Free My Runaway Heart by Miriam Minger Page A

Aye, and no more. If
Lord Giles's intentions are as honorable as ye say, and he's willing to escort ye about the city with no proper chaperone, then I expect he'll
soon be making a formal proposal to Lady Penney about taking ye for his wife.
Mayhap this very morning he's even posted a letter to Sir Randolph asking for yer hand in God's holy matrimony—to my mind a prudent thing
to do, given last night."
    With that Matilda rose from the chair and bustled to
the door, leaving Lindsay so stunned that she merely stared after her.
    "Back to bed with ye, miss, and finish yer willow bark tea," came a final admonishment right
before Matilda disappeared into the hall. "I'll call for a bath so ye can
wash the last of that stench from yer hair."
    Lindsay barely heard her, her head pounding twice as
hard.
    One week.
    One week to show Jared she was as bold and
adventuresome as he could hope for in a bride—and surely last night she had
impressed upon him that she wasn't like most other marriageable young women in
London for the Season. Would any of them have dared venture out late at night
to see more of the city? Dared to enter a place called Tom's Cellar and down
enough ale to—
    Lindsay didn't finish the thought, her stomach lurching
so crazily that she knew she was going to be sick. She barely made it to the
chamber pot . . . so much for Matilda's willow bark tea making her feel any
better. When she was done she collapsed upon the bed, wondering weakly how she
might contact Jared.
    Except she had no idea where in the West End he
resided, the realization striking her with fresh intensity that she really knew
so little about him. Only that he was an earl and a
spy who found some solace in raucous places like Tom's Cellar—making Lindsay
groan and roll over onto her side, away from the blinding morning sunlight
streaming through the windows.
    Yet she indistinctly remembered him saying something
about India—yes, she was almost certain of it, the fuzzy memory becoming more
focused. Something about Calcutta and pineapples and sweet cherry brandy, and
then he had . . .
    "Lindsay, are you awake? Oh, my dear girl, such
wonderful news! Wonderful news!"
    Groaning to herself, Lindsay sat up just as Aunt
Winifred burst into the room in a flurry of pink silk, her two Welsh corgis,
Primrose and Ignatius, as sturdy as sausages, trotting obediently in her wake.
    "I thought it would never come—what a dreadful
slight that would have been—but my dear friend Lady Sefton didn't fail me. Look!"
    As Aunt Winifred excitedly waved an ivory-colored card,
Lindsay forced a smile even though she felt her spirits sinking. "A
letter, Aunt Winnie?" she asked stupidly, knowing better but wishing all
the same that Primrose and Ignatius might transform themselves from docile pets
into frenzied hounds with a penchant for chewing paper.
    "A letter? Of course not, dear child, it's a
voucher of admission to Almack's ! We'll be attending
a ball there this very night! Oh, this is wonderful. Olympia will be so
pleased. Only the very best sort are invited to join
by the Lady Patronesses—you won't fail to make an excellent match now!"
    As Aunt Winifred hurried across the room and flung open
the doors to the wardrobe, Lindsay's smile faded, the prospect of another ball,
especially this one, making her head doubly ache.
    A few weeks ago she might have jumped with delight at
the invitation, but Almack's , well known as the
shrine of the socially unblemished, was hardly a place where she might find
Jared. With his blighted reputation, no matter how unjustly earned, she doubted
that he would make it past the hallowed front portal. Yet she could always hope
. . .
    "Oh, my, yes, this blue silk will be perfect!"
Aunt Winifred spun back to the bed, her kind gray eyes misted with tears as she
clasped the gown to her ample bosom. "If I'd had a daughter, I would have
wished such an honor for her. But that you're my beloved brother Randolph's
child and my own dear niece, ah, such