by Lisa Kleypas
After a while he moved to gather her against him. She reached down to the fastenings of his breeches and worked at them until the garment was loose around his hips. The rigid length of him sprang free. Her hand curled around the burgeoning shape, stroking until Cam jerked back with a gasp.
Her face was flushed, eyes half-closed. She touched him again, urged him forward, instinctively making an open cradle of her hips and legs. He resisted, keeping his weight suspended above her, shielding her from the gaze of moonlight as he spread his fingers and trailed them over the front of her body. She shivered as the tip of his smallest finger brushed the tip of her breast. He traced a circle around it, watching the bud tighten.
“If you want me, love,” he whispered, “tell me in Romany. Please.”
Blindly Amelia turned her head and kissed the curve of his biceps. “What should I say?”
He murmured soft lyrical words, waiting patiently as she repeated them, helping her when she faltered. All the while he positioned himself against her, lower, tighter, and just as the last syllable left her lips, he thrust strongly inside her.
Amelia flinched and cried out in pain, and Cam was torn between acute regret at having hurt her, and the devastating pleasure of being inside her. Her innocent flesh cinched around the unfamiliar invasion, her hips lifting as if to throw him off, but every movement only drew him deeper. He tried to soothe away the hurt, stroking her, kissing her throat and breasts. Taking a rosy crest into his mouth, he sucked lightly, ran his tongue over it, until she relaxed beneath him and began to moan.
Cam couldn’t stop from moving then, forgetting everything but the need to push deeper into the gently gripping flesh, the warm limbs curving around him, the sweet panting mouth beneath his. He whispered compulsively against her lips … one word, over and over, the ecstasy crowning higher every time. “Mandis … mandis…”
Mine.
Feeling the violent spill of release about to begin, Cam withdrew and thrust against the quivering velvet of her stomach. Heat jetted and slid between them. Cam buried his head in the crook of her neck and shoulder, groaning. No feeling had ever come close to this, he thought dizzily. Nothing could.
The pleasure lasted even after his heartbeat had returned to normal and he had regained his ability to think clearly, more or less. Amelia had gone lax beneath him, drowsing and sighing. He had to force himself to withdraw, when all he wanted was to revel in the feel of her.
He used a handkerchief to clean the blood and moisture from her body, dressed her in her nightgown, and went to replenish the fire. When he returned to settle beneath the blankets, Amelia snuggled in the crook of his arm.
Watching the crackling fire, relishing the trusting weight of her head on his shoulder, Cam stroked her hair as it streamed over his arm. She slept heavily, while the fire pitched shadows from her long lashes across her cheeks. Cam looked over her with a lover’s vigilance, absorbing every detail, the feathery edge of her hairline, the neat slope of her nose, the small ears. He wanted to nibble at her ears, play with her, but he would do nothing to disturb her sleep.
He pulled a quilt higher over her snowy shoulder, stroked back a curl that had looped over her ear. Everything had changed, he thought. And there was no turning back.
Chapter Sixteen
Daybreak.
A perfect word for the way the morning had entered the bedroom in pieces, a shard of light falling across her bed, another on the floor between the window and the small hearth.
Amelia blinked and lay for a while in a torpor. There was a fire in the hearth—she must have slept right through the maid lighting the grate.
Fire … Ramsay House … the memory fell on her with an unpleasant thud, and she closed her eyes. They flew open again, however, as she thought of darkness and blue moonlight and warm male flesh. Goose bumps rose all over her.
What had she done?
She was in her bed, with only a murky recollection of riding back when it was still dark, Cam carrying her, tucking the mass of the bedclothes around her as if she were a child. Close your eyes, he had murmured, his hand a comforting pressure on her skull. And she had slept and slept. Now as she squinted at the cheerfully ticking mantel clock, she saw that it was nearly noon.
Panic thrashed inside her, until she reminded herself that it was impractical to panic. Nevertheless, her heart pumped something that seemed too hot and light to be blood, and her breath turned choppy.
She would have liked to persuade herself that it had all been a dream, but her body was still imprinted with the invisible map he had drawn with his lips, tongue, teeth, hands.
