Chapter Seven
Amelia dreaded supper that evening; her pride was the only thing keeping her from taking the meal in her rooms. She knew Dorian would take one look at her and know how he’d rattled her with his touch, how he’d tempted her with his kisses, just how close she’d actually come to agreeing to his proposition.
His request had been rolling through her mind over and over in the hours leading up to supper.
At first, she’d been disgusted with herself for being so wanton and for even indulging in the possibility of inviting Dorian, of all men, to her bed.
Then, she’d tried rationalizing it.
She was a widow; she knew what she was inviting, and she still had needs.
It had been so very long since she’d been touched by anyone’s hands but her own.
Her experiences with James had been pleasant enough, but they’d been nothing like the simmering heat Dorian stirred within her whenever he so much as grazed her skin.
What was this magnetic attraction between them?
It defied good sense and rationality. But, oh, how she craved it—she’d never stopped craving it since she’d been a young woman, too inexperienced to put a name to what she felt.
Aching desire, pure and simple, kept her in a constant state of restlessness where Dorian was concerned.
Dorian’s words from the other day echoed in her skull, making her skin experience wave after wave of heat.
It was wrong.
It was Dorian.
He was the man who had shattered her innocent heart all those years ago.
Despite the guilt she felt over the grief her actions had caused him, she’d once vowed to loathe him for his callous treatment and betrayal of her trust…
but there was no denying the lingering physical attraction.
Despite all that had transpired over the years, despite how much wiser she was, it would seem she was not immune to his charms… and the damned man knew it.
Amelia donned her deep green gown trimmed in delicate strips of dyed black lace and went down to supper. She did her best to act as if nothing had happened, but the smoldering look in Dorian’s eyes told her he was remembering every moment.
“What shall we do tomorrow?” Clara asked cheerily, unknowingly providing Amelia with a new direction for her mind.
“Barring more poor weather, I would still like to take you to the loch,” Amelia replied. “And we’ve received an invitation for a dinner party at a neighboring estate later in the week. Both of you are invited as well, of course.”
“How lovely!” Clara clasped her hands together in delight. “I’ve just the thing to wear. I wasn’t sure there would be an occasion to use it on this holiday, but I’m positively chuffed now. I do hope you will accept on our behalf.”
Amelia smiled warmly at Clara’s excitement, as well as her skipping entirely over the part where she conferred with her brother about his opinion on the matter.
“Of course; I shall do so in the morning. I look forward to seeing this gown that has worked you into such a tizzy. It must be something quite spectacular, though I find it difficult to believe a girl so beautiful as yourself would look dowdy in anything.”
Kempton took a sip of wine before interjecting. “Brinley also sent a note that he’ll be passing through this area on his way from a house party to meet his father in Northumberland for business. You remember him, do you not?”
Amelia froze. Lord Brinley had always been so difficult for her to read, and she did not know how comfortable she was having one of Kempton’s oldest and closest friends and allies beneath her roof.
She also knew that Clara possessed some complicated feelings about the man; it was evident in how often the young woman complained about him in their correspondence.
Watching the way Clara gripped her utensils, she could tell nothing had changed. Why did her brother not see it?
“So, he decided to invite himself to my home? Seems like rather poor manners,” Amelia commented, a high arch to her brow.
“He inquired after a spare room so he would not have to put himself up at an inn, and I told him I was certain Coylton Castle could accommodate one more guest.”
Amelia set down her glass harder than she had intended. “You know,” she began, “I brushed off your high-handedness the other day when you ordered my staff around, but I cannot tolerate this. I have the right to approve the guests in my own household.”
“It is only Brinley.”
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“You are not my husband!” The words hung heavy in the following silence.
“That is a fact which is abundantly clear to everyone in this room,” Kempton finally said, an icy bite to his tone.
Amelia sighed, slightly deflated after her outburst. “That is not…I only intended to inform you that I should not be treated as if I were under your charge. I manage this household and run all the investments and holdings alongside the stewards. I expect to be treated with more respect than you have shown me thus far.”
There were several tense moments where Dorian’s reaction could go either way.
Clara barely breathed beside her.
“My apologies.” Amelia wasn’t sure she’d heard the words correctly.
They were so calm, so even, so earnest that it momentarily stunned her.
“It was not my intention to overstep—especially after the rainstorm. My intention was never to usurp your authority, and I should have conferred with you instead of acting out of habit.”
Clara’s jaw actually hung agape as she looked between her brother and Amelia as if she could not believe what she was witnessing.
“Thank you,” Amelia said softly—a bit taken aback by his capitulation as well—and the meal resumed.
“How about a game of chess?” Amelia asked Clara, gesturing to the as-yet-unused board prepared in the corner of the parlor.
It was a beautiful set with intricately carved marble pieces, likely Italian in its craftsmanship.
Despite Clara clapping her hands in excited agreement, Dorian knew it would end in disaster.
His sister had never possessed the patience for such a game.
In fact, Clara had never excelled in any hobby that required a great deal of stillness and restraint.
She’d always been a girl made for motion.
“You don’t mind, do you, Dori?” Clara asked, realizing the game would leave him the odd man out.
He waved away her concern. “You play your game; I will excuse myself to step out for a spell.” Enjoying a cheroot on the veranda seemed far preferable to witnessing Clara’s complaining and grumbling as she was thoroughly trounced in chess.
Before the women could protest, he slipped out, lighting his cheroot on a candle as he passed, and stepped into the night.
