Chapter Two #3
When Dorian returned to the parlor, it took him several minutes to realize their little party had been infiltrated.
When he did, however, he froze as if utterly stunned.
A lad of about eight years of age sat beside Amelia on the settee, facing Clara, talking animatedly and gesturing with his tiny hands.
Dorian had little experience with children but, dressed as he was in fine clothing and shoes, he could only be Amelia’s son.
He couldn’t have said why, but his chest constricted painfully at the sight; when he noticed the lad shared his mother’s emerald eyes, Dorian’s lungs forgot their function.
The conversation stalled abruptly when Dorian’s presence was noted; all three heads turned to face him.
“Who is he?” the boy asked with his childlike candor, unconcerned about the rudeness of the inquiry. It was unexpectedly charming.
It was like a punch to Dorian’s gut.
He could feel Clara’s eyes on him, watching, waiting for a reaction, but he was too frozen to produce one.
Sensing Dorian’s inability to speak, Amelia went about performing the necessary introductions.
“Archie, this is Lord Dorian Poole, the Marquess of Kempton. He is Lady Clara’s elder brother.
” She stroked her son’s burnished copper hair and said fondly, “This is my son, Lord Archie Liddell, the Earl of Coylton.” She looked back up at Dorian.
“He was just coming to say goodnight, but now he does not wish to leave.”
“I want to stay up and play games, too.” The boy’s frown would have been petulant were it not oddly endearing in its ferocity.
“You know,” Clara interjected with an exaggerated yawn. “I am weary from today’s travels. Would you mind escorting me abovestairs, Lord Coylton, because I fear I will lose my way in this lovely castle of yours.”
The lad seemed to think it over for a moment before he nodded. “Alright,” he gallantly agreed, took Clara’s hand in his, and they exited the room, followed closely by the boy’s nurse.
Amelia and Dorian were left alone once more.
Immediately, they were plunged back into the tense silence that had preceded Clara’s arrival in the dining room.
Unable to bear it, Dorian abruptly said, “He does very much take after his father—except for the eyes.” The ensuing pause was weighty. “I noticed a faint burr to his speech; has he spent his entire life here in Scotland?”
Suddenly, Amelia stood. “We may have a truce for Clara’s sake, but I never could abide false niceties. It’s fine if you feel indifferent to me. You needn’t pretend you care about my son.”
Her words felt like a physical blow to Dorian that was so powerful, he nearly doubled over. He was winded all over again.
Then, the most unwelcome and unpleasant thought burst into his mind like a flash of heat lightning:
Archie should have been his son.
And Amelia must believe him to be a monster, indeed, if she wanted him to stay away from her child.
Hell hath no fury…
Dorian approached Amelia like one would a furious filly, slow and cautious.
Her defiant eyes never left his face, and when she did not immediately lash out, he closed the remaining gap between them.
When his hand moved, her head tilted as if she was expecting a blow to strike her.
Immediately, he dropped his hand, and it clenched into a fist. Did she truly believe he would harm her?
The thought incensed him. He had never laid an untoward hand upon a woman, let alone her.
Amelia met his eyes, challenging him through her steadiness, though the powerful emotion wavered uncertainly when she saw what was reflected there—when she noticed the muscle flexing in his jaw.
“Never make the mistake that I’ve ever felt indifferent toward you, Amelia.” His tone was low and intimate. “You’ve made me feel any number of emotions—love, lust, joy, loss, despair, hate—but never, ever indifference.”
Her lips parted in a barely audible gasp.
They were so close now.
Dorian continued, “And if you think I’d lay a harmful hand upon you, then you never knew me as well as I knew you.”
With that, he turned on his heel and stormed from the room.
Amelia placed a hand to her throat and released the breath she hadn’t realized was lodged in her chest. She’d known allowing Kempton to reside beneath her roof was a terrible idea, but, judging from her frantic pulse, it might just be a downright dangerous decision.
Hearing him say aloud how he’d once loved her brought back a thousand memories of a time when she’d given her own heart away, along with her trust. It reminded her how she’d desired him, mind, body, and soul, with the overwhelming need of young love.
Even though he’d all but spat upon her offering of her heart with his infidelity, there was no denying she’d also always felt anything but indifferent toward him.
The man unleashed a torrent of things within her; he stirred up long-buried emotions and dreams. His presence reopened old scars and unleashed fresh waves of feelings, both physical and emotional, that she was unable to name.
Amelia waited, entirely immobile, for several more minutes until she was certain she wouldn’t encounter Kempton on her way to her chambers.
“Faye,” she whispered, and the dog immediately lurched to her feet and trotted over from where she’d lain by the hearth. Together, they walked side by side and made their way to bed, where, undoubtedly, Amelia would spend long hours staring at the ceiling beams.