“And I’m flummoxed that you do. Mrs. Dart?MyMrs. Dart likes chaos?”
She shrugged. “Not usually. But sometimes”—she smiled at him, a brilliant, sunlike thing that nearly blinded him—“it is diverting.”
He failed to see how chaos could ever be diverting, but if it made her smile, he’d allow it. He’d control that chaos to his advantage. Because smiles meant amiability, and he needed her amiable. So she would agree to marry him.
Ten
Why had he agreed to stay? Try as she could—and oh, Amelia tried—she could divine no answer to the question. His reasons for leaving remained, and his pension for frivolity did not. As evidenced by his stoic profile across the jams and jellies from her. She slanted ink and diversion across a sheet of creamy paper, and he scowled into his coffee cup.
Cordelia had once asked Amelia if Lord Andrew—Drew, she must call him—possessed a soft center beneath all his ice. Amelia had declared, unequivocally—no. The man was ice through and through. Men made of ice, however, did not burst through doors unannounced and kiss their secretaries. Men chilled to their core did not leave their schedules behind for three weeks of unplanned holiday.
He did not stay for diversion. She must keep that centered in her mind. He stayed to conquer her, to keep her for himself, and not in the way she would like.
She should ask him. Set the quill down and say,Why have you changed your mind?Her mouth watered to set the wordsfree, to get closer to knowing. But she locked them up because she did not wish to do anything that would change his mind. Again. Send him running back to Manchester.
This was her opportunity, a chance to woo him.
She just… could not… let him know that was her intention. She must be subtle but persuasive. She couldn’t burst through a door and kiss him.
He sipped his coffee, and the motion drew her attention to his lips—firm and mobile and, heavens, they were good at kissing.
“Are you finished yet, Amelia?”
Finished? The paper she wrote on warmed because he’d set her aflame with the use of her name, the way it curled about on his tongue, a sweeter sound than the curtMrs. Dart. And surely the paper her fingers brushed against was doomed to burn to ash as her name, only her name on his lips, ignited her skin.
“Well?”
“Oh, yes. Quite. Here.” She handed the paper to him, and he held it between his black-gloved fingers, a brow raised as he read. “‘A dip in the ocean. Games.’ What kind of games?”
“Charades. Blind man’s bluff. Lawn bowls. The usual.”
He snorted then continued reading. “‘A horse race.’”
“I’m quite excited about that one. I’m sure to win.”
“And why do you think that?”
“You’re clearly a man of the city. But I was born and raised on a horse in the wilds of America. And then I came here, where I was trained in proper technique.” She smirked. “You will never beat me.”
His lips twitched. “We’ll see.” His gaze flicked back to the paper. “It just says ‘books’ on this next line.”
“Yes. The reading of them. The discussing of them. The”—she wet her lips—“reading of them to one another in the evenings.” His voice was like velvet, and she loved to hear him read, thoughhe never did unless it was a bit of letter she needed to hear, or a newspaper article he wished to complain about. To hear him read a bit of Byron aloud… she shivered.
“Are you cold?” He stood and rounded the table, but before she could object, his hands were on her, on her shawl, pulling it up, covering her shoulders, tightening it about her neck.
What was this onslaught? She held her breath till it was done.
But he did not stop. He trailed his fingers down her arm until he found her hand, and then he clasped it, pulled her to her feet, and guided her toward the fireplace and into a chair.
“There,” he said. “You should be warmer in a moment.” He took the chair opposite her, and she clutched the shawl to her chest, attempting to clutch her heart back into that cavity. It beat too fast, too loud. He’d surely hear it. But he seemed not to. He scratched his jaw, tilted his head, his gaze heavy, serious, as he studied her. “The rest of the list is absurd. ‘Baking together’?”
She nodded.
“A ‘visit to Edinburgh’?”
Another nod.
“‘Music’?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and a fine nose it was, straight and regal. “Amelia, I am no musician.”
