by Lisa Kleypas
A woman’s voice came from the doorway. “Mind what?” It was Lady Westcliff, her slender form clad in a pink gown, her dark hair gathered at the back of her head in shining curls. Her smile was wrought of mischief and easy charm. She held hands with a dark-haired toddler in a blue dress, a miniature version of herself with big round eyes the color of gingerbread.
“My lady…” Amelia and Poppy both bowed. Deciding to be frank, Amelia said, “Lady Westcliff, we were just debating whether or not we should remove our bonnets.”
“Good God, don’t bother with formality,” Lady Westcliff exclaimed, coming in with the child. “Off with the bonnets, by all means. And do call me Lillian. This is my daughter, Merritt. She and I are having a bit of playtime before her morning nap.”
“I hope we’re not interrupting—” Poppy began apologetically.
“Not at all. If you can tolerate our romping during your visit, we’re more than happy to have you. I’ve sent for tea.”
Before long they were all chatting easily. Merritt quickly lost all vestige of shyness and showed them her favorite doll named Annie, and a collection of pebbles and leaves from her pocket. Lady Westcliff—Lillian—was an openly affectionate and playful mother, showing no compunction about kneeling on the floor to look for fallen pebbles beneath the table.
Lillian’s interactions with the child were quite unusual for an aristocratic household. Children were hardly ever brought out to see visitors unless it was a brief presentation, accompanied by a pat on the head and a quick departure. Most women of the countess’s exalted position wouldn’t see their own offspring more than once or twice a day, leaving the majority of child-rearing to the nanny and nursery maids.
“I can’t help wanting to see her,” Lillian explained candidly. “So the nursery servants have learned to tolerate my interference.”
When the tea tray arrived, Annie the doll was propped up on the settee between Poppy and Merritt. The little girl pressed the edge of her teacup against the doll’s painted mouth. “Annie wants more sugar, Mama,” Merritt said.
Lillian grinned, knowing who was going to drink the highly sweetened tea. “Tell Annie we never have more than two lumps in a cup, darling. It will make her ill.”
“But she has a sweet tooth,” the child protested. She added ominously, “A sweet tooth and a temper.”
Lillian shook her head with a tsk-tsk. “Such a headstrong doll. Be firm with her, Merritt.”
Poppy, who had been watching the exchange with a grin, adopted a perplexed look and wriggled slightly on the settee. “Dear me, I do believe I’m sitting on something…” She reached behind her and produced the little wooden horse, pretending she had found it lodged between the settee cushions.
“That’s my horsie,” Merritt exclaimed, her small fingers closing around the object. “I thought he’d run away!”
“Thank goodness,” Lillian said. “Horsie is one of Merritt’s favorite toys. The entire household has been searching for it.”
Amelia’s smile wavered as she met Poppy’s gaze, both of them wondering if it had been discovered that other things were missing. The stolen objects, especially the silver seal, must be returned as soon as possible. She cleared her throat. “My lady … that is, Lillian … if you wouldn’t mind … I should like to know where the convenience is…”
“Oh, certainly. Shall I have a housemaid show you the way, or—”
“No, thank you,” Amelia said hastily.
After receiving Lillian’s matter-of-fact instructions, Amelia excused herself from the parlor, leaving the three of them to continue their tea.
The first room she had to find was the library, where the stereoscope card and the key belonged. Recalling Beatrix’s description of the main floor plan, Amelia hurried along the quiet hallway. She slowed her pace as she saw a maid sweeping the carpet, and tried to look as if she knew where she was going. The maid stopped sweeping and stood aside respectfully as she passed.
Rounding a corner, Amelia found an open door revealing a large library with upper and lower galleries. Better yet, it was empty. She rushed inside and saw a stereoscope on the massive library table. There was a wooden box nearby, stuffed with cards just like the one in her pocket. Tucking the card in with the others, she hurried out of the library, pausing only to insert the key into the empty lock case of the door.
Only one task left—she had to find Lord Westcliff’s private study and return the silver seal. The weight of it bounced uncomfortably against her leg as she walked. Please don’t let Lord Westcliff be there, she thought desperately. Please let it be empty. Please don’t let me be caught.
