He hoisted her up again, and she obligingly cleared her skirts away, leaving no obstacle between them. He nudged her opening with the head of his cock and she made a noise of desperation. He plunged in. She went still in his arms and he worried he had been too rough, too sudden. It had been a while—maybe he was out of practice. He held her close, not daring to move until she was ready. “So good,” he said, kissing her softly. She whimpered into his mouth. “You feel so good.” He shifted his hips and thrust tentatively into her, watching her for any sign of discomfort. But she made a sound of surprised pleasure, and then adjusted her legs around his waist, and the next thing he knew he was holding her entirely off the ground, driving into her as she whispered his name.
One of her hands was on his jaw, holding him still for a kiss, and the other drifted between them, pushing aside skirts and petticoats and touching where they joined. He pulled back with the idea of trying to watch her. He wanted to see what she was doing but an ocean of cotton and linen got in the way. He could see enough to know that she was stroking herself, and just knowing that she was doing so was enough to bring him perilously near the brink of his own climax. She shuddered again, squeezing and clenching him inside her, and with a muttered curse he eased her to the ground and gingerly pulled out of her. He took himself in hand and brought himself off in a few tugs.
“God help me,” he said, catching his breath, one hand planted on the wall near Amelia’s head. “Look at you.” She was the picture of decadence. Red, kiss-swollen lips, hair tumbled around her shoulders, hand still under her dress, skirts still rucked up around her hips. “You look mighty pleased with yourself,” he said, wiping his hand off on his handkerchief.
“I am,” she said. “I’m pleased with you too,” she added with an air of charitable concession.
He laughed and kissed her again, and couldn’t remember if he had ever been so happy in anyone’s arms.
“That wasn’t bad, was it?” Amelia asked after she had made some efforts to rearrange her clothes into a semblance of presentability. They were sitting against the stone wall in a patch of sun. She was wondering if they could stay out here long enough to do that again, preferably with Sydney considerably more disrobed. Between her legs there was a dull ache, but she wanted more of that fullness, more of Sydney’s hands on her, his body pressing against hers.
“Not bad?” Sydney asked. He still looked dazed, which was highly satisfactory from Amelia’s point of view. “How lowering.” But his fingers were twined with Amelia’s and his voice held a hint of a laugh.
“I mean not bad for a novice. I don’t think I was too terribly disappointing,” she said with full confidence she had not been in the least disappointing.
His hand went still against hers. “You hadn’t—you were—Amelia, what are you trying to tell me? When in your letter you wrote that you had previous correspondents, I thought that was a code for—” He rubbed his face over his beard. “I am an idiot. Had you not done that before?”
“No,” she said, dreading the follow-up.
His jaw set and his eyebrows slanted into dark slashes. “Are you telling me you were a virgin?”
She knew she shouldn’t have said anything. But here she was, sated and happy and warm and she stupidly felt like she could be honest with this man. “Don’t be like that,” she said. “Don’t mystify my hymen.”
“Don’t mystify—what—” he sputtered. “I’m not mystifying anything. But you’ve now put me in the position of having deflowered you up against a stone wall.”
“I beg your pardon,” Amelia said, getting to her feet, “I have not been deflowered, as you so vulgarly put it. My hymen—my entire vagina as well as the rest of my body, thank you very much—are mine to do with as I please, with the consent of my lovers—”
“You haven’t had any lovers, that’s the point!” Sydney scrambled to his feet beside her, tucking in his shirt.
“No it is not,” she snapped. “My previous experience of this one specific act has nothing to do with you. I have no duty to tell you. It’s none of your business. Besides, if I had told you, you would have gotten sentimental.” Oh no, she shouldn’t have said that last part. Far better to pretend that sentiment didn’t enter into this, that it didn’t even exist as a possibility between them.
He reached out to brush some dust off her sleeve. “And what’s so wrong with sentiment? I would have taken care, Amelia.”
She glanced away. “I felt very much as if you did care for me,” she said.
