Chapter Two #2
Truth be told, it had taken Amelia an embarrassingly long time to recognize how her reaction had wounded Kempton.
She could still hear his voice pleading with her to allow him to explain, and she sometimes wondered if things might have been different if she had.
Of course, she had walked away with her own injuries, but she’d created a life for herself.
If Clara’s letters (and the sporadic news from London) were to be believed, Kempton had not done much to dispel the unsavory opinion of him she’d helped Society form.
So, what had brought him all this way after all this time?
Their limited interactions thus far had been a confusing mixture of polite and chilly, slightly antagonistic and charged with all the history that lay between them. The shattered pieces of their hearts still lay like so much glittering shrapnel, dangerous to traverse and impossible to overlook.
Kempton strode toward her now, crossing the space in only a few impossibly long strides, took her hand, and brushed his lips across her satin-gloved knuckles.
She removed her hand from his warm grip and took a couple of steps backward.
Of course, he noticed what she’d done, and he flashed her a devastating smile.
He’d always cut a dashing figure in his formalwear, but tonight, it highlighted a dignity and maturity that was so unfamiliar.
“You look lovely this evening, Lady Coylton,” he complimented her, but Amelia barely heard the words.
Until she was more certain of his intentions, she was in no mood for hollow, saccharine compliments.
She would do well to remember that he was an uninvited guest who had once trodden upon her heart, and she did not doubt in the least that he’d not enjoyed the way she’d hurt him.
Amelia cleared her throat to regain her composure and straightened her spine. “Clara should be down shortly,” she murmured, ignoring his polite comment.
Kempton glanced over at the clock on the sideboard and added, “We likely have at least another quarter of an hour before she makes her appearance. Her punctuality has not improved at all over the years.”
Amelia gave him a curt nod of understanding and turned toward the waiting butler.
“Then some drinks, if you would?” she asked Grahame.
“A scotch for the marquess, please.” She tried not to notice Kempton’s raised brow when she automatically requested his preferred drink.
Though entirely useless, the knowledge had stayed with her all this time, so she may as well put it to use.
Besides, they were in the land of the best whiskey the world had to offer, and they had barrels of the best vintages in the cellars. Someone might as well drink it.
She did her best to ignore Kempton’s assessing gaze while they waited for Grahame’s return.
Though her fingers ached to do so, she refused to fidget.
She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how uneasy she felt at having him in her home.
Even with the table between them, he seemed too close, and the room felt far too small.
The tense silence between them was unbearable; it made her skin burn and prickle as if she’d rolled around in a field of stinging nettles.
She nearly slumped with relief when one of the footmen returned with the scotch and offered it to Kempton on a silver serving platter. She watched from the corner of her eye as he examined the drink’s dark amber color and smoky bouquet before sampling a sip with an appreciative hum.
She nearly jumped in her seat when, without looking at her, he suggested, “It might be best if we come to an accord for the time being…if only to save Clara from cleaning up the aftermath. We are going to be locked up together for the next few weeks, after all.”
Amelia’s jaw clenched in response; however, while she still considered him to be an intruder upon the sanctity of her home and her sanity, she knew he was right about this…
no matter how much she wished he wasn’t.
She attempted to read his intentions, but he’d become very adept at donning a placid mask.
“Very well—a temporary truce over our only common interest.” The words were bitter on her tongue.
She refused to be blamed for Clara having a miserable holiday; she would not be remembered for having launched Kempton from her home, and Clara by association.
It was clear that she would have to do her best to set aside her apprehension about Kempton residing beneath her roof for Clara’s sake.
He eyed her over the rim of his glass, his eyes at once serious and sultry. “Surely we can come up with more common interests than that…” He proceeded to rake her with an approving look so fiery, she swore she could feel it on her flesh.
Before she could either retort or analyze his sudden change in temperature, Clara breezed into the room.
She was like a gale of cheery chatter, lilac silk, and lace.
Amelia knew the girl might act unaware, but she had always been too keenly attuned to her elder brother’s moods to be entirely ignorant of the confusing undercurrent simmering in that room.
“I am positively famished!” Clara announced, looking between the two of them.
Her smile was just a touch too broad, and her eyes were a little too round to make Amelia believe she was entirely ignorant of what she’d walked into.
“You’ve written to me about the wonderful shortbread your cook makes.
I hope we shall have a chance to sample some. ”
“Yes.” Amelia snapped to attention. “He will have plenty prepared for tea tomorrow.”
Clara gave a little excited clap of her hands, and her brother pulled out her chair so she might take her place at the table.
For now, the conversation between them would be tabled.
Amelia could only hope it would be dead and buried.
The last thing she wished to do was spend an inordinate amount of time rehashing all their issues; if that was his intention, then she had no interest in reliving the pain and reopening old wounds.
As far as she was concerned, that could stay dead and buried with the rest of their past and regrets.
She might have deserved an earful for the scene she’d created, but she did not relish the thought of being berated for the actions of an Amelia a full decade younger and less experienced.
If the opportunity presented itself, perhaps she would broach an apology with the marquess…
but the more time she spent in his company, the more certain she was that he hadn’t come purely to act as his sister’s chaperone, and she would not extend an olive branch until she was more sure of their footing.
Until then, Amelia was more than content to sit back and allow Clara to create a wonderful buffer between her and her uninvited guest.
After the meal, their trio adjourned to the parlor for games to finish out the evening.
While Amelia and Clara seemed to enjoy themselves with sedate parlor games, they were not to Dorian’s tastes—they never had been, regardless of the company.
Guessing games were not what he would call his usual brand of fun.
He quickly grew bored with the tame entertainment and, while the ladies laughed at a particularly poor guess Clara made, he slipped outside to smoke a cheroot.
The night was thick and inky dark; the atmosphere charged with memories of a bygone era.
It was easy to forget which century it was when surrounded by the towering dark stone walls, listening to the sounds of life from the various outbuildings framing the keep.
This must have been a powerful stronghold, indeed, in its day.
Yet, he’d somehow managed to infiltrate it in one afternoon without a single weapon.
“Was this a mistake?” he muttered to himself, his words underscored by wispy clouds of fragrant smoke.
Dorian wasn’t a cruel person by nature. Admittedly, he could have a temper, but it made only rare appearances and never resulted in physical violence.
Only Amelia had managed to skew his emotions so powerfully that he felt the slipping of his control.
Did he desire more to pull her into his arms, or finally speak his peace and vent his pain?
Had he been too rash and overconfident in storming her home to break her heart as she’d broken him?
To find a way to excise her from his heart once and for all?
He took a long drag of his cheroot and watched as two men in homespun clothing carted covered baskets.
They were laughing and speaking to one another, and Dorian was somewhat taken aback to realize he couldn’t understand a single word.
Their brogues were so thick as to make their speech unintelligible to his untrained ears.
It was rough and oddly beautiful. The men saw him watching and inclined their heads in polite deference; Dorian did the same, his eyes following them until they disappeared into another shadow.
Rather than continue to smoke, he stared at the glowing tip of his cheroot.
He’d ached for years, planned for weeks, traveled for days, and now he could detect the heady scent of success.
He would not back down. Whatever animosity Amelia threw at him, he would handle it.
Whatever defenses she built, he would find a way to overcome them.
He’d planned to spend three weeks in this borderlands castle, and he was determined that the time would be more than sufficient for his aims. He’d had years of practice in the arts of ingratiating himself to women and, if they were ever going to be put to good use, now was the time.