“Oh?” He arched a brow as they took their place on the dance floor and assumed their proper positions. “Pray, what are the reasons you’ve fallen so madly in love with me?”
Amelia tried to remain unmoved by the seductive dip in his tone, but he knew well what it did to her. A frisson of awarenesstraveled the entire length of her body; her toes curled in her slippers.
What could she say? That she’d been fascinated by him from the first? That she loved his humor and his quick wit? That she loved how not a day went by that he did not make her laugh? That she loved all the little ways he told her he was thinking of her—when he delivered a new book he knew she would appreciate, when he made sure his mother knew to have her favorite foods served whenever their families dined together, how he never let her win their races in the park because he understood and appreciated how she’d never respect him for it? That she suspected there had never been a truer, more loyal man to have walked the earth? That never in her life had she felt such love for another person, and experienced such love in return?
Dorian Poole, Earl of Stadewell and future Marquess of Kempton, was utterly perfect, as far as Amelia was concerned.
For a titled man of his age, his reputation was impeccable. He had not been attached to any scandals, and, though they had not expressly discussed it, Amelia strongly suspected that he was far less experienced than some of the pack with whom he kept pace. There was something innocent in his sweet gestures—his hesitance to compromise her with so much as a passionate kiss—that gave her the impression that he wasn’t the flirt Lord Hart was, the charmer Lord Easton was, or the intense rakehell Lord Brinley was. It made her nearly giddy to think that she and Dorian would learn alongside one another, lean on one another, and explore together.
“I have my reasons,” she breathed, feeling somewhat awestruck as she looked up at him and felt his warmth through their gloves.
Their wedding day could not come soon enough, as far as Amelia was concerned.
Later that evening,Dorian stepped out onto the terrace for a bit of cool air and a cheroot. Unfortunately, he also needed to put some space between himself and Amelia. They’d already partaken in their allotted two dances—a bloody idiotic rule if ever there was one—and he did not care to watch her twirl in the arms of other men. As he examined the cherry-red tip of his cheroot in the inky night, he silently vowed that, when they were married, he and Amelia would dance as frequently as they desired. Society could hang, for all he cared.
“Dorian?” A woman’s voice came from the shadows. He turned but did not immediately locate the speaker.
“Hello?” he called softly. Amelia wouldn’t have had the temerity to follow him outside unchaperoned, would she? He knew he’d be fairly powerless to resist her if she had.
A woman dressed in a bejeweled gown the color of a summer’s night stepped into a ray of golden candlelight from a nearby window. Her silver-blond hair twinkled with brilliant jewels, glittering almost as much as her pale blue eyes in the moonlight.
“Cecily,” Dorian said, greeting her with the placid indifference of a man who’d once shared intimate relations with a woman, but they’d both moved on—him, with Amelia, and she, with a decorated general in His Majesty’s militia, if rumors were to be believed. She was a few years older than he, but she’d been widowed young after marrying a man nearly twice her age. They’d struck up a dalliance after an introduction Hart had orchestrated, but the last time he’d spoken to her had been months before.
Her full lips curved into the shy smile Dorian had once found irresistible. “I was hoping to see you tonight.”
“Oh?” he inquired, only half listening as he exhaled a curling cloud of fragrant smoke.
“Yes, I was hoping to speak with you. In fact, I’ve been trying to work up to it for quite some time.”
One by one, Dorian’s muscles began to tense. He took in the way Cecily twisted her fingers and her nervous posture, and he turned to face her fully.
“What is this about?” he asked warily.
“You see, I’ve given it a great deal of thought…and I believe we should reconsider our arrangement.”
“Our arrangement?” Dorian frowned. “We no longer have an arrangement; in fact, we have not for some time now.” They’d been bedmates off and on for a period of a few months, nothing more, and that had long since been terminated. As far as Dorian knew, they’d both entered into the arrangement with the understanding that it was finite, purely physical, and nothing would come of it. He was a hot-blooded young man, and she was a woman with needs. Though his experience was rather limited in this regard, the few lovers he had taken were always treated with respect and, after the inevitable termination of their time together, that respect continued in public settings if they ever encountered one another. He’d never been a man to flaunt his dalliances as some of his friends had; he liked to think he had a bit more decorum.
“But we could.” She approached him, dipping in and out of shadows as she moved, appearing and reappearing like a fevered nightmare.
“We both agreed to terminate our relationship,” Dorian reminded her. “It was a temporary arrangement. Besides, I am betrothed.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you making such an offer?”
“Because I miss you, Dorian.” The break in her voice tugged at his empathy, but there was truly nothing he could do for her. She wanted him, but he was—quite happily—no longer free.
Dorian stubbed out his cheroot in a nearby potted fruit tree and straightened his spine before attempting to steer the conversation. “I was under the impression you were quite happy with your general.”
Cecily had already begun shaking her head before he finished speaking. “He does not make me happy. Not like—”
“Please, don’t.” His tone was at once as firm and gentle as he could manage. He was growing more uncomfortable by the moment; he needed to extricate himself from the situation and return to the ballroom. “I am sorry you are unhappy, Cecily; truly, I am. But I am not the man who can make you happy.” The aforementioned respect he carried for former paramours was wearing dangerously thin. He’d believed Cecily was more levelheaded than this, and he did not appreciate being backed into this awkward encounter.
“But you are!” She lurched toward him in a desperate bid to impress upon him her seriousness, and Dorian’s lower back collided with the carved balustrade lining the terrace’s edge. The movement plunged them both into a column of shadows.
“Cecily,” he said, more firmly than before. His hands curled around the bare skin of her upper arms as he tried to hold her at bay. For a petite woman, she was strong in her determination; however, he could have overpowered her had he cared less for her physical well-being. “Stop this at once,” he said in a tone usually reserved for his younger sister. For a woman in her twenty-fifth year, she was certainly behaving like a child. “I am positive you will find happiness elsewhere, but I cannot be that man for you. Please, listen to reason. In less than one month, I will be a married man. You must hear me and move on. I can make some inquiries to help you find another protector, if that is what you wish.”
“No,” she moaned and grappled with him, attempting to slide her arms around his neck, his waist, anywhere she could reach. “I desire no other man.”
