Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (19)

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The man shoved Great-Aunt Celia into Badcock. The butler caught her to his chest with one arm and seamlessly fired the flintlock in his other hand, but the distraction had been enough for their attacker to escape. The pistol ball hit somewhere in the stonework of the neighbour’s townhouse, a harmless spray of detritus scattered to the street.

Amanda rushed out of the carriage for the second time. Julian followed immediately behind her, chasing down the street after the ruffian. Alas, the man was too quick, disappearing into the crowd that had gathered at the sound of the gunshot.

“Aunt Celia!” Amanda ran up the staircase and threw her arms around the woman.

Amanda felt a tear slide down her cheek. This was all her fault, she knew it!

“There, there girl. I am alright.” Great-Aunt Celia hugged her, and squeezed tight. Then she turned to the butler. “I didn’t cut you, did I?” Great-Aunt Celia asked, concern straining her voice. “You’re alright?”

“Not at all ma’am. Are you well?”

“What? Tell me a clear ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ man. Can’t hear a thing out of that bloody ear, you shot right next to it. They should make something to silence that; make the boom less loud. I asked are you hurt? Did I cut you?”

Badcock shook his head.

Poor Aunt! The shock had dazed her. Did she cut him? She was talking nonsense.

Then Amanda saw Great-Aunt Celia’s cane.

Her hand still clasped around the handle, knuckles white. But she had pulled the knob about seven inches from the cane, revealing a sword tucked neatly into the sheath.

There was blood upon the blade.

“Well, if not you, him then.” Great-Aunt Celia’s voice dripped with venomous satisfaction. “One of us got a nick out of the blackguard, at least. Ugh, but this is a dreadful thing to clean, it always rattles if you don’t replace the blade properly. And trying to find the best oil—don’t get me started on the cheap oleaginous stuff they try to pass off in some of these shops. It’s a crime!”

Amanda shuddered a little (as the dripping blade was held in the hand of the arm wrapped around her shoulder), which Great-Aunt Celia must have mistaken for nerves. She gave her a pat on her back… with the cane. Then she pulled away and squinted down. Despite the warmth of her arms, her voice cooled perceptibly. “I think we should have a little chat, don’t you agree?” She pointed the sword-stick at Julian who’d returned to stand behind her. “You, too. All of you.” She made a circular motion. “Denbigh. Geoffrey. Bawler-girl. Come. I think I need tea. With brandy.”

Shelby nearly skipped up the stairs.

Though Great-Aunt Celia had an army of servants, she pulled Badcock along by the arm. “Take this,” she said as she thrust her cane at one of the waiting footmen. “Have Jenson do the thing he does. I want it to shine and sit snug, you hear? And call Miss Heatly to join us. You, lurching fellow, what’s your name?”

“Badcock, ma’am.”

“Speak up, you know I can’t hear, you caused this ringing! Baddock? You will be my walking cane. That was a lovely shot, by the by. It would have been better if you’d hit the man, but a lovely shot given the circumstances. If he hadn’t moved, you’d have got him square between the eyes. You’re too ancient, they couldn’t have taken you to fight Boney… I don’t suppose you were involved in that little skirmish across the Pond?”

“Indeed, ma’am.”

“Hmm. Well, they call themselves ‘Americans,’ now. Maybe your aim hasn’t improved.”

Badcock’s lip twitched and his slightly hunched shoulders shook slightly. “No, ma’am.”

Amanda and Julian followed in startled silence.

They entered the sitting room, each stuffed into an overstuffed armchair (with the exceptions of Julian and Badcock who remained standing at the end like two supportive columns). Amada sat with her hands clasped in her lap and prepared for the onslaught.

“First things first. The man accosted me upon mine own stair! Without repeating any unnecessary vulgar terms, while I was stuffed into that vile man’s armpit he said, ‘Give it back.’” She sniffed. “He did not clarify what ‘it’ was.” She peered over the group at large. “I don’t suppose any of you would like to elucidate?”

Amanda, Geoffrey, Shelby, and Julian each looked from one to the other, none wanting to speak a word.

“No? No answer? Something along the lines of: what the man wanted or perhaps why he was after me to get it?”

Amanda sighed. They were at the point. It was inevitable. It was time for Great-Aunt Celia to act. Boldly. Overruling all of their decisions in a single, felling swoop.

In one huge breath, she told Great-Aunt Celia everything (nearly everything), slurring most of her words together so that she would get everything (nearly) out and not have to continue.

