Chapter Five
Kempton had been the first man to steal a kiss from Amelia shortly after they’d been introduced.
Several other men had tried before then, but none had succeeded.
He wore down her defenses with his charm and kindness, his willingness to please while retaining a strong, masculine air.
When he’d stolen that first kiss in a hedge maze at a garden party, she’d been elated.
They’d shared several other stolen embraces throughout the duration of their courtship; each had made her giddy.
He’d made her entire body tingle with a newfound awareness.
Nothing compared to this kiss.
This was desperate. It was urgent. She could taste the need on his tongue as it pillaged her mouth, tangling with hers. It stole her breath and made her knees so weak she had to grip his arms to remain upright.
All the years of pent-up frustration and lost desires poured through them, shared and transferred as if through absorption.
His hands roved hungrily as if to relearn her every feature.
They moved from her face to her neck, pressing gently against her skipping pulse.
One came to wrap around her back, holding her so tightly to his chest that her breasts were compressed and her panting breaths were further restricted.
The other cradled her hip, his long fingers gracing the swell of her buttocks in a nearly bruising grip. His knee pressed between her thighs.
She should have felt ravaged and frightened by his touch and the clear depth of his need; instead, she was excited, aroused to the point of mindlessness.
All she could think of, as she wrapped her arms around Kempton’s neck, was the ache and damp hollowness at the crux of her thighs, the way her body demanded satisfaction as it hadn’t in what felt like forever.
Were she to allow Kempton into her bed, she knew from this kiss that it would be explosive.
The thought made her tremble. Their relationship was volatile.
Apparently, they could go from bickering to kissing in a matter of seconds.
Never since she’d chosen to end the betrothal had she ever imagined being in Kempton’s arms. Never, ever would she have believed she’d enjoy it again.
One of his wandering hands paused at the side of her breast. There was a question there; one Amelia wasn’t certain she was clear-thinking enough to answer.
The door rattled against her spine, accompanied by an urgent whine.
Kempton’s silent inquiry was answered for her when a voice spoke to Faye in the hallway behind her, and the doorknob rattled.
Kempton caught Amelia against him and pulled them back away from the door.
He released her to the charge of her own unsteady knees just as the door opened to reveal the confused face of one of the maids.
Amelia quickly swiped at her mouth and straightened her gown, hoping the dim light hid her dishabille. Faye burst into the room and came between Amelia and Dorian, nuzzling her palm, reassuring herself that her mistress was well.
“Apologies fer the intrusion!” the maid said hastily with a quick curtsey. “I was only wanton’ to see what’s gotten Faye so worked up; she’s bin scratchin’ up the door near beyond repair.”
Amelia cleared her throat, and she straightened her spine.
“I was just taking my leave. We will not be partaking in after-dinner entertainment this evening. Please have Mary sent to my chambers in an hour to assist me in preparing for bed. Now, I am going to see my son.” With that, Amelia took her leave without sparing Kempton a glance, even though she could feel his searing gaze watching her every movement as she left the room.
Amelia took the long walk to the nursery to cool her roiling emotions.
As she stood outside the door, she closed her eyes and pressed a palm to her abdomen, taking as deep a breath as her gown would allow.
Sensing her unease, Faye gently bumped into her hand.
Amelia cupped the dog’s head and took solace in her warm presence.
She smiled down at her companion, noticing not for the first time the grey liberally coating her snout, the milkiness that had begun to cloud her once-bright chestnut eyes.
Their excursions had become shorter, and there were some occasions when Faye’s joints ached so terribly that they weren’t able to go out on their runs.
On those days, Faye’s eyes would be filled with apology, and Amelia would do her best to reassure her constant companion.
Faye was nearing ten years of age—old for a dog of her size—but she refused to relinquish her watch over her mistress.
Amelia scratched her ears and let them into the nursery.
The room was large—intended to house a passel of bairns and the other younger members of the lord’s family, but it had only ever housed Archie.
James had been shipped off to England for his education when he was but a child himself.