Raising her fingertips to her lips, Amelia felt that they were puffier, smoother than usual … they had been licked and abraded by his mouth. Every inch of her body felt sensitive, tender places still harboring an ache of pleasure.
A decent woman should certainly have felt shame over her actions. Amelia felt none. The night had been so extraordinary, so rich and dark and sweet, she would hoard the memory forever. It had been an experience not to be missed, with a man unlike anyone she had ever known or would ever meet again.
But oh, how she hoped he was gone by now.
With any luck, Cam would have already left to take care of his business in London. Amelia wasn’t at all certain she could face him after last night. And she certainly didn’t need the distraction he presented, when there was so much to be decided.
As for the memories of the night with Cam, all of it so gently refracted as if he were a prism her feelings had traveled through … now was not the time to think about any of that. There would be time later. Days, months, years.
Don’t think about it, she told herself sternly, climbing out of bed. She rang for a maid, and fumbled to fasten her robe. In less than a minute, a sturdy light-haired maid with apple cheeks appeared.
“May I have some hot water?” Amelia asked.
“Aye, miss. I can bring some up, or if tha likes, I can draw a bath in the bathing room.” The maid spoke in a broad, warm Yorkshire accent, the r’s slightly rolled, the consonants adhering to the back of her throat.
Amelia nodded at the second suggestion, remembering the modern bath from the previous night. She followed the maid, who identified herself as Betty, out of the room and along the hallway. “How are my sisters and brothers? And Mr. Merripen?”
“Miss Winnifred, Miss Poppy, and Miss Beatrix have all gone downstairs for breakfast,” the maid reported. “The two gentlemen are still abed.”
“Are they ill? Does Mr. Merripen have a fever?”
“Mrs. Briarly, the housekeeper, is of the mind they’re both fine, miss. Only resting.”
“Thank goodness.” Amelia resolved to check on Merripen as soon as she was presentable. Burn wounds were dangerous and unpredictable—she was still quite worried for his sake.
They entered a room with walls covered in pale blue tiling. There was a chaise longue in one corner and a large porcelain tub in another. A richly colored Oriental curtain hung from the ceiling to provide a secluded dressing area. The bathing room was warm, thanks to the fireplace, and a large open wardrobe displayed neatly folded stacks of bath linens, Turkish towels, and various soaps and toiletries. The bath water was heated in the room by some kind of gas apparatus, with taps for cold, hot, or tepid water, and pipes leading outside.
Betty opened the taps and adjusted the water temperature. She laid out bath linens across the chaise longue in a precise row. “Shall I attend while tha bathes, miss?”
“No, thank you,” Amelia said at once. “I’ll manage by myself. If you wouldn’t mind bringing my clothes to the adjoining dressing room…”
“Which dress, miss?”
That stopped Amelia cold. She realized she had come to Stony Cross Manor with no clothes whatsoever. “Oh, dear. I wonder if someone could be sent to Ramsay House to fetch my things…”
“They’re likely all clarty and full of smoke, miss. But Lady St. Vincent had some of her own dresses put in your room—she and
thee are more of a size than Lady Westcliff, who’s taller, so she—”
“Oh, I can’t wear Lady St. Vincent’s clothes,” Amelia said uncomfortably.
“Afraid there’s no help for it, miss. There’s a lovely red woolen—I’ll fetch it for thee.”
Since there appeared to be no possibility of retrieving any of her own gowns, Amelia nodded and murmured her thanks. She went behind the dressing screen and removed her robe, while the housemaid shut off the taps and left the bathing room.
As Amelia stripped away the nightgown and let it drop to the floor, she saw a flash of gold on her left forefinger. Startled, she lifted her hand and examined it. A small gold signet ring with an elaborate engraved initial. It was the one Cam always wore on his smallest finger. He must have put it on her last night, while she was sleeping. Had he meant it as a parting gift? Or did it have some other significance to him?
She tried to pull it off, and discovered it was firmly stuck. “Drat,” she muttered, tugging at the thing in vain. She took a cake of soap from the wardrobe and brought it into the bath with her. The hot water soothed a myriad of small aches and stings, easing the soreness between her thighs.