Great-Aunt Celia sat silent. If she’d still had her cane, Amanda knew she would tap-tap-tap it against the floor. She looked at Miss Heatly. Miss Heatly looked at her. Finally, she turned back to the room at large and waved her hand, “Yes, yes, we know all that already.”

Amanda’s jaw hit the floor. “How… How…?”

“Well, the moment we stepped through the door we knew something was smellier than a fishmonger’s basket, didn’t we Susan?” Miss Heatly nodded. “Whispers and maids and scurrying about and nerves strained taut. We didn’t know the details, but I had it from Miss Heatly who had it from Mrs. Cooke who got suspicious from that flighty maid who weaseled information from Rory that something nefarious was moved from the library.”

Even Sophie Fraser might be impressed at the Pruett household’s efficacy in sharing gossip.

“So you’ve known all along?” Amanda still gaped. “Does everyone know?”

“I believe Baddock here had not been informed…” Great-Aunt Celia waved her hand behind her.

“I ascertained the situation upon overhearing Shelby request her brother to remove the body, ma’am. Don’t fret, Miss Amanda, we kept mum during questioning.”

They’d been questioned?! Well, obviously, they had to have been questioned. Bow Street was involved. But that she had no idea they actually had been questioned…

She was impressed at the Pruett household’s efficacy in keeping secrets.

“Ah,” Great-Aunt Celia sniffed, “we didn’t know for certain that it was a body until Lady Denbigh confirmed at the park, yesterday—” she talked over Julian’s sputtering, “—and filled in the juicy tidbits. She said there’s to be an inquest. Tomorrow, eh?”

Amanda gulped. The pit of her stomach wobbled. She hadn’t had the time to think about it.

Great-Aunt Celia frowned at the ceiling. “There was something else supposed to take place tomorrow. What was it, Susan? Ah yes, something about a conveniently announced betrothal.” She scowled at Julian. “Don’t think I didn’t notice, young man.”

“I—”

“So we knew of the body, the inquest, and that you’ve been sticking your nose in Bow Street business. That brute must have been looking for those papers you found. Probably what those hoodlums broke into Number Sixteen for, too.”

“You thought that was set up?”

Great-Aunt Celia looked at her as if she were a few eggs short of a full apple. “Of course it was! For pity’s sake, child, a break-in with every single person out of the house? We were targeted! Someone was watching very carefully and orchestrated a beer wagon to go astray. What man wouldn’t rush to assist? They cleaned up that mess by drinking it. But the hooligans didn’t find the papers, so they sent that vermin today.” Her lip curled. “Why did he expect me to have them?”

“He must have mistaken you for Miss Pruett,” Julian said.

“Oh?” Great-Aunt Celia sat a little straighter in the chair. “Oh really, how flattering!” She preened her hair. “Perhaps, he wasn’t such a vile man after all. Dastardly, but not vile.”

“Aunt, for a woman of forty-something, you look nearly half your age…”

Miss Heatly gasped. Great-Aunt Celia sputtered. “Forty-something?! Forty?! I am this side of thirty-eight.” She sniffed. (She had, in fact, just surpassed the age of her mother upon her birth. That Amanda thought she was over forty… shudder to think.)

Amanda said quickly, “Your hair is so silken and you have such a lithe figure…” She stopped. There was no recovering from the addition of a full two years to any woman’s age. So she asked the question she’d been dreading. “What do you suggest we do about the inquest?”

“Well, my dear, the simple fact is there’s no proof. Nothing at all to suggest Lord Darvel was even in the cemetery—although you were. According Denbigh’s mother, there’s a witness to him alighting the carriage! Meanwhile there’s nothing to show that Darvel had anything at all to do with that Frenchman discovered in your library. It’s all hypothetical supposition! All you’ve found is a glass tube with rock dust in it—a topic in which everyone seems to be interested; Lord Denbigh, Lord Darvel, Mr. Arbuthnot, Mr. Urquhart, Geoffrey included. It all adds to nothing.”

“We’re doomed.”

“Hardly.” Great-Aunt Celia sniffed. Here it came. The pronouncement. Amanda squeezed her hands together. “You will go tomorrow and tell the whole sordid tale at the coroner’s inquest. Corpse manipulation and all. It is so ridiculous and outrageous that no one will question it.”

Amanda and Shelby shared a glance. This is what they’d been trying to avoid from the beginning. “You’re saying we should tell them that Lord Darvel did it? You just said we have no proof!”

