She stole his wine and drank it down. “You left. Every time I think we are close to learning one another anew—learning one another as humans with hearts instead of numbers and policies in our chests—you back away, retreat, and I’m left alone. With nothing at all. It’s infuriating.”
“I see.” What he’d been afraid of.
She reached across the table and grasped his wrist. “Do not abandon our hours together.”
He swallowed, tried to ignore the beating of his pulse like the mad knocking of a stranger at a door where her hand circled his wrist. He nodded. “I will keep that in mind.”
Her hand squeezed and then released as she stood and left him alone.
She would not let him win in any easy sort of way. If he expected to claim victory, it would be at the expense of his comfort, his control.
Was she worth it?
He watched her add fine details to the silhouette, putting herself more fully into a painting of someone else. Had he done that to her? Seen her only as an extension of his own calculating aims and cold purposes? As a black silhouette and not a fullyrealized person? Yes, he had. That’s why it had surprised him so when she’d turned out to be so very different.
Different.
But not undesirable.
Different.
And entirely tempting. He wanted her brain at his disposal, and he wanted her safe by his side, and he wanted… he wanted… he just wantedher.
What the hell was he supposed to do about it?
Amelia lay in bed later that evening and turned the glove over and over in her hands. So poorly sewn. Two fingers missing, the material mangled where the digits had been cut from the body.
And beautiful. So terribly beautiful, she wanted to cry. Again. She’d already done so when she finally escaped to the safety of her room that evening. He’d made it, and she’d never received a more perfect gift.
She’d been in love with him for some time now. But the feeling seemed to be growing deeper, shooting green tendrils into her very bones, and changing the shape of her. One more gift like this from that man, and she might just blurt out the very thing she should not.
I love you.
And he did not love her, but… but the glove. And how sometimes he said things that made her heart skip a beat. How he held her hand and scowled at any injuries, real or perceived. How he’d followed her here and kissed her, the taste of Scottish rain on their lips.
Hope was a new thing, fragile and perfect, and she placed it with the glove beneath her pillow and fell asleep to its sweet, soft song.
Fourteen
Amelia had never spent a more pleasant week in her life, and this—a picnic on the beach on an unusually warm day—seemed a moment out of time. If she could truly draw, do more than outline profiles, she would draw this day, catch its every detail and color. From Miss Angleton’s wading in the ocean—an apple in one hand, her skirts held high in the other—to how the sun glinted yellow across the waves as it dipped into the deep blue.
And how Drew lay beside her on a blanket, his legs stretched long, his hands woven together behind his head. She wished she could draw if only for the amount of time it took to draw him, to catch his likeness and keep it. A rare, contented smile softened his lips, and her too.
He’d denied her nothing since the day she and Miss Angleton had dusted off the archery set. And yet… he’d remained stoic as ever, colder sometimes, as if he’d placed a wall of glass between himself and the world.
Could it be shattered, that glass? Did she dare try? Her holiday was halfway through. Soon, he’d return to Manchester, and she’d have to make a choice. Was there one to make? Some moments, like now, there seemed to be none at all. She’d gowith him wherever, whenever. Others… he’d agreed to take a loan for the expansion rather than marry money. But that was a temporary solution toherproblem. When he got it into his mind once more to marry, she’d still be there, and it would still hurt. And she’d have to leave. Curious he’d never asked her to marry him after finding out about her inheritance. It would be just like him. That he did not showed how little he cared for her. He’d marry any woman for money. But her.
She’d hoped to prod him into feeling during these weeks, and she’d prodded him into… hm, what to call it? Company? He no longer avoided her and Miss Angleton. Butfeeling? That still seemed as remote to him as America was from Scotland.
Except for certain moments. When her hand was bleeding or her life at risk or her position in his employ in question. Then, all that he pushed so far down, raged to the surface. She should poke him a bit, bait the bear.
But wasn’t emotion better given as a gift than when forced to the surface against the will? She did not want it if it was notgiven. And he would not give it.
She rolled to her feet and smoothed her skirts. “I need a walk.” The sand sank beneath her boots, made her steps slow and heavy, and each plodding step brought her certainty. She knew what she would do, what Matilda, Fiona, and Cordelia would suggest—tell him. Doing so was one way to make a decision regarding her future. Should she tell him, and he would laugh, then she’d go to London and work for Tidsdale. But if he reacted in quite a different way… Either way, they could stop wasting time. Either he would stay, and she would know her future, or he would go. And she would know her future.
But how could she tell him of her heart when he told her so little?
“Amelia, wait up.”
