Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The carriage lurched through Oxford’s darkened streets, wheels hammering at every rut. Amelia’s forehead pressed to the cold glass as the last town lights blurred past. They were climbing toward Riverside Court now, the road steeper, rougher.
The evening had stretched far longer than they’d anticipated.
Samuel had departed abruptly—muttering something about a forgotten engagement—and George had insisted they remain for refreshments.
Philippa had been eager. Nicholas had agreed with that careful restraint of his, though Amelia noticed him checking his pocket watch more than once.
Now it was well past midnight, and the cold had seeped into her bones during the journey. She hugged herself, acutely aware of Nicholas seated across from her in the dim carriage.
He had been quiet since they’d left town. His eyes were closed, one hand braced against the seat, but she suspected he wasn’t sleeping. There was too much tension in his jaw.
What in heaven’s goes through that mind of yours, Nicholas Whitmore?
The carriage hit a particularly vicious rut, and Amelia gasped as she was thrown forward. Nicholas’s eyes snapped open, his hand shooting out to steady her.
“Careful,” he muttered.
His palm was warm through the silk of her sleeve. She straightened, and he withdrew slowly.
“How much farther?” she asked, rubbing her arms.
“Not long.” He studied her in the darkness. “You are cold.”
“The evening grew colder than I anticipated,” she admitted. “I should have brought a heavier cloak.”
His expression tightened. “We should have left when Samuel did.”
“I’m fine. Truly.”
He made a sound that suggested he did not believe her.
Riverside Court materialized from the darkness at last. Only a few lights burned in the lower floors. The staff would have retired by now, the fires banked for the evening.
Nicholas descended first and turned to help her down. His hand was steady beneath hers, his other coming to her waist when she stumbled slightly on the gravel. The entrance hall was dim when they entered. A single footman dozed in a chair near the dying fire, jerking awake at the sound of the door.
“Your Grace, Your Grace.” The young man scrambled to his feet. “Forgive me, we weren’t expecting—”
“It’s quite late,” Nicholas said. “We detained ourselves in town longer than intended. You may retire.”
The footman bowed and disappeared. The silence that followed felt enormous.
Amelia hugged herself, the trembling worse now. The contrast between the cold journey and the residual warmth of the house only made her shiver harder.
“Your maid,” Nicholas said, watching her closely. “She should draw you a bath.”
“Agnes is visiting her sister in Woodstock until Friday. I sent her off. She works too hard.”
“Mrs. Smythe, then.”
“Mrs. Smythe is nearly seventy and sleeps in the west wing. It would take a quarter hour just to wake her.” Amelia shook her head. “I don’t want to disturb the entire household.”
Nicholas frowned, studying her for a long moment. Something shifted in his expression.
“My chambers already have a fire laid,” he said carefully. “And the bath I had ordered drawn before we left. The water will have cooled somewhat, but it should still be tolerably warm.”
Amelia’s heart performed an elaborate maneuver in her chest. “I couldn’t—”
“You are shivering hard enough that I can hear your teeth.” His jaw worked. “It is practical, Amelia. Nothing more. I’ll help you with whatever fastenings you cannot reach, then leave you to it.”
“All right,” she heard herself say. “Thank you.”
He turned and started up the grand staircase, and Amelia scurried behind him.
His chambers occupied the eastern corner of the second floor. Amelia had never been inside, and she looked around with curiosity as he led her through a sitting room decorated in deep blues and grays. Everything was masculine and sparse—clean lines, quality materials, nothing unnecessary.
The bathing chamber lay beyond a second door. Steam no longer rose from the copper tub, but when Nicholas dipped his hand in, he nodded.
“Still tolerably warm.” He straightened awkwardly. “Your dress. I assume you will need help with the fastenings.”
“Yes.”
Amelia turned her back to him. His fingers found the first hook at her nape, and she drew in a sharp breath.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No. Your hands are cold.”
“I apologize.”
He continued, methodically working his way down her spine. Each released hook felt like a small surrender. His knuckles brushed the small of her back at the last one, and she bit her lip.
“There,” he finished. “You should be able to manage the rest. I will wait in the sitting room. Call if you need anything.”
Then he was gone.
Amelia worked quickly, shedding her dress, her stays, her chemise. She hurried into the water before she could think too much. The bath embraced her with gentle heat, and she sighed. It smelled of Windsor soap and something else—something distinctly male.