“I would have made an effort not to hurt you.” He stepped nearer, and took her hand.
“You didn’t, though. You didn’t hurt me. I enjoyed myself, which I think was abundantly clear, was it not?”
“Yes, but—”
“And I think you did as well?”
He took her other hand and drew her against his chest. “Obviously.”
“Then next time we can have the tearful deflowering you feel I cheated you out of this time,” she offered, feeling diplomatic.
He stared down at her for long enough that she thought he really was upset with her. Then he laughed. “Amelia,” he said when he collected himself. “As long as there is a next time, we can do whatever you please.”
“Well, then,” she said, trying not to sound smug, trying not to acknowledge the warm feeling of softness and fondness that bubbled up inside her whenever she caught his eye. “I suppose that settles it.”
Chapter Nine
“Sydney, I have a matter to discuss with you,” Lex called out when Sydney returned to Pelham Hall. He was lounging on a sofa that had definitely not been there yesterday. Every time Sydney walked into a room, he found that its contents had doubled in both quantity and quality. Leontine sat on a new rug in a patch of sunshine, apparently reassembling the clock that she had taken apart some weeks earlier. “Is something dripping? I hear water. If there’s a leak in this roof I might actually cry.”
“No, it’s me. I went for a swim before coming in.” He hoped Lex couldn’t tell that he was blushing. After parting with Amelia, Sydney had been overheated in both mind and body, so had cast off his boots and coat and jumped into what had once been the trout pond but was now a clear lake. He felt much more sober and serious now, far less like a man who was perilously close to falling in love with a woman for whom this was all a lark. They had never once discussed the future, never even come close to stating what they were to one another, and now Sydney was devastatingly aware that all the idiotic feelings he had let himself acquire were very possibly unreturned.
“You took a—have you run mad? Even in the middle of August, that pond is one step removed from ice.”
“It was perfectly comfortable,” Sydney lied. He had sought out the sudden chill, hoping it would shock his mind into behaving reasonably.
“Get on dry clothes and when you come back you can help make sure that the house is ready for company,” Lex said, as if offering a reward.
“Company,” Sydney repeated, not sure why he was even surprised that Lex took it upon himself to issue invitations to a house that wasn’t even his.
“Carter obliged me by writing out the invitations. All you’ll need to do tomorrow is wear serviceable clothing and greet your guests.”
When Sydney was dry, he returned to the hall.
“The time has come,” Lex said, “for me to divulge to you my scheme. My ulterior motive in coming to Pelham Hall.”
“Oh no,” Sydney groaned.
“Oh yes. I’ve been corresponding with an amateur—decidedly amateur—historian who lives near Heatherby. I wish to make her acquaintance and persuade her of the error of her ways. I’d be grateful if you’d oblige me by reading aloud her latest missive so I can devote my attention to disproving its every thesis.”
As far as schemes went, this was not as bad as Sydney had expected. “Who usually reads and writes your letters?” he asked.
“My secretary,” Lex said. “But he stayed in London because, frankly, he’s used
to better accommodations. No offense meant.”
“None taken,” Sydney said dryly. Well, reading aloud a letter hardly seemed an onerous task. He cleared his throat and got to work.
An hour later he regretted it. He had a headache, a scowling duke, and a child who had stopped playing with the clock in favor of casting intrigued glances at Lex every time he swore. He also had acquired more dubious knowledge about English history than he had ever wanted. Sydney was no student of history, but he was fairly certain that both Lex and his correspondent had the most fanciful notions of what constituted a fact. He would need to ask Amelia the next time he saw her.
He also had the niggling sense that Lex’s correspondent was mocking him. Lex had always been prone to wild eccentricity, and Sydney didn’t like the way this Miss Russell seemed to be laughing at Lex. He felt certain that this woman wouldn’t have been quite as bold had she known she was corresponding with a duke.
“Read it again,” Lex demanded when Sydney finished reading the letter.