Beatrix had said the study was close to the library, but the first door Amelia tried turned out to be the music room. Spying another door across the hallway, she discovered a supplies closet filled with pails, brooms, rags, and pots of wax and polish.
“Blast, blast, blast,” she muttered, rushing to another open doorway.
It was a billiards room. And it was occupied by a half-dozen gentlemen involved in a game. Worse, one of them was Christopher Frost. His handsome face was devoid of expression as his gaze met hers.
Amelia stopped, color flaring in her face. “Do excuse me,” she murmured, and fled.
To her dismay, Christopher Frost moved as if to follow her. She was so intent on making her escape that she didn’t see someone cut in front of Frost, neatly blocking him.
“Miss Hathaway.”
At the sound of a man’s voice, Amelia whirled around. She expected to see Christopher Frost, but was startled to find that Cam Rohan had followed her. “Sir.”
Cam Rohan was in his shirtsleeves, and his collar was a bit loose, as if he’d been tugging on it. His jet-black hair was casually disordered, as if he’d recently dragged his fingers through the shining layers. Her heart quickened. She waited stiffly as he approached her in fluid strides.
Lingering in the doorway, Christopher Frost gave them a last frowning glance before retreating into the room.
Rohan reached Amelia and stopped with a nod of greeting. “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked politely. “Have you lost your way?”
Abandoning caution in favor of expediency, Amelia seized a fold of his rolled-up sleeve. “Mr. Rohan, do you know where Lord Westcliff’s study is?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Show me.”
Rohan looked at her with a quizzical smile. “Why?”
“There’s no time to explain. Just take me there now. Please, let’s hurry!”
Obligingly he led her across the hallway, two doors down, into a small rosewood-paneled room. A gentleman’s study. The only ornamentation was a row of rectangular stained-glass windows along one wall. Here was where Marcus, Lord Westcliff, conducted most of his estate business.
Rohan closed the door behind them.
Fumbling in her pocket, Amelia retrieved the heavy silver seal. “Where does this go?”
“On the right side of his desk, near the inkwell,” Rohan said. “How did you come by it?”
“I’ll explain later. I beg you, don’t tell anyone.” She went to place the silver seal on the desk. “I only hope he didn’t notice it was missing.”
“Why would you want it in the first place?” Rohan asked idly. “Resorting to forgery, are we?”
“Forgery!” Amelia turned pale. A letter in Westcliff’s name, sealed with his family emblem, would be a powerful instrument, indeed. What other interpretation could be drawn from the borrowing of the sterling seal? “Oh, no, I wouldn’t have—that is, I didn’t want—”
She was interrupted by the heart-stopping sound of the doorknob turning. In that one instant she was pierced with simultaneous anguish and resignation. It was over. She had been so close, and now she’d been caught, and God knew what the repercussions would be. There was no way to explain her presence in Westcliff’s office other than to divulge Beatrix’s problem, which would bring shame on the family and ruin the girl’s future in polite society. A pe
t lizard was one thing, but thievery was another matter entirely.
All these thoughts flashed through Amelia’s mind in one searing mass. But as she stiffened and waited for the ax to fall, Rohan came to her in two long strides. And before Amelia could move, or think, or even breathe, he had jerked her full length against him, and pulled her head to his.
Rohan kissed her with an indecent frankness that sent her reeling. His arms were firm around her, keeping her steady while his mouth caught hers at just the right angle. Her hands moved in tentative objection, her palms encountering the tough muscles of his chest, the catch of his shirt buttons. He was the only solid thing in a kaleidoscopic world. She stopped pushing as her body absorbed the arousing details of him, the hard masculine contours, the fresh outdoors scent, the sensuous probing of his mouth. She had relived his kiss a thousand times in her dreams. She just hadn’t realized it until now.
Graceful fingers cupped around her neck and jaw, turning her face upward. The tips of his fingers found the fine skin behind her ears, where it met the silken edge of her hairline. And all the while he continued to fill her with concentrated fire, until the inside of her mouth prickled sweetly and her legs shook beneath her. He used his tongue delicately, exploring without haste, entering her repeatedly while she clung to him in bewildered pleasure.
