Chasing Lady Amelia: Keeping Up with the Cavendishes (13 page)

Wanted. She wanted.

Then he began to move, each slow thrust stoking the fire that had been building and sim
mering inside her. Any little lingering thoughts of should or shouldn’t or what time is it . . . all were burned up, reduced to nothing. Only one thought, again and again, with each thrust:
Yes,
this.

And then she couldn’t even put those two words together.

He moved inside her, thrusting deep and slow. There was nothing but the soft clink of tooth against tooth as they fumbled for a kiss. She felt the slick sheen of sweat on his back; she licked it off his neck. His fingers threaded through her hair, grasping tight, holding her close. There were grunts (his) and gasps (hers). Limbs were tangled. He was on top, and then she was on top and then somehow they ended up on the far end of the bed. And still, he moved inside of her, moving faster now, harder now.

She sensed that he might be close to that marvelous earth-shattering I-had-no-idea moment she’d experienced. Amelia wrapped her legs around him, arched up. He groaned in pleasure. She felt a spike of triumph.

They kissed. They moved together, mostly. She held on for dear life as he thrust hard and fast and shouted out. Then he collapsed on top of her. A few quiet, possessive grunts. A few last shallow thrusts. One last deep kiss.

For now.

Who cares about the time at a time like this?

I
t was raining again, a soft drumming of raindrops on the windowpanes. They were warm and dry inside, tangled up in arms, legs, and sheets. Clothes were strewn about the room. The air was thick with the scent of rain, the scent of sex. The city outside seemed so distant. There was only the two of them, in the room, in this bed.

“This has been the perfect day,” Amelia said softly, tracing a line up and down his arm with her fingertip.

“Even though you were robbed, caught in a rainstorm, and ravished?” Alistair teased. There was
nothing
like being able to lie contentedly, naked, with a woman and tease her, knowing she would smile just like that, sweetly, giving him a peek of that dimple in her left cheek.

“Because of those things. And this moment.” She rolled closer and buried her face in his neck, breathing him in. He heard—and felt—her whisper, “I don’t want it to end.”

He held her close and in a soft voice said, “Maybe it doesn’t have to.”

In which our heroine returns
home
to finishing school.

Or does she?

Six o’clock? Or seven?

E
vening was settling over the city when they set out once more. This time, they went together. The destination was Durham House—not that Alistair knew that. Amelia made sure he thought that he was doing the gentlemanly thing by escorting her back to finishing school. How she was going to manage the deception was something she ought to figure out immediately, but no ideas came to mind.

That lovemaking had slowed her wits. She felt
like a ninny with the way she was already longing for him, and his touch. She had become the thing she had always mocked in love stories and poetry.

Amelia walked slowly, like one of those pokey pedestrians in Vauxhall who had vexed her earlier. Then, she had been in a rush to see everything. Now, she wished to prolong her time with Alistair. In the course of the afternoon something had changed; it was no longer about running away, but wanting to stay with him.

She knew their moments together were dwindling.

The idea of elopement was preposterously premature. Staying another night was too much and besides, she was beginning to feel the tug of home. The clock was ticking on her time with Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones and their one perfect day.

There had been no discussion or mention of if they would meet again, as if it were understood that this was the only time they would ever spend together.

After all, what could possibly happen?

He knew her as Miss Amy Dish, finishing-school student. A gentleman could not call on a young lady there—even if said school actually existed and even if she was actually enrolled in said school.

To see him again was to reveal her true identity.

She was not ready to risk that.

T
he clock was ticking on their time together. Alistair knew this. So he walked slowly and dragged his feet as he escorted “Miss Amy Dish” back to “finishing school.” He was curious to see how she would maintain the charade, though he wasn’t exactly eager for the moment they would part.

Alistair hadn’t said anything about seeing her again.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, wanting to be spoken. It seemed impossible that he would never see her again. But a gentleman couldn’t call on a young lady who didn’t exactly exist at a school that was certainly fictional.

To see her again was to reveal the deception: that she was truly Lady Amelia Cavendish, sister to the Duke of Durham. And that he’d known all along.

He would be revealed as the worst sort of scoundrel. How on earth could he justify that he had lied to her all day, all over London, and then made love to her?

It was unforgiveable.

He realized that now that it was too late to do anything about it. Damn.

He would have to take the secret to his grave.
They
would
meet again—even if she didn’t know it and even if he didn’t speak of it—and he would have to act surprised to see her and hurt that she had lied to him all day, all over London, and then made love to him.

But could he maintain such a lie for a lifetime? It hurt his head to consider it.