The rain had finally halted, leaving the earth damp and chilled.
Though it was May, early spring seemed loath to lose her grip on this corner of Scotland.
The distant blue flash of lightning heralded more rolling storms to come, but, for now, they held off.
He puffed slowly and watched the storm until there was a flicker of movement beside him.
Amelia appeared, looking stunning and ethereal in the mysterious lighting. He could no more help his smile at her appearance than he could his breathing.
“Did Clara lose gracefully at last?” he finally asked when his mouth decided to work once again.
“She is a better sport now than I remember. There were hardly any tears.” Amelia smiled at her jest and produced from behind her back a polished ebony box, heavily lacquered and shining in the snippets of golden light from the window behind them.
“What is this?” he asked as she held it out to him.
“It is my turn to extend a truce, I suppose,” she offered with a tilt of her head.
He took the box and, nestled within its red velvet-lined interior, he discovered a specially made traveling case for cigars.
Beautifully and skillfully crafted, the inside of the case was made from Spanish cedar, while the outside was rich cherry wood.
The artisan had carved into the case a stunning relief of a stallion rearing within a frame of blooming roses.
It was more a work of art than something utilitarian.
“This is remarkable,” he said as he ran his fingers along the carvings, taken aback by the thoughtfulness of the gesture.
“It was my husband’s,” she said softly, and then added quickly, “He never used it. I thought someone should enjoy and appreciate it, so it did not go entirely to waste.”
“I cannot accept this; you should hold onto it.” Dorian tried to hand it back to her, but she shook her head.
“I want you to have it. And…I feel bad about my comment earlier.”
“You were merely stating a fact.”
“Yes, but it was hurtful, nonetheless. My intention in saying such a thing was impure, and I told myself I would not do that to you again.”
Recognizing that he was not going to win the argument, Dorian inclined his head, and to show his appreciation, he immediately set about transferring his cheroots from his pocket to the case. It really was beautiful. It must have cost a pretty penny.
Once he was done with that, Dorian resumed smoking. Amelia remained by his side, and they continued to watch the storm roll in, flashes of light briefly illuminating fractions of the looming clouds in the inky distance.
“Your husband…he appreciated cigars?” he finally said, uncharacteristically unsure of how to continue conversing with her after her admission and gift.
She made a soft sound of amusement. “Not especially. The case was more about it being a piece of artwork than something to put to use. It was a gift from his…closest friend. James had never quite appreciated such things—not like I remember you did.”
He hummed and examined the low-burning cheroot between his fingers. While some things had, indeed, remained the same, many things about him had changed in the last decade, and he did not wish to discuss them. Instead, he opted to move forward with playful antagonism.
“You know,” he said, a wicked smile curling his lips, “you never did answer my question earlier.”
Amelia did not look at him, but her plump lips formed a firm line. “Things can never—will never—be the way they once were, Dorian. It is unhealthy to pretend otherwise.”
He mulled that over. “Allowing two consenting adults to act upon their desires is, in my humble opinion, entirely healthy.” He pretended not to hear her scoff. “It does not mean we forget everything that happened.”
She turned to look up at him, and he couldn’t resist brushing his knuckles against the petal-soft skin of her cheek. “I cannot forget what happened,” she breathed, but did not retreat from his touch.
“Neither can I,” Dorian whispered back, bending his head to capture her mouth, but they were interrupted when Clara stepped out to join them on the veranda.
“I think I am ready to try playing again,” Clara announced. “I hope to last longer than five minutes this time.”
Dorian cursed and stepped back a safe distance from Amelia, melding into the shadows to disguise just how close they had been.
“Oh?” Amelia breathed and passed a hand across her forehead before turning to Clara.
“Bother…I’ve interrupted something, haven’t I?” Clara sighed, disappointed in herself.
What did she mean by that?
“No! Not at all!” Amelia said, a little too brightly, making Dorian bite back a small grin of amusement. “You said you would like to try chess again?”
Clara nodded. “Yes. I know what I did wrong, and I would like another go.”
“Very well,” Amelia replied with a grin and, without another glance in Dorian’s direction, she followed his sister back indoors.
The wind had begun to gather force, whipping the women’s skirts around their legs.
He decided to remain outside long after his cheroot burned down, and he continued to watch and listen as the lightning and thunder grew nearer still.
He weighed his choices.
The opportunity to have Amelia and work her out of his system was within his reach. There was no denying that he and Amelia desired one another—he, with more urgency than he would have liked—but this game was turning dangerous.
As much as he’d believed his pain would drive his desire to see his aim through, he had not counted on her experiencing guilt for what had happened to his name and his reputation.
As much as he knew he’d always wanted her, he’d clearly allowed his wounded heart and pride to discolor his memories.
Being in her presence was tantamount to torture when he still could not have her.
He’d longed to wed her all those years ago for a reason…and now, spending so much time in her intimate proximity, all those reasons came back with even more force than he’d thought possible. And they came with even more reasons to admire her.
The rain began to fall slowly and then all at once.
Was he truly about revenge or redemption any longer? Was it about moving on with his life? And where would that leave Amelia when the time came for him to pack his things and return to London?
He did not care for the way this train of thought made him feel, so he tucked his new cigar box into the inner pocket of his coat and returned inside.
Tonight.
He had come too far—waited too bloody long—to back out now for some lingering, misguided emotions. He would go to Amelia that night, and then he would move on with his life.