Even though time and traditions changed, the space still hosted grand events and special holidays where every nearby family was invited to participate—especially around Christmastime and the New Year. Long, scarred wooden tables and benches would be dragged out and scoured to prepare for seating dozens and dozens of bodies. Baskets of gifts with food and other necessities would be handed out to the tenants, and grand, hearty meals would be served. Her first season as lady of the castle had been overwhelming, but she’d very quickly fallen in love with her new home, the land, and its people.
Clara stopped her spin; a huge grin spread across her face when she saw Amelia. It amazed Amelia how much Clara had grown in the past decade. She’d transformed from a precocious child into a true beauty brimming with intelligence and kindness, the likes of which were evident even in their correspondence. Her hair—once unruly tendrils of mahogany—was tamed into a perfectly respectable chignon. She’d gone from wearing flouncy pinafores to a handsome traveling gown of honeyed chocolate. She was every bit the lady now, though her eyes never fully lost their slight glimmer of mischief. Amelia had seen her in person on a couple of occasions over the years, but the passage of time between those meetings was never more apparent than now. The girl had remained a dutiful correspondent, and they’d managed to meet for tea on the very rare occasion that Amelia was in London. Since the first, they’d always carried on like sisters, and Amelia had not had it in her to cut ties with the girl after her betrothal to Clara’s brother had terminated. It was not fair to the child whom she’d come to know and love quite dearly.
Seeing the changes in Clara, however, made Amelia more keenly aware of just how different she was from the woman she’d been ten years earlier. Having birthed a child, she was not quite as slim as she once was, and her breasts were not quite as pert. Her hair remained the same honey-blond it had always been, and, of course, her eyes had retained their green hue, but there were a few new lines at the corners of her eyes, a smattering of new freckles peppering her cheeks from the days she hadn’t bothered to don a bonnet. Despite this, Amelia liked to think she carried herself with more grace and self-assurance than she had in her youth. She had come to know her place in the world, and she was proud of that.
“Amelia!” Clara exclaimed joyfully and hurried to close the gap between them.
Amelia greeted her with her arms spread wide for an embrace. Just before they met, Clara grasped Amelia’s upper arms, her dark eyes boring into her; the most curious expression flickered across her face. Was it trepidation? Discomfort?
As if in explanation, the front doors opened once more to admit a very large, black-clad man dressed in riding clothes and a waxed greatcoat for the long ride from London. He pushed a thick lock of dark hair from his face and announced to no one in particular, “This is a rather remote location, is it not?”
Then, his eyes met Amelia’s, and her heart stopped with a jolt.
The Devil had come to Scotland.
I am so sorry, Clara mouthed as her brother, the Marquess of Kempton, the man who had once held Amelia’s heart in his hands, was helped from his coat and set about straightening his travel-wrinkled clothing.
Amelia fisted her hand in Faye’s coat to steady her weak legs. It felt like it had been a lifetime since she’d seen Kempton up close—not since that awful night. Since then, she knew both from Clara and news traveling from London that he’d inherited his father’s title and taken full guardianship of his younger sister. Time had filled out his masculine features, broadened his shoulders, and afforded him an elegant ruggedness that reminded her of the wilds around them: beautiful and dangerous. She hated to admit it, but he was even more beautiful than she remembered.
She longed to slap the self-aware smirk right off his prideful lips—nearly as much as she ached to see if his kiss still tasted the same.
“That is not Miss Standley,” Amelia finally said to Clara, unable to bear the strained silence any longer.
Kempton spoke up for his sister. “Unfortunately, Miss Standley’s great-aunt took ill, and I was kind enough to offerto accompany my sister on this little holiday. Especially when I discovered her true destination.” He approached Amelia and reached out a hand to bow over her numb fingers.
As soon as their skin touched, her mind flashed to a time more than a decade before, when a young girl was approached by a dashingly handsome prince charming of a man, turning the night into a fairytale courtship of laughter, tenderness, and companionship.