“Ridiculous child, you cannot accuse the man! It is your duty to present facts, not bias. You offer only what evidence you have. It is the jury’s responsibility to determine guilty parties and the coroner’s to fill a warrant. Lord Denbigh will back up your story, though news of your newfound relationship might cause more harm than good, there. I’d be curious what that runner fellow turned up, but you’ve had no word from him. No, you simply state the facts. Now, I suggest we all get a good night’s sleep and you practice looking as innocent as a lamb.” With that, she stood. “Come along, Baddock, I’m off to bed.”

Miss Heatly coughed. Great-Aunt Celia looked at her over her shoulder. “You’re forgetting something.”

Great-Aunt Celia pulled away from Badcock with a start. She patted his arm and made her way, on her own, towards Amanda. Her face was soft, her expression gentle. Miss Heatly gathered Geoffrey and brought him to them, then backed away, discreet as always.

For once, Great-Aunt Celia looked a bit sheepish. A light blush flushed her cheeks. “My dears, do forgive me, I should have said straight away, but you will excuse it, through all of this adventure?” The woman had just been accosted by a man in broad daylight, had a gun explode beside her head, and had been prepared to skewer a thug on the doorstep. Amanda could forgive her most anything at the moment. The woman smiled, kindly, and placed a hand on each of their arms. “Just before you arrived, we received word of Daniel. He lives, he is well.”

Amanda felt a dam burst in her heart. Relief overwhelmed her. She didn’t remember pulling her family into a hug, but she found herself crying joyfully onto Great-Aunt Celia’s shoulder while stroking Geoffrey’s hair.

For Celia’s part, she couldn’t tell them the rest—that Daniel smashed a leg, barely survived the subsequent fever, and might yet lose the limb. She knew a thing or two about mangled legs and had already sent her response to her nephew and arranged passage for the continent. For tonight, she’d let them revel in the knowledge their brother was alive. She needed a drink and bed.

Miss Heatly gently broke them up. While Great-Aunt Celia took Badcock’s arm, the redoubtable Miss Heatly guided Geoffrey upstairs to his assigned room.

Shelby sat still, an unhappy expression across her face. Even the freckles on her nose looked miserable.

“So, we did all that work for nothing, miss? We moved the body, chased clues, discovered the killer, and now we tell a jury everything that happened and cross our fingers?”

Amanda sank onto the nearest couch. “It appears that way.” She didn’t see they had much choice. It all felt rather… anticlimactic. “I am sorry that I dragged you into all of this. Please assure your brother that I will do my best to keep you both out of this for as long as possible.”

“Thank you, miss.” Shelby sighed. “I think I shall head off myself, miss. Good night, miss,” she gave a very distracted curtsey and shuffled out of the room.

Amanda sat in stupefied discomfort.

Are they all blind? Are they the Inquisitive Man? Have they missed the elephant in the museum?

She blinked, staring from the elephant to door and back again. The entire household had gone to bed. Leaving her entirely alone.

Alone.

With Julian.

 

Shelby slunk down the hallway toward the kitchens. She didn’t feel much like her normal, jaunty steps. She felt like a dejected alley cat. In the rain. Of a monsoon. It was a rare occasion for Shelby Cooke to feel down, but she did. Usually, the only things to lift her up were a spot of tea and mum’s biscuits. But Mrs. L’s imported cook was too good for solid, blanket-for-the-soul cooking. Imported cook made bruttiboni and clafoutis and things Shelby couldn’t pronounce which were all very tasty (though she’d deny it to mum!), but they weren’t the same.

Mum had refused to step foot in the kitchens after her first three attempts to make a Shepherd’s pie. Imported cook shouted something in falderal lingo about “peasant’s food,” words were bandied, carrots were thrown, and the last straw was placed when mum’s favorite wooden spoon snapped (over the rim of Imported cook’s pot of simmering bouillabaisse).

Meaning, Shelby’d get no biscuits with her tea. But she would heat some water and steep some leaves and maybe get some little bit of comfort from it.

The normal clink and clatter of the kitchens was strangely quiet. The sound of milling people doing odd jobs, cleaning, sweeping, stirring pots all were cheering reminders of happy times. Instead, she heard silence.

It seemed nothing wanted to lift her spirits tonight.

She was at the base of the servant’s stair when she heard a noise.

Clink!

Clatter!

Not more burglars! Oh, she’d right had enough of this. If they were going to break into every house… Enough was enough!

