Clara gave a little excited clap of her hands, and her brother pulled out her chair so she might take her place at the table. For now, the conversation between them would be tabled. Amelia could only hope it would be dead and buried. The last thing she wished to do was spend an inordinate amount of time rehashing all their issues; if that was his intention, then she had no interest in reliving the pain and reopening old wounds. As far as she was concerned, that could stay dead and buried with the rest of their past and regrets. She might have deserved an earful for the scene she’d created, but she did not relish the thought of being berated for the actions of an Amelia a full decade younger and less experienced. If the opportunity presented itself, perhaps she would broach an apology with the marquess…but the more time she spent in his company, the more certain she was that he hadn’t come purely to act as his sister’s chaperone, and she would not extend an olive branch until she was more sure of their footing. Until then, Amelia was more than content to sit back and allow Clara to create a wonderful buffer between her and her uninvited guest.
After the meal,their trio adjourned to the parlor for games to finish out the evening. While Amelia and Clara seemed to enjoy themselves with sedate parlor games, they were not to Dorian’stastes—they never had been, regardless of the company. Guessing games were not what he would call his usual brand of fun. He quickly grew bored with the tame entertainment and, while the ladies laughed at a particularly poor guess Clara made, he slipped outside to smoke a cheroot.
The night was thick and inky dark; the atmosphere charged with memories of a bygone era. It was easy to forget which century it was when surrounded by the towering dark stone walls, listening to the sounds of life from the various outbuildings framing the keep. This must have been a powerful stronghold, indeed, in its day.
Yet, he’d somehow managed to infiltrate it in one afternoon without a single weapon.
“Was this a mistake?” he muttered to himself, his words underscored by wispy clouds of fragrant smoke.
Dorian wasn’t a cruel person by nature. Admittedly, he could have a temper, but it made only rare appearances and never resulted in physical violence. Only Amelia had managed to skew his emotions so powerfully that he felt the slipping of his control. Did he desire more to pull her into his arms, or finally speak his peace and vent his pain? Had he been too rash and overconfident in storming her home to break her heart as she’d broken him? To find a way to excise her from his heart once and for all?
He took a long drag of his cheroot and watched as two men in homespun clothing carted covered baskets. They were laughing and speaking to one another, and Dorian was somewhat taken aback to realize he couldn’t understand a single word. Their brogues were so thick as to make their speech unintelligible to his untrained ears. It was rough and oddly beautiful. The men saw him watching and inclined their heads in polite deference; Dorian did the same, his eyes following them untilthey disappeared into another shadow. Rather than continue to smoke, he stared at the glowing tip of his cheroot.
He’d ached for years, planned for weeks, traveled for days, and now he could detect the heady scent of success. He would not back down. Whatever animosity Amelia threw at him, he would handle it. Whatever defenses she built, he would find a way to overcome them. He’d planned to spend three weeks in this borderlands castle, and he was determined that the time would be more than sufficient for his aims. He’d had years of practice in the arts of ingratiating himself to women and, if they were ever going to be put to good use, now was the time.
When Dorian returned to the parlor, it took him several minutes to realize their little party had been infiltrated. When he did, however, he froze as if utterly stunned. A lad of about eight years of age sat beside Amelia on the settee, facing Clara, talking animatedly and gesturing with his tiny hands. Dorian had little experience with children but, dressed as he was in fine clothing and shoes, he could only be Amelia’s son. He couldn’t have said why, but his chest constricted painfully at the sight; when he noticed the lad shared his mother’s emerald eyes, Dorian’s lungs forgot their function.
The conversation stalled abruptly when Dorian’s presence was noted; all three heads turned to face him.
“Who is he?” the boy asked with his childlike candor, unconcerned about the rudeness of the inquiry. It was unexpectedly charming.
It was like a punch to Dorian’s gut.
He could feel Clara’s eyes on him, watching, waiting for a reaction, but he was too frozen to produce one.
Sensing Dorian’s inability to speak, Amelia went about performing the necessary introductions. “Archie, this is Lord Dorian Poole, the Marquess of Kempton. He is Lady Clara’s elder brother.” She stroked her son’s burnished copper hair andsaid fondly, “This is my son, Lord Archie Liddell, the Earl of Coylton.” She looked back up at Dorian. “He was just coming to say goodnight, but now he does not wish to leave.”
“I want to stay up and play games, too.” The boy’s frown would have been petulant were it not oddly endearing in its ferocity.
“You know,” Clara interjected with an exaggerated yawn. “I am weary from today’s travels. Would you mind escorting me abovestairs, Lord Coylton, because I fear I will lose my way in this lovely castle of yours.”
The lad seemed to think it over for a moment before he nodded. “Alright,” he gallantly agreed, took Clara’s hand in his, and they exited the room, followed closely by the boy’s nurse.
Amelia and Dorian were left alone once more.
Immediately, they were plunged back into the tense silence that had preceded Clara’s arrival in the dining room.
Unable to bear it, Dorian abruptly said, “He does very much take after his father—except for the eyes.” The ensuing pause was weighty. “I noticed a faint burr to his speech; has he spent his entire life here in Scotland?”
Suddenly, Amelia stood. “We may have a truce for Clara’s sake, but I never could abide false niceties. It’s fine if you feel indifferent to me. You needn’t pretend you care about my son.”
Her words felt like a physical blow to Dorian that was so powerful, he nearly doubled over. He was winded all over again.
Then, the most unwelcome and unpleasant thought burst into his mind like a flash of heat lightning:
Archie should have beenhisson.
And Amelia must believe him to be a monster, indeed, if she wanted him to stay away from her child.
Hell hath no fury…
Dorian approached Amelia like one would a furious filly, slow and cautious. Her defiant eyes never left his face, and whenshe did not immediately lash out, he closed the remaining gap between them. When his hand moved, her head tilted as if she was expecting a blow to strike her. Immediately, he dropped his hand, and it clenched into a fist. Did she truly believe he would harm her? The thought incensed him. He had never laid an untoward hand upon a woman, let alone her.
Amelia met his eyes, challenging him through her steadiness, though the powerful emotion wavered uncertainly when she saw what was reflected there—when she noticed the muscle flexing in his jaw.
“Never make the mistake that I’ve ever felt indifferent toward you, Amelia.” His tone was low and intimate. “You’ve made me feel any number of emotions—love, lust, joy, loss, despair, hate—but never, ever indifference.”
Her lips parted in a barely audible gasp.
