Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes Page 12

  She remembered the feeling of his fingertips upon her back as he did up the buttons this morning and shivered at the anticipation of that feeling once more.

  He would see her bare skin, inch after inch of her back, exposed. He would probably get Ideas of the sort that ladies took great care to ensure a man did not get. Lusty thoughts. Wicked thoughts.

  And then what?

  Her lusty thoughts and wicked thoughts dared to consider what then. Amelia wasn’t certain of much, other than that her skin suddenly felt hot, which was remarkable considering this cold, wet dress. She became aware of the beats of her heart. Did it always beat so quickly?

  What would he do when confronted with her, in a state of undress? Would he take advantage—or would nothing happen? After all, had he not had every opportunity to ravish her already?

  There was another question demanding attention with every shiver, heart pound, and blush: What would she do when alone with him whilst in a state of undress?

  She ought to get into a hack right this minute. But she had come this far. In for a penny, in for a pound—was that how the saying went? Perhaps she might as well go all the way . . .

  Chapter 12

  In which they are alone now and there doesn’t seem to be anyone around.

  Sometime after five o’clock

  The flat was empty when they returned. God only knew where Jenkins had gone off to, which was probably for the best. He’d been introduced as a friend, and friends didn’t help friends deal with their attire. Valets did. Only gentlemen had valets. He had not presented himself as the sort of gentleman who had a servant; to reveal one might raise questions. Alistair did not wish to be caught in a lie, at least not now. This day had gone much farther than he had ever dreamt and much farther than necessary.

  He wanted to quit whilst he was ahead, but wasn’t sure how to end their day together. How was he to escort her back to Durham House in broad daylight, whilst maintaining the charade that she would be returning to finishing school?

  Alistair would sit and think about this whilst Amelia changed.

  And she had to remove her dress, just as he had to change his attire as well. Their clothes were wet. They would have to be removed, lest they might contract a fever and die.

  Thus it was not a stretch to say that the removal of their attire was a life-or-death matter.

  Alistair’s mind went places, like, oh, say, places under Amelia’s dress. Because he was not a gentleman. He was a man, tortured with emotions, caught in a ridiculous lie and entangled—possibly entranced—with a pretty woman who was presently in his flat. Alone.

  He thought of her lips and he thought of her skin.

  Skin he would not see and would not caress and would not taste.

  He had done enough damage to her reputation and marital prospects today. He would not take her innocence.

  Besides, if they were to marry—and the idea was becoming less and less about the baron and more and more about his desire—he wanted their wedding night to be special. Meaningful.

  He went into the bedroom to see what Jenkins had left about that she could wear.

  “I apologize that I do not have extra dresses lying around the flat. But you can wear this while yours dries.” He handed her one of his shirts and a pair of his breeches. They were not even remotely going to fit her.

  “You don’t seem to have much lying around at all.” She glanced around and he did too. There was a bare minimum of furniture that came with a furnished flat: the delicate, rickety settee and a mismatched chair or two; the large bed and wardrobe; a small table and chairs in the kitchen. There were no paintings or knickknacks or any such item that would indicate this was someone’s home.

  “I only just arrived in town.”

  “But you have hardly any luggage.”

  She was right. He traveled light, given that he didn’t stay in any one place for very long.

  “The bedroom is through there. You can change. I’ll see about making some tea.”

  He turned to go.

  “I need help with my dress.”

  He paused. Stupid ladies’ dresses, always demanding someone’s attentions. Stupid dress of hers, demanding that he undo button after button, exposing her soft, pale skin.

  Resolve. He needed resolve.

  “Turn around.”

  His voice sounded brusque and bothered by the task. But the truth was that this day had already gone farther than he had intended it to. He’d meant to simply share a meal or enjoy an innocent walk in the park. His only goal had been to have one little excursion, one harmless secret that they could smile about when they met again.

  He wanted to stand out from all her other suitors, that was all.

  And yet now they were here, alone, and he was undressing her, all whilst engaged in an epic battle between his honor and his baser self.

  He would marry her, now for reasons beyond Wrotham, beyond even matters of her reputation and his honor.

  It was because of that moment when he’d opened the door to his flat and found her there waiting. It was because of the way his heart beat faster with the appearance of her dimple when she smiled, because of the sparks of delight when she laughed, and the feeling of connection when her fingers were intertwined with his.

  It might be something like love.

  There was also the matter of the deep-seated feeling of righteousness he felt at this exact moment, when his fingers fumbled with the buttons on her dress. There was something so elementally simple and right about this: a woman in his home, the intimate act of undressing.

  And then, of course, the lust.

  It had been smoldering all day and was now sparking with each button.

  Alistair flicked open the top button. Then the next, then the next.

  Inches of milky white skin were exposed.

  She was holding her breath.

  So was he.

  He undid one button after another. With the last one, he forced himself to turn away. If he looked, he would want. And if he wanted, he would have to resist.

  Alistair had this notion of a proper wedding night.

  The proximity of her bare skin, her lips, her was making him forget.

