nearer and nearer as he greeted the few others that had remained after mass.

“Ye gods! Twenty seconds,” she whispered hysterically.

“All right, all right! I cannot believe you are forcing me to do this!” All these months he had been proudly mending his ways, removing ties to the darker sides of his life, and now desired only to take his place as a respectable member of society and set up his nursery with the woman he loved. He was livid. “What days do you attend the hospital?”

“Tuesdays or Thursdays usually, occasionally both.”

“Bloody hell! All right, madam, all right. Thursday morning I will send my batman, O’Malley, to meet you at the hospital. Just so that we are clear, I believe you to be seriously deranged. I am agreeing to this fiasco on one condition alone, and that is that we are meeting to discuss our situation! I am in no way sanctioning any sort of liaison.”

“Amanda, will you introduce me to this great, huge, hulking English soldier who is inhaling all the breathable air from my church?” Father Riley had arrived.

Chapter 15

It had been a trying and busy few days for the colonel. They were to have their “discussion” at the Lions Head Inn, an elegant and discreet place just outside the center of London, a place where Fitzwilliam had brought many ladies of quality over the years. Too many, he soon realized as the staff hailed him warmly, and he, in turn, found he was able to inquire by name after family members. He was an important patron, and as such, one of the best rooms was always held in reserve for his use alone, overlooking the exquisite back garden and not the front street with the noise and pollution.

Extremely well-to-do merchants, daring members of the ton, and visiting dignitaries mingled, along with anonymous travelers, all scurrying back and forth, assiduously minding their own affairs. There was no permanent housing or residences in the area—an area where there was deliberate inattention to who was doing what to whom. Everyone was anonymous and treated with the utmost discretion.

He had been pacing nervously, wiping sweaty palms, and trying to calm a pounding heart, but his resolve remained steadfast. A part of him worried that she wouldn’t come even as another part worried that she would. He patted once again the packet of papers within his coat.

At last there was a soft knock on the door before it was opened by an older matron in a white ruffled mobcap and black dress with white apron, remnants from a much older, more formal time. Following closely behind came a walking pile of dripping wet veils and hooded cloak. Her boots were squishing water.

“Terrible it is out, Colonel. Quite a rumpus of a storm blowin’ out there.” The round-faced little woman had escorted Amanda up to the room, and then followed her inside, advancing with bold curiosity to the fireplace to better view the removal of her veil. “Can I get anythin’ else for ye, Colonel?” she asked brightly, never taking her eyes from the back of the sodden and discreetly obscured visitor. “For you and yer fine lady both?”

“No, no, thank you, Mrs. Beale.” He pressed several coins into her hand and turned her by her elbow to leave. “We will not require anything more from you or your fine staff. All is well.”

“I imagine she’s a real beauty, Colonel, under all that muck. Poor mite is freezin’ and wet, I am sure. I must say she be very polite, very genteel-like.” The old woman peeked around his shoulder as he pressed her farther toward the door. “Best to remove all yer clothes, luv, quick as ye can, before you catch yer death.” She looked up at Fitzwilliam and winked. “There, dearie, saved ye some time, Colonel. She be the sweetest and the nicest…”

“Yes, yes, she’s a real peach. That will be all. Thank you so much, madam. Don’t let the door catch your skirt. Please see that we are not disturbed. Thank you…” Even as the matron curtseyed, she pressed her face as far as possible to the side until the door was finally closed on her view.

Fitzwilliam looked over his shoulder, not even certain it was Amanda within, hiding her appearance. “How in hell can you see under all that?” He turned to face her fully after locking the door.

She lifted the heavy black veils and smiled. “It is good to see you also, Richard. This is such a charming inn. I think I recognized several prominent people attempting to keep their faces hidden behind palm fronds. I was quite impressed.” Her overly big woolen cloak was dripping wet and so was placed neatly on a chair near the fire to dry, alongside the veils. “No wonder parliament always recesses so early in the winter. They’ve such a long journey to reach here before dark.”

Layers of outer gear had not prevented her clothes from becoming wet, while gusty winds had loosened her hair from her chignon. She was freezing. First rubbing her arms briskly in an attempt to restart her circulation, she then primly smoothed back the dripping tendrils from her face, finally straightening the skirt of her wet, dark grey dress to shyly turn and face him. She looked like a schoolgirl on her first day of class.

Even in such disarray, he found her striking beauty astonishing, and that caused him to renew mentally his vow to spend this time with her only in outlining his “perfect solution” to their problems. “Would you care for a glass of wine?” Fitzwilliam’s heart raced as he walked over to the side table where a bottle of claret waited to be opened, along with a pot of steaming coffee and buttered scones. “Or would you prefer coffee or tea?”

She looked up briefly from her intense study of the room. “For myself, it is a little early for wine. However, hot coffee would be very welcome, thank you.”

He raked a hand through his unruly hair, wishing to give himself a moment before he reached down for the coffee and cups. He was surprised that his hands shook, and three times he asked if she wanted cream and sugar, to which she always patiently replied, “Just cream, thank you.

“She seemed to know you extremely well,” commented Amanda as she turned to face the hearth, warming her hands before the fire.

“Of whom are you speaking? Oh, you refer to Mrs. Beale. No, not really. It is just good business to make patrons feel important and call them by name.” Fitzwilliam cleared his throat nervously.

“Really?” she said. “That’s odd, since she told me on the way up the stairs that you kept regular rooms here to meet with your ‘special friends,’ but that this day you had requested a better, larger room. She was quite impressed with me because of that, I believe.”

Richard growled, silently mouthing earthy expletives as he poured a second glass of wine for himself, having already gulped down his first. He forced his voice to sound relaxed. “I sometimes have occasion to stay here with out-of-town guests, since my family no longer keeps a home in town. It is not always possible to impose upon Darcy’s good nature.”