Sighing deeply, Amelia soaped her hand and went to work on the ring. But no matter how she tried, it wouldn’t budge. Soon the surface of the bathwater was covered with soap froth, and Amelia was cursing with frustration.
She couldn’t let anyone see her wearing one of Cam’s rings. How in God’s name was she supposed to explain how and why she’d gotten it?
After pulling and twisting until her knuckle was swollen, Amelia gave up and finished her bath. She dried herself with a Turkish towel, its pile loose and soft against her skin. Entering the adjoining dressing room, she found Betty waiting for her with an armload of soft wine-colored wool.
“Here is the dress, miss. The dress will look right pretty on thee, with tha dark hair.”
“Lady St. Vincent is too generous.” The piles of crisp frothy undergarments looked so pristine, it was likely they had never been worn. There was even a corset, its white laces as neat as surgical sutures.
“Oh, she has many, many dresses,” Betty confided, handing Amelia a pair of folded drawers and a chemise. “Lord St. Vincent sees to it that his wife is dressed like a queen. I’ll tell thee summat: if she wanted the moon for her looking glass, he’d find a way to pull it down for her.”
“How do you know so much about them?” Amelia asked, hooking the front of the corset while Betty moved behind her to pull the laces.
“I’m Lady St. Vincent’s maid. I travel with her wherever she goes. She bid me to attend thee and the other Miss Hathaways—‘they need special care,’ she said, ‘after what they’ve endured.’”
Amelia held in her breath as the laces were tugged firmly. When they were finally tied, she expelled a quick breath. “That was very kind of her. And you. I hope my family hasn’t been troublesome.”
For some reason that produced a chuckle. “Tha art a shandy lot, if you don’t mind my saying so, miss.” Before Amelia could ask what that meant, the maid exclaimed, “What a small waist tha has! I expect Lady St. Vincent’s dress will fit thee like a glove. But before we try it, tha’d better put thy hosen on.”
Amelia took a handful of translucent black fabric from her. “Hosen?”
“Silk stockings, miss.”
Amelia nearly dropped them. Silk stockings cost a fortune. And these were embroidered with tiny flowers, which made them even more expensive. If she wore them, she would be in terror of snagging them. However, there seemed to be no other choice, short of going without.
“Do put them on,” Betty urged.
With a mixture of temptation and guilt, Amelia dressed in the most luxurious clothes she had ever worn in her life. The dress, lined with silk, was entirely ladylike, but it draped and molded over her figure in a way her own clothes never had. Straight, close-fitting sleeves went to her elbow, where they flared in spills of black lace. The same black lace trimmed the deep bias hem of the skirt, which was layered to suggest a multitude of underskirts. A black satin sash emphasized the neat curve of her waist, the ends crossed and pinned at the side with a sparkling jet brooch.
Sitting at the dressing table, Amelia watched as Betty dexterously braided black ribbons in her hair and pinned it up. Since the maid seemed friendly and talkative, Amelia ventured, “Betty … how long has Lady St. Vincent been acquainted with Mr. Rohan?”
“Since childhood, miss.” Betty grinned. “That Mr. Rohan, he’s a fine doorful of man, aye? You should see the carryings-on when he visits the master’s house—every last one of us fighting for a turn at the keyhole, just to gawp at him.”
“I wonder…” Amelia strove for a casual tone. “Do you think the relationship between Mr. Rohan and Lady St. Vincent was ever…”
“Oh, nay, miss. They was raised like brother and sister. There’s even rumors that Mr. Rohan is her half brother. Wouldn’t be the only bastard child sired by Ivo Jenner, for certain.”
Amelia blinked. “Do you think the rumors are true?”
Betty shook her head. “Lady St. Vincent says nay, there’s no blood ’twixt ’em. And she and Mr. Rohan bear no likeness. But she’s fair fond of him.” With a wry smile, Betty added, “She has warned me and the other maids to keep ourse’en far away from him. She says no good could come of it, and we’d find ourselves tupped and left. He’s a wicked one, that Mr. Rohan. Charming enow to steal the sugar from your punch.” Finishing Amelia’s hair, Betty viewed her with satisfaction, and went to collect the used linens that had been heaped by a chair, including the discarded nightgown.