  “Tea,” he said, voice rough, apropos of nothing. “I’ll just go see about tea.”

  He somehow managed to do so without setting the kitchen afire. She appeared just as he was pouring a second cup. It was only then that he noticed Jenkins had procured another issue of that blasted newspaper with that damned cartoon of her on the front page.

  He didn’t have a chance to get rid of it.

  And then he promptly forgot all about it when he glanced up and saw her standing in the doorway, wearing his clothes. The shirt was open at the neck and she had rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. His breeches were far too large for her, but she had found an old cravat and used it as a makeshift belt. Her feet were bare.

  The whole moment felt so domestic.

  He had just one thought: this is what it feels like to be home. Even in this empty flat. This was the feeling he had sought from England to India and a dozen places in between. This is the feeling he ached for, this is was the reason why he wanted—no, needed—to marry her.

  That, and those lips he wanted to kiss. And those clothes he wanted to strip away from her body.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  “Just some rubbish,” he said. “Tea?”

  “Please.” She smiled, and pulled out a chair and sat down at the small table. He joined her and started to move the newspaper.

  “No—I want to see it.”

  Alistair watched her nervously as she took in every last detail of the cartoon: the stocking feet and little shoes cast aside, the fake faint, the chieftain’s headdress and stars-and-stripes dress, the riding crop. It was over the top, ridiculous—and it declared, with each detail, that she Did Not Belong.

  He knew the feeling.

  Alistair waited for her to say something, probably to the effect of
“that poor girl” or “what a horrid newspaper.” But no.

  “That is not the right size and style riding crop.”

  “Is that something you learned in finishing school? I thought they only taught young women how to arrange flowers and paint watercolors of kittens.”

  “Kittens are remarkably difficult subjects to portray. They never stay still, especially if you give them a ball of yarn. But no, that is not something I learned in finishing school.”

  “They must have noticed you missing by now.”

  He had to say it. If only to ease his own conscience, he had to give her every opportunity to leave.

  “Indeed. Hours ago, probably.”

  She gazed pensively down at the newspaper, not quite meeting his gaze.

  “They must be worried.”

  “Yes.” She fingered the newspaper, looking once more at the cartoon. It was her. It was so undeniably her.

  “We both know I can’t stay much longer,” she said softly. When really, she should never have been here at all. She ought to be tucked into her room in a Mayfair mansion with an army of maids and lady relatives standing guard around her.

  “You have already stayed longer than you should have,” he said softly.

  Every second that she stayed, dressed in his clothes, sipping tea in his kitchen, was another second that he wanted to remove said clothes and carry her off to the bedroom. It was another second his better judgment had to fight his desire.

  He glanced at the open vee at the neck of the shirt. And then glanced down. He was only a man.

  Alistair forced his gaze back to her face.

  “Should, should, should. That’s all a lady ever hears. Though sometimes it’s should not, should not, should not.”

  He leaned forward, half smiling. “And what would you do if there were no rules?”

  She looked down at the newspaper and smiled ruefully.

  “I wouldn’t wear any shoes, like this girl. At the very least, I wouldn’t wear stupid pointy-toe shoes that were a few sizes too small and made not by a cobbler but by someone with a fetish for torturing young ladies,” she said. “And I would wear clothes like yours,” she added.

  “They suit you.”

  “I feel like I can move in them. Breathe in them. Just be in them.” To prove her point, she stood up and started dancing and spinning around the kitchen, like a manic pixie or—a society miss on the run who had finally escaped stupid pointy-toe shoes and everything else that confined her.

  She was laughing and smiling and he couldn’t help but respond in kind.

  “And I would travel all over the world,” she said, pausing to catch her breath. “I would see everything. And I would probably kiss you.”

  5:27 in the evening

  There. She had said it. While she was spinning around like a madwoman and rambling on about all the things she shouldn’t or couldn’t do but wanted to, she went and gave voice to the desire. It’d been simmering all day. And their kiss in the gardens had done little to nothing to satisfy her.

  What she didn’t say was that she would do more than kiss him. Much more. All of the more. She couldn’t help but admit it, now that they were warm and alone. He made her feel things—a spark, a tingle, a new dawning awareness of all the sensations her body was capable of—and she ached to feel them all, intensely and completely.

  Amelia wasn’t worried about how Alistair would react. He was a man, she was a young, not-hideous woman, and those two things usually added up to one thing that even sheltered, innocent society ladies had a clue about.

  So of course she had to say it. At this point, when she was wearing his clothes, standing barefoot in his kitchen after a long day together, there was really no reason not to.

  So she said it.

  And I would kiss you.

  And then she carefully watched his expression. The changes were nearly imperceptible. His eyes darkened, and his gaze dropped to her lips. His grip on a chair back tightened.

  There was a long moment of silence. Doubts did not creep in . . . but anticipation blossomed slowly, intensely, surely. Now she was thinking about it, imagining how his lips were firm but yielding against hers. How she felt the slight scratch of his stubble against her cheek and the manliness of it thrilled her. She imagined how his mouth, and that stubble, and his hands, would feel elsewhere.

