Mine Till Midnight (28 page)

“I helped you to relax.” He ran a coaxing hand along her spine. “Put it back on, Amelia.”

“I can’t. That would mean I’ve accepted your proposal, and I haven’t.”

Stretching like a cat, Cam rolled her flat again, his weight partially supported on his elbows. Amelia drew in a quick breath as she felt him still firm within her. “You can’t lie with me twice and then refuse to marry me.” Cam lowered his head to kiss her ear. “I’ll be ruined.” He worked his way to the soft place behind her earlobe. “And I’ll feel so cheap.”

Despite the seriousness of the matter, Amelia had to bite back a smile. “I’m doing you a great favor by refusing you. You’ll thank me for it someday.”

“I’ll thank you right now if you’ll put the damned ring back on.”

She shook her head.

Cam pushed a bit farther inside her, making her gasp. “What about my personal endowments? Who’s going to take care of them?”

“You can take care of them”—she squirmed to the side to set the ring on the bedside table—“all by yourself.”

Cam moved with her obligingly. “It’s much more satisfying when you’re involved.”

As he reached to retrieve the ring, his body shifted higher in hers. She tensed in surprise. He felt harder inside her, thicker, his desire gaining new momentum. “Cam,” she protested, glancing at the closed door. She grabbed for his wrist, trying to keep his hand away from the ring. He grappled with her playfully, turning until they had completed a full revolution across the mattress and she was under him again.

He was rampantly aroused now, teasing her with slow lunges. Twisting beneath him, Amelia pushed at his dark head as he began to kiss her breasts. “But … we just finished…”

Cam lifted his head. “Roma,” he said, as if by way of explanation, and settled back over her. If there was a hint of apology in his tone, there was none in the insistent rhythm of his thrusts, deep caresses that invaded and soothed, and before long her protests had melted into purring moans.

Amelia wrapped her arms around him, her legs, trying to contain all that hard male flesh, while the steady, rocking pace of his thrusts brought her to the edge of release. But he withdrew before she could reach it, and turned her over, and for an agonizing moment she thought he had decided to stop. Covering her with his body, Cam used his knees to push hers wide. He muttered in a mixture of English and Romany, enough for her to understand that he wouldn’t hurt her, this would be easier for her, and she whispered
yes, yes,
and then he was sliding impossibly deep, his hands steadying her hips as she backed up instinctively.

Her head dropped, her gasps muffled against the linen-covered mattress. His hand slid to her sex, fingers spreading the furrowed silk. Pleasure shimmered through her in waves, each one stronger, higher, until she was shuddering, drowning, sighing. Cam’s sudden withdrawal was a shock of unwelcome emptiness as he made his last thrust against the sheets and groaned. Stunned and disoriented, Amelia remained with her hips propped high, her flesh pulsing and smarting with the need to have him back inside. His hand came to her buttocks, rubbing in a warm circle before he pushed her back down.

“You’ll have me,” Cam whispered. “You’ll have me, hummingbird. I’m your fate—even if you won’t admit it yet.”

Chapter Eighteen

After Cam had gone, Amelia found herself wandering despondently through the large manor.

It was quiet in the house, everyone having retired to their rooms for afternoon naps. Preparations were being made for the earl and countess, and Lord and Lady St. Vincent, to leave for Bristol in the morning. They would stay at the home of Lillian’s sister and brother-in-law, Daisy and Matthew Swift, for the last fortnight of Daisy’s confinement.

Lillian was anxious to see her younger sister, with whom she was extremely close. “She’s been in splendid health through the whole thing,” Lillian had told Amelia, with obvious pride. “Daisy’s healthy as a horse. But she’s very small. And her husband is quite large,” she added darkly, “which means any babies of his will probably be oversized, as well.”

“One can’t fault him for being tall,” Lord Westcliff, who was sitting beside his wife, had pointed out laconically.

“I didn’t say it was his fault,” Lillian protested.

“You were thinking it,” the earl murmured, and she raised a pillow as if to hurl it at him. The effect of marital strife was spoiled, however, as they grinned at each other affectionately.

Lillian turned her attention to Amelia. “Will you and the others be all right in our absence? I hate to leave with things so unsettled, and Mr. Merripen under the weather.”

