Free The Ardent Lady Amelia by Laura Matthews Page A

say about Napoleon, but there were those whose attachment to their heritage made it seem beneficial for the French nation to conquer as much of the Continent as possible, Napoleon notwithstanding.
    Amelia’s first exchanges with M. Chartier had convinced her it would be worthwhile to learn a little more about him. A Frenchman living on the south coast could do a great deal of damage to the English, if he had a mind to. There was also his Gallic excitability to arouse her curiosity. He spoke passionately on any subject that surfaced, from horse racing to the more curious customs of English society, such as the fact that the kissing of ladies’ hands had gone out of style here. M. Chartier considered it a travesty that such a time-honored tradition should be so callously set aside.
    There were other things about him which disturbed her: his obvious attempt to ingratiate himself with gentlemen who were knowledgeable about the English position regarding the war with France; his lack of friendship with other French émigrés; his shifty eyes. This last bore no small amount of weight with her. Amelia was convinced you could tell a great deal about a person by his eyes.
    After the episode on the balcony, M. Chartier had changed his attitude toward her. He had never once looked her straight in the eye. Strange, that. For the last week or so, she hadn’t seen him at all, and had rather hoped he’d disappeared from the London scene altogether. But, no, here he was with a beautiful girl in tow, a sparkling-eyed French beauty whom he identified, to Peter and Lord Verwood, as his sister, Veronique Chartier. M. Chartier seemed reluctant to introduce her to Amelia, though he had very little choice in the matter. He managed not to meet her eyes, and to mumble her name.
    Amelia was surprised to hear Lord Verwood addressed with great familiarity by the Frenchman. M. Chartier was smiling and bowing and generally fawning all over the place when he got to the viscount. “This is my sister, of whom I have spoken to you, milord. You were so kind as to give me your advice concerning her introduction to London, and I’m pleased that you are one of the first gentlemen to whom I present her.”
    If Amelia expected the viscount to depress this sort of pretension, she was much mistaken. He greeted Mademoiselle Chartier with more finesse than she had previously believed him capable of, and went so far as to congratulate M. Chartier on having so lovely a relative. Really, it was quite sickening. But what distressed her most of all was Peter.
    At five-and-twenty, the Earl of Welsford seemed to have entirely escaped being touched by even the greatest beauties of the day. A very eligible bachelor, he had spent large amounts of time dallying with this young lady and then that one. He had a reputation for charm and wit; his looks were admired; his title and wealth were the envy of many. Amelia had known several women who would have been thrilled to elicit the kind of look Peter now gave Mademoiselle Chartier. It was compounded of frank admiration, a dreamy kind of awe, and, worst of all, just the slightest element of surprise.
    “Has anyone solicited the first set with you, Mademoiselle Chartier?” he inquired.
    “No, milord,” she replied, her eyes modestly downcast.
    “Then I wonder if you would do me the honor.”
    The biggest, bluest eyes Amelia had ever seen slowly swept up to meet his gaze. They were filled with innocence, humor, even a touch of self-mockery. “Nothing would please me more,” she sighed, and offered him her hand.
    As Amelia watched them walk onto the dance floor, she felt a momentary touch of alarm and found that her own gaze automatically lifted to Lord Verwood. He let out an inaudible exclamation as he, too, watched the couple, and then turned brusquely to her to ask, “Shall we join this set, Lady Amelia?”
    None of his polite phrases for her, of course. He almost made it sound as though she expected him to ask her, which