His mouth lifted, his breath a hot caress against her lips. He turned his head as he spoke to whoever had entered the room.
“I beg your pardon, my lord. We wanted a moment of privacy.”
Amelia turned crimson as she followed his gaze to the doorway, where Lord Westcliff stood with an unfathomable expression.
An electric moment passed while Westcliff appeared to marshal his thoughts. His gaze moved to Amelia’s face, then back to Rohan’s. A smile flickered in his dark eyes. “I intend to return in approximately a half hour. It would probably be best if my study were vacated by then.” Giving a courteous nod, he took his leave.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Amelia dropped her forehead to Rohan’s shoulder with a groan. She would have pulled away, but she didn’t trust her knees to hold. “Why did you do that?”
He didn’t look at all repentant. “I had to come up with a reason for both of us to be in here. It seemed the best option.”
Amelia shook her head slowly, still resting her forehead against him. The dry sweetness of his scent reminded her of a sun-warmed meadow. “Do you think he’ll tell anyone?”
“No,” he said immediately, reassuring her. “Westcliff isn’t given to gossip. He won’t say a word to anyone, except…”
“Except?”
“Lady Westcliff. He’ll probably tell her.”
Amelia considered that, thinking perhaps it wasn’t so terrible. Lady Westcliff didn’t seem like the kind of person who would condemn her for this. The countess seemed quite tolerant of scandalous behavior.
“Of course,” Rohan continued, “if Lady Westcliff knows, there’s a high probability she’ll tell Lady St. Vincent, who’s due to arrive with Lord St. Vincent by the end of the week. And since Lady St. Vincent tells her husband everything, he’ll know about it, too. Other than that, no one will find out. Unless…”
Her head jerked upward like a string puppet’s. “Unless what?”
“Unless Lord St. Vincent mentions it to Mr. Hunt, who would undoubtedly tell Mrs. Hunt, and then … everyone would find out.”
“Oh, no. I can’t bear it.”
He gave her an alert glance. “Why? Because you were caught kissing a Gypsy?”
“No, because I’m not the kind of woman who is caught kissing anyone. I don’t have rendezvous! When everyone finds out, I’ll have no dignity left. No reputation. No—What are you smiling at?”
“You. I wouldn’t have expected such melodrama.”
That annoyed Amelia, who was not the kind of woman who indulged in theatrics. She wedged her arms more firmly between them. “My reaction is perfectly reasonable considering—”
“You’re not bad at it.”
She blinked in confusion. “Melodrama?”
“No, kissing. With a little practice, you’d be exceptional. But you need to relax.”
“I don’t want to relax. I don’t want to … oh, dear Lord.” He had bent his head to her throat, searching for the visible thrum of her pulse. A light, hot shock went through her. “Don’t do that,” she said weakly, but he was insistent, his mouth wickedly soft, and her breath hitched as she felt the brush of his tongue.
Her hands shot to his muscle-banked shoulders. “Mr. Rohan, you mustn’t—”
“This is how to kiss, Amelia.” He cradled her head in his palms, deftly tilting it to the side. “Noses go here.” Another disorienting brush of his mouth, a wash of sensual heat. “You taste like sugar and tea.”
“I already know how to kiss!”
“Do you?” His thumb passed over her kiss-heated lips, urging them to part. “Then show me,” he whispered. “Let me in, Amelia.”
Never in her life had she thought a man would say something so outrageous to her. And if the words were improper, the gleam in his eyes was positively immolating.
“I … I’m a spinster.” She offered the word as if it were a talisman. Everyone knew that rakish gentlemen were supposed to leave spinsters alone. But it appeared no one had told Cam Rohan.
A covert smile deepened the corners of his mouth. “That’s not going to keep you safe from me.” She tried to turn away from him, but his hands guided her face back to his. “I can’t seem to leave you alone. In fact, I’m reconsidering my entire policy on spinsters.”
