Mine Till Midnight (18 page)

“Yes, I’ve heard about that.” She smiled at him. “But since I don’t believe in luck or curses, I’m skeptical.”

“It’s enough to ruin a Gypsy. No matter what I do, money comes to me.”

“How dreadful. That must be very trying for you.”

“It’s damned embarrassing,” he muttered with a sincerity she couldn’t doubt.

Half amused, half envious, Amelia asked, “Had you ever experienced this problem before?”

Rohan shook his head. “But I should have seen it coming. It’s fate.” Stopping with her, he showed her his palm, where a cluster of star-shaped intersections glimmered at the base of his forefinger. “Financial prosperity,” came his glum explanation. “And it won’t end any time soon.”

“You could give your money away. There are countless charities, and many people in need.”

“I intend to. Soon.” Taking her elbow, he guided her carefully around an uneven patch of ground. “The day after tomorrow, I’m returning to London to find a replacement factotum at the club.”

“And then what will you do?”

“Live as a true Roma. I’ll find some tribe to travel with. No more account books or salad forks or shoe polish. I’ll be free.”

He seemed convinced that he would be satisfied with a simple life—but Amelia had her doubts. The problem was, there was no middle ground. One could not be a wanderer and a domesticated gentleman at the same time. A choice had to be made. It made her thankful that no duality existed in her own nature. She knew exactly who and what she was.

Rohan brought her to a stall set up by the village wine shop, and bought two cups of plum wine. She drank the tart, slightly sweet vintage in thirsty gulps, making Rohan laugh quietly. “Not so fast,” he cautioned. “This stuff is stronger than you realize. Any more and I’ll have to haul you home over my shoulders like a felled deer.”

“It’s not that strong,” Amelia protested, unable to taste any alcohol in the fruit-heavy wine. It was delicious, the dry plummy richness lingering on her tongue. She held out her cup to the wine-seller. “I’ll take another.”

Although proper women didn’t ordinarily eat or drink in public, the rules were often cast aside at rural fairs and festivals, where gentry and commoners rubbed elbows and ignored the conventions.

Looking amused, Rohan finished his own wine, and waited patiently as she drank more. “I found a beekeeper for you,” he said. “I described your problem to him. He said he would go to Ramsay House tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. One way or another, you’ll be rid of the bees.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said fervently. “I am indebted to you, Mr. Rohan. Will it take long for him to remove the hive?”

“There’s no way of knowing until he sees it. With the house having gone unoccupied for so long, the colony could be quite large. He said he’d once encountered a hive in an abandoned cottage that harbored half a million bees, by his estimate.”

Her eyes turned enormous. “Half a million—”

“I doubt yours is that bad,” Rohan said. “But it’s almost certain part of the wall will have to be removed after the bees are gone.”

More expense. More repairs. Amelia’s shoulders slumped at the thought. She spoke without thinking. “Had I known Ramsay House was in such terrible condition, I wouldn’t have moved the family to Hampshire. I shouldn’t have taken the solicitor’s word that the house was habitable. But I was in such a hurry to remove Leo from London—and I wanted so much for all of us to make a new start—”

“You’re not responsible for everything. Your brother is an adult. So are Winnifred and Poppy. They agreed with your decision, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but Leo wasn’t in his right mind. He still isn’t. And Win is frail, and—”

“You like to blame yourself, don’t you? Come walk with me.”

She set her empty wine cup at the corner of the stall, feeling light-headed. The second cup of wine had been a mistake. And going anywhere with Rohan, with night deepening and revelry all around them, would be yet another. But as she looked into his hazel eyes, she felt absurdly reckless. Just a few stolen minutes … she couldn’t resist the lawless mischief of his smile. “My family will worry if I don’t rejoin them soon.”

“They know you’re with me.”

“That’s why they’ll worry,” she said, making him laugh.

They paused at a table bearing a collection of magic lanterns, small embossed tin lamps with condensing lenses at the front. There was a slot for a hand-painted glass slide just behind the lens. When the lamp was lit, an image would be projected on a wall. Rohan insisted on buying one for Amelia, along with a packet of slides.

“But it’s a child’s toy,” she protested, holding the lantern by its wire handle. “What am I to do with it?”

