Once he was done with that, Dorian resumed smoking. Amelia remained by his side, and they continued to watch the storm roll in, flashes of light briefly illuminating fractions of the looming clouds in the inky distance.
“Your husband…he appreciated cigars?” he finally said, uncharacteristically unsure of how to continue conversing with her after her admission and gift.
She made a soft sound of amusement. “Not especially. The case was more about it being a piece of artwork than something to put to use. It was a gift from his…closest friend. James had never quite appreciated such things—not like I remember you did.”
He hummed and examined the low-burning cheroot between his fingers. While some things had, indeed, remained the same, many things about him had changed in the last decade, and he did not wish to discuss them. Instead, he opted to move forward with playful antagonism.
“You know,” he said, a wicked smile curling his lips, “you never did answer my question earlier.”
Amelia did not look at him, but her plump lips formed a firm line. “Things can never—will never—be the way they once were, Dorian. It is unhealthy to pretend otherwise.”
He mulled that over. “Allowing two consenting adults to act upon their desires is, in my humble opinion, entirely healthy.” He pretended not to hear her scoff. “It does not mean we forget everything that happened.”
She turned to look up at him, and he couldn’t resist brushing his knuckles against the petal-soft skin of her cheek. “I cannot forget what happened,” she breathed, but did not retreat from his touch.
“Neither can I,” Dorian whispered back, bending his head to capture her mouth, but they were interrupted when Clara stepped out to join them on the veranda.
“I think I am ready to try playing again,” Clara announced. “I hope to last longer than five minutes this time.”
Dorian cursed and stepped back a safe distance from Amelia, melding into the shadows to disguise just how close they had been.
“Oh?” Amelia breathed and passed a hand across her forehead before turning to Clara.
“Bother…I’ve interrupted something, haven’t I?” Clara sighed, disappointed in herself.
What did she mean by that?
“No! Not at all!” Amelia said, a little too brightly, making Dorian bite back a small grin of amusement. “You said you would like to try chess again?”
Clara nodded. “Yes. I know what I did wrong, and I would like another go.”
“Very well,” Amelia replied with a grin and, without another glance in Dorian’s direction, she followed his sister back indoors.The wind had begun to gather force, whipping the women’s skirts around their legs. He decided to remain outside long after his cheroot burned down, and he continued to watch and listen as the lightning and thunder grew nearer still.
He weighed his choices.
The opportunity to have Amelia and work her out of his system was within his reach. There was no denying that he and Amelia desired one another—he, with more urgency than he would have liked—but this game was turning dangerous.
As much as he’d believed his pain would drive his desire to see his aim through, he had not counted on her experiencing guilt for what had happened to his name and his reputation. As much as he knew he’d always wanted her, he’d clearly allowed his wounded heart and pride to discolor his memories. Being in her presence was tantamount to torture when he still could not have her.
He’d longed to wed her all those years ago for a reason…and now, spending so much time in her intimate proximity, all those reasons came back with even more force than he’d thought possible. And they came with even more reasons to admire her.
The rain began to fall slowly and then all at once.
Was he truly about revenge or redemption any longer? Was it about moving on with his life? And where would that leave Amelia when the time came for him to pack his things and return to London?
He did not care for the way this train of thought made him feel, so he tucked his new cigar box into the inner pocket of his coat and returned inside.
Tonight.
He had come too far—waited too bloody long—to back out now for some lingering, misguided emotions. He would go to Amelia that night, and then he would move on with his life.
Chapter Eight
After retiring forthe evening, Amelia found that sleep, once again, evaded her. She couldn’t shake the expression she’d witnessed in Kempton’s eyes on the veranda. There had been desire—glimpses of which she’d witnessed several times since his reemergence into her life—but something else she’d never thought to see from him again: tenderness.
At first, she’d believed it had been a trick of the light. Thinking back on it with the clarity and distance of time, however, she was certain of it.
Something monumental had shifted between them; their interaction at supper being a large part of her evidence for this. There were still raw emotions—there was too much history to absolve all sins in such a short amount of time—but the moments of civility, peace, and near companionability were definitely increasing.
