Amelia spun to face him. Confronted by his nearness, all the memories from the night before came crashing over her. When he stood so close to her, how could she not imagine his hands upon her once more, his tongue stroking hers, his raspy groan as she kissed him back? She swallowed and forced a composed expression into place.
“Clara has such an open and fun-loving way about her; it is difficult not to become attached.” She and Kempton watched Clara and Archie laugh. Amelia smiled. “But she has grown up so much these past years.”
It was Kempton’s turn to smile. “So I have lately noticed.” Faye nudged her way between the two of them. “You have one determined protector here,” Kempton said, reaching down to offer his hand to the dog. He quickly snatched his hand back when Faye emitted a low rumble.
Amelia did a poor job of concealing a small smile as she placed a reassuring hand atop Faye’s head. “She is very protective.” The tension left Faye’s body, and she sat heavily between them. “My husband wanted to be sure I had a companion when I moved all the way from London. He did notwish for me to be too lonely. As such, Faye and I have become quite attached over the years.”
“Did he not intend to keep you company?” he asked.
She met Kempton’s eyes, but there was no malice, no mocking gleam. She wasn’t sure how to respond to such earnestness from him; it caught her as off-guard as his kiss had the night before.
Her gaze flitted to his mouth as she struggled to find a response as close to the truth as she could allow. “As you know, men and lords have their own duties and responsibilities. I couldn’t expect him to spend all his time with me.”
“How lonely you must have been,” he said gently. Amelia’s gaze searched his—what could he know? What was he insinuating? “No wonder you’ve consumed yourself with running the estate and allowed it to become your life.”
She stiffened and tilted her chin toward her son. “Archie. He is my life.” She moved away and Kempton did not immediately follow. She was several steps away when she noticed and turned back to him. “I will understand if you do not wish to join us. Despite what you think, I am not immune to the awkwardness of this situation.”
“This situation?”
She arched a brow. “Whatever your current feelings are toward me, there must still be a part of you that feels some strangeness about interacting with the child of the woman to whom you were once engaged.”
The woman you once loved.
Those words remained unspoken, but were as poignant as if they’d been shouted aloud.
Amelia more than half believed that he would turn on his heel and retreat to far more pleasant, masculine entertainments, but, when she heard his boots cross the room behind her, she felt an inexplicable, unexpected thrill, even when he situated himselfby the hissing fire crackling beneath the mantle rather than sit on the floor. She felt his deep, dark gaze upon her as she sat on a cushion, spreading her skirts out in a bright blue cloud around her so they wouldn’t wrinkle too terribly. She refused to meet Kempton’s eyes, however, or acknowledge his presence; instead, treating him as one would a feral dog—feigning disinterest and knowing that his curiosity and need for attention would eventually win out. For his part, Archie eyed the marquess warily but did not ask after his odd behavior. Instead, he, Clara, and Amelia set about determinedly enjoying themselves.
Clara assisted Amelia in serving the food and tea while Kempton crossed his ankles and leaned back, as if his presence held up the stone mantle. Without asking, Amelia prepared a cup of tea and a small plate for him, wordlessly setting it before the unoccupied cushion to her left. Enticing the beast with a promise of treats. Men, like animals, could be predictable in some ways—she’d never known Kempton to turn down an offer of food.
Dorian eyed theoffering Amelia had prepared, the small but insistent grumbling of his stomach reminding him that he’d foregone luncheon that day to pen replies to that morning’s correspondence he’d set aside in favor of his ride with Maximus. The sausage, in particular, looked quite appetizing.
Pushing away from the mantle, he slowly approached their little party and paused for several thoughtful moments before moving to sit beside her—between his sister and his former betrothed, like old times. He grunted with the effort of trying to find a comfortable position on the floor, barely saving the china teapot from disaster as he fought to rein in his long legs. Amelia covered her mouth with her hand, clearly struggling not to laugh aloud at his distress.
“How in the bloody hell—” He stopped when he caught sight of Archie’s saucer-wide eyes and cleared his throat to start again. “How you are able to sit comfortably is beyond my capability and comprehension,” he grumbled, trying to decide if his breeches would allow him to sit cross-legged or if his protesting knees would give up first.
Amelia chuckled. “Not all of us are as ancient as you. If your poor, old bones cannot manage a picnic, then feel free to pull up the footstool for your use.”
“I’ll show you ‘old bones’,” he griped, barely comprehending the possibility of the double entendre he’d spoken until it was met with silence. He froze and found two pairs of female eyes and one oblivious pair belonging to a child. With a shake of his head, he finally found a comfortable position with his right leg extended and his left bent. He stretched his back and picked up his tea, not bothering to add anything to it, and was quite surprised when he found Amelia had remembered how he took it.
He glanced over at her, but she’d already busied herself with selecting morsels for her own plate. “How are your lessons?” she asked her son. “What are you currently studying?”
The boy groaned in response. “Must we discuss my studies?” he whined. “You said I might have a free afternoon today.”
However, one stern glance from Amelia and the boy’s manners returned, for the most part. He clearly loved and respected his mother.
Dorian continued to sip his tea and watch the exchange over the gilt rim of the fragile cup. He listened and learned that the lad enjoyed maths and geography but did not understand why he had to learn Latin—his instructor had informed him it was a dead language, anyway.
Dorian set down his cup and was busily selecting an absurdly tiny sandwich from the plate Amelia had served him. He scoffedat the mention of Latin and, absentmindedly, spoke without looking up from his plate. “I hated Latin—used everything in my power to avoid the subject.” He popped a bite into his mouth and found an audience staring at him once more.
What had he said now?
Slowly, he chewed and swallowed. Perhaps they’d merely been taken aback by his participation?
“How did you find a way out of it?” asked Archie, eyeing Dorian hopefully.
“I didn’t,” he said candidly. “Though I tried my damn—” he glanced over at Amelia and caught himself, “I tried my best to do so.”
The boy heaved a dramatically hopeless sigh before shoving too large a bite into his mouth, turning his cheeks into a squirrel’s.