His bath, she thought. He ordered this for himself.
The intimacy of that notion struck her. She reached for the soap and began to wash, but that awareness did not subside. That penetrating consciousness of Nicholas’s proximity. He was just beyond that door.
This is what you are asking for. But you will not make me break. That is what he said.
But why not? Why pull her close only to push away?
Before she could second-guess herself, Amelia called out: “Nicholas?”
Silence. Then: “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing. I—” She swallowed. “I need help with something.”
A beat. Footsteps. The door opened.
Her breath caught.
He’d been working—ledgers tucked under one arm, shirt unbuttoned. No. Not unbuttoned. Gone entirely.
He was shirtless.
She had seen crude glimpses of skin before—his forearms when he rolled his sleeves at the orphanage.
But this... Candlelight caught on the planes of his chest, the definition of his arms, the dark hair that dusted his torso and trailed downward past his waistband.
He must have been working at his desk, shirt discarded in the warmth of the fire.
He froze when he saw her in the tub, seeming to realize his state of undress for the first time. “Devil. I did not think—” He turned partially away. “I should go dress.”
“No.” The word came out too quickly. “Please. Stay.”
He looked at her warily. “What did you need?”
Now that he was here, she could not remember what half-baked excuse she had planned. “Nothing. I...” She swallowed. “I only wanted company.”
His jaw worked. “Amelia…”
“We did not really speak on the journey home. I thought perhaps we could talk.” She drew her knees up slightly. The cloudy water preserved much of her modesty. “You are always so busy with the estate. I hardly see you.”
He hesitated, then moved to the chair in the corner and sat, though tension radiated from every line of his body. “What would you have us discuss?”
“The play.” She ducked her head halfway into the cloudy water. “I wondered what you thought of it.”
“I told you—”
“Not as a critic. As yourself.”
He was quiet for a long moment. And she was staring unabashed all the while. His body was hand-carved, as if by Michelangelo himself. Was every man like this beneath their clothes?
“I thought the Stranger’s redemption came too easily,” he said at last. “Real transformation requires more than a single moment of recognition.”
“Requires what?”
“Work. Time. The willingness to be uncomfortable. Over and over again.” His eyes found hers, then fled. “Happy endings must be earned.”
“Perhaps von Kotzebue believes people deserve happiness regardless.”
“A dangerous philosophy.”
“But a hopeful one.” She danced her fingers through the water, creating small ripples. “I think you are too hard on the play. And yourself.”
“You don’t know—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.
“Then tell me.”
His gaze finally met hers. “You should finish your bath. The water will cool.”
“I don’t want to talk about the water.” She drew in a breath. “I want to talk about the reading room.”
Every line of his body went taut. “There is nothing to discuss.”
“Is there not? You touched me. And then you stopped.”
“You did nothing wrong.” The words came out harsh. “That is the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Amelia.” He dragged a hand down his face. “This marriage is not permanent. We agreed. When it ends—”
“What if I don’t need permanence?”
Something in him broke. She saw it happen—saw the moment his carefully maintained control snapped like an overstressed rope.
He stood abruptly. Paced to the wall, pressing his palms flat against it, head bowed between his shoulders. The muscles of his back bunched and released with each exhale. Then, slowly, he pushed off and crossed to her. He didn’t stop until he was kneeling beside the tub.
This close, she could see everything. The rapid pulse in his throat. The way his pupils had blown wide. The slight tremor in his hands as they hovered near the copper rim.
“Nicholas?” she whispered.
His name on her lips seemed to undo him further. His hand came up slowly, fingers trembling as they found the wet strands of hair clinging to her shoulder. He brushed them back with a touch so light it raised gooseflesh on her skin despite the warm water.
His knuckles grazed her collarbone. Lingered.
Amelia’s breath stuttered. That small touch sent heat spiraling through her, pooling low in her belly in a way that made her squirm in the overly large tub.
He noticed. His hand slid up to cup the base of her throat, feeling the racing beat of her pulse. He traced it with his thumb, a slow drag that made her eyelids flutter.
“Look at me,” he commanded roughly.
She obeyed. His hand slid higher, cupping the side of her neck, thumb finding that sensitive spot behind her ear. He stroked there in small circles, and a sound escaped her throat.
Then his other hand joined the first, both framing her face now, tilting her head back. Water lapped at the copper rim as she shifted unconsciously toward him.