She stepped forward.
“Don’t,” he said, but his voice was not firm.
She reached out, her hand coming within inches of his.
“Amelia, don’t,” he said roughly.
Oh no. He was not going to push her away. She would not let him. He was not going to say it was for her own good, or that he knew best, or that anyone knew best except for her. This was her life, and her night, and as God was her witness, he was her man.
She launched herself at him.
On him, really.
“Am—”
It might have been her name he’d been trying to say. Or it might have been a grunt of surprise. She didn’t know. She didn’t care. She was much too far gone to worry over such trivialities. She had his face in her hands and she was kissing him. Clumsily, perhaps, but with all the crazy energy that was burning through her.
She loved him.
She loved him. Maybe she hadn’t told him, and maybe she’d never be given the opportunity to do so, but she loved him. And right now she was going to kiss him.
Because that’s what a woman in love did.
“Thomas,” she said, because she would say his name. She’d say it over and over if he’d only let her.
“Amelia…” He put his hands on her shoulders, preparing to push her away.
She could not allow it. She threw her arms around him, pressing the length of her body against his. Her hands sank into his hair, pulling him toward her as her lips pressed against his. “Thomas,” she moaned, the word sinking into his skin. “Thomas, please…”
But he didn’t move. He stood stiffly, with no reaction to her onslaught, and then…
Something softened. First it was in his chest, as if he’d finally allowed himself to breathe. And then one of his hands moved…slowly, almost shaking…to the small of her back.
She shivered. She moaned against him. She let one of her hands sink into his hair. And then she begged.
“Please.”
If he rejected her now…She didn’t think she could bear it.
“I need you,” she whispered.
He went very still. So still that she thought she’d lost him. But then he exploded with passionate energy. His arms wrapped around her with stunning speed, and he wasn’t just kissing her back…
Dear God, it felt as if he were devouring her.
And she wanted to let him.
“Oh, yes,” she sighed, and she sank more deeply into him. This was what she’d wanted. She’d wanted him, yes, but more than that, she’d wanted this. The power, the knowledge that she had started something. She had kissed him.
And he wanted it. He wanted her.
It made her shiver. It made her melt inside. It made her want to knock him to the ground and straddle him and—
Good God, what had become of her?
Whoever she was, whoever she’d been just hours earlier—that woman was gone, replaced by some wanton spirit who had not spent twenty-one years of life learning to be a proper lady. When she’d kissed him—no, when she threw herself at him, praying he wouldn’t push her away—it had been a thing of her emotions. She was angry, and desperate, and sad, and wistful, and she’d wanted, just for once, to feel as if she were in control.
But now—emotion was gone. Her body had taken over, fueled by a need she’d only barely tasted before now. It was as if she’d been gripped from within. Something was tensing, twisting. It was deep inside of her, in places she’d never discussed, never even acknowledged.
And he—Thomas—only made it worse.
And better.
No, worse.
“Please,” she begged, wishing she knew what she was asking for. Then she moaned, because he was making it better again. His lips were on her throat, and his hands were everywhere—in her hair, stroking her back, cupping her bottom.
She wanted him closer. Most of all, she wanted more. She wanted his heat, his strength. She wanted his skin, burning against hers. She wanted to arch her back, to spread her legs.
She wanted to move. In ways she’d never dreamed possible.
Squirming in his embrace, she tried to shrug off her coat, but it only made it to the crook of her elbows before he groaned, “You’ll be cold.”
She struggled to free her right arm from its sleeve. “You can keep me warm.”
He pulled back, just enough so she could see his haggard expression. “Amelia…”
She heard the old Thomas in his voice. The one who always did the right thing. “Don’t stop,” she begged him. “Not tonight.”
Thomas took her face in his hands, holding her so their noses were a few inches apart. His eyes caught hers, tortured and bleak. “I don’t want to,” he said, his voice ragged.
But I have to.
They both knew what he’d left unspoken.
“I…I can’t…” He stopped, taking a shuddering breath as he forced himself to step back. “I can’t…do something…that will…” He was choosing his words carefully. Either that or he could not manage normal rational thought. “If I do this…Amelia…” He raked his hand through his hair, his nails biting into his scalp. He wanted the pain. Right now he needed it. Something, anything, that might ground him, keep him from falling apart.
From losing the last bit of himself.
“I can’t do something that will decide your future,” he made himself say. He looked up, half hoping she’d turned away, but no, there she was, staring at him, her eyes wide, her lips parted. He could see her breath in the damp night, each puff whispering through the air.
It was torture. His body was screaming for her. His mind…
His heart.
No.
He did not love her. He could not love her. There could be no god so cruel as to inflict this upon him.
He forced himself to breathe. It was not easy, especially when his eyes slid from her face…lower…along her neck…
The small tie at the bodice of her nightgown was partially undone.
He swallowed. He’d seen far more of her, on numerous occasions. Evening dresses were almost always lower cut. And yet he could not take his eyes off the little strings, the single loop that had flopped down onto the swell of her breast.
