“How? How is it a comfort?”
She traced the outline of her grandfather’s nose, lips, chin. “I was used to being without him, seeing him only now and then, but when he died, and I knew he’d never come home again… it was almost too much to bear. I traveled at first, to alleviate the loneliness, but that did not make me feel closer to him. I’d come home and just stare at his portrait. It could not come with me on my travels. Too big.” She gave a low, little laugh he wanted to cup in his palms and keep. “But this”—she smoothed her hand over the silhouette—“I could have with me at all times. To remember him by.” She turned the page. “And see this one, it’s of my parents. My grandmother made their silhouettes before they moved to America. I don’t remember them well at all. But I have these.”
“How old were you? When your parents died?”
“Fifteen. I wish I’d known how to make silhouettes back then. There was a couple on the ship I took to England, and they watched over me. I should like to remember them better than I do.”
“You were sent alone? On a ship? Back to England?”
“It was a grand adventure.”
“It was neglectful.”
“It was the only option I had. My parents had friends, but none that could escort me over the ocean.”
“Your grandfather should have sent someone for you.”
Her breath caught and doubt flickered in her eyes. “I suppose he could have. It hardly matters. Look.” She flipped through the pages and pointed to a small silhouette of what appeared to be a man with a handsome profile. “I made this in Italy, when I traveled after my grandfather’s death. All of these on this page are from my travels.”
“There are several men here.” He curled his fingers gently into his palm then flattened it, tracing his nails up and down her thigh.
Her eyelids fluttered. She opened and closed her mouth, trying to find words. “There are… There, um…” She shook her head. “There are many men in Italy.”
“And they appear to have fine profiles.” He rotated his hands just enough to press the sensible wool of her gown between her thighs.
She closed her eyes, bit her lip. “They were even finer in the full detail of life.”
His hand squeezed of its own volition, from seduction to displeased in a single admission.
She yelped then cupped her hand over her mouth, glancing at Miss Angleton.
The companion winked but did not miss a note of the song she played.
“Amelia,” Drew said, voice low and breathy near her ear. She smelled of soap and sea, and he wanted to nuzzle her nape, take the lobe of her ear between his teeth, kiss the pulse at her neck.
“Y-yes?” Her attention wavered between him, Miss Angleton, and the book.
“How many men withfine profileshave you made silhouettes of over the years?”
“Oh, I’ve quite lost count. You may look through and take their number if it pleases you.”
He jerked away just enough to see her face in the firelight. “You’re teasing me. You minx.”
“I could not tease you if you were not exhibiting clear signs of a serious condition.”
“Which is?”
“Jealousy.”
Was he jealous? He certainly had pressing questions about these gentlemen. “Did any of them propose to you?”
“A few. Or rather, they proposed to my money.”
“And you kicked them out.” His hand retreated from the comfortable warmth he’d dug between her thighs, but he did not remove it entirely.
“Naturally. A woman who has money does not wish for a man who wants only that.”
Something tight curled even tighter in his gut. “Were you in love with any of them?” Ridiculous question. It gave truth to her accusations of jealousy. “That is neither here nor there. You do not have to answer.”
