“I do understand what that is like,” Amy said with a small laugh. The reminder that she had also allowed herself to be persuaded to an improper match somehow comforted him, and it gave him the courage to speak. A noise from another room in the apartment reminded him that they were not alone.
“Despite the six years that have passed since we last met, my feelings for you have gone through very little change. They were merely ... buried.” He saw a softening in her expression, but she waited for him to continue without giving any sign of her thoughts. What did he expect? That she would start professing her sentiments when the lie of his betrothal negated what he had just said? He rushed on.
“My reasons for proposing to Miss Prexley had little to do with any tender emotion. Once I thought I had lost you, I assumed that any chance I might have for a love match was over, for I could not seem to interest myself in another woman. I always compared them to you.”
James was glad to be able to explain himself at last. To bring everything into the open. His chest ached from long-suppressed love for Amy—ached as those feelings came rushing back as strong as ever. There was a warmth in her large brown eyes that did nothing to tame it, and he wished for nothing more than to lean in and kiss her.
“I offered for her because I needed to make a living, and my trust was completely swallowed up in the Tonnelet baths.” He forced himself to smile, despite the weightier feelings. “It was a risk, but I was certain of their effectiveness—and still am.”
Amy nodded, watching him. He exhaled, knowing he had to make a clean breast of it if they were to build a solid foundation for their future.
“I also foolishly told Mr. Prexley of my expected inheritance, which was the only reason for Isabel accepting my suit. He was on the point of retiring and indicated that he would be open to handing over his patients at the end of the season were I to marry his daughter.” James flushed with embarrassment at the admission, but he would keep nothing from her. “This was my reason for proposing to her initially, although I hoped we might deal well together.”
“I understand.”
Her soft voice brought his eyes to hers, and he searched them to see if she would receive what he was about to say. Did he still have a hope of winning her? Was her heart open to a second chance? Even if it was not, he did not think he could keep his feelings in any longer.
“However, I find myself in a lamentable situation still. My heart is yours, Amy, and I would offer you my hand in marriage today if I thought I could do so honorably.” He willed her to believe him. “But I cannot.”
A flush rose up in Amy’s cheeks, and she broke his gaze. “I never asked it of you.” The hurt in those words hit James squarely in the chest.
“You did not, but I feel myself obligated to clarify.” He had upset her and felt himself to be the biggest cur. “I came today to explain why I have not yet approached you, even though I was at liberty to do so. I am currently living in very straitened circumstances. Without my expected inheritance, this is not likely to change quickly.”
Amy remained silent, and James wished she would look at him again. He needed her to understand—hoped she would accept him as he was.
“So that you know all, I am living hand-to-mouth as it is andcannot support a wife. This is the only reason I have not sought you out or requested an audience with your father. Even though I wish I could marry you, I truly cannot.” He had belabored the point more than was flattering to either of them.
Amy stood, the evidence of her emotions in the suddenness of it. He leaped to his feet, overwhelmed by the desperate need to reassure her. His powerlessness kept his hands at his sides as she faced him.
“You need not worry about any obligation you feel toward me. We are to leave Spa in two days,” she said, her voice tight. “I believe my father is motivated by his consideration for Marianne, so she will not have to meet Mr. Lambert in society.”
“It is not out of obligation that I speak....” A shaft of alarm went through him, and gripped by a sense of urgency, he reached out to clasp her hands. The warm touch brought her gaze up to his.
“I will write, Amy. If you are willing to receive my letters, I will write to you. And I will throw my heart into creating the means to support a wife so that I might make you mine, if you are content to wait for an indeterminate amount of time. That, and if you will settle for a man with a modest living.”
She did not speak, and there was a sheen to her eyes. The sight of it compelled him to pull her closer. Surely he did no wrong in doing so. Their history was such that she must know of his deep attachment. Besides, it was easier to persuade her like this, he reasoned.
“I won’t exact any promise from you in return. You will be at liberty to marry someone else if you grow tired of waiting, for it is not fair of me to ask anything of you. But I cannot let you go without at least making the attempt—without laying bare my feelings for you.”
Her face was heightened in color, and she did not speak, although she allowed her hands to rest in his. He would settle for the smallest sign of agreement and urged again, “May I write to you?”
Her lips curled upward by a fraction, and this time she looked up. “You may.”
His heart roared in response. It was more than he deserved, and he meant to lean in merely to kiss her cheek—a liberty he should not have taken, no matter how small. However, she had not anticipated his gesture and turned her face at the last minute so that he kissed her mouth. The touch of their lips shot right through him, and he stood frozen with the force of his attraction. He could not pull away.
After a weightless second, she pulled back, blinking at him. Time stretched, but she did not step away either.
James breathed in and out, his gaze locked on hers, attempting to keep himself in check. It was a losing battle. Impossible to see that dear face once again so close and not do what he had long desired to do. He slipped his hands around her tight waist and swiftly pulled her to him.
Tilting his face, he very deliberately kissed her, an insatiate kiss born of six years of famine. It was not the fumbling kiss of a young man, fresh from Oxford, about to embark on the school of life. It was a kiss full of life’s experience, encompassing all the pent-up memories, regret, delay, and longing.
It was a kiss that, not a minute later, would make him wish to bang his head against the wall rather than own to his folly. He had just told her he could not marry her and that he would not exact a promise from her. And then he didthis. Wisdom marched backward in time and took him by the scruff of the neck, and only then did he step away. His neck and face had grown warm, and there were crimson spots on her cheeks that matched her lips. She blinked at him slowly, and this time there was no quip, no jest. Only a grave look in return, as though she had realized the same thing he had—he was either a scoundrel, a liar, or both.
“Forgive me, Amy.” His hands were still loosely draped about her waist, and he removed them as though they had been burned. He stepped back and cleared his throat. “Forgive me.”
Then he fled.
In a numb state, Amy walked to Marianne’s door and knocked. Her sister opened it at once, as though she had been waiting. She stepped back to allow Amy to enter.