If he pulled it…
If he reached out and took it between his fingers, would her gown fall open? Would the fabric slide away?
“Go inside,” he said raggedly. “Please.”
“Thom—”
“I can’t leave you alone out here, and I can’t—I can’t—” He drew a long breath. It did nothing to calm his blood.
But she did not move.
“Go inside, Amelia. If not for yourself, then do it for me.”
He saw her mouth his name. She did not understand.
He tried to breathe; it was difficult. He hurt with desire. “It is taking everything I have not to take you right now.”
Her eyes widened, flaring with warmth. It was tempting, so tempting, but—
“Don’t let me become the brute who ruined you, one night before…before…”
She licked her lips. It was a nervous gesture, but his blood burned.
“Amelia, go.”
And she must have heard the desperation in his voice, because she went, leaving him alone on the lawn, rock hard and cursing himself for a fool.
A noble fool, perhaps. An honest one. But still, a fool.
Several hours later Thomas was still wandering the halls of Cloverhill. He’d waited for nearly an hour after Amelia left to go back inside. He told himself that he liked the cold night air; it felt good in his lungs, prickling at his skin. He told himself he didn’t mind that his feet were freezing, surely turning into prunes in the damp grass.
It was all ballocks, of course. He knew that if he didn’t give Amelia ample time (and then some) to get back to her room—the one she thankfully shared with Grace—he would go after her. And if he touched her again, if he even so much as sensed her presence before morning, he would not be able to stop himself th
is time.
A man had only so much strength.
He’d gone back up to his own room, where he’d warmed his freezing feet by the fire, and then, far too restless to remain in place, he donned his shoes and moved quietly downstairs, in search of something—anything—that might distract him until morning.
The house was still quiet, of course. Not even the sound of servants, up to perform their morning chores. But then he thought he heard something. A soft thump, or maybe the scrape of a chair against floor. And when he looked more closely down the hall, he saw a bit of light, flickering onto the floor through an open doorway.
Curious, he moved down the hall and peered inside. Jack sat alone, his face gaunt and exhausted. He looked, Thomas thought, like he himself felt.
“Can’t sleep?” Thomas asked.
Jack looked up. His face remained oddly devoid of expression. “No.”
“Nor I,” Thomas said, walking in.
Jack held up a bottle of brandy. It was more than three-quarters full, attesting to a need for solace, not for oblivion. “It’s good. I think my uncle was saving it,” he said. He looked down at the bottle and blinked. “Not for this, I imagine.”
There was a set of snifters near the window, so Thomas walked over and took one. It seemed somehow entirely unstrange that he should be here now, drinking brandy with the man who would, within hours, steal everything but his soul.
He sat across from Jack and set the snifter down on the small, low table that sat between the two wingback chairs. Jack reached forward and poured him a generous dose.
Thomas took it and drank. It was good. Warm and mellow, and as close to what he needed as any spirit could strive for. He took another sip and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs as he stared out the window, which he noted with a thankful prayer did not face the lawn where he had been kissing Amelia. “It will be dawn soon,” he said.
Jack turned in the same direction, watching the window. “Has anyone awakened?” he asked.
“Not that I’ve heard.”
They sat in silence for several moments. Thomas nursed his brandy slowly. He’d drunk far too much lately. He supposed he’d had as good an excuse as any—better than most, really. But he did not like the man he was becoming. Grace…He would never have kissed her had it not been for drink.
Already he would lose his name, his rank, his every last possession. He did not need to surrender his dignity and good judgment as well.
He sat back, comfortable in the silence as he watched Jack. He was coming to realize that his newfound cousin was more of a man than he’d initially judged him to be. Jack would take his responsibilities seriously. He would make mistakes, but then so had he. Maybe the dukedom would not thrive and grow under Jack’s stewardship, but nor would it be run into the ground.
It was enough. It had to be enough.
Thomas watched as Jack picked up the bottle of brandy and started to pour himself another glass. But just as the first drops were splashing down, he stopped, abruptly righting the bottle. He looked up, his eyes finding Thomas’s with unexpected clarity. “Do you ever feel as if you are on display?”
Thomas wanted to laugh. Instead, he did not move a muscle. “All the time.”
“How do you bear it?”
He thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know anything else.”
Jack closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. It almost looked, Thomas thought, as if he were trying to obliterate a memory.
“It’s going to be hideous today,” Jack said.
Thomas nodded slowly. It was an apt description.
“It’s going to be a bloody circus.”
“Indeed.”
They sat there, doing nothing, and then they both looked up at precisely the same moment. Their eyes met, and then Thomas glanced to the side, over at the window.
Outside.
“Shall we?” Jack asked.
“Before anyone—”
“Right now.”
Thomas set down his half-drunk glass of brandy and stood. He looked over at Jack, and for the first time he felt their kinship. “Lead the way.”
And it was strange, but as they mounted their horses and rode off, Thomas finally recognized the lightness in his chest.
It was freedom.
He did not particularly want to give up Wyndham. It was…
Him. Wyndham. It was him. That’s who he was.
