Dukes of War #1: The Viscount's Tempting Minx

Chapter Five

The next morning, Amelia did not waste her time sending Lord Sheffield a report on the benefits and conveniences of Almack’s. In fact, she did not write him at all.

Although she was unquestionably out of favor with Lady Jersey at the moment, the countess was not known to hold grudges, and Amelia had every faith that their unexceptional past history—and Lord Sheffield’s outspoken role in yesterday’s dustup—would soon mend the ladies’ broken fences. Everything was going according to plan.

Lord Sheffield sent his first missive at ten in the morning. His second missive arrived at two in the afternoon. Amelia ignored them both. At six o’clock, she tied on her prettiest bonnet and breezed out the front door just as a coach-and-four bearing the viscount’s crest pulled onto the circular drive.

She smiled. He was right on time.

He leapt from his carriage just as she approached the door. “What do you mean by not responding to my missives? I sent a man with the first one to wait for a response, and had to send another just to fetch him home!” He grabbed her by the hands. “Are you cross with me? I won’t allow the Jersey woman to take my ill behavior out on you. I even sent a flowery letter full of every lie I could think of to restore her good temper but I swear to you, Lady Amelia—” He straightened his shoulders. “Even if my plea for forgiveness succeeds, I will not have a Christmastide ball constrained to those edicts.”

“Of course not,” she said soothingly, then tilted her head toward his open carriage door. “Help me up?”

He swung her up and into the coach without pausing to ask why. Amelia found the ensuing consternation upon his handsome visage to be quite comical, though she strove to keep her amusement hidden from her face.

Lord Sheffield stared up at her from the icy drive as if he couldn’t quite credit how or why they had switched places. He shook his head and hefted himself back into the carriage. “Are we going somewhere?” 

This time, he seated himself beside her rather than across from her. Her heartbeat quickened. He took up far too much space. The presence of his body snug against hers heated her flesh far more efficiently than any warming brick might have done.

“Vauxhall,” she answered, without demanding he switch seats. After all, it was his carriage. And a Pembroke was never presumptuous.

His bright hazel eyes widened in surprise. “The pleasure gardens? Aren’t they closed for the winter?”

“They do not have to be,” she told him. “Like Almack’s, Vauxhall Gardens is a favorite spot for entertainment. Unlike Almack’s, there are few rules governing admittance. Your entire guest list would be welcome.”

His lip curled. “Further unlike Almack’s, people visit pleasure gardens for fun.”

“You don’t have fun at Almack’s?” she asked, too innocently.

“Tisn’t called the Marriage Mart because it’s conducive to bachelorhood.” His brow furrowed. “Speaking of which, why haven’t you got leg-shackled? You’ve got beauty, brains, elegance, and—as you previously mentioned—aren’t hurting for coin. I cannot credit that a woman with your wit, looks, and politesse should have any trouble at all collecting suitors.”

“’Tis my personality,” she sighed, affecting a morose expression. “I cannot conceive why my beaux object to my running every aspect of their lives.”

“Myopic pups, indeed.” The corners of his mouth quirked. “Have you considered—between now and any future leg-shackling, that is—the possibility of spending some time not running things?”