She gasped, her heart yammering wildly at the thought of his tearing the dress from her body. “One ruined dress is quite enough for the week, don’t you think?” she managed.
“Of course, my lady.” He gave a small smile, and a dimple formed in the granite plane of his cheek. At leasthefound it amusing.
He managed another button. “How did you get into this thing without a maid?”
“The duchess loaned me hers for the day, which was kind of her, under the circumstances.”
The look on his face suggested he thought otherwise. “Kindness from Lady Wildeforde? Itwasa special day.”
She swallowed hard. “Thank you. I can take it from here.” She turned toward him, her hands tucked tightly under her armpits to keep the dress from falling.
He didn’t move, and she found herself standing far too close to him. His collar was open at the neck, and wiry strands of hair curled below the deep v that formed at the base of his throat, drawing her eyes farther down. She forced herself to look into his eyes. His heated gaze ignited a shivering that began at the deepest part of her and rippled outward.
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
The words were barely a whisper, but they buffeted through her.
He dragged a thumb lightly across her brow, shifting a stray hair. His touch was nothing like she’d experienced. No gloves, just the heady friction of long, warm, calloused fingertips.
No man had ever stood so close—not even Edward. His lips were only inches from hers, as if waiting on her permission to close the gap. Half of her wanted to lean into the kiss. The other half wanted to shrink back.
He seemed to sense it, pulling away, taking in a deep ragged breath as he did so.
“If that’s all, I’ll leave you.”
She inhaled, an earthy scent of spice and grass setting off something she didn’t want to acknowledge. She was exhausted and lost and wasn’t quite ready to be alone. “You said we’d met before?”
He stiffened, the warmth in the room slipping away.
“Twice, actually, the first time you visited the Wildeforde estate. But it’s no surprise a lady like you wouldn’t remember a man like me.”
Chapter5
The sitting room was a jumble of mismatched furniture. Books were scattered in small piles. The table had parchment and an abacus, and an empty teacup balanced precariously on the edge. The settee wasn’t even facing the center of the room. Instead, it had been dragged in front of the window facing the outside. Stockinged legs hung over the back of it.
Amelia coughed quietly. There was a softthunkof something hitting the floor, and the legs slithered out of sight. A quick second later, the sister—Cassandra—appeared from behind the couch, coming to stand in front of Amelia, book in hand.
She dipped into a shallow, wobbly curtsey. “Good morning, Lady Amelia. Did you sleep well?”
Tall and lanky with a smattering of freckles across her slightly tanned face, she wore a dress two inches too short in a simple fabric. Unlike her brother, Cassandra looked at her with the open admiration of a new debutante.
“I slept very well, thank you.” She had slept terribly in fact—something she wanted to put down to a sagging mattress but in truth was more about the memory of Benedict’s breath, hot on her neck. The thought of his hand tracing a line across her brow.
No. She had not slept well at all.
“I put the flowers on your breakfast tray. I thought they might cheer you up.”
“That was very kind of you. They were very pretty.” It had been touching, actually. They were hardly the hothouse flowers Edward sent each week—at least his secretary sent each week—but the gesture was sweet.
Goodness. Sweet. When was the last time she’d met anyone like that? London and sweetness were not common bedfellows. But then, she wasn’t in London anymore. No. She was in Abingdale, and her best way forward was to gain as much insight into her situation as possible. And Cassandra was her first step.
“I thought perhaps you and I could have tea. Get to know each other.” Amelia reached for the bell rope to summon one of the maids.
“That doesn’t work,” Cassandra said, scooting around Amelia and ducking her head into the hall.
“Daisy, can we please have some tea?” she yelled. She turned back to Amelia. “It shouldn’t take long. Mrs. Greenhill leaves a kettle on the stove all day in winter.” Cassandra cleared off the center table, stacking the papers in a pile on the floor. She dragged two seats to face each other.
Amelia took her place neatly on the edge of the seat, her hands folded into her lap. Cassandra did the same, studying Amelia’s hands and mimicking their placement.