Amelia had always been worried her son would grow lonely in such a large space with no siblings, which is why she’d never objected to his making friends with the children of the servants, and why she always made a point to take time from her day to reassure him that he was well and truly loved.
She knew what it was like to grow up as an only child in a cavernous household, and she refused to allow him to feel the same loneliness she had.
The size of the nursery made her ache when she saw the tiny beds with Archie as their only occupant, accompanied by his nurse as she told him a story.
Amelia had often considered how badly she’d longed to fill the nursery, but she and James had…
come to a mutual agreement that no further procreation was necessary after it was determined that the heir she’d produced was hale and hearty.
The arrangement had suited them both well enough.
Her husband had never inspired a fiery passion beneath her skin; she’d never felt as if she might combust from his touch.
Unlike when Kempton held her…
Archie perked up when he saw her, and Faye left her side to lope over to him. The nurse stood and curtseyed.
“I would like to read to my son before he sleeps,” said Amelia. With a nod, the nurse retreated to the far end of the room to tidy up.
Amelia pulled her son into her lap, savoring the feel of his small frame against her. It wouldn’t be too long before he outgrew these embraces, both in size and maturity, so she vowed to savor every moment—especially since she doubted she’d ever have the chance to experience it all over again.
“Will Clara come to say goodnight as well?” Archie asked with a yawn.
“Likely not tonight, my darling.” Before he could pout, she offered him a comforting smile. “How about a story?”
“A new one?”
“Not an old favorite? The boy and the dragon? The boy and the lost treasure?”
Archie giggled. “You always tell those stories. I want a new one.” He burrowed into her side and sighed contentedly.
“Very well.” Amelia paused to think. “How about the boy and the black knight?” Gradually, her voice lulled him into a compliant sleep as Faye dozed at their feet. There, in that cozy cocoon of peace, Amelia could almost forget the infuriating man beneath her roof.
Restless and frustrated, Dorian paced his abhorrent bedchamber.
The flicker of the waning flames in the hearth was the only light guiding his repetitive path.
He cursed the enclosed space of the smaller chamber and, out of habit, glanced around for a sideboard with which to slake his thirst and dampen the fire in his loins.
This, however, was a woman’s bedchamber, and the dainty vanity was frustratingly barren.
He dropped onto the edge of the bed with a heavy grunt.
It was probably for the best that he’d been unable to obtain a drink; it wouldn’t do to backslide in his habits, and that was exactly where his mental state would take him—back into a very dangerous place.
He raked his hands through his hair and flopped back onto the mattress.
He stared up at the garish tufted canopy, seeing only Amelia’s passion-clouded eyes.
Palming his insistent arousal through his breeches, he groaned deeply. It had been a mistake to believe he could remain as composed with Amelia as he was with other women…that he could separate their history and what they’d once meant to one another from what they were now.
Dorian was finally forced to admit to himself that he doubted he’d ever stop wanting her.
Badly.
Earlier, she had made it absolutely clear that she was still injured over the perceived betrayal a decade earlier.
She didn’t trust him; however, she still possessed a measure of desire for him.
He screwed his eyes shut, forcing himself to push the image of her from his mind’s eye.
He had to remain collected. The desire he’d felt earlier in their kiss had nothing to do with him and everything to do with his goal of finding a way to get her out of his system so he could move on with his life, once and for all.
Sitting up, he stripped off the rest of his clothing and climbed naked beneath the coverlet. He lay awake for several hours considering his next move with Amelia.
He also knew he had to speak with Clara.
His sister was one to hold grudges, so it was likely that she’d not forgive him until he’d performed the proper amount of groveling. It was something he knew he needed to do since she was the only family he had left.
The next morning, Dorian dressed and broke his fast in solitude in his rooms while skimming a couple of letters which had been forwarded by his stewards.
“Has Lady Coylton’s horse had his shoe replaced yet?” he asked his valet.
“I heard that the local blacksmith is visiting a neighboring village, but he should return tomorrow.”
This meant Amelia would not be riding that morning.