  Of course, this was another thing she should not think about.

  But Amelia knew she wanted this. No matter what anyone said. Just imagining it had made her skin tingle in anticipation, heat pool in her belly, and something tighten within.

  Now he was just leaning against the wall, gazing at her with an expression she couldn’t interpret.

  She felt herself pout.

  Wasn’t he supposed to stride across the room in two long masculine strides and sweep her into his muscled arms and crash his mouth down to hers? Wasn’t he supposed to be dying to ravish her? Wasn’t his jaw supposed to be clenched and his knuckles white, all due to his tremendous self-control, battling with his raging desire for her?

  It seemed that Bridget’s books were wrong. It seemed all the warnings were wrong. It seemed that her reputation would be ruined and she wouldn’t have any romance to show for it. And she wanted to know all that, to feel all that.

  Finally, after it felt like eternities had passed, when it had probably been only half a minute, he said something.

  “You’re a bit too far away for kissing.”

  “Yes, I know. You’re supposed to stride across the room and sweep me into your arms and have your mouth crash down on mine.”

  He smiled slightly. Oh God, he was laughing at her. Laughing! She had made herself vulnerable and he had laughed. Her options were to throw herself out the window, or scowl at him. So she scowled.

  “Am I now?”

  “So I’ve been told.” She punctuated this with a shrug designed to convey that she honestly could not even care less.

  “By whom?”

  “You are ruining the moment. If you don’t wish to kiss me, just say so. I’ll think that you’re odd, and I’m sure some other gentleman will want to.”

  5:29 in the evening

  Of course, just when a man decides to be honorable and restrained is when a beautiful woman demands a kiss. Just a kiss. Just his mouth claiming hers in a sweet declaration of desire. As if that was all it ever was. When done right, it was only the beginning. And Alistair did not want to begin what he could not and would not finish today.

  He had an old-fashioned notion about a wedding night. About asking her properly to be his wife. About not irrevocably compromising her—at least not more than he had already done. After a scandalous meeting and even more scandalous courtship, he craved the stamp of respectability on their relationship.

  A kiss would complicate that. Because when he kissed her again, he wasn’t sure that he would be able to stop there.

  But desire for him was plain on her face. He could see in the flush of her cheeks and the darkening of her eyes, and the way she slowly slid her tongue over her lips.

  And then she introduced the idea of another gentleman kissing those lips, threading his fingers through her curls, knowing the curve of her breast, or hearing her soft sigh of pleasure.

  And that was just not to be born.

  The hot streak of jealousy surprised him. When had he begun to feel possessive of her?

  If he was going to lose her, it would not be because he had some noble idea of refusing to do what he desperately wanted to do.

  He stood.

  Gazes, locked.

  Breath, stopped.

  Then he strolled across the room in just two long, powerful strides. He pulled her against his hard chest and his mouth crashed down on hers.

  “Oh!” It was a sharp gasp, a quick sigh and then only the sound of his pounding heart.

  Oh, he was attuned to her wishes. He was so attuned to her everything—the quickness of her breath, the soft little sounds she made when he kissed the gentle s
lope of her neck, the way her little fists grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him closer—that he knew he wasn’t pushing her beyond her limits. Society’s limits, yes. But those had ceased to matter hours ago.

  He slid his fingers through her hair, cradling her head as he kissed her deeply. It was a kiss meant to erase the notion of another gentleman from her mind. Yet Alistair found this kiss might be ruining all other women for him. Her taste, her scent, the way she fit in his arms and the way she kissed him back with such unconcealed pleasure . . . well, a man didn’t find such perfection every day and he didn’t let it go when he did.

  The kiss went on longer than he meant to.

  Probably. Who had any notion of time when kissing a pretty girl? For that matter, who had any notion of propriety or decency or rules at a moment like this? He was aware only of his heart pounding, blood pumping, desire raging.

  And then he paused for a moment.

  “How was that?” God, he was breathless.

  “Perfect.” Her voice was but a whisper and her lips were so plump and red. He wanted to claim them again.

  “Good. Because it is just the beginning.”

  “You know, I’ve been on my feet all day.”

  Words. She said words. It took him a moment to process.

  “You poor thing,” he murmured.

  She gave a coy smile, a very pointed glance and said, “I might like to lie down.”

  His brain was hardly working but he still understood an invitation to bed—to making love—when it smiled, murmured and batted its eyelashes at him.

  And even with his reduced mental capacity, his better judgment was still functioning and communicating with the rest of his brain. He should send her home immediately and untouched.

  Right now.

  This very minute.

  But apparently she wasn’t the only one desperate to just be and feel and love without rules or limits. She pressed her palm against his chest, sliding it down his abdomen. She bit her lower lip. And then her fingers hooked on the waistband of his breeches.

  Alistair was going to marry her—if he didn’t die first. It was entirely possible that he was already halfway in love with her. If not, it was only a matter of time.