One of the shorter maids kept a long-handled hook in the linen cupboard to reach the top shelf. Quiet as she could, Shelby opened the door and felt along the corner until her fingers wrapped around a handle. She knew she could scream the house down upon the intruder, but if this were the same rogue who’d frummagemmed Mrs. L… he was a quick little rascal and she’d rather corner him first. Which wasn’t the cleverest tactic, but Shelby wasn’t feeling too keen.

Light streamed from a crack in the doorway. She exhaled a fast breath, steadied her nerve, and threw open the door, ready to attack.

“Hullo, there!”

Shelby didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry.

“Principal Officer John Lowe, you get your hand out of the sweet tin this instant!”

Big hazel eyes looked almost guilty as they blinked back at her. He did as she said, however. He got his hand out of the sweet tin. But she hadn’t specified empty.

“Don’t you dare eat that powdered bon—”

He popped it into his mouth.

Then licked his fingers.

Shelby dropped the crook, stomped across the kitchen, snatched the tinplate box out of his hands, and threw the lid back on snug. She put it on the highest shelf she could reach (the second one), then turned on him, hands on hips.

“Just what do you think you are doing, John Lowe—”

“Jack.”

“—sneaking into this house in the middle of the night—”

“Not even eleven.”

“—stealing candies from bins—”

“Did you get my apricots?”

“—after all that we’ve been through?!” She huffed and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I did and they were lovely.

Thank you. How in the world did you get in?”

He finished licking a finger and Shelby, who had never wanted to exchange places with a digit before, did now.

“The back door.”

“It was locked!” Though why she was surprised a locked door could be unlocked after all they’d discovered that afternoon…

“I wasn’t always a runner, you know.”

Shelby’s heart went suddenly cold. “John Lowe, I won’t have dealings with thieves and scoundrels, ‘reformed’ or no.” She pointed a finger at the door. “Now, you go back out the way you came in.”

Once a thief, always a thief. She’d known her share!

Jack took hold of the finger pointed at his chest. He wrapped her hand gently in his and pulled her closer. “In my woefully misspent youth, I apprenticed under my grandfather who was a clockmaker and locksmith.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh.’”

Shelby allowed him to pull her a little closer until she was comfortably snuggled against the broad chest which matched his broad back perfectly.

Foolish girl. He’d lied.

He was a thief.

He’s gone and pinched my heart.

 

Well, this is awkward.

What exactly did one say to a man when absently left in a room alone together? The last time they’d been left alone together, they were caught kissing in the gardens.

Then again, it wouldn’t really hurt matters if they were caught kissing in the sitting room, would it?

Really, Amanda? She sighed. Here stood the man who had sacrificed his own scruples after adamantly refusing to ruin her reputation and she was pondering taking liberties in the firelight. For shame!

The only reason he’d put her in a compromising position was to protect her.

Though another came to mind. A reason he’d whispered on the dance floor. A reason which caused her heart to race…

…because I wanted to…

No! No. Mustn’t think of that.

“Felicitations for your brother’s recovery.”

“Wha—” Amanda nearly choked. What a horrible sister she was! She hadn’t been thinking about Daniel at all! She’d been thinking… thoughts. “Thank you. It is a great relief to finally have word.”

Silence.

Uncomfortable silence. She shifted around on the couch (a very squishy, dippy couch, so it took an effort to stay seated upright). She crossed her hands in her lap.

Amanda filled the silence.

“I have to apologize. If we’d done as Geoffrey suggested from the beginning, none of this would have happened. Well, there’d still be the inquest, but you wouldn’t have had to… you wouldn’t be in the position you’re in now.”

“Standing in Mrs. Lidgate’s sitting room?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Ah. You mean the position.” He moved to his left. “I will stand here so that your neck doesn’t strain. Is that better?”

Seriously? Was he being so deliberately dense in an attempt to tease her? She enjoyed his dry humor, but his teasing needed vast improvement. She sighed. “Stop being obtuse. And do sit down. You give me a crick in the neck whenever you’re looming about.”

He almost smiled. “I don’t loom.”

She rolled her eyes. “You could be the next flying shuttle. We’d make a fortune from the profits. Jacquard would cry.”

“Well, I cannot countenance being the cause for such misery.”

He sat. He could have chosen any of the nineteen thousand chairs in Great-Aunt Celia’s unoccupied sitting room. He chose the couch.

The squishy, dippy couch.

