“In all truth, I suppose I might have considered more tender feelings an illusory concept if not for my Welsh family. My parents disburdened themselves of me there each summer and, Lud, never had I encountered such misty-eyed couples. The late Earl of Llanedwyn and his wife made Romeo and Juliet appear platonic friends, and their sons have both found their hearts’ desires. When I start to feel…pessimistic, I always return there, for when in Wales, no one could deny the power or reality of…feelings. And it does make one rather envious.”
Amelia stared at him and blinked.
He just continued grinning, all white teeth and sinful lips.
“So…” Amelia cleared her throat. “Have you…ever had tender feelings for anyone? There are more than a few tales of you and various ladies.”
He fidgeted with his cane. “I’ll not deny the occasional liaison over the years, that being the Scandalous Cadwalader was most diverting when young and also useful in my work as it brought me entry to exclusiveToncircles. But I do not play with fragile hearts. So as for those tales…” He gave a waggish grin. “The majority are utter flummery. I tell them either to cover my missions or to distract from my wounds.”
She shook her head. “I did wonder.”
“Well, if you’d been shot in the shoulder at St Thomas Burial ground, what would you say to friends and kin when returning to Wales injured? They started to disbelieve the highwayman yarn.”
“It must be difficult…to have a family and not be able to tell them all.”
His smile dropped. “Forgive me, Amelia… I am grateful to have a family, of course, but sometimes, yes. For then no one can come to know all that I am.” His gaze flicked up. “Except for you, Amelia.” He caressed her cheek with a single calloused finger. “And what type of man would catch your eye?” He cockedhis head, blue eyes intense. “A stern blackguard like the Prince? A practical and calm man like Rainham? Or…” His eyebrows performed their habitual waggle. “A scandalous cad?”
It was a teasing question but one that had, on occasion, drifted through her mind, in that time before sleep when thoughts wandered at will. When she was alone and lonely.
“I… I’m not sure if I care whether he is stern or calm or scandalous but I…” She gazed to her lap. “I would wish that he accepts me for who I am – my birth, my past and my present.” She peered up at his solemn, handsome face. “I wish for someone who would make me feel wanted and loved. I would wish that he keep hold of my hand when times became hard. If I am angry or sad. Someone who would never let me go. Never let go of my hand whatever we faced and whatever the company we found ourselves in.”
Amelia closed her eyes. There was something about Hugh Cadwalader which made one blurt intimate hopes hidden deep within. Was that why he was such a revered intelligence officer? The ability to lower a person’s defences with his multifaceted nature.
She’d never believed such a paragon of a man as she’d described would exist for herself, as who would want a spy for a wife? Besides which, she had no dowry, little money saved, her parentage was ignoble and her skills were not of the domestic sort. And she’d not the beauty or sensualness of her mother.
Fingers lifted her chin. “Any man,” he whispered huskily, “would be a fool to let you go.”
Amelia endeavoured to recall reasons for not kissing Hugh Cadwalader but they faded as though written with disappearing ink, letters jumbling into an undecipherable code, and instead she met his lips.
A sympathy kiss, she told herself. After her tale, the scoundrel was trying to make her feel better…
And it was working.
His lips were soft as snow, breaths mingling.
Yet like falling snow it built, layer upon layer, deeper and deeper, until raw ardour churned in her throat, eyes and heart, desire seeping into her very being.
Then a turbulent hunger as his broad hands swept their way to her nape, inducing a shiver, and she was pinned to the squabs by his chest.
He kissed not like the droll Hugh of scandalous tales but her warrior Hugh of darkness and sin.
“Hell, Amelia…” And the kisses dragged down her neck, drugging her senses with mint and cinnamon, his scruff of stubble abrading her skin.
She knew where this was leading…
His mouth lingered in the hollow of her throat, one hand brushing her breast, the other at her hip, tugging her closer. She could feel his want, his need. And she wanted also.
So when he unfastened her fourth button, she merely breathed her acquiescence.
A kiss loitered on the skin exposed, a brush of tongue.
As the fifth button loosened, the ribbons of her stays were bared – a dusky rose pink – and he groaned, deep and low and dangerous.
So she shoved hands to his hair, urged him on as lips skimmed the swell of her breasts, his other hand yanking at her drab skirts.
Fingers stroked their way above her stocking.
Mouth tugging at her stay ribbons, hips pushing and–
“Oy!” A hammering brought her spinning back to the hackney carriage – and not for the first time – a gruff voice burbling from above. “First you wanna come here, then yer don’t. Then yer do. Then yer don’t. Now we’re here and yer ain’t getting out. Swells,” he grumbled. “Mazed as brushes.”
Hugh’s chin lifted, his cheeks a scarlet hue, eyes glazed as though drunk, hands atremble. “Amelia?”
She gulped, reality raising its nasty little head. “We…we are home and h-have work to do. We need to prepare for the theatre tomorrow night. Confront Lady Twyford.”
For a moment, she thought he might disagree or kiss her again or sweep her into his arms and dash with her to his chamber.
Instead, with a grunt, he shoved back to the opposite seat.
“I…I’ve no option but to let you go.”