“I expect Merripen will heal very quickly,” Amelia said with utter confidence. Other than the time he had first come to them, he had never been ill. “He has a robust constitution.”

“I’ve requested the doctor to visit daily,” Westcliff said. “And if you have any difficulties, send word to Bristol. It isn’t that far, and I’ll come at once.”

Heaven knew how they had been fortunate enough to have Lillian and Westcliff as neighbors.

Now, as Amelia made her way through the art gallery, her gaze moving over paintings and sculptures, she became aware of a terrible hollowness inside. She couldn’t think how to make it go away. It wasn’t hunger, fear, or anger, it wasn’t exhaustion or dread.

It was loneliness.

Nonsense,
she scolded herself, striding to a long row of windows that overlooked a side garden. It had begun to rain, a cold soaking glitter that fell steadily over the grounds and rushed in muddy streams toward the bluff and the river.
You can’t be lonely. He hasn’t even been gone for half a day. And there’s no reason for it when your entire family is here.

It was the first time she had ever felt the kind of loneliness that couldn’t be cured with just any available company.

Sighing, she pressed her nose against the cold surface of a windowpane, while thunder sent vibrations through the glass.

Her brother’s voice came from the other side of the gallery. “Mother always said that would flatten your nose.”

Pulling back, Amelia smiled as Leo approached her. “She only said that because she didn’t want me to make smudges on the glass.”

Her brother looked drawn and hollow-eyed, the pastiness of his complexion a striking contrast to Cam Rohan’s clover-honey tan. Leo was dressed in borrowed clothes, these so fine and precisely tailored, they must have been donated by Lord St. Vincent. But instead of hanging gracefully as they did on St. Vincent’s elegantly spare frame, the garments strained over Leo’s bloated waist and puffy neck.

“One can only hope you feel better than you look,” Amelia said.

“I’ll feel better once I can find some decent refreshment. I’ve asked thrice for wine or spirits, and the servants all seem damnably absentminded.”

She frowned. “Surely it’s too early in the day even for you, Leo.”

He extracted a pocket watch from his waistcoat and squinted at its face. “It’s eight o’clock in Bombay. Being an internationally minded fellow, I’ll have a drink as a diplomatic gesture.”

Ordinarily Amelia would have been resigned or annoyed. However, as she stared at her brother, who seemed so lost and miserable beneath his brittle façade, she felt a rush of compassion. Walking forward, she put her arms around him and hugged him. And wondered how to save him.

Startled by the impulsive gesture, Leo remained still, not returning the embrace but not pulling away, either. His hands came to her shoulders, and he eased her away.

“I should have known you’d be maudlin today,” he said.

“Yes, well … finding one’s brother nearly roasted to death tends to make a woman rather emotional.”

“I’m just a bit charred.” He stared at her with those strange, light eyes, not at all the eyes of the brother she had known all her life. “And not so altered as you, it seems.”

Amelia knew immediately what he was leading to. Warily she turned away from him and pretended to inspect a nearby landscape of hills and clouds and a silvery lake. “Altered? I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“I’m referring to the game of hide-the-slipper you’ve been playing with Rohan.”

“Who told you that? The servants?”

“Merripen.”

“I can’t believe he dared—”

“For once he and I agree on something. We’re going back to London as soon as Merripen is well enough. We’ll stay at the Rutledge Hotel until we can find a suitable house to lease—”

“The Rutledge costs a fortune,” she exclaimed. “We can’t afford that.”

“Don’t argue, Amelia. I’m the head of this family, and I’ve made the decision. With Merripen’s full support, for what that’s worth.”

“The two of you can go to blazes! I don’t take orders from you, Leo.”

“You will in this instance. Your affair with Rohan is over.”

Feeling bitter and outraged, Amelia turned away from him. She didn’t trust herself to speak. In the past year, there had been so many times she had longed for Leo to assume his place as the head of the family, to have an opinion about anything, to show concern for someone other than himself. And yet
this
was the issue that had provoked him to take action?