The moment he lowered his frame beside her, the cushion dipped. Amanda tried—truly she did—but she slid across the cushion and plop! landed smack into him, her upper lower-limb flush against his upper lower-limb.

Her thigh against his.

She was fully-dressed. She was even wearing slippers. But there were only four very thin layers of fabric between them.

He didn’t readjust. He just sat there. Stiff as a pike. His warmth seeping from layer to layer to her skin. Through pantaloons, dress, petticoat, drawers… the heat made her feel practically naked.

Amanda made a subtle scoot an inch to her left, but all she did was wriggle in place which only managed to snuggle their legs closer together.

That’s when something amazing happened.

Julian relaxed.

With a giant whoosh of breath, his body deflated. His posture collapsed, his spine curved—curved!—and he molded to the form of the very squishy, dippy couch, head thrown back, tousled sandy-blond locks falling in disarray.

“I had hoped never to hear another gunshot,” he addressed the ceiling. “Hunting, of course, but a pistol to a man’s head?”

Amanda sunk along the couch beside him, resting her arm against the seatback. She propped her head upon a wrist and studied his silhouette. “Does it help that the man yet lives?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” He cast her a wry glance. “Probably not, as I’d’ve throttled the man myself if I’d caught him.”

Amanda was about to deny it, then she remembered Sophie’s revelation that he’d physically thrown a lecher out of his house. He would have throttled the man. But she couldn’t have him blame himself both for letting the man get away and for what he hadn’t done if he’d caught him.

“Better you than Great-Aunt Celia. I saw the blade. She’d have made the man suffer.”

His chuckle was as gravelly as his voice. “I have no doubt on that.”

The rumble of his laugh made the whole world contract. The room became smaller. His voice lured her in. It gave her a horribly comfortable sense of intimacy. She wanted to slip off her slippers and tuck up her legs beneath her.

They were alone in the quiet, dark room and had just agreed on something. He’d relaxed. He’d laughed. Perhaps now she could properly apologize.

Everything had been such a rush and jumble and it all came to nothing. She’d forced his hand, and pushed him into compromising her despite his own reservations. In effect, she really had trapped him into a marriage. Whereas he’d done all he could to protect her. She didn’t want to ruin his life, irrevocably tied to a nobody. So after the inquest, she’d do her best to let him go easily. But how did a girl apologize for that?

“I am sorry for dragging you into all of this.”

“If you recall, I was the one who burst into your library.”

“Yes, but I insisted upon investigating and poking into matters. If in the beginning we’d come clean to Mr. Lowe… There would still be the inquest, but you wouldn’t have the added scandal of a soon-to-be jilting from a false engagement. What I’m trying to say is that I’m terribly sorry. I apologize.”

He stared at the ceiling a moment before speaking. She couldn’t read his expression with his face angled upwards. Not that she could make out anything from his shuttered gaze, but it was more than his outline told her. When he finally spoke, his tone was almost amused. “You apologize for my kissing you?”

“Erm.” Well, when he put it like that…

“Ah. So, you’re sorry for the kiss.”

“I didn’t say that!”

His lips twitched. “Then you’re not sorry for the kiss.”

Amanda couldn’t answer that. Entirely improper. She should deny it emphatically and upbraid him for his impudence.

What came out of her mouth? “No.”

He glanced at her. “Not sorry for the kiss. Nor its implications?”

Its implications were pure fabrication on their part. That they were engaged to be married was a bluff for protection.

Wasn’t it?

“I can’t imagine any woman would be sorry to be engaged to you,” she said softly.

His bark of laughter rang with disbelief. “Possibly any of the ladies who saw Lady Fortescue faint at the sight of me?”

He’d mentioned that before. Did he truly think he was undesirable? Imposing, perhaps. Unapproachable. But undesirable?

“You do have that effect on women,” she teased. “Though in future, I might suggest practicing some other ways to make the ladies swoon.”

“Bandying shovels and returning from the dead are, indeed, quite tiresome.” His wry response made her grin. “Besides, I doubt I shall find much use in carrying a spade around in my pocket.”

“Not as much use as Sir Robert.”

He barked his gravelly laugh. Then he turned toward her, fully. His blue eyes were crystal clear even in the dim light. They weren’t shuttered. They swirled with a range of emotions she couldn’t name. “Of the myriad of women you envision who might not find marriage to me so very disagreeable, do you include yourself among them?”

She caught her breath.

Here was a man who felt things deeply. He’d dropped all guards. He was trusting her. Whatever her answer, she’d see his response.

