Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Amelia stepped inside the Marchioness of Sutton’s sparkling ballroom that positively bounced to the rhythm of stringed instruments and waited for it.
For a sense of accomplishment to sweep over her.
After all, she’d done it. Her letters, letters, and more letters over the last year had paid off, and her family had, at last, gained an entrée back into the glittering heart of society before Mama and Papa returned from Samarkand.
The last year in Italy need never be mentioned again.
Of course, it wasn’t what could be mentioned about Italy that occupied her thoughts at least three times a day and haunted her dreams at night. Even her paintbrush wasn’t immune as it insisted its only muse was him. Frustrating paintbrush.
No matter. This was her moment, and she should bask in it.
Instead, she felt a bit deflated. She’d made the Herculean effort to reclaim the Windermeres’ right place in society for herself, yes, but for her family, too, and they didn’t appreciate it one single bit.
Delilah and Juliet had declined to come to the ball altogether, and Archie only agreed when her imploring had turned into begging, and even then he’d deserted her for the card room the instant after their names had been announced.
Truly, her family were a bunch of ingrates.
Still, a quiet, sobering thought came to her. Perhaps it was simply that the life she wanted for her family wasn’t the one they wanted for themselves. And—here was the truly sobering part—wasn’t that their prerogative?
Another sobering thought followed on that one’s heels. She’d been so fixed on securing this night that she’d turned down the other life she’d been offered. The one with the Duke of Ripon.
Inexplicable tears sprang to her eyes. They’d made a habit of doing that lately.
She couldn’t think about him, not now, not in the midst of the ball of the season as she stood at its periphery, alone, a carefully trained vacuous smile on her face.
She wasn’t exactly feeling the warm embrace of society at her return.
In fact, it appeared to have gotten along just fine without her.
Or had it always been like this, prickly and cold?
A bead of perspiration trickled down her spine, and she saw the ball and its gaiety—some false and some true—in a way she’d never seen a ball: as a hot, stuffy affair with too many not-thoroughly-washed bodies crammed too close together.
Certainly, the chandeliers sparkled and the laughter rang bright, but it felt empty.
And she couldn’t help thinking it might have something to do with that other life she’d been offered.
The one she’d refused.
The one with him.
She made for the punch table. She needed something to do and sipping a cup of punch with this vacuous smile on her face would suffice until something better came along.
Snippets of conversation from groupings of ladies floated around her, but none invited her to partake. She had the strange sensation of invisibility. Then came a word that shot through her as solidly as a blunt object.
Ripon.
Her smile slipped, and her ears strained for more.
“The Dissolute Duke, here?” asked the one female voice.
“That’s what I heard,” said the other.
In a sudden panic, Amelia’s gaze searched from one end of the ballroom to the other. Surely, she would know if he was here, sharing the same air as her. But she found no sign of him. So, she did the only sensible thing and sidled closer to the two gossiping ladies.
“Still unmarried?”
“And still eminently eligible.”
“I never did believe the rumors about him.”
“Oh, pish,” dismissed the one lady, “even if it was true, who would give a fig? Lady Sarah Locksley had to have been looking for a reason to beg off if that scared her away so easily. One plants one’s feet and fights for a man like that.”
Amelia considered the lady might have a point.
“I wonder if he’s still…”
“The most devastating man on two feet?”
“Those shoulders.”
“Those thighs.”
A warm shiver slid through Amelia. She knew all about those thighs. But the way the ladies stood assessing Tristan rubbed her fur the wrong direction. They spoke of him like he was an object—a desirable object—but an object all the same. A duke…a thing…to be caught and possessed.
Of a sudden, she understood the allure of his life in Italy. There, he could be nothing more or less than a man.
He’d been correct about the people populating this ballroom. Small-minded…judgmental…incurious.
All of them added together weren’t worth one of him.
Oh, what had she done?
Then she heard it. Another name. Hers.
She swiveled around to find a grouping of four young ladies staring at her in a manner that neither warmed nor welcomed her.
Two of them looked vaguely familiar, but she didn’t know any of them by name, much less well enough to have caused the offense that would warrant the looks she was receiving.
She tried smiling. They simply kept staring.
Then they clustered together to form a tight, little circle.
Amelia’s cheeks went hot. She understood precisely what had just happened. She’d received the cut direct. The past misdeeds of her family had neither been forgiven nor forgotten. She felt as exposed as if she stood stark naked with a hundred pairs of eyes upon her.
She glanced around. They weren’t. But really, she no longer wanted to be here.
This had been a mistake.
A throat cleared behind her. A masculine throat that sounded too familiar. But surely that was her imagination carrying her away. She turned. Before her stood—
She blinked, unable to believe her eyes.
Before her stood him—the ox…the Duke of Ripon…Tristan—dressed in evening blacks, his massive, muscular form, improbably congruous with the elegance of his clothing. He looked every inch the devastating duke.
The most devastating man on two feet.
“What are you doing here?” she blurted before thinking better of it. In truth, they’d never been properly introduced, so she shouldn’t be speaking any words to him. Further, her words shouldn’t have been those words.
“I was hoping you would do me the honor of this dance,” he said, formally, correctly.
No few curious glances flicked their direction, and the young ladies who had aimed the cut direct at her might be staring with mouths slightly agape. It shouldn’t, but it gave Amelia no small bit of satisfaction. Even so…
She and Tristan most definitely should not dance.
