“No,” she said slowly. “Though I do wonder—was there some reason you felt compelled to mention theReview’scirculation numbers?”
His lips curved slightly. “Merely establishing your credentials. Mother respects success, even if she disapproves of how it’s achieved.” He stood, adjusting his cuffs. “Though I should mention, your Latin may have been incorrect, but your point about classical education was rather well-argued.”
He left her there, staring after him in confusion. Had that been a compliment buried beneath the criticism? And why did she suddenly feel as though she’d underestimated him rather severely?
*
Amelia stood inher night rail before the connecting door between their chambers, her fingers hovering over the smooth wood. From the other side came the muffled sounds of movement—the soft thud of boots being removed, the rustle of fabric, the quiet splash of water in a basin. Such ordinary sounds, yet they painted vivid pictures in her mind: Hereford loosening his cravat, those elegant fingers unbuttoning his shirt, water trailing down his throat…
“This is madness,” she whispered to herself, drawing back. And yet she remained, caught between proper behavior and improper curiosity.
As she leaned closer, she recalled that the door didn’t properly close, leaving a sliver of space through which candlelight from his chamber spilled into her darkened room. Through this narrow gap, she caught glimpses of him and his valet moving about: the broad expanse of his back as he removed his coat, the flex of muscle as he stretched his arms above his head.
He’d surprised her at dinner. The way he’d handled his mother, all subtle maneuvering beneath that indolent facade. She’d glimpsed something of the real man tonight—clever, strategic, unexpectedly… capable. It made her remember other glimpses she’d caught: the flex of muscle beneath his coat when he’d vaulted over her printing press, the grace of his movements during fencing practice, the intensity in his eyes even as he teased her.
A quiet curse from his chamber drew her attention back to the door. She saw him now, struggling with his cufflinks, the gold buttons of his waistcoat partially undone. A pair of hands appeared to lend assistance followed by Hereford’s low baritone murmuring something she couldn’t hear. Another male voice chuckled faintly.
The memory of his morning disarray rose unbidden: dark hair tousled from sleep, shirt wrinkled, that single undone button at histhroat. She’d noticed, God help her. Just as she’d noticed the breadth of his shoulders beneath his evening coat tonight, the strength in his hands as he’d gripped his wine glass, the way candlelight caught the angular planes of his face.
“Stop this,” she commanded herself. But her mind wandered treacherously to that day at Brooks, when the Duchess of Rutland’s foil had torn his trousers. She’d seen more than was proper then. The powerful muscles of his thigh, the tanned skin conjuring up images of him riding without…
Something crashed in his chamber, followed by more cursing. Amelia jumped back from the door, heart racing. What was she doing, standing here like some lovesick girl, pining after her fake… no, pretend? No, temporary husband.
And yet the way he’d defended her tonight… The way he’d known her breakfast preferences, remembered her editorials. The contradictions of him were maddening.
Amelia retreated to her bed, lay across it, her body tense with a longing she’d experienced no matter how much she had tried to deny it. Almost of their own volition, her hands began to wander, one sliding up to cup her breast through the thin fabric of her nightgown, the other drifting lower, beneath the hem.
Her fingers found the sensitive flesh between her thighs already slick with desire. She gasped softly at the contact, then bit her lip to stifle the sound. What was she doing? This was improper… unwise—touching herself while thinking of a man who would be gone in a year.
Yet she couldn’t stop. Her fingers moved in gentle circles, each touch sending waves of pleasure through her trembling body. In her mind, it was Charles touching her, Charles whispering her name, Charles claiming her as more than just a temporary arrangement.
A soft laugh drifted through the door. He must be reading something amusing. The sound sent an unexpected shiver down her spine, remembering how that same laugh had wrapped around the word “wife” this morning.
When she finally found release, it was his name that nearly escaped her lips—a confession swallowed back just in time as pleasure shuddered through her. She lay there afterward, breathing heavily, shame and satisfaction warring within her.
Amelia reminded herself she would not spend her nights yearning after a man who saw her as an unfit wife and mother even if he lusted after her—possible only because he didn’t know the full extent of her injury.
Even if that man was currently separated from her by nothing more than a wooden door and her own stubbornness.
“One year,” she whispered into her pillow. “Just one year.”
But in the darkness, with the faint sounds of him moving about his chamber, that year stretched before her like both a promise and a threat. How was she supposed to maintain her emotional distance when every interaction left her more intrigued? When even his most infuriating qualities—that aristocratic arrogance, that carefully cultivated indolence—were beginning to fascinate rather than repel?
Sleep was a long time coming, and when it did, her dreams were full of undone buttons and candlelight on bare skin, of elegant fingers and knowing smiles, of doors that remained stubbornly, maddeningly closed.
*
Charles loosened hiscravat with a weary sigh, the weight of the evening finally settling on his shoulders. The dinner with his mother had been a success by any measure—Amelia had been remarkable, holding her own against the dowager’s thinly veiled barbs with grace and wit. He couldn’t help but admire her refusal to be intimidated by his mother’s formidable presence.
As he worked the gold buttons of his waistcoat, a flicker ofmovement caught his eye—a moving shadow darkening the narrow gap where the connecting door stood slightly ajar. He paused, fingers stilling on the third button. Amelia must be moving about in her chambers, perhaps unable to sleep after the tension of the evening.
The thought sent a thrill through him.
He continued undressing, removing his waistcoat before tackling his cufflinks. These proved particularly troublesome tonight—or perhaps his distraction made them seem so.
“Damn these infernal things,” he muttered, struggling with the intricate fastening.
Barker appeared silently at his elbow, as was his custom. “Allow me, my lord,” he said, handing him a glass of brandy and taking over the cufflink duty. “A difficult evening with the dowager marchioness requires fortification.”
