Yet perhaps such an emotion whilst working together was…normal? Perhaps Hugh had experienced this a hundred times with other female colleagues. Would it fade when their mission was done?
His lips were upturned as he studied her face.
With thoughts in tumult, she cleared her throat and breathed deep. “I cannot believe I failed to see Darnell by that tree. I’m normally alert to such threats but I was…distracted by our conversation.”
Distracted by you.
His lips levelled, gaze darkening. “Yet if you’d not been there with your governess tome, I’d be dead, Amelia.”
She shuddered and closed her eyes. “That’s why I smelled of gunpowder on my first day, you realise. I’d been assembling it.” She pulled back her shoulders. “The Brotherhood of Ravens must know we are close to have sent Darnell and will not give up. We could have them arrested and jailed tomorrow with the evidence we have of their sedition.”
“But then we would not have the source of the leaks, and it is the Ravens who will lead us to them. If we remove the Ravens, the betrayals will not cease. Another set of willing hands will accept the information instead.”
“I know. But…” She trailed a hand over the many scars upon his torso. “I don’t like it when you get shot, Hugh.”
A finger raised her chin and he leaned forward to gently kiss her lips. “To tell you the truth, neither do I.” He winked. “And I do try to avoid it.” She smiled but Hugh frowned. “I thought to see Lady Tremlach as we left Whitehall, which could be no coincidence.”
Amelia scrunched her nose. “We still need to investigate her.”
“Indeed, but that must wait as my stomach is emptier than the Regent’s coffers. Let’s see what Betty has left for us.”
They searched the cupboards to find a round of hard cheese, jars of pickled quince, dried crackers and a bottle or two of wine, so they spread them upon the low table in front of the sofa.
Amelia kicked off her boots and stretched her toes, watching as Hugh – all glinting muscle and slick damp hair from his wash – placed a shovel of coal on the fire.
Then he stepped through to the next room, delved into a chest of drawers and returned, alas, with a shirt, and while he opened the wine and Amelia sliced the cheese, they chatted of Phoebe and her future, Hugh’s years in the Home Office and Amelia’s past missions.
It was all rather intimate and cosy.
“This is nice,” she said with a yawn, stretching and allowing Hugh to fill her glass once more. “I never seem to have time to just rest.”
Hugh rotated his shoulders and settled back into the comfortable old sofa. “So what does Amelia do when she has a day to herself?”
“I…” She frowned. “I practise with my cracksman’s tools and read the papers.”
“That’s work.” He cocked his head, those eyes far too penetrating. They saw her loneliness, she knew. “What would be your dream day then?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Reading a novel?”
“You can do better than that,” he countered. “Tell me your most cherished dream? Even if it’s one that could never be.” His manner was jovial and yet his question touched deep.
“I…I haven’t the faintest idea.”
He leaned near; she could count the stubble hairs on his chin even in the fading light. “Yes, you do,” he whispered.
“It’s foolish,” she whispered back. “Rather a feminine dream.”
“Dreams are not foolish. They are a cornerstone for us, why we strive and fret and toil. To chase that dream and make it real.”
“Well, I…” She stared into the molten red of the coals. “I dream of…attending a glamorous ball. Not for work but for the pure occasion. I spend the day bathing and washing my hair in rosewater. I dress in vibrant silks that are my own.” She closed her eyes. “The atmosphere of the ball is imbued with thrill and merriment. I would dance without fear of scornful stares. I would be amongst friends, amongst laughter and commonplace chatter. I would hear no derision for my past or receive looks of disdain.” She rubbed her cheeks. “Do not mistake me, I am proud of who I am and of my mother, but…I dream of it sometimes, the feeling of being…”
“Accepted.” His voice was low. “For all you are.”
“I told you it was foolish for society cannot be changed on Amelia Lambert’s whim.” She closed her eyes, wished not to speak of it anymore. “But tell me of your perfect day. A morn at Ascot Races? Then an afternoon at the club followed by an evening at some exclusive society event?”
Amelia sensed his hesitation before broad arms drew her into the muscular fold of his linen-clad chest. She did not protest. His heart thudded, strong and faithful, and all her uncertainties dissolved into him.
“My perfect day,” he murmured, “would begin with a dawn gallop along the coast of my cousin’s estate in Wales.” His voice was a soporific rumble at her ear. “Not a summer’s day but one of spring when the cliffs are carpeted in pinks and yellows, the wind whipping the timeless sea to a deep grey, the sky boundless and pale with the rising sun.”