She’d vowed never to touch the man again.
She had trouble stopping once she started.
He took a step closer, the space between them not quite intimate, but personal. Only for them. “What just happened with those young ladies?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Her cheeks flamed with the lie.
“It will keep happening unless…”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. She finished it for him. “I dance with you?” she scoffed with more bravado than she’d thought herself capable. “Why? Because you’re my savior?”
What arrogance. The very idea.
“No,” he said, coolly. “Because I’m a duke.”
It was the irrefutable truth, and they both knew it. A dance with the Duke of Ripon might set a few tongues wagging, but it gave her firmer social standing to be seen as in the favor of such a powerful man.
She dipped in a shallow curtsy as she said, “I would be delighted, Your Grace,” and took his hand, allowing herself to be led onto the mahogany dancing floor. The instant he set their bodies in motion to the rhythm of the waltz, she knew: what had happened in Italy hadn’t stayed in Italy.
It had followed them here, to London, to this dancing floor, and sizzled between them, made it impossible for her to draw a proper breath.
Or a proper thought.
Oh, Italy, what had it done to her?
He stared down at her, and she knew she must say something with his mouth only inches from hers. She’d never been this close to it without kissing those firm lips. She cleared her throat. “I never took you for the sort of gentleman who fills out young ladies’ dance cards.”
“I’m not.” He snorted. “Older ladies on the other hand…”
Indignation surged up. “Are you implying that I’m no longer a young—”
His mouth tipped into a lopsided smile, and she snapped her mouth shut.
Oh, the cheek of the man.
She turned her head decidedly away. What a very bad idea this had been.
“I saw your brother in the card room,” he said, “and I thought you—” He bit off the rest of the sentence.
Again, a blade of heat struck through her. He’d thought she might be receiving the exact treatment she’d been receiving. And he’d come here for…
Her. This frustrating, devastating man who was whirling her across the dancing floor with expert ease, whose silver gray gaze sparked places alight inside her that were better not sparked alight in public, melted something within her.
In his arms, in front of all the ton, she was safe.
The security she’d been attempting to achieve for herself and her family this last year, it was here, in his arms.
Arms that she wanted to gather her closer. She saw the same desire reflected back in his eyes. Of a sudden, she wished they were still in Italy where her hand could remain in his after the waltz ended and they could find a quiet place to—
Talk?
Not even remotely close.
They neared the double doors thrown open to allow cool night air inside the ballroom. Impulse found its voice, and she spoke low enough for his ears only. “Dance me into the garden.”
His gaze held hers for the space of a few rapid heartbeats. “No fountains.”
A laugh hiccupped out of her, again drawing no few glances. The Lady Amelia Windermere who had left for Italy had never drawn an askance glance in all her life, but the one who had returned… She was rather making a habit of it.
And she wasn’t sure she minded.
Live in infamy with me.
Of a sudden, those words held an appeal, hypnotic and right, as he whirled her onto the terrace. He held her hand and led her down a short flight of steps and around the side of the mansion. No one could see them here. Music and ballroom chatter faded, leaving only the sound of their breath.
She reached her arms around his neck, and he closed all distance between them, pressing her against the wall, the length of his body against her, and his mouth, at last, claimed hers and all went right with the world.
How desperate she’d been all these weeks for his kiss, for his large, strong hands upon her. She wanted all of him at once, but he smiled against her mouth and slowed her urgency. She released an impatient groan as every movement of his lips and tongue became deliberate and intentional.
Restless desire poured through her as her hands roved down his muscled chest, his ridged stomach, until they reached him, the length of his manhood, hard and ready, straining against his trousers.
Insatiable fingertips grazed across superfine, greedy to have this inside her.
If that meant coupling against a stone wall in the Marchioness of Sutton’s garden, so be it.
She would have him any way she could get him.
He groaned, and she smiled. Then he broke away, and she gasped in shock as they stood across from each other, cheeks flushed, panting, as if they’d raced all the way to Dover and back.
“We must stop,” he said. “I’ll ruin you, and I know that’s not what you want.”
Amelia blinked. “What?”
Ruin her? She was fairly certain she was already quite ruined.
“I won’t risk the reputation you’ve worked so hard to reclaim.”
She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. So, she did neither and simply stared at the dratted man.
“Here,” he said, reaching out. “Your hair has gone quite askew.”
She submitted while he attempted to fix her hair, her mind racing without a fixed destination, unable to form a tangible thought. Only seconds ago, he’d been about to make love to her against a wall, and it had felt so right. But this…
It felt wrong.
And she only had herself to blame.
He stepped back and assessed his work. “You might want to make straight for the ladies’ retiring room. I’m afraid I’ve done more harm than good.”
She nodded, silent, unable to trust herself to speak.
“We can’t be seen returning together, so I’ll take my leave now.” He made a slight bow and continued around the side of the mansion.
It was only after he disappeared from view that a clear thought came to her.
She wanted to be ruined by Tristan.
The fact was she’d already ruined herself on him.
And she wanted to be ruined again.
What she no longer wanted was acceptance from the haute ton, but from one man.
Live in infamy with me.
He’d spoken those words to her, and she’d said no.
Tonight, a different answer came to her.
Tonight, she would plant her feet and fight for him.