It took every ounce of willpower Amelia had not to tug her hand out of his when she recalled just how that farce had ended—leaving her to feel like a blind ninny while Kempton went on to enjoy the comforts of other women’s arms. All his pretty talk and respect for the boundaries of a formal courtship—minus a few stolen kisses—seemed fine when he sought to slake his needs elsewhere.
Sensing Amelia’s tension, Faye released a low rumble from deep in her chest. This broke whatever spell had been cast between them, and finally, Kempton stepped back and cast the dog a sideways glance.
“You always were quite the accomplished horsewoman; it’s fitting that you’re drawn to beasts more equine than canine in stature.” He sized Faye up in a nonchalant fashion, though Amelia could detect a hint of wariness usually accompanied by one’s first meeting with her enormous dog. She touched a spot between Faye’s shoulders, and the animal quieted and sat.
“She was a gift. From my husband.” The last world hung in the air like a lead cannonball, each of their party frozen and waiting to see the damage that would be wrought.
She saw Clara shift uncomfortably in her peripheral vision. Amelia turned to the young woman. “A chamber has been prepared so you might freshen up before supper.” She gestured, and her housekeeper stepped forward to usher the reluctant girl off. It was almost as if she were afraid there would be bloodshedwithout her presence as a buffer between her brother and his one-time betrothed.
Amelia looked back at Dorian and forced her mouth to form words when she would have much rather left him in damning silence, or allowed herself to slink away beneath her mortification—the remnants of which still managed to linger even after all this time. “We shall adjourn to my study,” she said stiffly. “We can speak there.”
Dorian followed Ameliaacross the great hall—because of course the woman would live in a bloody castle!—that enormous dog of hers remaining between them. His eyes bore into her rigid spine as he trailed in her wake. She was softer than he remembered, but not unpleasantly so. Her carriage was unbearably regal, and he was somewhat displeased to note that she still smelled like the slightest hint of jasmine. Catching her scent once again after all this time did disastrous things to his insides, unleashing all sorts of unwelcome memories he had to battle back into submission. Seeing her up close, clasping her hand in his, caused him physical pain deep enough that it made the marrow of his very bones ache. Dorian had to remind himself that he was there for a purpose. He needed to move past his persistent obsession with this woman; he was there to find a way to move on by whatever means necessary. That a physical attraction to her remained was only logical—it wasn’t as though he would suddenly find her unappealing.
And that should be a benefit to his cause, should it not?
Once he followed her into the study—a wood-paneled room smelling of leather, parchment, and woodsmoke—she shut the door behind them and sat behind the desk like the master of the house addressing an inferior and gestured to the smaller chair opposite. There was something powerful in the action when, coupled with the displeased tilt of her enticing mouth,it demonstrated how unnerved she was by his unexpected appearance. Rather than accept her offer of a chair, Dorian approached the sideboard and began preparing a drink for himself.
He did not offer one to Amelia.
“You don’t plan on tossing me out on my arse, do you?” He held up the decanter of scotch as if to ask permission to sample it, but he’d already poured two fingers of the rich amber liquid into a cut crystal glass. He took her tight lips as a begrudging assent and chose to stand near the crackling hearth and warm his bones rather than accept the seat across from her. He’d been too uncomfortable locked up in the carriage and had chosen to ride through the last leg of their journey across the Scottish border. The heat permeating his traveling clothes was far more pleasant than any chair.
He took his opportunity to size Amelia up as she was doing to him. She still possessed a wealth of intelligence in her eyes, but there was also a new, unfamiliar spark there. Again, he appreciated how she’d rounded out at certain angles, and a long-buried part of him knew those curves would feel so sweet against him.
Dorian took a careful sip of the liquid fire in his glass. It would do him no good to fall back into bad ways and toss back one drink after another; he had to keep his head about him if this was going to work.
Amelia surprised him when she finally responded. “Clara will be in good hands beneath my roof. As a widow, I am a perfectly suitable chaperone, and you need not remain for her stay.”
“You act as if you are a stuffy dowager.”
“Aren’t I, though?”