“Indulge in pointless entertainment. Play. You should try it sometime.”

“Playing is for children, not adults.”

“Oh, Miss Hathaway,” he murmured, leading her away from the table. “The best kind of playing is for adults.”

They hemmed the edge of the crowd, weaving in and out like an embroiderer’s needle, until finally they drifted free of the torchlight and movement and music, and reached the dark, luminous quiet of a beech grove.

“Are you going to tell me why you had that silver seal from Westcliff’s study?” he asked.

“I would rather not, if you don’t mind.”

“Because you’re trying to protect Beatrix?”

Her startled glance cut through the shadows. “How did you … that is, why did you mention my sister?”

“The night of the supper party, Beatrix had the time and opportunity. The question is, why did she want it?”

“Beatrix is a good girl,” Amelia said quickly. “A wonderful girl. She would never deliberately do anything wrong, and—you didn’t tell anyone about the seal, did you?”

“Of course not.” His hand touched the side of her face. “Easy, hummingbird. I wouldn’t betray your secrets. I’m your friend. I think…” A brief, electrifying pause. “In another lifetime, we would be more than friends.”

Her heart turned in a painful revolution behind her ribs. “There’s no such thing as another lifetime. There can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Occam’s razor.”

He was silent as if her answer had surprised him, and then a wondering laugh slipped from his throat. “The medieval scientific principle?”

“Yes. When formulating a theory, eliminate as few assumptions as possible. In other words, the simplest explanation is the most likely.”

“And that’s why you don’t believe in magic or fate or reincarnation? Because they’re too complicated, theoretically speaking?”

“Yes.”

“How did you learn about Occam’s razor?”

“My father was a medieval scholar.” She shivered as she felt his hand glide along the side of her neck. “Sometimes we studied together.”

Rohan pried the wire handle of the magic lantern from her shaky grip, and set it near their feet. “Did he also teach you that the complicated explanations are sometimes more accurate than the simple ones?”

Amelia shook her head, unable to speak as he took her shoulders, fitting her against himself with extreme care. Her pulse ran riot. She shouldn’t allow him to hold her. Someone might see, even secreted in the shadows as they were. But as her muscles drew in the warm pressure of his body, the pleasure of it made her dizzy, and she stopped caring about anyone or anything outside his arms.

Rohan’s fingertips drifted with stunning delicacy over her throat, behind her ear, pushing into the satiny warmth of her hair. “You are an interesting woman, Amelia.”

Gooseflesh rose wherever his breath touched. “I can’t f-fathom why you would think so.”

His playful mouth traced the wing of her brow. “I find you thoroughly, deeply interesting. I want to open you like a book and read every page.” A smile curled the corners of his lips as he added huskily, “Footnotes included.” Feeling the stiffness of her neck muscles, he coaxed the tension out of them, kneading lightly. “I want you. I want to lie with you beneath constellations and clouds and shade trees.”

Before she could answer, he covered her mouth with his. She felt a jolt of heat, her blood igniting, and she could no more withhold her response than stop her own heart from beating. She reached up to his hair, the beautiful ebony locks curling slightly over her fingers. Touching his ear, she found the faceted diamond stud in the lobe. She fingered it gently, then followed the taut satin skin down to the edge of his collar. His breath roughened as he deepened the kiss, his tongue penetrating in silken demand.

The white moon sent shards of light through the beech boughs, outlining the silhouette of Rohan’s head, touching her own skin with an unearthly glow. Supporting her with one hand, he cradled her face with the other, his breath hot and scented with sweet wine as it fell against her mouth.

A curt voice shot through the humid darkness. “Amelia.”

It was Christopher Frost, standing a few yards away, his posture rigid and combative. He gave Cam Rohan a long, hard stare. “Don’t make a spectacle of her. She’s a lady, and deserves to be treated as such.”

Amelia felt the immediate tension in Rohan’s body.

“I don’t need advice from you on how to treat her,” he said softly.

“You know what it will do to her reputation if she is seen with you.”

It had immediately become apparent that the confrontation would turn ugly if Amelia didn’t do something about it. She pulled away from Rohan. “This isn’t seemly,” she said. “I must go back to my family.”