The maid paused for the measure of two, three seconds, with the nightgown in hand. “Shall I make a pad of clean rags, miss?” she asked carefully. “For thy monthly courses?”
Still pondering the unpalatable phrase “tupped and left,” Amelia shook her head. “No, thank you. It’s not time for—” She stopped with a little shock as she saw what the maid had noticed—a few rusty spots of blood on the nightgown. She blanched.
“Yes, miss.” Folding the gown tightly into the bundle of bedlinens, Betty gave her a neutral smile. “Tha has only to ring, and I’ll come.” She went to the door and let herself out carefully.
Amelia propped her elbows on the dressing table, and rested her forehead on her fists. Heaven help her, there would be talk belowstairs. And until now she had never done anything worthy of gossip.
“Please, please let him be gone,” she whispered.
* * *
Heading downstairs, Amelia mused that she believed in luck after all. It seemed as good a word as any to describe a consistent pattern of things. A dependable, predictable outcome for nearly every situation.
And hers happened to be bad luck.
As she reached the entrance hall, she saw Lady St. Vincent coming in from the back terrace, her cheeks wind-brightened, the hem of her gown littered with bits of leaves and grass. She looked like an untidy angel, with her lovely calm face and rippling red hair, and the playful spray of light gold freckles across her nose.
“How are you feeling?” Lady St. Vincent came to her at once and took her arm. “You look lovely. Your sisters are walking outside, except for Winnifred, who’s having tea on the terrace. Have you eaten yet?”
Amelia shook her head.
“Come to the back terrace, we’ll have a tray brought out.”
“If I’m interrupting you—”
“Not at all,” Lady St. Vincent said gently. “Come.”
Amelia went with her, touched and yet disconcerted by Lady St. Vincent’s solicitous manner.
“My lady,” she said, “thank you for allowing me to wear one of your dresses. I will return it as soon as possible—”
“Call me Evie,” came the warm reply. “And you must keep the dress. It is very becoming on you, and not at all on me. That particular shade of red clashes with my hair.”
“You are too kind,” Amelia said, wishing she didn’t sound so sti
ff, wishing she could accept the gift without feeling the weight of obligation.
But Evie didn’t seem to notice her awkwardness, just reached for her hand and drew it through her arm as they walked, as if Amelia needed to be led like a young girl. “Your sisters will be relieved to see you up and about. They said it was the first time they could ever remember you staying abed so long.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t sleep well. I was … preoccupied.” Color climbed up the pale slopes of Amelia’s cheeks as she thought of lying next to Cam’s body, their clothes disheveled to reveal places of bareness and heat, lips and hands delicately investigating.
“Yes, I’m sure you—” A quick hesitation, then Evie continued in a bemused tone. “I’m sure you had much to consider.”
Following her gaze, Amelia realized that Evie had glanced down at the hand that rested on her sleeve.
She had seen the ring.
Amelia’s fingers curled. She looked up into the countess’s curious blue eyes, and her mind went blank.
“It’s all right,” Evie said, catching Amelia’s hand when she would have withdrawn it, pressing it back to her arm. She smiled. “We must talk, Amelia. I thought he wasn’t quite himself today. Now I understand why.”
There was no need to clarify who “he” was.
“My lady … Evie … there is nothing between Mr. Rohan and myself. Nothing.” Her cheeks burned with agitated color. “I don’t know what you must think of me.”
They paused before the French doors that opened onto the back terrace, and Amelia withdrew her hand from Evie’s arm. Tugging at the ring, which remained stubbornly clamped on her finger, she glanced at Evie in despair. To her astonishment, Evie did not seem at all shocked or critical, but rather understanding. There was something in her face, a sort of tender gravity, that made Amelia think, No wonder Lord St. Vincent is besotted with her.
“I think you’re a capable young woman,” Evie said, “who loves her siblings and bears a great deal of responsibility for them. I think that’s a heavy burden for a woman to carry alone. I also think you have a gift for accepting people as they are. And Cam knows how rare that is.”