He, Dorian, had been so easily discarded, while Clara had remained a beloved part of Amelia’s world. If he analyzed the emotions too deeply, he might have been forced to recognize that part of what he felt was jealousy…irrational and inconvenient as it was.
When he entered the room, he took in the high ceilings and dark wood paneling until he found Amelia speaking with the butler. Dorian’s eyes refused to leave her, no matter how he tried to force them. She’d changed into a gown the color of the richest forest green; tiny crystal beads framed her bodice like dewdrops. While she’d always been more than pretty, he now grudgingly had to admit that she was not nothing short of stunning. She was soft in all the right places; the kindness of her smile at the elderly butler made her glow. He knew he was staring, but he could not help it.
Amelia must have felt his eyes upon her because she stopped mid-sentence and turned to him. Her green eyes, the color of new spring life, blatantly sized him up from head to toe, and Dorian barely suppressed a shudder of awareness. From the way her gaze lingered on certain parts of his anatomy before darting away, he liked to think she was pleased by what she saw.
A minuscule banked ember between them flared to life with an eager sputter.
Oh, no, this holiday was not going to be a chore. In fact, he suspected he would quite enjoy it, in more ways than one.
Amelia watched warilyas Kempton crossed the impressive length of the room. There was an unfamiliar gleam in his dark, fathomless eyes—something vaguely predatory—that made her simultaneously uncomfortable and excited. This was not a look she’d ever seen him direct toward her in the many months of their courtship and engagement.
Then, she chided herself.
He was no callow youth.
Dorian was most definitely a man.
And he was dangerous.
In the years since they’d parted, she now comprehended the depth of the blow she’d struck against him that night. It was scandal enough that an imminent marriage be called off, leaving a discarded groom in its wake. But to be a young man so publicly decried, with his sins laid bare for all the judgmentaltonto feast upon? That was tantamount to being flogged in the streets. He could not hide from what had happened, and, even though she did her best to avoid the gossip rags foaming at the mouth to spread the news, she could not completely avoid what was being said about him. Some slapped her on the wrist for her uncouth outburst, but she was, for the most part, praised for escaping what might have been marriage to a womanizing rapscallion. Kempton, on the other hand, had been villainized.
He’d been painted as a young lothario in the making, dragging every woman within reach into darkened corners, pouncing upon everything in a skirt. His reputation lay in tatters, a matter not helped by anonymous accounts provided by a former lover supplied to the tabloids for what must surely have been either an obscene fee or the pettiest of revenge—Amelia could think of no other reason a woman might add fuel to such a raging fire.
Shame and embarrassment had flooded her upon reading snippets of what was being said about her former fiancé.She’d asked herself time and time again if she’d reacted too rashly when faced with what she’d witnessed, but then she remembered the way that woman had draped herself over him, how it had ripped away the guileless veil she’d worn when it came to Kempton. She’d been so foolish to believe he’d been as innocent as she—too guarded by her parents and Society’s restrictions to fully comprehend that the standards were different for men than they were for women. A wealthy, titled young man as handsome as he was would surely have taken lovers before marriage. Simply because he was respectful of toeing the line of propriety with her, even when their youthful fervor during infrequently stolen moments of solitude might have carried them away, was not truly indicative of a man who had never known the touch of a woman.
Truth be told, it had taken Amelia an embarrassingly long time to recognize how her reaction had wounded Kempton. She could still hear his voice pleading with her to allow him to explain, and she sometimes wondered if things might have been different if she had. Of course, she had walked away with her own injuries, but she’d created a life for herself. If Clara’s letters (and the sporadic news from London) were to be believed, Kempton had not done much to dispel the unsavory opinion of him she’d helped Society form.
So, what had brought him all this way after all this time?
Their limited interactions thus far had been a confusing mixture of polite and chilly, slightly antagonistic and charged with all the history that lay between them. The shattered pieces of their hearts still lay like so much glittering shrapnel, dangerous to traverse and impossible to overlook.
Kempton strode toward her now, crossing the space in only a few impossibly long strides, took her hand, and brushed his lips across her satin-gloved knuckles. She removed her hand from his warm grip and took a couple of steps backward. Of course, henoticed what she’d done, and he flashed her a devastating smile. He’d always cut a dashing figure in his formalwear, but tonight, it highlighted a dignity and maturity that was so unfamiliar.
“You look lovely this evening, Lady Coylton,” he complimented her, but Amelia barely heard the words. Until she was more certain of his intentions, she was in no mood for hollow, saccharine compliments. She would do well to remember that he was an uninvited guest who had once trodden upon her heart, and she did not doubt in the least that he’d not enjoyed the way she’d hurt him.
Amelia cleared her throat to regain her composure and straightened her spine. “Clara should be down shortly,” she murmured, ignoring his polite comment.
Kempton glanced over at the clock on the sideboard and added, “We likely have at least another quarter of an hour before she makes her appearance. Her punctuality has not improved at all over the years.”
Amelia gave him a curt nod of understanding and turned toward the waiting butler. “Then some drinks, if you would?” she asked Grahame. “A scotch for the marquess, please.” She tried not to notice Kempton’s raised brow when she automatically requested his preferred drink. Though entirely useless, the knowledge had stayed with her all this time, so she may as well put it to use. Besides, they were in the land of the best whiskey the world had to offer, and they had barrels of the best vintages in the cellars. Someone might as well drink it.
She did her best to ignore Kempton’s assessing gaze while they waited for Grahame’s return. Though her fingers ached to do so, she refused to fidget. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how uneasy she felt at having him in her home. Even with the table between them, he seemed too close, and the room felt far too small. The tense silence between themwas unbearable; it made her skin burn and prickle as if she’d rolled around in a field of stinging nettles.
She nearly slumped with relief when one of the footmen returned with the scotch and offered it to Kempton on a silver serving platter. She watched from the corner of her eye as he examined the drink’s dark amber color and smoky bouquet before sampling a sip with an appreciative hum.
She nearly jumped in her seat when, without looking at her, he suggested, “It might be best if we come to an accord for the time being…if only to save Clara from cleaning up the aftermath. We are going to be locked up together for the next few weeks, after all.”
Amelia’s jaw clenched in response; however, while she still considered him to be an intruder upon the sanctity of her home and her sanity, she knew he was right about this…no matter how much she wished he wasn’t. She attempted to read his intentions, but he’d become very adept at donning a placid mask.
“Very well—a temporary truce over our only common interest.” The words were bitter on her tongue. She refused to be blamed for Clara having a miserable holiday; she would not be remembered for having launched Kempton from her home, and Clara by association. It was clear that she would have to do her best to set aside her apprehension about Kempton residing beneath her roof for Clara’s sake.
He eyed her over the rim of his glass, his eyes at once serious and sultry. “Surely we can come up with more common interests than that…” He proceeded to rake her with an approving look so fiery, she swore she could feel it on her flesh.
Before she could either retort or analyze his sudden change in temperature, Clara breezed into the room. She was like a gale of cheery chatter, lilac silk, and lace. Amelia knew the girl might act unaware, but she had always been too keenly attuned to herelder brother’s moods to be entirely ignorant of the confusing undercurrent simmering in that room.
“I am positively famished!” Clara announced, looking between the two of them. Her smile was just a touch too broad, and her eyes were a little too round to make Amelia believe she was entirely ignorant of what she’d walked into. “You’ve written to me about the wonderful shortbread your cook makes. I hope we shall have a chance to sample some.”
“Yes.” Amelia snapped to attention. “He will have plenty prepared for tea tomorrow.”
