Page 9
“Do you intend to begin by disregarding it?” she asked.
He smiled. “I intended to discover whether you minded.”
Her gaze dropped to their joined hands. He waited, increasingly aware of his own heartbeat, the rush of blood in his ears, the hush that seemed to have fallen over the alcove. “You might ask next time,” she said.
“I will.”
She looked up again, and the warmth in her eyes made the promise considerably easier to keep. It was not a promise he would have to strain to honor. He would keep it, he thought, in a dozen ways he had not yet imagined.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “At half past eleven.”
“In the morning?” he asked.
Amelia laughed softly, and the sound curled low and delicious through him. “At night, my lord. You may come to my house.”
His grip tightened, then he remembered himself and forced his fingers to loosen. “You are certain?”
“I have spent the better part of an hour explaining that I know my own wishes. Do not make me begin again.”
He smiled and reluctantly released her hand, his thumb lingering on her palm until the last possible moment. She took up her fan, rose in a soft rustle of silk, and gave him her direction in a voice pitched for his ears alone, so near that her breath stirred the hair at his temple.
“Arrive discreetly,” she added. “And be prepared for anything.”
“That sounds promising.” He wished it was already time to arrive at her house.
“It is meant to.” She moved past him, then paused close enough for him to feel her warmth before stepping away. “I shall expect you to follow instructions, Lord Hartwick.”
Dominic stood, watching her cross the gallery toward Lady Sylvan, the gold embroidery glinting with each step. Her friend took one look at her face and began to smile. Lady Covington lifted her chin and did not look back, though he thought, hoped, that the line of her shoulders had softened.
He ought to have been wondering what she intended for their first evening. Instead, he found himself considering how little time remained between half past eleven and morning, and how very much he wanted to fill every minute of it. For a man who had begun the evening extolling the advantages of fewer complications, it was an exceedingly poor sign.
Two
Amelia chose the gown before deciding which game they would play. That seemed a sensible order of importance. If Lord Hartwick proved disappointing at cards, she would at least have the satisfaction of knowing he had found it difficult to look at them.
The claret silk clung where her other gowns skimmed. Its neckline left little to the imagination, and the short sleeves rested near her shoulders. A length of gauze lay across Amelia’s lap, ready to drape over the bodice's most daring part. Her fingers rested upon it, rubbing the sheer fabric between thumb and forefinger, a small betraying habit she had never quite broken.
She left it there.
Before the looking glass, she turned slightly and studied the result. A flutter rose beneath her ribs, half nerves, half exhilaration. Her pale hair was gathered loosely. Curls brushed her neck, and each time she moved, they whispered against her skin. She wore no necklace or gloves, and her bare arms looked almost startlingly pale in the candlelight.
Her maid stood behind her, holding the gauze. “Shall I bring this downstairs, my lady?”
“No, thank you.”
The girl hesitated, then folded it over her arm. Amelia recognized that hesitation. She had employed enough servants, attended enough dinners, and been married long enough to know when someone wanted her to reconsider. A familiar, defensive heat rose in her cheeks, and she lifted her chin. Tonight, she had no intention of doing so. “You may retire once you have helped me with the last fastening,” she said, willing her voice to remain even. “Mrs. Ellis knows I am expecting a caller.”
Her maid’s expression cleared at the mention of the housekeeper. Amelia had made the arrangements herself that afternoon, with more composure than she felt now. She clasped her hands tightly behind her back so no one would see them tremble. Hartwick would be admitted quietly and shown to the small drawing room. The household need not stay awake for his sake. She would ring if she required anything.
There had been no need to explain why she expected a gentleman at such an hour. Mrs. Ellis had merely asked whether Amelia wished the fire built up. She was grateful she answered so quickly, and felt her face burn all the way down the corridor.
Now the gown was fastened, the cards waited, and the clock on her mantel showed a quarter past eleven. Amelia dismissed her maid, listened to the soft click of the door, then remained before the glass for another moment, her palms pressed flat against the silk at her waist as though she could still the quick, shallow rhythm of her breathing.
She had arranged this evening for her own pleasure. That meant she could enjoy it. She didn't need to spend the next several hours proving she deserved it. The thought steadied her enough to send her downstairs, one hand trailing along the cool banister.
At half past eleven, she stood beside the card table, turning the pack between her palms. A fire burned low in the grate, throwing a soft amber glow across the carpet. Two candles lit the green baize, and another pair stood on the mantel, leaving the room's corners pleasantly dim. A decanter and two glasses waited upon a side table.
She had considered flowers, then decided against them. She did not want the room to resemble a proposal setting. The cards would make her intentions plain. Unfortunately, her fingers had grown less reliable since she heard the carriage stop. The cards slipped against one another, and she caught them with a small, annoyed breath.
