CHAPTER TWELVE
“Neatness is indispensable.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Bleurgh.
Amelia grimaced as she sipped black tea, heavy lashes dragging upwards as Mr Cadwalader stalked into the breakfast room and cheerily hailed his ward.
The dressing-table mirror this morn had reflected a woman in disarray – hair akin to a bramble bush, skin pale as a mountain hare in winter, night-rail creased and sallow, and some evil sprite had daubed black paint beneath her eyes.
Whereas Mr Damnable Cadwalader projected pristine splendour – an indigo-blue jacket that complemented his merry gaze, tight beige buckskins and a dun waistcoat with brass buttons. Hair smooth, chin clean shaven and cravat a perfectCascade.
She yearned to apply her reticule ribbon to his throat – although with her diminutive stature, he would have to be so amenable as to kneel.
“Ah, Miss Jones,” he drawled, flipping his coat-tails and seating himself. “What an…unexpected delight to see you here this morning.”
“Where else would I be, Sir?” She had no choice until this damn report was done. Then she’d leave. Without ado. In all haste. Not look back.
Mr Cadwalader reached for the buttered toast with those elegant fingers. Fingers which had caressed her hips a mere six sleepless hours previous.
“Well, who knows? I come across people in the most unexpected places.”
Amelia impaled her sausage.
“And my dear blackbird,” continued Mr Damnable Cadwalader, twisting to his ward, “what have you and your governess got planned for today?”
Phoebe was only too content to share, so Amelia merely glowered whilst holding a hand to her aching head.
Oh, why had she responded to that kiss?
Why had she allowed those hands to wander upon her person?
Of course, she could argue that Lord Rainham’s orders had been followed, that she had done whatever was necessary to maintain her presence in this household but…the one thing Amelia never did was lie to herself.
She’d wanted his kiss.
Wanted his hands to be upon her. And not just the Mr Cadwalader of witty quips and tall tales but the midnight one – of danger and risk, with bared chest and warrior mien. Stony eyes and ruffled hair.
No other man had ever incited such need. Had aroused her with not solely his handsome aspect but with his proficiency and droll humour.
In the dark, trapped in his lure of menace, she’d been unable to deny that need and her own hands had stalked his bare skin, feeling the muscles ripple and tense. Inhibitions had abandoned her, her lips wanton, passion erupting with such force that she’d not wished to cease, and if that candelabra had not fallen and she’d come to her senses, then she might have let…
She moved both palms to her cheeks which were heating somewhat rapidly.
“Are you well, Miss Jones, you appear…flushed?”
Utilising all her years of experience, Amelia sought calm, breathed slow and raised her lashes. “The mustard is rather piquant for my liking. I don’t believe I shall ever indulge in it again.”
“Oh! Such a shame.” The devil hoisted a brow. “You should always try things twice, Miss Jones. As some improve upon repetition.”
“And some make you ill.”
Phoebe watched them with a twinkle in her eye.
“Of course,” continued Mr Damnable Cadwalader, “For myself, I prefer the oyster ketchup. Vinegary on the tongue and with a hint of spice.” He gave a sly glance. “My absolute favourite.”