A few hours ago—it felt like a lifetime—the plan had been so simple—forge a connection, stand out from all the other fortune hunters. He had by all accounts been successful, yet he had the sneaking suspicion it would lead to his downfall.

T
hey walked along in silence, lost in their own thoughts. Amelia really wished he would say something, because all this thinking was ruining her mood. They would have to say goodbye soon, any minute now really, and it would be the end.

Forever.

Probably.

Not only had Alistair not said anything about calling upon her, he hadn’t said anything about marriage. She had meant it when she said she had no intention of marrying. But she knew that Real Gentlemen issued proposals after making love to a gently bred woman.

Perhaps he didn’t think she was a gently bred woman. And why would he, when she’d practically ravished him?

Perhaps he wasn’t a Real Gentleman, which mean that she had ruined herself on some scoundrel. How tragic. How melodramatic. God, she could at least be more inventive than that.

But then she thought about his bare chest—the ridges of muscles, the soft skin darker than her own, the smattering of hair. And then she thought about the rest of him, naked, without even a fig leaf, and she decided she couldn’t regret a thing.

This man was her downfall.

She was ruined, gloriously so.

She was without virginity and without proposal.

Which was beside the point because she suspected that she would not be allowed to marry him anyway.

There was plenty of evidence to suggest that Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones could be classified as a fortune hunter. She was clued in by the nearly empty flat, devoid of things and servants. There was also his willingness to squire around an heiress all day, humoring her by calling her Miss Amy Dish when he certainly had to know, thanks to that stupid cartoon in the newspaper, that she was Lady Amelia Cavendish.

She stopped short and groaned as it all dawned on her. Dear God, he must know.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. Because she couldn’t
even introduce that line of conversation; if there was the slightest chance that he was clueless, she wouldn’t dare risk giving up her disguise.

In the end, it wouldn’t matter either way.

The duchess would not consider him a suitable match. There was the fortune hunting. And lack of title. She didn’t care one whit. But she had learned that her wishes weren’t all that counted. If he wasn’t suitable, the duchess would think that Amelia could at least do better: a higher-ranking title, plumper pockets.

But it was all beside the point because he hadn’t said anything about meeting again.

So this was it, then. They were a few city blocks away from the end of the most wonderful day of her two and twenty years.

It was the day she met the man with whom she could be herself.

She slowed to a stop—it wouldn’t do to get closer to Durham House and risk him seeing.

He pushed one wayward curl away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She felt a pang in the region of her heart—how could they share such an intimate gesture and yet never see each other again? What a cruel fate that would be.

That stubborn curl, cut short, fell right back into her eyes.

It seemed like ages ago that she’d gone into the wigmaker’s shop and chopped all her hair off. That reminded Amelia about the play the wig
maker had mentioned—
The Return of the Rogue
,
the one the duchess said wasn’t proper for them to see.

And then Amelia had an idea. Lust, love, and kisses must have addled her brain—the part where logic and reason resided, not the part where adventure and pleasure lived. She fancied more moments with him—especially since this was likely her only chance—and the sun hadn’t quite set yet, there were still things she wished to do and see, and they were already out . . . she had made it this far.

Why not
more
?

It was the line of thinking that so often got her in trouble.

It was also the line of thinking that had led to the very best day in her entire life. It had led her to Alistair, a man who didn’t seem interested in trying to constrain her. Unlike everyone else she met, he held her hand and asked what was next and then said, “Let’s go.”

For that alone, she loved him. Never mind the lovemaking . . .

“I have an idea,” she said, grinning at him.

“Why do those words strike fear in my heart?”

“Oh, don’t become a stick-in-the-mud now, Alistair,” she teased.

“Me? A stick-in-the-mud? Might I remind you how I spent the day?”

“Every moment is burned in my memory,” she
said earnestly. And then, smiling at her idea, she asked, “But what if we continue the day?”

He paused. A long pause.
Don’t become sensible
and proper now!

“All right, tell me this idea of yours,” he said reluctantly. But she saw the fire in his eyes.

“The theater.”

“I’m certain even in your finishing school, you are allowed to attend the theater,” he said, in a surely-you-can-do-better kind of way.

“Yes,” she said impatiently. “But not in the pit. And not a performance by Eliza Barnett.”

Everyone in London was raving about her. Correction: many people were raving about her, but others had deemed her performance unsuitable for a variety of reasons, classifying it as “inappropriate for ladies.” Amelia wanted to see a play in the pit, down with the people, and not in a box all high and mighty above everyone. And she wanted to see the performance that had scandalized and polarized the haute ton.

