Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The sun fell in white streams through the webbed boughs of the trees overhead.
Nicholas progressed through the woods with his hands in his pockets, watching the forest floor carefully for hazards as he proceeded toward the clearing a few yards in front of him.
The manor house was a mile in the opposite direction, waiting for the return of its master on that brisk autumn morning.
And for the return of its temporary mistress, Nicholas thought with a sad smile, cutting through a patch of sunlight that warmed his weary frame and had turned the orange and yellow leaves dry underfoot.
He had not gone walking with the intention of finding Amelia that morning. According to the staff, she had escaped the house after having breakfast in her room hours ago.
But Nicholas was not upset when he perceived her in the clearing anyway, sitting on a large limestone rock, bent over something she contemplated on her knees.
He admired her briefly. The outline of her form, cloaked in dark red. The escaped ribbon of brown hair which danced with the wind. The slender shoulders he had watched rock with pleasure the night prior in the carriage as she lay beneath him at his mercy.
Nicholas approached cautiously, hoping to avoid frightening her. As though sensing him, maybe hearing the crackle of leaves that betrayed his presence, she glanced over her shoulder, her face halfway concealed by the thick burgundy cloak she wore.
To his relief, she smiled at him and bid him closer.
“Were you looking for me, Your Grace?” she asked, twisting on her stone perch. “Did you come all this way just for me? Such a gallant knight, marching through the woods on this misty morning.”
“There are many who would scoff at that description of me,” he teased, shivering at the cold—and the welcoming and playful strains of her voice.
“No, I frequent this path often on my morning walks. It is the only stretch of forest on the grounds. The rest is comprised of moors and flat farmland. This is the only place one might hope to be alone. Ah. Usually, that is.”
“My apologies for this grave break in routine.” Amelia shrugged, and with the movement of her shoulders, he glimpsed the script in her lap. “I had not known it was in your habit to retreat here.”
“Then why did you come?”
“I asked the housekeeper whether she knew of anywhere nice to sit outdoors for a time, and she suggested I come here.”
Nicholas stepped closer, inspecting the play over her shoulder. “To a place where a woman might work on her most serious literary pursuits in peace?”
She laughed. “My butchered retelling of A Midsummer Night’s Dream is hardly an act of serious literature. But yes, that was more or less what I asked her. And this is a lovely spot. You and I will have to fight for control over this domain. A battle to the death.”
“Your writing has gone to your head. First the knights, now swordfights.”
“I said nothing of swords. I want to fight you like gentlemen fight—with their fists.”
Her gaze drifted to their environs, and Amelia blushed. Nicholas smiled covertly, wondering whether the thought of a tussle between them seemed as tempting to her as it did to him. Her gloved hands curled around the script as if in reply.
Nicholas spied annotations in the margins, stacked on top of each other so tightly they were barely legible.
“Only one week now until the play,” she continued, glancing back down at her work. “The children have come very far since we began rehearsals, and their enthusiasm is unmatched. But I fear I am lacking in my role as director. I find it hard not to indulge their every whim.”
She stroked the script fondly, and it made Nicholas’s heart twist with something akin to jealousy for her affectionate touch.
Since marrying, she had visited the orphanage frequently.
The deed of trust had been executed in his name.
St. George’s would have his support forever.
She had already begun renovating the kitchens. The garret rooms were next.
The fact that he could remember all of this astounded him. He hung on to her every word without even realizing it.
He cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”
“Their whims? I cannot recall them all now.” She rubbed her temple and had a faraway look. “They ask to include so many things, and I always agree. But the play could not possibly hope to host the ideas of every child. It is a disjointed—if joyous mess.”
“Exactly as it should be,” he suggested, walking around the rock to stand before her.
A stream hissed familiarly somewhere in the distance.
“I am surprised to hear you say that. You despise the children and love the theatre. My bastardization of Shakespeare should be an affront to you.”
He frowned. “You have misunderstood me. I do not despise children, Amelia. I do not prefer them in my company, but I would not wish ill on them ever.”
“Oh?” She looked up at him hopefully.
“And I have better things to do than defend Shakespeare’s work to you. Regardless… Your take on this play cannot be any worse than the offensive production mounted at Drury Lane last spring by Kemble. I will judge the matter for myself soon enough, as you said.”
“You are coming to the show?”
“Of course. I would not risk embroiling either of us in rumors of unhappy matrimony by avoiding the playhouse on the day of your show. Unless you would prefer that I kept my distance. Then I shall be happy to oblige. This evening should be yours alone. Yours and the children’s.”
“No, please do come. I would be very grateful to you. But… The presence of a duke risks attracting more attention than I intended.”
“And the presence of a duchess would not? I doubt there will be a free seat left. You underestimate your power over the high society of Oxford town.”
And your power over me, he thought devilishly.
Her cheeks flushed pink with more than the cold as she tucked an errant strand of hair back under the hood of her cloak.
Once they had returned home the night prior, they had not discussed what had happened between them in the carriage.
Nicholas had not had the courage to speak to Amelia beyond bidding her goodnight, watching tenderly as she took the stairs to her rooms, the taste of her still lingering in his mouth, the ache for her embedded deep within him unresolved.