“Absolutely not.” There was a good deal Sydney would do for his friend, but spending an entire afternoon reading and rereading that piece of moonshine wasn’t on the list.
Sydney exchanged a glance with the duke’s valet, who had appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray of sandwiches. He gestured for Carter to put the tray on the footstool beside Lex.
“Are we certain these are edible?” Lex asked, sniffing the plate. “Yesterday’s sandwiches consisted of candlewax and tomatoes. The day before her biscuits contained laundry soap. The cook and I continue to have our little disagreements.”
“Is your disagreement over what constitutes food?” Sydney asked.
“She wants a new range, but I can’t purchase her one, because that would be giving in to her demands. But I also can’t sack her, because Carter shamelessly lured her away from the Earl of Stafford and one can’t steal a servant and then send her packing. I’m afraid we’re at an impasse.”
Sydney would remember to walk into the village and purchase something edible for supper. Meanwhile, with the spirit of a man throwing himself into the breach, he took a bite of the sandwich. “Tastes like food,” he declared.
“They must have been made by one of the kitchen maids,” Lex declared. “At least one is a double agent.” He nibbled at the edges of the sandwich in distaste. “Anyway, how is your lady love? Or is it a gentleman?”
“She—what, no, Lex, stop it.”
“I knew it!” Lex crowed.
“There’s nothing to know.” Sydney’s face was hot. Of course it was.
“I knew it was time for you to settle down. Your mother and I will be so proud of you.”
“You think you’re hilarious,” Sydney said, rolling his eyes. He started to smile, but then sternly reminded himself that he could not indulge this sort of fanciful imagining, not without speaking seriously to Amelia. His thoughts insisted on drifting to a hazy future with her. He caught himself wondering whether she would like the house he had engaged in Manchester, considering whether he ought to hire painters or wait for Amelia to choose colors and furnishings that might please her. He was being wildly presumptuous and he knew it. Sydney had gone about this—love affair, or whatever it was—with a recklessness that was entirely new to him. Falling in love with a near stranger and simply hoping for the best was the sort of thing Andrew would have done. It was, in fact, exactly what Andrew had done when he met Penny, and the fact that Sydney only now was realizing that he was in a comparable situation was proof that he was not thinking clearly.
He took a deep breath and rose to his feet. He would need to talk to Amelia, that was all. Tomorrow, on their walk, he’d explain the regrettable state of his heart and ask if she felt the same. That was—well, it was terrifying. But fear was better than uncertainty, and he felt immeasurably better now that he had a plan.
Amelia held the invitation as if it were about to explode.
“You truly don’t need to go,” Georgiana said for perhaps the fifth time.
“It’s addressed to both of us,” Amelia said. That had been a shock, but it shouldn’t have been. Everyone in the village knew that Miss Russell and Miss Allenby lived at Crossbrook Cottage. It was hardly unexpected for a newcomer to familiarize himself with his nearest neighbors; a duke would be conversant enough with the rules of etiquette to understand that an invitation must be extended to all ladies living under a roof.
“Yes, my dear, but you don’t need to go. You may decline the invitation. I’m hardly of an age that I require a chaperone.”
“I’m not worried about you needing a chaperone,” Amelia said. “I’m worried about the fact that we don’t know this man or what his intentions are. As far as he knows, you’re an unmarried woman who has been carrying on a shockingly improper correspondence with him. And even if he doesn’t intend to harm you, he might wish to harm your reputation. We both know that I’m good at heading those sorts of things off at the pass.”
Georgiana gazed at her levelly. “How long was I your governess? You think that after so many years under the same roof as Portia Allenby I don’t know a thing or two about putting overbearing aristocrats in their place?”
“I’ve had more practice,” Amelia said, and it came out more bitterly than she had intended.
Georgiana took hold of her hands, and Amelia realized she had been worrying at an imaginary mark underneath one of her cuffs.