Tonight was her only opportunity.

“No,” Alistair said flatly.

“Oh, please.” Oh, God, she was begging. But the words were out of her mouth before she could catch herself.

“You have been gone far too long. Your fam—schoolmates and teachers are likely worried.”

Yes, but . . .
of course they were worried. They had been worried all day. It would be a worry
mixed with fury, a noxious combination of emotion that she was in no rush to encounter. Not when she was, perhaps, falling in love and had just hours left in this one perfect day.

And there was another unsettling truth.

“What if we never see each other again? What if these are the last few precious hours we could spend together? Would you really have them be mere minutes?”

“We will see each other again,” he said firmly as they stood on a street corner and London rushed around them. But how? And when? And how would they explain it?

“How can you be so certain?”

“London is a small town. In spite of its vast size and thousands upon thousands of inhabitants.”

“I see.”

He must have grown weary of her. More than once James or Claire had remarked how
tiring
she could be. Somehow, within a second, this fear that he’d grown weary of her spiraled into a panic that she was unlovable.

Or worse: he had gotten what he wanted from her—her virtue—and was now no longer interested in her.

How crushing, because she was starting to wonder if she might be able to love him—that is, if she wasn’t halfway in love with him already.

How mortifying, because that meant the warnings were right.

How devastating, because that meant she had been a silly fool.

“I promise,” he said, which somehow only made things worse. Again, she wondered if he knew the truth about her.

He was content to part ways now because he had enough information to ruin her or ensure a wedding or a nice settlement to keep quiet.

Silly. Fool. Miss Amy Dish was a silly, cork-brained ninny.

Amelia ought to be rid of her immediately.

“Then let us say goodbye here,” she said, horrified by the tremble in her voice and a wobble in her chin. She would not be a silly girl who cried on a street corner over a boy who she’d known but one day.

“I want to see you home safely,” he said softly, but she no longer believed that. Did he wish to confirm that she would enter Durham House? Did he have notions of escorting her right up to the front door and popping in for tea with the duke and duchess?

She imagined the worst:
By the way, I ruined Lady Amelia . . . how does Tuesday work for the wedding? It doesn’t? Wouldn’t the ton like to know that . . . ?

Amelia allowed that, in her haste, she might have gravely miscalculated him. Them. Everything. She didn’t know, and she hated that. The seeds of doubt had been planted and she
couldn’t quite bring herself to completely disregard them.

“My school is nearby,” she said firmly. In fact, Durham House loomed in the corner of her vision. “We are in Mayfair. I’m certain no danger shall befall me between here and there. If it does, I shall scream and someone will come to my rescue.”

“I want to see you again.” He reached out for her hand. She glanced up at him. His gaze was dark, serious. Her heart thudded. She believed him, but she had doubts about his reasons.

“Someone once said that London is a small town,” she replied. His eyes flashed. She had cut him with the flippant retort, throwing his words back at him.

“Amy . . .”

And she had lied to him. He would discover it. It was best to end things now.

However . . .

There was something like love starting to bloom in her heart and she couldn’t bring herself to bring this day to a close now, and forever.

“Let’s leave it up to fate,” she suggested. “If we happen upon each other, then we’ll know it’s meant to be. But if not . . .”

If not, then this was goodbye. Forever. This would be a perfect, sweet memory uncomplicated by whatever might happen—or not happen—after.

“Thank you, Alistair, for a perfect day.” Amelia stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips. To hell with whomever might see. When a girl was as spectacularly ruined as she was, why not indulge in a bittersweet goodbye kiss? Why not, indeed. Amelia turned, and walked away.

I
t could not end like this. In all of this madness and deception they had found something beautiful and true, the first tender steps toward something like the love of a lifetime. And she just thanked him with a polite kiss on the lips and walked away, off into the night.

Just like she had arrived.

It hadn’t even been four and twenty hours and yet it felt an eternity. He could scarcely remember life as it was yesterday, or even this morning. He’d been a nobody with nothing to do.

Then, he’d been a man on a mission and then, sometime in the late afternoon, tangled in her arms, he felt like someone in love.

Not even four and twenty hours later. Madness, that.

But now her steps were straight and assured—she was not intoxicated—and he was transfixed by the sway of her hips. The desire to have her again surged through him.

But that wasn’t the reason Alistair followed her. It could not end on a sudden note of bitter
ness. They had shared something real and lovely and he wanted it to stay that way until the end. It could not end yet. He would not leave their future happiness up to fate.