“It was the bit of fluff that hurt,” Amy countered giddily, reveling in the press of Richard’s hands on the small of her back and the way his green eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled down at her.

“Give me a half century or so, and I’ll make it up to you.”

“I think he’s trying to propose to you,” interjected Henrietta delightedly.

“Don’t you have someplace else you need to be?” scowled Richard.

“You’re going about this all wrong,” interrupted Henrietta again. “You’re supposed to get down on one knee and—argh!” She subsided with a muffled yelp as Lady Uppington clamped a hand over her daughter’s mouth.

“Don’t interrupt them or you’ll spoil it,” Lady Uppington hissed in a stage whisper.

“Can’t you all just go away?” Richard roared.

Amy would have seconded the sentiment had she not been in love with the whole world (even Bonaparte and his Ministry of Police) at that very moment.

“This is all very charming,” announced Miss Gwen, “but I believe you are the one who needs to go away, my lord, before someone from the Ministry of Police alerts the guards at the gates of the city.”

Richard glowered at Miss Gwen before turning back to Amy. Taking her hand, he said softly (the entire assembled crowd strained forward as one) and rapidly, “Amy, I love you. I want to marry you. I’ll get down on as many knees as you require of me—as soon as this lot goes away.” His voice dropped again. “Will you come with me?”

“To the wide world’s end,” replied Amy. “Or to Calais—whichever is closer.”

Richard grinned. “Definitely Calais, then. Does this mean you love me?” he asked in a voice pitched for Amy’s ears only.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

“Ah, my excellent powers of seduction persuaded you . . .”

“Ha!” yelped Miles from the background.

“Oh, do be quiet!” scolded Henrietta, who was quite curious to hear more about seduction techniques, even if they were her brother’s.

Amy bit her lip. “Do you really think we should be talking about seduction in front of your family?”

She looked so adorable in her embarrassment that Richard didn’t much care whether his family was breathing over their shoulders or stranded in the farthest Antipodes. He just knew he had to kiss her. Right that very moment.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, leaning in. “We are going to be married.”

“Oh, in that case . . .”

“Shhh!” Through a fog, Richard heard Henrietta hush Miles on the threshold of a snide comment. “I think he’s going to kiss her!”

Richard’s face froze a hair’s breadth from Amy’s. His jaw clenched. Amy, meanwhile, had gone bright red again, and banged her forehead against Richard’s chest, on the time-honored theory that if she couldn’t see anyone, they couldn’t see her.

“Right,” Richard said through compressed lips. “That’s enough. Let’s go.”

“Wait, we want to see your technique!” Miles jeered. “Ow!” Miss Gwen had applied her parasol to Miles’s arm with immediate effect. “Owww . . .”

“You can’t just take Amy and go!” Lady Uppington protested, looking uncharacteristically perturbed. “I know I’ve been a rather permissive mother”—Henrietta made a noise that quickly turned into a cough—“but I really cannot countenance your going off alone with a young lady of good family. And overnight, no less! No, Richard, you’ll just have to wait until we bring Amy back with us, and then we can arrange everything properly. We’ll have the wedding breakfast at Uppington House, Amy dear, unless you think your aunt and uncle will object? Hmm, I wonder if the dear archbishop . . .”

Amy put her arm firmly through Richard’s. “What if someone were to chaperone us?” She looked appealingly at her cousin. “Jane?”

Jane’s brow furrowed. She clasped her hands together at her waist. “Amy, I’m not going back.”

“What do you mean?” asked Amy.

Little circles of pink burned in Jane’s pale cheeks. “I know it was always your dream, Amy, but, if you don’t mind terribly, I’d like to stay on as the Pink Carnation.”

“Oh. Of course I don’t mind. Just, are you sure that’s what you want, Jane?”

“More than anything,” Jane said simply.

“What is the Pink Carnation?” whispered Richard to Amy.

“I’ll explain later,” Amy whispered back.

“And I”—Miss Gwen thumped her parasol for attention—“am staying with her, so don’t look to me for a chaperone, missy.”

“Not bloody likely,” muttered Richard.

“I’d be your chaperone,” volunteered Henrietta, “only Mama would never let me.”

