Chapter Two
Dorian’s trunks had been deposited into a rather nauseatingly feminine room that reeked faintly of stale perfume and medicinal herbs.
Positioned down the hall from the chamber in which Clara would be staying, it must have belonged to some long-dead great aunt of the late earl.
He did not doubt that this had been done intentionally.
Amelia had clearly decided that she was going to have to tolerate his presence if she did not wish to disappoint Clara, but that did not mean she had to treat Dorian like an honored guest of his station.
He found it a curious mixture of irksome and amusing.
The chamber he’d been assigned overlooked the grand gravel drive leading to the castle’s outer gates and the glittering grey loch beyond—at least it would whenever the haze and fog decided to lift and reveal Scotland in its glory.
He’d traveled to Edinburgh with Brinely a time or two in their younger years, so he wasn’t unfamiliar with the lands of the north; however, this was his first time staying in a Scottish castle.
It wasn’t quite as drafty as he’d expected—then again, this one appeared to be in remarkably good repair.
Amelia had done an admirable job with its upkeep.
Dorian’s pulse skipped at the memory of his first good look at her in years.
Her bewilderment had been beautiful, and he relished the fact that he’d already set her back on her heels.
He had the upper hand at the moment, and he fully intended on keeping it.
He was more determined than ever to see his plan through and show her how wrong she’d been about him—to shake her as she shook him, to make her feel a fraction of what he felt.
It was encouraging to know that she was not indifferent to his presence.
She seemed at war with herself; her eyes had always been expressive, and that afternoon had been no different.
She was strong and determined, but she also seemed to hold onto some unresolved emotions when it came to him.
They manifested as clipped words and standoffish posturing, but he hadn’t yet encountered anything that he could not overcome.
At least he was in her home.
That chasm had been traversed and, though it caused him no little pain to be so close to her again and not immediately pull her into his arms, he was pleased with how he’d maintained his head.
His valet arrived, bringing footmen carrying fresh white linens, pails of steaming water, and a brass hip bath for him to freshen up after his ride. Following his chilly reception, the heat would be a welcome change.
Once he was dry and dressed in a freshly pressed shirt, crisp white cravat, and ebony jacket, he examined his reflection in the cloudy looking glass.
Though the image was slightly distorted, he determined his appearance was sufficient after he added a small diamond stickpin to the heart of his cravat knot.
He wasn’t known as the dandy of London’s Rank of Rakes—that honorific was staunchly attached to Viscount Blackwood—but he still took a measure of pride in the image he presented.
Dorian took his time traversing the cavernous hallways to make his way back to the dining room that the butler had pointed out on their way to his assigned chamber.
The echo of his boots ricocheted along the narrow space, making it easy to understand how someone might believe a place such as this was haunted by restless spirits.
Perhaps he was one of them.
Lord knew Dorian’s soul hadn’t been able to find peace in a decade.
Being so close to Amelia, so near to her again, had released a violent torrent of emotions within him—some he’d believed he’d stomped out long ago.
In an instant, he remembered with striking vividness what it had been like to kiss her.
What she had tasted like. How sweetly naive she’d been, and eager to please.
How her hand felt when it cupped his cheek.
Dorian gave himself a full-body shake. He needed to push those thoughts aside and remind himself of the humiliation, the years of heartache he’d endured because of her. He needed to remember why he had traveled all this way.
Eventually, he found his way to the dining hall—a room far too grand to entertain only the lady of the house and her two guests (one more welcome than the other), but Clara had exhibited such awe at the room’s beauty on their tour that Amelia had agreed that they should take supper there that evening in honor of her arrival.
Dorian hadn’t missed the pointed mention of the singular, leaving him removed.
Regardless, Dorian could not stop the bemused tilt of his lips.
Some things never changed—Amelia’s quick wit being one of them.
Clara was seven years younger than Amelia; she’d been nothing more than a girl when he and Amelia had been betrothed.
