She sobered. “He can’t say anything. It’s up to me.”
“I will help you in any way I can,” he pleaded, “but this is folly.”
“It’s not helpful when you stand in my way.”
Graham clenched his own hands behind his back. “And if you’re caught, what then?”
“I never get caught. You’ll see. Meet me in the drawing room in one hour. I’ll convince you how good an actress I am.”
Graham shook his head and strode away. He would think of another way. Something. He returned to Alston’s room and sat by the bed ruminating, occasionally remarking out loud how obstinate Lady Amelia was to the only other person who understood: Alston.
At the hour mark, he strode into the drawing room and his heart seized. For an instant, Graham could almost believe it was Alston standing by the mantle, drawing on an unlit pipe, elbow perched in a casual fashion.
Their resemblance was uncanny. Except her eyes. Too pretty, the lashes too long and feminine. And there was the obvious... difference of form. He swallowed. Aside from her long hair, the top half was well disguised with the cravat, shirt and waistcoat—she was not a woman of large curves—but the bottom? The trousers hugged her derriere so lovingly that it pained him to drag his eyes away. His guts went hot, his pulse pounding in places it should not be.
“Lady Amelia,” he said abruptly. His tone was too deep, too heavy, and far different from any she’d likely heard from him in the past.
It seemed to catch her off guard. “What? Am I not convincing? I’m prepared to cut my hair.”
He closed his eyes. “You need to put on a jacket. Now.”
“My brother dresses like this all the time,” she argued. “I’m not going outside right now. I just want to prove you wrong.”
“A. Jacket. Now.” Graham uttered it between gritted teeth.
The footman behind him snickered. Graham threw a murderous glare over his shoulder.
“Oh, I see,” she said.
He didn’t want to know what she saw. He avoided looking at her as she passed by him. Lord help him if she ever knewwhat he’d seen when looking at her. Her rear, perfectly rounded, was plump, and seemed to him to be begging for his hands, his attention, and his adoration.
He’d never seen a woman in breeches before—not until now, until Lady Amelia. He’d never get the image out of his brain again. It would torture him nightly until he went insane, he was quite sure of it.
He poured himself a drink, and then another. The burn of the whisky tempered his lust as she returned, a jacket on and covering her sweet arse, this time blushing with what she now understood to be the problem.
“My maid, Fran, also added some more padding to my shoulders. Better?”
Graham tossed back another dram of whisky as he watched her. “No.”
“I’ve offended your gentlemanly sensibilities. I apologize.”
“You cannot go out like this.”
She set her hands on her hips. “Have you any other suggestions?”
He didn’t see or hear Alston at all now. Just Lady Amelia. Lady Amelia’s intriguing blue eyes lit with mischievous silver sparks. Lady Amelia’s whip-smart mouth, always impudent and cheeky. Lady Amelia’s silky skin. He assumed. Rarely did he have the opportunity to touch her naked skin. In fact, not once. Ever.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You can’t go.”
“You’ll come with me, keep things from getting out of hand, prompt me on what Sam is like out of the house. I’m not stupid. I know he may act a bit differently out among the gentlemen than he does around me, his sister.”
“This is far beyond inappropriateness or stupidity.”
“We’ve no choice. If my aunt finds out...”
“I know. Alston said as much. But this...”
“Help me protect him. Please.”