“Besides,” Miles pointed out, ignoring the increasingly ominous expression on his best friend’s face, “the more people go along, the more difficult it will be to smuggle you all out. Kiss your betrothed good-bye, old chap, and have a pleasant journey home.”

“Enough!” Amy stamped her foot, and the sturdy boot she was wearing made a satisfying reverberation on the cobbles. Whoever had given permission for her future, hers and Richard’s, to be decided by committee? It was time to take action. Grabbing Richard’s hands, she announced, “Richard, I give you my full permission to compromise me.”

“Why aren’t we all that lucky?” sighed Miles into the shocked silence.

“Amy, you don’t mean that,” interjected Lady Uppington.

“I certainly hope you do,” breathed Richard into Amy’s ear.

“Oh, I do,” Amy whispered back wickedly, loving the way his hands started trembling in hers.

“Your reputation . . . ,” continued Lady Uppington.

“If anyone hears that I was alone with Richard, can’t we just bruit it about that we were already secretly married in France? Nobody except all of us here will ever know the difference.” Amy sent an appealing glance around the group in the courtyard. Henrietta looked like she was on the verge of applauding. Miss Gwen eyed her coldly. “Please. I don’t want to be separated again.”

“I second that,” put in Richard, squeezing Amy’s shoulders possessively.

Support came from an entirely unexpected source. From the edge of the group came a rich chuckle. “Who are we to stand in the way of young love, Honoria?” the marquess said good-humoredly. “After all, if you remember . . .”

The marchioness turned bright pink.

The marquess patted his wife’s hand, smiling broadly. “I thought so, my dear.”

Richard looked in horror from one parent to the other. “I don’t want to know. I just don’t want to know,” he muttered.

“You shall use your consequence to protect Miss Balcourt’s reputation, and no one will dare to say anything against her.”

Amy liked Lord Uppington more by the moment. She beamed at the marquess, and nearly dropped Richard’s hand with shock when Richard’s dignified father dipped an eyelid at her in a small but undeniable wink. “Welcome to the family, my dear. Now don’t you think you ought to be going?”

Chapter Forty

“You do know that I didn’t consider you an infatuation, a light-skirt, or a bit of fluff?” Richard said for at least the tenth time since they had left Paris.

Amy snuggled into the curve of his arm, feeling more perfectly happy than she had since . . . well, than ever. On the desperate ride from Paris to Calais, she and Richard had been hidden, rather uncomfortably, in large wine barrels. But Amy hadn’t felt any of the pins and needles in her legs or cramps in her arms, because every so often Richard would whisper through the bunghole in his barrel to the bunghole in her barrel to reassure her of his deep and sincere sentiments for her. Amy finally understood what Hamlet meant when he said he could be banded in a nutshell and count himself king of infinite space; it perfectly described how she felt about Richard. She might be squinched into a shape resembling a giant walnut, but every time Richard said something like, “I couldn’t sleep all last week for thinking of you,” her spirit soared to heights beyond the infinite.

Of course, she was rather glad to be out of that barrel, infinite space and all. Trying to kiss Richard through the barrels’ bungholes had resulted in a splinter in her lip.

Amy took advantage of being uncasked to press a kiss to the hand that was stroking her hair. “You can keep trying to convince me of it for, oh, the next sixty or so years.”

Richard considered. It sounded to him like a very good bargain, especially once he factored in the different ways he could persuade Amy of the extent and durability of his affections. Most of them involved removing a great deal of clothing.

“That sounds fair,” Richard assented.

They were standing on the deck of Marston’s boat, watching the widening strip of water that separated them from Calais, France, and the infuriated minions of the Ministry of Police. Marston’s crew, at the sight of a few gold pieces, had happily defected to the nearby taverns and been replaced by Richard’s staff. Richard only hoped that at least one or two of his men knew something about sailing, or it might be a very wet swim home. On the other hand, Richard reflected, Amy would look rather nice wet. He considered the subject more deeply, and decided the same pleasing effect could be obtained with rather less risk to their lives in the privacy of their own room with the help of a bathtub and some nice fluffy towels. And maybe some oils . . .

Richard groaned.

“Are you all right?” Amy asked drowsily, her sleepless night in a barrel beginning to catch up with her. She turned languidly in Richard’s embrace to glance up at his face, which had the unfortunate corollary of bringing her breasts into contact with his side.