As such, Amelia—an only child—had doted upon Clara with all the zeal of one who had just discovered a long-lost sibling.
During their courtship, Amelia had always purchased a small gift or trinket for Clara whenever he’d escorted her on one of their chaperoned outings—a bit of pretty ribbon, a painted spinning top, a posy of flowers from the park, a small bag of sweets from a shop.
That had been part of what had made Dorian fall in love with her all those years ago; Amelia had loved his sister and accepted her as family without hesitation or reservation.
Not once had she ever considered Clara to be a nuisance, and there had never been anything contrived about the relationship.
Their current situation made it clear that the relationship had held strong over the years.
He experienced a pang of bitterness at that thought.
He, Dorian, had been so easily discarded, while Clara had remained a beloved part of Amelia’s world. If he analyzed the emotions too deeply, he might have been forced to recognize that part of what he felt was jealousy…irrational and inconvenient as it was.
When he entered the room, he took in the high ceilings and dark wood paneling until he found Amelia speaking with the butler.
Dorian’s eyes refused to leave her, no matter how he tried to force them.
She’d changed into a gown the color of the richest forest green; tiny crystal beads framed her bodice like dewdrops.
While she’d always been more than pretty, he now grudgingly had to admit that she was not nothing short of stunning.
She was soft in all the right places; the kindness of her smile at the elderly butler made her glow.
He knew he was staring, but he could not help it.
Amelia must have felt his eyes upon her because she stopped mid-sentence and turned to him.
Her green eyes, the color of new spring life, blatantly sized him up from head to toe, and Dorian barely suppressed a shudder of awareness.
From the way her gaze lingered on certain parts of his anatomy before darting away, he liked to think she was pleased by what she saw.
A minuscule banked ember between them flared to life with an eager sputter.
Oh, no, this holiday was not going to be a chore. In fact, he suspected he would quite enjoy it, in more ways than one.
Amelia watched warily as Kempton crossed the impressive length of the room.
There was an unfamiliar gleam in his dark, fathomless eyes—something vaguely predatory—that made her simultaneously uncomfortable and excited.
This was not a look she’d ever seen him direct toward her in the many months of their courtship and engagement.
Then, she chided herself.
He was no callow youth.
Dorian was most definitely a man.
And he was dangerous.
In the years since they’d parted, she now comprehended the depth of the blow she’d struck against him that night.
It was scandal enough that an imminent marriage be called off, leaving a discarded groom in its wake.
But to be a young man so publicly decried, with his sins laid bare for all the judgmental ton to feast upon?
That was tantamount to being flogged in the streets.
He could not hide from what had happened, and, even though she did her best to avoid the gossip rags foaming at the mouth to spread the news, she could not completely avoid what was being said about him.
Some slapped her on the wrist for her uncouth outburst, but she was, for the most part, praised for escaping what might have been marriage to a womanizing rapscallion.
Kempton, on the other hand, had been villainized.
He’d been painted as a young lothario in the making, dragging every woman within reach into darkened corners, pouncing upon everything in a skirt.
His reputation lay in tatters, a matter not helped by anonymous accounts provided by a former lover supplied to the tabloids for what must surely have been either an obscene fee or the pettiest of revenge—Amelia could think of no other reason a woman might add fuel to such a raging fire.
Shame and embarrassment had flooded her upon reading snippets of what was being said about her former fiancé.
She’d asked herself time and time again if she’d reacted too rashly when faced with what she’d witnessed, but then she remembered the way that woman had draped herself over him, how it had ripped away the guileless veil she’d worn when it came to Kempton.
She’d been so foolish to believe he’d been as innocent as she—too guarded by her parents and Society’s restrictions to fully comprehend that the standards were different for men than they were for women.
A wealthy, titled young man as handsome as he was would surely have taken lovers before marriage.
Simply because he was respectful of toeing the line of propriety with her, even when their youthful fervor during infrequently stolen moments of solitude might have carried them away, was not truly indicative of a man who had never known the touch of a woman.