“Yes,” she whispered.

His eyes flared. Sapphire sparked. And she saw hope.

He raised his hand, hesitated, then gently stroked the side of her face. His thumb brushed over her lips. “You have your plan… but if there were another, would you take it?”

Her plan was to break the engagement. Looking on it now, it was a horrible plan. The worst plan in the history of plans. She shouldn’t even call it a plan.

He always gave her the option. If there were another way, would she take it?

If she answered no, she’d be miserable but he would be free from his obligation to duty and to her. But if she answered yes, she’d be blissful yet she’d take away what he’d always given her—a choice. There was only one answer.

“Only if we take it together.”

Hope transformed to a yearning entirely different. Want, desire. He leaned forward unexpectedly, the cushion dipped, and she slid. Her body propelled against him. Her startled hand sought balance, landing upon his solid chest. Strong arms encircled her, secure and steady.

She’d thought that in his arms she wouldn’t fall.

She was wrong.

She fell. She’d fallen.

He was the one to catch her.

His lips came softly, gentle as a breeze. Nothing tentative, but teasing, exploratory. Like touching toe against a frozen lake to see if it were ready to skate. But Amanda wasn’t frozen. She’d flamed to life.

She clenched her hand where it rested against his waistcoat and pulled, urging him to press their lips together more firmly. Still he teased with kisses. The light sensations roused and inflamed, urged her for something more. Tingles rushed across her scalp as he placed a gentle kiss behind her ear where her head had struck tombstone. She shivered as his devious lips moved across the rim of her ear, whisper-soft movements along the sensitive edge. She gasped as he nipped her lobe. He trailed a delicate path along her jaw, down her neck, head lolled granting greater access. Hot and tingly, an unbidden mewl stuck in her throat. She felt wild inside her skin, trapped and awaiting release.

Her breaths came in gasps, her body had turned to mush, and all thoughts nonsensical. Almost drunkenly, she looped an arm around his neck and tried to pull him closer—somehow—closer than the four thin layers of fabric would allow. Her fingers fumbled at his cravat, the knot too intricate to unravel in the dark. He grunted. With one swipe, he tore the cloth away. She brushed her hands along his silken locks, playing with the soft hair his collar concealed. She felt a gentle probe at her lips and parted for his tongue, trailing her fingers down his chin, down his neck as he kissed her.

She hid a sharp intake of breath as her fingers encountered a different texture of skin. Uneven, dense, taut. Immediately, his hand clasped down atop her wrist, stilling her fingertips upon the outer edge of scarring. He’d gone still, his breathing heavy yet quiet. She exhaled slowly, letting her forehead rest gently against his. His grip relaxed. She moved her fingers bit by bit, traveling the thick line of his burn marks down the side of his neck, his shoulder, his back, until she couldn’t reach further. He’d stopped breathing. He felt immobile as a statue.

She felt a tear roll down her cheek before she tilted her head and kissed him.

He roared. Strong arms enveloped and squeezed her close, his kiss desperate and urgent. His hands flared across her back, holding her as if he’d never let go. She clung to his chest, arms wrapped around his neck, heady in his scent of nutmeg and amber.

When he finally relaxed his hold, she fell, back sinking into the dipping couch, pulling his body flush atop hers. She was entirely lost to sensation. Lost to this man who protected and challenged her. Who made her breath catch and heart pound. Who wanted a partner through life, and had treated her as one. She was lost to the thrill of his kiss and caress of his hands which skimmed her collarbone and stroked her arms, dipped her waist and squeezed her hip.

She arched against him, trying to move, but her practically covered body caught against the pull of fabric. She could feel the cool breath of air against her skin as his hand slowly freed the skirt entrapping her legs. Without the confining fabric, she wrapped her leg around his waist, pulling him closer, finally closer. He kissed her so deeply, she almost lost breath. He pulled them both up with a growl, lifting her in his arms just as he had that night.

He finally looked up as if from a daze.

His head fell against her neck.

He groaned. “You’ve made me forget myself. But you make me more of myself, too. You make me better. Whatever we do, we do together. Though more of this,” he kissed her shoulder, “will have to wait.”

Blood rushed through her ears and she had no idea what he was saying. All she knew was that he deposited her to the floor—legs wobbly and knees malfunctioning—gave her a tender kiss, and left the room with a promise to call early in the morning.

Amanda now had a cravat to add to the growing collection of linen under her pillow.