“You don’t have to do this,” Georgiana repeated. “I can’t stop you, but I can tell you that I’m very worried.”
“If I don’t do this now,” Amelia said, “then it means I’m a prisoner here. I need to try.”
“You could start by having tea with the vicar, not calling on a duke,” Georgiana argued.
It was useless trying to explain that in Amelia’s mind the difference was miniscule. Yes, the thought of entering a duke’s drawing room was enough to make her skin crawl, but so was calling at the vicarage. Either way, she’d have to rebuild the defenses that she was just beginning to live without. She thought of how honest, how open, she had felt with Sydney that very morning, and how closed up and false she would have to make herself in order to go through with her plan to visit Pelham Hall.
If she let herself pay attention to her body, she could feel where he had been inside her, where his hands had gripped her hips. She shouldn’t think about that. That woman had been defenseless, which was not something Amelia could afford to be. Not ever.
“In any event,” Amelia said, trying to sound light and easy, “I’ll be glad to see the inside of Pelham Hall. I’ll put it in my next book as a place where somebody awful meets a grisly end.”
“Amelia—” Georgiana protested.
“Don’t worry, silly. We both know I can handle an unpleasant afternoon. I made it through an unpleasant five years.”
The next day she skipped her walk, choosing instead to work herself up to the task of putting on her metaphorical armor. She looked out the window and saw, at the end of the lane, Sydney leaning against the gatepost. She nearly threw open the window and called to him, asked him inside, told him everything that had happened and everything she feared. Instead she drew the curtain and put on her primmest gray gown.
Sydney surveyed the great hall. It had been furnished in a haphazard, make-do sort of way, odds and ends from the attics interspersed with items ordered from farther afield. But there were neither leaks nor broken glass, and so it would have to do. Given that Lex was blind and Sydney did not care for the opinion of a deranged historian or whoever she was, it was fit enough for company.
The duke, however, was decidedly unfit for company. He refused to be shaved, and was currently installed in the center of the drawing room on a throne-like velvet monstrosity that somebody had brought down from the attics. Whether there were mice living in the upholstery seemed very much an open question. He had tripped and hurt his ankle, so he had both legs propped up on a footstool that was shaped like a gargoyle holding a tea tray. Instead of
a normal coat, he wore a banyan of embroidered scarlet silk. He looked utterly louche, like the monarch of a particularly disreputable kingdom. While Sydney would have liked to blame this on the man’s inability to see his own reflection, he knew perfectly well the Duke of Hereford had always been like this.
“At least take off the spectacles,” Sydney suggested when he heard carriage wheels on the drive. Lex had somehow acquired a pair of tinted spectacles that he insisted on wearing to disguise the fact that his eyes were clouded with milky white cataracts and that his gaze wandered. “They look incredibly peculiar.”
“Samuel Pepys had a pair like these when syphilis caused his eyes to fail,” Lex announced.
Sydney pressed his lips together so he wouldn’t laugh. “You say that as if it’s an endorsement.”
“Of course it is. I fully intend to ensure that Miss Russell tells all her correspondents that the pox has ravaged my mind and my body.” He gestured at his leg.
“You don’t have the pox. You tripped over a hedgehog.”
“Hush. That’s the door.” Lex actually rubbed his palms together in anticipation, and Sydney briefly pitied this poor woman who didn’t know what she had gotten herself into.
However, the two women who entered the hall were at first glance so commonplace as to be utterly incongruous in company as outlandish as Lex’s. The woman who was announced as Miss Russell was demurely clad in a muslin gown; she was very pretty, in a wide-eyed sort of way, and it was hard to imagine that she had developed a passion for Richard III. The other woman, clearly Miss Russell’s chaperone, was of an indeterminate age and spinsterish mien, dressed in a frock of gray silk and a bonnet that shielded her face, the entire ensemble so demure Sydney’s own mother wouldn’t have objected to it. As Sydney stood beside Lex, flicking dust off his lapel, Carter announced her as—
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