“If she doesn’t want to join us, then it’s your fault for yelling at her.” As Cassandra threw the accusation out there, her voice wobbled. It had been easy for him to spend the afternoon wallowing in self-pity. He had to remember that his sister’s life had been upended just as much. And she didn’t have the thick skin needed not to take this disaster personally.
The thread of regret that had sat with him all afternoon twisted some more. “I’m sorry, poppet. I’ll be nicer tomorrow. I promise.” He’d spent the afternoon finding the heaviest things in the firm and moving them in an effort to distract himself from thoughts that plagued him every time he stood still.
The slow reveal of her skin as he’d undone each button.
The flare of heat as she’d turned, so close he could feel her breath.
The ache of desire as he’d leaned in to kiss her.
He rubbed the space between his eyebrows, but the thoughts could not be pushed from his mind. “We’ll wait another few minutes.”
“But you just said she’s not—” Cassandra broke off as Amelia appeared in the doorway.
His chest tightened at the sight of her. The evening gown she wore was creased but hugged tight across her breasts. The dress hid her figure, but he’d already seen the gentle tapering of her waist, the silhouette of her body beneath her shift. Somehow knowing what was unseen beneath the fabric was just as arousing.
He stood as she entered, Cassandra following suit.
“I’m not interrupting, am I?” Her voice was tart, her demeanor cool and aloof. It made a mockery of his attraction to her, and only the look of hope and welcome on his sister’s face stopped him from responding acerbically in kind.
“Not at all,” he managed.
Amelia stayed in the doorway as if she hadn’t quite decided to join them yet. “I didn’t hear the dinner gong,” she said.
Cassandra cocked her head. “What’s a dinner gong?”
Amelia paused, and the briefest flicker of confusion showed on her face. “It lets people know when it’s time to dress for dinner.”
“Why were you undressed?”
“In London, people put on nicer clothes for dinner,” Benedict interrupted, attempting to cut the conversation short. Amelia could think what she liked about him, but it would devastate Cassandra if Amelia thought her uneducated.
“Huh. Is that why you changed, Ben?” Cassandra asked. “I thought you’d burnt another hole in your shirt.”
Devil save him from troublesome sisters.
He had changed. He’d gone through practically every shirt in his closet, ninety percent of which were discarded immediately, before he’d found something somewhat suitable. “Nice” clothing was a waste of money when they’d likely be covered in soot within minutes of entering the firm. Not that he cared.
He walked the length of the table and pulled Amelia’s chair back. As she sat, he got a whiff of the same jasmine perfume she’d been wearing the night before, the scent causing an unwelcome stirring in his groin.
“Thank you,” she murmured, completely unaware of the maddening effect she had on him. “I take it Greenhill is not waiting on us tonight.”
“We generally serve ourselves.”
She made a noise in her throat, somewhere between a cough and a gurgle. But her face remained impassive as she reached for the spoons and served herself.
“Did you enjoy your afternoon?” he asked as he piled his own plate.
“Yes, thank you. I was writing letters.” She took a delicate forkful of meat and gravy. “Oh my.” She pressed fingers against her lips, and her eyes scanned the room.
Blast.He hadn’t thought to warn her off the sauce. Would the elegant Lady Amelia dare spit out her food? Or would she soldier through?
She fixed him with a glare and chewed once, twice, and swallowed hard before giving him another polite smile and reaching for her wine glass.
“Is this a joke?” she asked after a long swallow.
“It’s best not to try the sauces,” Cassandra said.
Hesitantly, Amelia ate a small forkful of the potato. “Well, on the bright side, not tasting like anything is a step up from tasting like that.” She wrinkled her nose at the sauce. “Your cook is away, I take it.”