“I’m so glad,” she said with ominous quietness, “that you’ve taken such an interest in my personal affairs, Leo. Now perhaps you might expand your interest to other topics of importance, such as how and when Ramsay House will be rebuilt, and what we’re going to do about Win’s health, and Beatrix’s education, and Poppy’s—”

“You won’t distract me that easily. Good God, sis, couldn’t you find someone of your own class to dally with? Have your prospects really sunk so low that you’ve taken a Gypsy to your bed?”

Amelia’s mouth dropped open. She spun to face him. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing. Our brother is a Roma, and he—”

“Merripen isn’t our brother. And he happens to agree with me. This is beneath you.”

“Beneath me,” Amelia repeated dazedly, backing away from him until her shoulders flattened against the wall. “How?”

“There’s no need for me to explain, is there?”

“Yes,” she said, “I think there is.”

“Rohan’s a
Gypsy,
Amelia. They’re lazy, rootless wanderers.”

“You can say all that when you never lift a finger?”

“I’m not supposed to work. I’m a peer now. I earn three thousand pounds a year just by existing.”

Clearly there was no headway to be made in an argument when one’s opponent was insane.

“Until this moment, I had no intention of marrying him,” Amelia said. “But now I’m seriously considering the merits of having at least one rational man in the household.”

“Marriage?”

Amelia almost enjoyed the look on his face. “I suppose Merripen forgot to mention that minor detail. Yes, Cam has proposed to me. And he’s rich, Leo.
Rich
rich, which means even if you decide to go jump in the lake and drown yourself, the girls and I would be taken care of. Nice, isn’t it, that someone’s concerned about our future?”

“I forbid it.”

She gave him a scornful glance. “Forgive me if I’m less than impressed by your authority, Leo. Perhaps you should practice on someone else.”

And she left him in the gallery, while the thunder rumbled and rain cascaded down the windows.

*   *   *

Cam stopped the driver on the way to London, wanting another look at Ramsay House before he departed Hampshire. He was in something of a quandary as to what should be done with the place. Certainly it would have to be restored. As part of an aristocratic entailment, the estate had to be maintained in a decent condition. And Cam liked the place. There were possibilities in it. If the slopes of the surrounding grounds were altered and landscaped, and the building itself was properly redesigned and rebuilt, the Ramsay estate would be a jewel.

But it was doubtful that the Ramsay title, and its entailments, would remain in the Hathaways’ possession much longer. Not if everything depended on Leo, whose health and future existence were very much in question.

Considering the problem of his soon-to-be brother-in-law, Cam bid the driver to wait, and went into the ramshackle house, heedless of the rain that dampened his hair and coat. It didn’t especially matter to him if Leo lived or died, but Amelia’s feelings mattered very much indeed. Cam would do whatever was necessary to spare her grief or worry. If that meant helping to preserve her brother’s worthless life, so be it.

The interior of the house was smoke-filmed and sagging like a once-jaunty creature that had been beaten into submission. He wondered what a builder would make of the place, and how much of the structure could be preserved. Cam imagined what it might look like when it was fully restored and painted. Bright, charming, a touch eccentric. Like his Hathaways.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips at the thought of Amelia’s sisters. He could easily become fond of them. Strange, how the idea of settling on this land, becoming part of a family, had become attractive. He was feeling rather … clannish. Perhaps Westcliff had been right—he couldn’t ignore his Irish half forever.

Cam stopped at the side of the entrance hall as he heard a noise from upstairs. A thump, a tapping, as if someone were hammering at wood. The nape of his neck crawled. Who the hell could be here? Superstition struggled with reason as he wondered if the intruder were mortal or spectral. He made his way up the stairs with extreme care, his feet swift and silent.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, he listened intently. The sound came again, from one of the bedrooms. He made his way to a half-open door and looked inside.

The presence in the room was most definitely human. Cam’s eyes narrowed as he recognized Christopher Frost.

It appeared Frost was trying to pry a piece of paneling from the wall, using an iron pry bar. The wood defied his efforts, and after a few seconds of exertion, Frost dropped the pry bar and swore.

“Need some help?” Cam asked.

Frost nearly leaped out of his shoes. “What the devil—” He whirled around, his eyes huge. “Damnation! What are you doing there?”

“I was going to ask you the same question.” Leaning against the doorjamb, Cam folded his arms and stared at the other man speculatively. “I decided to stop here on my way to London. What’s behind the panel?”