Before she could ask what his policy was, his mouth possessed hers again, while his fingers caressed the taut edge of her jaw, coaxing her to relax. Even in her most ardent moments with Christopher Frost, he had never kissed her like this, as if he were consuming her slowly. His lips rubbed over hers until they caught and sealed warmly, and his tongue found hers. He played with her, stroking and reaching, while his hands gathered her closer. He caressed her back and shoulders, while his lips broke from hers to explore the soft slope of her neck. He found a place that made her writhe, teasing gently until a helpless moan slipped from her throat.
Rohan’s head lifted. His eyes glowed as if brimstone were contained within the dark-rimmed irises. He spoke slowly, as if he were collecting words like fallen leaves. “This is probably a bad idea.”
Amelia nodded shakily. “Yes, Mr. Rohan.”
His fingertips teased a fresh surge of color to the surface of her cheeks. “My name is Cam.”
“I can’t call you that.”
“Why not?”
“You know why,” came her unsteady reproach. A long breath was neatly rifted as she felt his mouth descend to her cheek, exploring the rosy skin. “What does it mean?”
“My name? It’s the Romany word for ‘sun.’”
Amelia could scarcely think. “As in … the offspring of a father, or in the sky?”
“Sky.” He moved to the arch of her eyebrow, kissing the outward tip. “Did you know a Gypsy has three names?”
She shook her head slowly, while his mouth slid across her forehead. He pressed a warm veil of words against her skin. “The first is a secret name a mother whispers into her child’s ear at birth. The second is a tribal name used only by other Gypsies. The third is the name we use with non-Roma.”
His scent was all around her, spare and fresh and delicious. “What is your tribal name?”
He smiled slightly, the shape of his mouth a burning motif against her cheek. “I can’t tell you. I don’t know you well enough yet.”
Yet. The tantalizing promise embedded in that word shortened her breath. “Let me go,” she whispered. “Please, we mustn’t—” But the words were lost as he bent and took her mouth hungrily.
Suffused with pleasure, Amelia groped for his hair, finding acute satisfaction in the slide of heavy silk through her fingers. As he felt her touch him, he gave a low mutter of encouragement. The pattern of his breath
changed, roughened, his kisses turning hard and languorous.
He took what she offered—more—sinking his tongue deeper, gathering sensation. And she responded until her soul was scorched at the edges, and her thoughts had vanished like sparks leaping from a bonfire.
Abruptly Rohan took his mouth from hers and held her tightly, too tightly, against his body. She felt herself straining in a subtle pendulum sway, needing friction, pressure, release. He kept her still, holding her close while she trembled and ached.
Rohan’s grip eased. She was released by gradual degrees until he was finally able to push her away completely.
“Pardon,” he eventually said. She saw the daze of heat in his eyes. “I don’t usually have such a difficult time stopping.”
Amelia nodded blindly and wrapped her arms around herself. She wasn’t aware of her foot’s nervous tapping until Rohan came to her and slid one of his feet beneath her skirts to still her drumming toes.
“Hummingbird,” he whispered. “You’d better go now. If you don’t, I’ll end up compromising you in ways you never knew were possible.”
Amelia was never quite certain how she returned to the parlor without getting lost. She moved as if through the layers of a dream.
Reaching the settee where Poppy sat, Amelia accepted another cup of tea and smiled at little Merritt, who was fishing around in her own cup for a chunk of dropped sugar biscuit, and responded noncommittally to Lillian’s suggestion that the entire Hathaway family join them on a picnic at week’s end.
“I do wish we could have accepted her invitation,” Poppy said wistfully on the way home. “But I suppose that would be asking for trouble, since Leo would probably be objectionable and Beatrix would steal something.”
“And there’s far too much for us to do at Ramsay House,” Amelia added, feeling distracted and distant.
Only one thought was clear in her mind. Cam Rohan would return to London soon. For her own sake—and perhaps his as well—she would have to avoid Stony Cross Park until he was gone.
* * *
Perhaps it was because they were all weary of cleaning, repairing, and organizing, but the entire Hathaway family fell into a desultory mood that evening. Everyone but Leo gathered around the hearth in one of the downstairs rooms, lounging while Win read aloud from a Dickens novel. Merripen occupied a distant corner of the room, near the family but not quite part of it, listening intently. No doubt Win could have read names from an insurance register and he would have found it enthralling.