Amelia. His mind created for him a version of her that wanted him, craved him, and begged for his touch.
He groaned through his release as he came into his hand and then cleaned himself up. He now felt a sense of calm, but he knew it wouldn’t last long. As the clock chimed three, he closed his eyes, and this time he could sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
The cloudy, mistymorning would not stop Amelia from taking a walk in the park. She needed to get out of this house, out of sight of Graham—as she couldn’t help but think of him now—while she gathered her thoughts about that kiss and what it could have meant. Did she believe Fran? Fran had said many things last night that still rattled around her mind like spilled pearls. She had educated Amelia in all the ways a man and woman could share their bodies with each other, and while not scandalized by the information, she was confused. Not everyone married for love, but it was difficult to imagine the women of thetonenjoying their husbands in such a fashion. Except for women like Julia Whistler.
She appeared to be enjoying her widowhood. Likely Julia had enjoyed some time with Graham, based on their closeness at the musicale. It bothered Amelia, and she was jealous, though she refused to examine why.
Another thought occurred. He wouldn’t compromise their secret for Julia, would he? Had he? It would be a gross betrayal if he had. No one could know what they were hiding, not even former paramours.
It all made Amelia curious about what other facets of himself Graham hid beneath the stone exterior he seemed to reserve just for her. He’d been different with Julia, more relaxed. He was never that way with her. He seemed to have a secret alternate identity of illicit expertise, and yet he presented to her a stick-in-the-mud façade. And the idea that Graham was somehow masterful at all the things Fran had described last night had also kept Amelia awake into the early hours.
She didn’t understand these complex emotions, but all of it was uncomfortable and she didn’t want to look at him. If she did, she’d think about that bloody kiss again, and then she’d think about him doing the other things she’d learned about.
She’d rather eat raw eggs.
So here she marched, the damp sidewalk crunching under her boots as she headed toward a smaller park near the house. There was a lily pond surrounded by lovely willows, and though quite public, it felt private and peaceful. Just what she needed. She needed peace, calm, and a place to get her head back in order.
She stepped onto the gravel path and slowed, taking a deep breath as she let the strain leave her shoulders and drew in the moist air, fragrant with grass and dew. Before seeing the pond, she heard the ducks softly quacking at each other. Soon there would be ducklings to fawn over.
Following the curved path around the pond, Amelia stopped at her favorite bench, nestled between two willows. She sat, unbuttoning her pelisse and leaning back. She didn’t know how long she sat there, but the sounds of the surrounding neighborhoods grew louder, the mist thinning as the sun dried the grass and streets. A shadow of a man fell over her, and she jerked, clutching her reticule. She’d followed Fran’s advice and put a small sheathed blade from Sam’s collection in her reticule.
Amelia twisted toward her foe. “I’m armed,” she blurted.
The man grinned, twin dimples winking at her beneath piercing blue eyes, shadowed by a black, John Bull top hat. He was neither young nor old, and his station was ambiguous. Was that intentional? Those with wealth displayed it with their fine clothing. His was well-made, but not overtly expensive. Amelia summarized that all in a blink. A useful tool Sam taught her when facing opponents over cards.
But all of that paled in comparison to his stunningly gorgeous face. He was a pretty man, but his beauty was not the kind to put one at ease. His attractiveness had a dangerous edge. His focus was too sharp, his smile too practiced and smooth.
“I should hope so,” he said teasingly. “May I sit?”
“No,” Amelia said warily.
“Please, I have an injury, and if it helps, I am acquainted with your brother, Lord Alston.”
Amelia watched him as he sauntered around the bench and sat down. Not too close to her.
“How do you know my brother?”
“The Den.”
She cocked her head. “Forgive me, I’ve heard ofthe Den,but I don’t know what it is.”
He stroked his chin. “Truly? You must not know your brother very well. He spends quite a bit of time there.”
“I’m his twin. Of course I know him, but since he is my brother, I don’t care to know where he is every moment of his day.” And especially not now, after what she’d learned from Fran last night. Fran assured her that her brother was quite successful with women, if rumors were true. Amelia had gagged.
“No, of course.The Denis the Lyon’s Den, a gaming club run by Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, the Widow of Whitehall.”
“Who?”
He frowned at her. “Are you sheltered miss?”
“No more than any other woman of two and twenty, or so I thought,” Amelia muttered. She really had been naïve. “Can women play there?”
“Certainly, though your brother might not approve. Speaking of which, I have not seen him there as frequently lately. What has he been doing with his time if not divesting idiots of their ready cash?”
Amelia felt the now-familiar prickle of panic, but she schooled her voice. “Oh, he was called away to Scotland. The estate there is having well-water issues, from what I’ve been told.”