“I’ll escort you,” Frost said at once.

Rohan’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Like hell you will.”

“Please.” Amelia reached up to touch her cool fingers to Rohan’s parted lips. “I think … it’s better that we part here. I want to go with him. There are things that must be said between us. And you…” She managed to smile at him. “You have many roads to travel.” Clumsily she bent and retrieved the magic lantern at her feet. “Goodbye, Mr. Rohan. I hope you find everything you’re looking for. I hope—” She broke off with a crooked smile, and felt a peculiar stinging pain in her throat and swallowed the bittersweet taste of longing. “Goodbye, Cam,” she whispered.

He didn’t move or speak. She felt him watching her as she went to Christopher Frost … she felt his gaze penetrating her clothes, lingering against her skin. And as she walked away, a sense of loss rushed through her.

*   *   *

They wandered slowly, she and Christopher, falling into a familiar harmony. They had walked often during their courtship, or gone on discreetly chaperoned drives. It had been a proper courtship, with earnest conversations and tenderly composed letters, and sweet stolen kisses. It had seemed magical, unbelievable, that someone so handsome and perfect would want her. In fact, Amelia had put him off at the beginning for that very reason, telling him with a laugh that she was sure he meant to trifle with her. But Christopher had countered by saying he was hardly going to trifle with his best friend’s sister, and he was certainly not some London rake who would play her false.

“For one thing, I don’t dress nearly well enough to be a rake,” Christopher had pointed out with a grin, indicating his well-tailored but sober attire.

“You’re right,” Amelia had agreed, looking him over with mock solemnity. “In fact, you don’t dress well enough to be an architect, either.”

“And,”
he had continued, “I have an exceedingly respectable history with women. Hearts and reputations all left intact. No rake would make such a claim.”

“You’re very convincing,” Amelia had observed, a bit breathless as he had moved closer.

“Miss Hathaway,” Christopher had whispered, engulfing her cool hand with both of his warm ones, “take pity. At least let me write to you. Promise you’ll read my letter. And if you still don’t want me after that, I’ll never bother you again.”

Intrigued, Amelia had consented. And what a letter it had been … charming and eloquent and fairly blistering in parts. They had begun a correspondence, and Christopher had visited Primrose Place whenever he could.

Amelia had never enjoyed any man’s company so much. They shared similar opinions on a variety of issues, which was pleasant. But when they disagreed, it was even more enjoyable. Christopher seldom became heated on a subject—his approach was analytical, scholarly, rather like her father. And if Amelia became annoyed with him, he laughed and kissed her until she forgot what had started the argument.

Christopher had never tried to seduce Amelia—he respected her too much for that. Even at the times when she had felt so stirred that she had encouraged him to go beyond mere kisses, he had refused. “I want you, little love,” he had whispered, his breath unsteady, his eyes bright with passion. “But not until it’s right. Not until you’re my wife.”

That was as close to a proposal as he had ever come. There had been no official betrothal, although Christopher had led her to expect one. There had only been a mysterious silence for almost a month, and then Leo had gone to find him on Amelia’s behalf. Her brother had come back from London looking angry and troubled.

“There are rumors,” Leo had told Amelia gruffly, taking her against his shirtfront, drying her tears with his handkerchief. “He’s been seen with Rowland Temple’s daughter. They say he’s courting her.”

And then another letter had come from Christopher, so devastating that Amelia wondered how mere scratches of ink on paper could rip someone’s soul to shreds. She had wondered how she could feel so much pain and still survive. She had gone to bed for a week, not venturing from her darkened room, crying until she was ill, and then crying some more.

Ironically, the thing that had saved her was the scarlet fever that had struck Win and Leo. They had needed her, and caring for them had pulled her out of the depths of melancholy. She had not shed a tear for Christopher Frost after that.

But the absence of tears wasn’t the same as an absence of feeling. Amelia was surprised now to discover that underneath the bitterness and caution, all the things she had once found appealing about him were still there.

“I’m the last person who should remark on how you conduct your personal affairs,” Christopher said quietly. He offered an arm as they walked. She hesitated before taking it. “However, you know what people will say if you’re seen with him.”