Their ragged breathing mingled in the small space between them. He gazed down into her passion-glazed eyes and, in that moment, he knew with every drop of blood in his body that he had never wanted a woman more. She felt so good against him; she tasted so sweet.
“I…” she trailed off.
Silently, he pleaded with her to finish—to invite him to her bed, to fulfill every aching fantasy he’d had (and denied) for the last ten years.
The creak of the door made them leap apart. From the look on Archie’s face, Dorian suspected it hadn’t quite been quick enough. He only hoped the boy’s youth would mask any real understanding of what had been transpiring.
Dorian turned to the side and subtly adjusted his uncomfortably tight breeches.
Amelia’s voice was unnaturally high-pitched when she greeted her son. “Archie! Did you forget something?”
“I left my cannon,” the boy replied, a note of confusion in his tone as he crossed the room to retrieve the carved wooden toy from the far corner.
Dorian tilted his head in greeting to the boy. Gone was any camaraderie they had developed over the preceding hours, replaced by the suspicion and wariness of a boy who adored his mother and likely felt a strong sense of protectiveness toward her. He may not have fully comprehended what he’d stumbled upon, but neither was he stupid. He narrowed his eyes at Dorian’s silent acknowledgment.
Rather than allow herself to be alone with Dorian again, Amelia ushered her son from the room with her hands on his shoulders. “Come, darling. I will walk with you back to the nursery.”
Dorian followed to the doorway, watching as they retreated toward the stairs. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. He was so close…so…close…
There was no turning back.
Chapter Seven
Amelia dreaded supperthat evening; her pride was the only thing keeping her from taking the meal in her rooms. She knew Dorian would take one look at her and know how he’d rattled her with his touch, how he’d tempted her with his kisses, just how close she’d actually come to agreeing to his proposition. His request had been rolling through her mind over and over in the hours leading up to supper.
At first, she’d been disgusted with herself for being so wanton and for even indulging in the possibility of inviting Dorian, of all men, to her bed.
Then, she’d tried rationalizing it.
She was a widow; she knew what she was inviting, and she still had needs. It had been so very long since she’d been touched by anyone’s hands but her own. Her experiences with James had been pleasant enough, but they’d been nothing like the simmering heat Dorian stirred within her whenever he so much as grazed her skin. What was this magnetic attraction between them? It defied good sense and rationality. But, oh, how she craved it—she’d never stopped craving it since she’d been a young woman, too inexperienced to put a name to what she felt. Aching desire, pure and simple, kept her in a constant state of restlessness where Dorian was concerned.
Dorian’s words from the other day echoed in her skull, making her skin experience wave after wave of heat.
It was wrong.
It was Dorian.
He was the man who had shattered her innocent heart all those years ago. Despite the guilt she felt over the grief her actions had caused him, she’d once vowed to loathe him for his callous treatment and betrayal of her trust…but there was no denying the lingering physical attraction. Despite all that had transpired over the years, despite how much wiser she was, it would seem she was not immune to his charms…and the damned man knew it.
Amelia donned her deep green gown trimmed in delicate strips of dyed black lace and went down to supper. She did her best to act as if nothing had happened, but the smoldering look in Dorian’s eyes told her he was remembering every moment.
“What shall we do tomorrow?” Clara asked cheerily, unknowingly providing Amelia with a new direction for her mind.
“Barring more poor weather, I would still like to take you to the loch,” Amelia replied. “And we’ve received an invitation for a dinner party at a neighboring estate later in the week. Both of you are invited as well, of course.”
“How lovely!” Clara clasped her hands together in delight. “I’ve just the thing to wear. I wasn’t sure there would be an occasion to use it on this holiday, but I’m positively chuffed now. I do hope you will accept on our behalf.”
Amelia smiled warmly at Clara’s excitement, as well as her skipping entirely over the part where she conferred with her brother about his opinion on the matter. “Of course; I shall do so in the morning. I look forward to seeing this gown that has worked you into such a tizzy. It must be something quite spectacular, though I find it difficult to believe a girl so beautiful as yourself would look dowdy in anything.”
Kempton took a sip of wine before interjecting. “Brinley also sent a note that he’ll be passing through this area on his way from a house party to meet his father in Northumberland for business. You remember him, do you not?”
Amelia froze. Lord Brinley had always been so difficult for her to read, and she did not know how comfortable she was having one of Kempton’s oldest and closest friends and allies beneath her roof.
She also knew that Clara possessed some complicated feelings about the man; it was evident in how often the young woman complained about him in their correspondence.
Watching the way Clara gripped her utensils, she could tell nothing had changed. Why did her brother not see it?
“So, he decided to invite himself to my home? Seems like rather poor manners,” Amelia commented, a high arch to her brow.
