“Back to the townhouse,” Drew said. “Then to Scotland.”
Six
It was raining. Again. And Amelia had walked every inch of the house twice since morning, unable to clear her head of Miss Angleton’s prattling. The girl was a mere twenty years old, over a decade Amelia’s junior. They shared little by way of interests. Though she had sat still for Amelia to take her silhouette the night before. A pretty one it was, too. She’d given it to the young woman. Who’d squealed and bounced up and down, clutching it to her chest.
She’d bounced this morning too, somewhere between the topics of pantaloons and custard, and Amelia had feigned a headache and retired to her favorite private parlor to brood—alone—before a roaring fire.
Not even noon yet and already bored. She slumped lower into her chair. A newer one she’d bought and had shipped from London. Blue velvet. Lots of stuffing. She clutched her spring-green shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Home only four days and already restless. When she could escape from Miss Angleton, she’d made list after list, attempting to figure out what would become of her once she returned to Manchester. Or London. To Lord Andrew. Or Mr. Tidsdale. He’d extended hertwo—no, three—different options. Work for him as she had for Lord Andrew, marry him, or both.
If she took him up on any of the options, it would be the first. But even that… she shivered as if ants marched across her skin. If Tidsdale truly had been testing her on their walk, he’d been a bit of an arse about it. She did not trust him.
But she had options outside of the two men. She could travel again. She’d enjoyed that, but she’d enjoyed more returning home. But home remained this—silent and still as the grave. No neighbors for miles. She remembered now, acutely, why governess had seemed a better option. She’d certainly not needed the funds. She’d merely needed the company, the pleasure of people.
One thing had become clear as the rain fogging the castle’s glass—she could not continue working for Lord Andrew, not unless she fell out of love quick.
She picked up the list she’d been working on and read it, the fire crackling a fitting accompaniment for her voice. “Reasons Not to Love Lord Andrew. Number one—he’s high-handed and always tells me what to do as if I know no better.” She sighed. “But he is my employer, so he has a right to have things done exactly as he likes.” She shook her head. No justifications for the man. “Number two—he’s cold as ice.” Except for when he tried to convince his brother to hire a worried mother so her son could have fresh air. And when he ensured the tutors and governesses who were employed through his agency received more than a fair percentage of their wages. No! Distracted once more. She must press on. “Number three—he’s a blind fool.” That she could not argue with. “And number four—he’s not likely to fall in love. Ever.”
She let that echo about the room and sink into her soul. Lord Andrew possessed no passions. Particularly not for her.
A knock on the front door startled her, and the paper fluttered to the floor.
Another knock brought her to her feet.
Pounding, ferocious and unrelenting, furrowed a groove between her brows and sent her striding for the door.
“Carlisle!” she called. “The door! There’s someone at the door.” But the butler, approaching eighty years of age, couldn’t hear a trumpet sounding next to his ear let alone someone screaming his name from across the castle. She’d need to hire a replacement for him to train. It would give him something to do when she left once more. “Mrs. Scott?” The housekeeper was busy as well?
No use straining her voice. Amelia would answer the door herself. Doors. They were huge and wooden and hinged with black iron. They were true castle doors, intent on protecting her loneliness by barring the world from her as they’d well-protected the inhabitants from invasion in the past. It took all her weight and strength to push them open.
Once agape, they revealed the huffing, dripping form of Lord Andrew on her doorstep. His wet hair clung to his face, and rain sluiced down his cheeks and nose. His blue eyes were wild, and his clothes—where had his jacket and cravat gone?—were plastered to his form. Entirely soaked from head to boot.
Andhere.
She closed her eyes and shook her head. He couldn’t be here. But when she opened her eyes again, there he was, prowling toward her, dripping on the stone floor of the entry hall, caging her against the wall that was, suddenly, cold and rising behind her.
She yelped as her back hit it, knocking the breath from her lungs. Or was that him who’d stolen her breath, who’d set her pulse racing.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” she managed to say.
He’d pressed so close to her, she saw only the fierce gleam in his eye, felt only the heat and strength of his body. He had her pinned, though his arms did not brace against the wall on either side of her. His jaw worked hard, and his gaze did not seem to know where to focus—her eyes, her hair… her lips.
“Lord Andrew.” She swallowed hard. “Why are you here?”
“Are you marrying him?” Words ripped from a sandpaper throat.
“Marrying… whom?”
His body went from hard and sharp to slack in an instant, and his arms came up to rest on the wall on either side of her shoulders. With heavy breaths, he dropped his forehead to the top of her head. Not touching. Hovering.
Why had he come here, shaped like every dream she’d ever had? Why had he asked the question with such emotion in his voice? Why did he almost hold her now though he did not speak a word? Questions mattered only to her mind, but her body reveled in the reality—he was here. The reason did not matter. And he was touching her—almost touching her—as he never had before, looking at her as if… as if she meant something to him.
Her stomach fluttered, and her fingers itched to touch, to verify the reality of his presence. The rain drops from his hair dripped onto her bare shoulders and curved round her breasts, slipped beneath her shift, erotic little trails that left sparks of desire in their wake. If only his fingers would follow their path.
Where had her shawl gone? No matter.
He was here and touching her—almosttouching her—as she’d always dreamed.
He inhaled deeply several times and then rolled toward the wall. His back hit the stone with a sodden slap, and he dropped down until he sat on the cold floor, spearing his fingers through his hair and hiding his face.
