Chapter 9
In the span of a morning, Clementine had lost one betrothed and gained one kitten. For it seemed that the small scrap of fur now considered her his new mother. They had returned to Fangfoss Manor with a dripping Dorset who had been hailed as a hero by Miss Julia. Clementine had brought the kitten to her chamber, where she had dried him off and offered him a bowl of meat sent up from the kitchens. He had tucked into his luncheon promptly.
And now, he was settled comfortably on her lap, sleeping away. Either he had not been a wild kitten and was accustomed to people, or the food offering had persuaded him that Clementine was trustworthy. She was amused by his sudden docile nature, but she supposed the poor fellow had suffered quite an ordeal.
She had settled in the window seat in her guest chamber which overlooked a portion of the gardens. The day beyond her window pane was bright and cheerful, the lush glory of the gardens most inviting. But although she had found the nook charming upon her arrival and though the sweetly sleeping kitten nestled on her lap was a source of comfort, Clementine could not seem to stop her mind from wandering to thoughts ofhim.
The Marquess of Dorset.
Of all the men for whom she could have fallen, why such a wickedly handsome rake? Why now? In the four years since Walter’s death, she had never been drawn to another man. Her heart, she had believed, had been left forever empty and cold.
But Dorset had proven her wrong.
He had shown her that there was room in her heart for another.
If only he returned her feelings. Their earlier conversation, however, had made it abundantly clear that he did not. His scathing retort returned, mocking her as she petted the fluffy orange fur of the kitten he had rescued.
And you are the last woman I would wish to wed.
A knock sounded on her chamber door just then.
“Come,” she called, assuming it was one of her friends.
Likely Charity, who had taken quite a liking to the kitten, even if she did insist upon referring to the feline as ashe.
The door opened, and she could not have been more shocked by the person crossing the threshold and closing the portal quickly behind lest anyone in the hall see.
“Ambrose,” she exclaimed.
Then cursed herself for the slip and the familiarity both.
He had changed out of his river-sodden clothes, she noted, as he sauntered across the chamber. His dark hair was wavy and tousled, the ends still looking a bit damp. But aside from that lingering sign of his swim in the River Derwent, he was impeccably groomed in country tweed, a crisp white shirt, and a gray waistcoat that somehow managed to magnify the brilliance of his gaze.
“What are you doing in my chamber?” she blurted next.
He stopped near enough to touch. Near enough for temptation.
“I came to check on the scamp I saved from the river,” he said softly, his gaze traveling over her face as if he intended to commit it to memory.
“Our little friend is fine, as you can see,” she said, directing a pointed glance to her lap, where the kitten blinked drowsily and then continued to sleep. “If that is all you wanted, you might have sent a note or one of the other ladies in attendance to check on him. You cannot be alone with me in my room.”
“It is scandalous of me, I know,” he said.
And yet, he made no move to go. Nor did he appear particularly contrite.
Blast the man.Why did he have to smell so good? Ought he not to stink of fish and mud after his adventure in the river?
She frowned at him, thinking him unbearably vexing. “We have only just decided to end our betrothal. It would hardly do for you to be discovered here.”
“As I recall, we had yet to complete our discussion concerning the betrothal,” he said, bending down to give the kitten’s back a tender stroke.
As he did so, their bare fingers brushed.
Everything within her seized. Her heart, her breath. Although she knew she must not, she glanced up at him, only to discover their faces were perilously near. His lips were close enough to set hers upon them.
She swallowed. “I believed our conversation was complete, Lord Dorset.”
“Dorset, am I?” he said, giving her one of his most charming grins, the sort that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “When I first entered, you called me Ambrose.”