The fleeting recollection of that impulsive moment caused Nicholas’s body to tense in the best and worst of ways. He clenched his fist at his side, rubbing his thumb into the gloved finger which, merely hours ago, had explored her to his delight and hers.
“That is… very kind,” she murmured, folding the script over itself and looking up at him with those entrancing, clear grey-blue eyes of hers. “You have treated me better than I could have dreamed when we first decided on our arrangement.”
“Am I to take it that nothing which has occurred between us in the intervening weeks has caused you any displeasure or regret?” he asked, hoping he was making himself clear.
A pause, and then, “Not in the slightest… I have appreciated every moment with you.”
Nodding, Nicholas descended softly into a crouch before her, looking a little like the knight she had accused him of being.
“Because I have had my doubts,” he confessed, finding his courage at last. “My behavior last night, for instance, is just cause for concern.”
The air shifted between them, and his stomach clenched with fear and desire. She licked her lips and looked away, her mouth curling slightly with a smile she tried to hide from him.
“Though it would not be gentlemanly to discuss it—” he suggested, interrupted.
“And it would not be proper on my part to reply.”
“Yet it must be discussed, your propriety be damned.” He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look at him.
“I cannot bear the thought that you believe I acted only out of desire last night. Yes, pure lust was my driving impulse in the carriage. And at the bath chamber. To say anything to the contrary would be a lie. And yet it should be said that… that I…”
He interrupted himself, unsure how to put into words his complicated feelings about the encounters.
How could he tell her that the moments they had shared were not merely another entry in the catalogue of his rakish indulgences? That he had come to care for Amelia in ways he had scarcely cared for another individual in his life? That he had never acted so foolishly, so bravely for anyone?
That he had never longed for a woman in the way he longed for her, and that it was not just because she was denied to him by the conditions of their marriage?
She clutched her gloved fingers around his wrist.
“I liked it… very much,” she murmured, her breathing growing ragged, so close he could feel it against his cheek, warming him. “But if it was a moment that you would sooner forget, tell me now.”
He did not know how else to reply other than by kissing her, his lips crashing into hers with an intensity that surprised him.
Her mouth was hot and supple as she welcomed his tongue. Her hand released him immediately, finding his hair, tugging it in desperation as she guided him closer.
His previously unsatisfied need for her returned at full strength.
Their kiss felt more like the continuation of their embrace the night prior than the start of something new. And that was how he would justify it to himself once he had taken her.
He pushed back her hood to expose her face and neck, kissing the patch of cold skin just beneath her ear and feeling her purr in response.
“Thank God,” she whispered, hands clutching hungrily into his shoulders. “I worried you would never kiss me again.”
“I should not indulge you—nor myself,” he said breathily, returning his mouth to hers. “But the thought of you… Oh, Amelia… What have we done?”
She shook her head, silently pleading him not to think, to continue.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she lifted from her seat and pressed her body into his.
They fell hard against the solid ground beneath them, Amelia straddling him.
The pressure against his manhood was maddening as she ground against him, satisfying urges he doubted she could even comprehend.
He lifted off the ground far enough to kiss her again, a hand snaking up her stockinged ankle to her thigh, past the layers of her skirts until he found her once more—wet and warm and wanting.
It was almost too much to bear. Her hands were all over him, searching for his skin. Like the devil he was, he grabbed her hand, intending to show her what she had done to him…
Just as the thundering sound of an approaching horse penetrated through the fog of his desire.
Amelia heard it too, blanching as she whipped her head in the direction of the sound, her hand having just slipped beneath his shirt.
The rhythmic beating of the hooves on the forest floor resonated in Nicholas’s chest, and he cursed whoever drove the animal toward them for denying him what he wanted most.
Stroking Amelia’s cheek, he guided her gently but decisively off him. They barely had time to tidy themselves, dusting the dirt off his jacket, plucking a leaf out of her hair, before the horse came into view.
A black gelding he recognized from their stables.
A bad omen.
“Your Grace,” the rider cried—a liveried footman from the house. “There is an urgent caller for you.”
Nicholas scowled at the man, poorly concealing his anger at being disturbed. The servant cast an alarmed glance between Nicholas and his wife, but kept whatever suspicions he had to himself.
“Who?” he ground out.
“The gentleman would not say. But he ordered us to fetch Your Grace and the duchess immediately. He said he would not leave until he was granted an audience.”
A list of potential enemies filtered through Nicholas’s mind. He could not think of anyone who would order him to return with such authority. Especially not with Amelia in tow.
Sending her a regretful look, Nicholas instructed the footman to ride back to the house with news of their imminent arrival.
A quarter of an hour later, Riverside Court came into view.
Nicholas entered ahead of Amelia, searching furiously for the butler to provide some sort of explanation. The entrance hall was warm but empty, his determined footsteps echoing against the marble floor, leaving a trail to the woods behind him.
Suddenly, by the door, Amelia gasped.
Nicholas turned, his body going rigid at the sound of her frightened cry.
A young man stood beneath the archway leading to the western wing. He wore a dark brown traveling costume, his chestnut hair tied into a queue behind him. A short beard decorated his jaw. Dark bags hung under his eyes, holding the look of a man who had returned from many months of travel.
Amelia stepped toward the stranger. She covered her mouth with trembling hands, tears misting her eyes.
She whispered, “No, this cannot be.”
And Nicholas’s heart sank to his stomach.