“A practical joke,” Colin put in.
“A practical joke?” Priscilla repeated in disbelief. “On me?” She snapped him on the arm with her folded fan. “How dare you play a practical joke on me.”
Colin rubbed his arm out of reflex, though it didn’t really hurt. Priscilla had put as little enthusiasm into the blow as she gave to everything else. “I play practical jokes on everyone,” he reminded her.
“You don’t play them on me, Colin Chase. They’re stupid and childish, and I won’t stand for it.”
“Don’t you think it’s funny?” The last of Colin’s laughter died. “Don’t you find it amusing that I know you well enough to devise a trap you would fall into perfectly?”
“No. I don’t find it the least bit amusing.” Priscilla turned on Barbara. “My lady, I find it difficult to imagine why you would play along with his trickery—now everyone thinks you’re with child.”
“It doesn’t signify.” Barbara waved a hand airily. “I probably will be with child by the time anyone could discover otherwise. I always am, it seems,” she lamented.
Colin laughed. “You’re a good sport, Barbara.”
“There are those who would disagree,” Barbara pointed out archly. More than one man had met his downfall at the hands of Barbara Palmer. Luckily, Colin and she had grown up together, so he knew her too well to make the sort of blunder that would turn her against him.
And he’d thought he knew his betrothed equally well, but all of a sudden he wasn’t sure. He’d spent all eve trying to get under her skin, and now that he’d accomplished that goal with his practical joke, he rather wished he’d never played it. His relationship with Priscilla had never been complicated—why, now, did he feel so confused?
“Please call for the carriage,” she requested calmly, breaking into his thoughts.
“What?” Colin blinked. Her face had regained its impassive expression. “The evening is still young.”
“We will forget this ever happened. I trust it won’t again. I wish to return home now.”
“Lost your taste for gossip, Lady Priscilla?” Barbara asked sweetly.
The barb went right over Priscilla’s head. “I merely find myself fatigued. Colin?” She took his arm and led him away.
Colin looked back at Barbara, shrugging his shoulders helplessly. She laughed and waved him on before gliding back into the ballroom.
THIRTY-NINE
“I HAVE A headache.” Priscilla lifted her elegant chin and calmly shut her door in Colin’s face.
Now what?
Distracted by his prank, he’d neglected to approach anyone at the ball to arrange lodging. At a loss, he wandered back to his carriage. He wasn’t about to drop in on a friend unannounced. And no one would be in at this hour, regardless; it was much too early for any self-respecting man-about-town to make his way home.
As Benchley opened the carriage door, Colin sighed. “Take me to Whitehall Palace, please.”
At Whitehall, the court stayed up until the wee hours gambling and playing billiards. Colin wasn’t in the mood to enjoy himself, but he forced himself to play anyway. Fortunately, he didn’t lose, but he wasn’t as pleased as he’d normally have been to pocket the few coins he’d won.
And again he’d failed to ask any acquaintances for a bed, so when the sun was about to rise and the games were coming to an end, he made his way back to his carriage and gave Benchley instructions to return to the town house.
No one even knew Amy was there, he rationalized, shoving aside the concerns he’d voiced the day before.
Amy…now there was someone who appreciated his attempts at humor. A vision popped into his head, of Amy laughing the loudest when the joke was on her. Her color high, her rosy lips—
Curse it! He shook his head to clear the image.
He’d suspected from the start that Amy’s request to come to London had been naught but a ploy to stay near him longer. And he hadn’t been ready to part with her, either. But he never should have agreed—he’d known it was a mistake the moment “I’d be happy to take you to London” came out of his mouth.
Now they’d be alone together in the town house. Alone, but surrounded by all of Charles’s gossipy, meddlesome court. London was full of people like Priscilla, bored aristocrats who would gleefully shred an innocent young girl’s reputation before breakfast.
This had been a spectacularly bad idea.
Well, done was done. And luckily, Amy would be sound asleep at this hour. He’d sneak in, get a few hours of rest, and be out again before she awakened.
Where he’d go, in the early hours before noon, when everyone he knew was sleeping off overindulgences of the prior evening, he wasn’t sure. But surely he could find some way to amuse himself. Perhaps he’d call on Priscilla—she’d certainly turned in early enough to receive a morning visitor.
He entered the house quietly and ducked into the study to pour himself a brandy before stealing upstairs. No need to rouse the servants—even a hushed conversation might wake Amy, and he was perfectly capable of putting himself to bed.
Sneaking past her door, he nearly choked on a mouthful of brandy when he heard the unmistakable sound of weeping.
She was awake.
He paused, his fingers drumming on one thigh while he listened. Then he reached for the door latch—and jerked back, almost as though it had burned his fingers.
He knew all too well what could happen if he went in to comfort her. Would it not be kinder to leave her in peace and privacy? There was no sense prolonging the hurt, or giving her false hope. Hardening his heart, he slipped past her chamber and entered his.
But alas, he could still hear Amy through the adjoining wall. Easing the door shut failed to block the sound. He cursed himself for allowing Ida to put her in the room adjacent to his, but he’d thought he wouldn’t be staying here, so it hadn’t occurred to him to interfere.
Sleep would be impossible now, he knew. Every sob was a fresh