But this was wonderful. Sneaking off, tearing through the dawn as it rose over the roads…
He was discovering that maybe there was more to him than his name. And maybe, when all was said and done, he’d still be whole.
Chapter 19
Thomas found the ride to Maguiresbridge surprisingly pleasant. Not that he’d expected the countryside to be anything but picturesque, but the circumstances of the day did not lend themselves toward an amiable outlook. As for Jack—he seemed uninclined toward conversation, but he did occasionally provide bits and pieces of the local history.
Jack had enjoyed growing up here, Thomas realized. No, more than that, he’d loved it. His aunt was a lovely woman; there was no other way to describe her. Thomas was quite sure that she would have made a wonderful mother. Certainly Cloverhill would have been a far more enjoyable place to be a child than Belgrave.
Ah, irony. By all rights, Jack had been robbed of his inheritance. And yet Thomas was beginning to feel that he had been the one cheated. Not that he’d likely have had a more pleasant childhood were he not the Wyndham heir; his father would have been even more bitterly tempered living in the North, known to all as a factory owner’s son-in-law.
Still, it did make him wonder. Not of what might have been, but of what could be. He had made it a mission not to emulate his father, but he had never given much thought to what sort of father he himself might someday prove to be.
Would his home be adorned with miniatures, the painted frames worn down by too much handling?
Of course, that presupposed that he had a home, which was very much still up in the air.
A small village came into view, and Jack slowed, then stopped, staring into the distance. Thomas looked at him curiously; he didn’t think that Jack had meant to pause.
“Is this it?” he asked.
Jack gave a nod, and together they rode forward.
Thomas looked around as they approached the village. It was a tidy little place, with storefronts and homes tucked up next to each other along a cobbled street. A thatched roof here, daub and wattle there…it was no different than any other small village in the British Isles.
“The church is that way,” Jack said, motioning with his head.
Thomas followed him along what he presumed was the high street until they reached the church. It was a simple gray stone building, with narrow arched windows. It looked ancient, and he could not help but think it would be a rather nice place to be married.
It was, however, deserted. “It does not look as if anyone is about,” he said.
Jack glanced over at a smaller building, to the left of the church. “The register will likely be at the rectory.”
Thomas nodded, and they dismounted, tying their horses to a hitching post before making their way to the front of the rectory. They knocked several times before they heard footsteps moving toward them from within.
The door opened, revealing a woman of middling years. Thomas assumed she was the housekeeper.
“Good day, ma’am,” Jack said, offering her a polite bow. “I am Jack Audley, and this is—”
“Thomas Cavendish,” Thomas interrupted, ignoring Jack’s look of surprise. It seemed grasping to introduce himself with his full title during the last few minutes of its legitimacy.
Jack looked as if he wanted to roll his eyes, but instead he turned back to the housekeeper and said, “We would like to see the parish register.”
She stared at them for a moment and then jerked her head toward the rear. “It’s in the back room,” she said. “The vicar’s office.”
“Er, is the vicar present?” Jack asked.
Thomas elbowed him hard in the ribs. Good God, was he asking for company?
But if the housekeeper found their request the least bit intriguing, she did not show it. “No vicar just now,” she said, sounding bored. “The position is vacant.” She walked over to the sofa and sat down, telling them over her shoulder, “We’re supposed to get someone new soon. They send someone from Enniskillen every Sunday to deliver a sermon.”
She then picked up a plate of toast and turned her back on them completely. Thomas took that as permission to enter the office, and walked in, Jack a few paces behind.
There were several shelves against the wall that stood opposite the fireplace, so Thomas started there. Several Bibles, books of sermons, poetry…“Do you know what a parish register looks like?” he asked. He tried to recall if he’d ever seen the register at his parish church, back near Belgrave. He supposed he must have, but it could not have been particularly distinctive, else he would have remembered it.
Jack didn’t answer, and Thomas did not feel like pressing further, so he set to work inspecting the shelves.
Moral Rectitude and the Modern Man. No, thank you.
History of Fermanagh. He’d pass on that as well. Lovely as the county was, he’d had enough of it.
Account of the Voyages by James Cook. He smiled. Amelia would like that one.
He closed his eyes and took a breath, allowing himself a moment to think of her. He’d been trying not to. All through the morning, he’d kept his mind focused on the landscape, his reins, the bit of mud stuck to the back of Jack’s left boot.
But not Amelia.
Certainly not her eyes, which were not at all the color of the leaves on the trees. The bark, maybe. With the leaves, together. Green and brown. A mix. He liked that.
Nor had he not been thinking of her smile. Or the exact shape of her mouth when she’d stood across from him the night before, breathless in her desire for him.
He wanted her. Dear God, he wanted her.
But he did not love her.
He could not. It was untenable.
He returned to the work at hand with grim purpose, pulling every book without an embossed title off the shelf so he could open it and look inside. Finally he reached a section with nothing but ledgers. He pulled one out, and his heart began to pound when he realized that the words before him were recordings of births. Deaths. Marriages.