Mr. Cavendish, I Presume (35 page)

“What did she say?” Amelia asked, her words almost a sneer.

“What?”

Her voice grew in volume. “What did Grace say?”

He stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.

“You asked her to marry you,” she ground out. “What did she say?”

“She refused,” he finally replied, his voice clipped.

“Did you kiss her?”

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“Amelia . . . ”

“Did you?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Did you kiss her?”

“Yes!” he exploded. “Yes, for the love of God, I kissed her, but it was nothing. Nothing! I tried, believe me I tried to feel something, but it was nothing like
this
.” He grabbed her then, and his lips came down on hers so fast and so hard that she did not have time to breathe. And then it didn’t matter. His hands were on her, pressing her against him—hard—and she could feel his arousal against her, and she wanted him.

She wanted this.

She tore at his clothing, wanting nothing so much as the heat of his skin against hers. His lips were on her neck, and his hand was under her skirt, moving up her leg.

She was panting with desire. His thumb was on the soft flesh of her inner thigh, pressing, stroking, and she wasn’t sure she could stand. She clutched at his shoulders for support, sighing his name, moaning it, begging him over and over again for more.

And his hand moved even higher, until it was at the crook of her leg, where it met her hip, so close . . . so close to . . .

He touched her.

She went stiff, and then she sagged against him, instinctively softening herself as he touched her.

“Thomas,” she moaned, and before she knew it, he’d laid her on the ground, and he was kissing her, and he was touching her, and she had no idea what to do, Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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had no thought at all except that she wanted this. She wanted everything he was doing and more.

His fingers continued to tickle, and then he slipped one inside of her in the most wicked caress of all. She arched beneath him, gasping at the shock and pleasure of it. He’d slipped inside so easily. Had her body been waiting for this? Preparing itself for this very moment, when he would settle himself between her thighs and touch her?

She was breathing faster, harder, and she wanted him closer. Her blood was pounding through her body, and all she could do was grab at him, clutch his back, his hair, his buttocks—anything to pull him against her, to feel the mounting pressure of his body on hers.

His mouth moved to her chest, to the flat plane of skin left exposed by her dress. She shivered as he found the neckline of her dress, his lips tracing it around . . . down . . . from her collarbone to the gentle swell of her breast. He took the fabric between his teeth and began to tug, gently at first, and then with greater vigor when it did not give. Finally, with a muffled curse, he brought his hand down and grabbed at the fabric that gathered over her shoulder, giving it a yank until it slid over her arm. Her breast slid free, and she barely had a chance to gasp before his mouth closed over the tip.

A soft shriek escaped her lips, and she did not know whether to pull back or push forward, and in the end it did not matter, because he was holding her securely in place, and judging from his growls of pleasure, 350 Julia

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she was not going anywhere. His hand—the one that had been delivering such sweet torture—had curved around her backside and was pulling her relentlessly against his desire. And his other hand—it slid along the soft, sensitive skin of her arm, stretching her up, and up, until their hands were both over their heads.

Their fingers entwined.

I love you
, she wanted to cry.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t allow herself to utter a word. He would stop if she did. She didn’t know how she knew it, or why she was so certain, but she knew it was true. If she did anything to break the spell, to bring him back to reality, he would stop. And she could not bear it if that happened.

She felt his hands move between their bodies, fumbling with the fastenings of his breeches, and then there he was. Hard and hot, pressing her, then stretching her, and she was not sure if this was going to work, and then she was no longer so certain she was going to like it, and then—

He thrust forward with a primal grunt, and she could not help it—she let out a tiny scream of pain.

He froze instantly.

As did she.

He pushed himself up so that his head drew back, and she got the impression that he was only just now seeing her. The haze of passion had been pricked, and now—oh, it was everything she’d feared . . .

He regretted it.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God.”

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* * *

It was a bloody stupid question, and an even stupider time to ask it, as he was lying atop Amelia, buried to the hilt, and they were in a field. A
field
. He’d taken her virginity without even a care to her comfort. Her dress was bunched around her waist, there were leaves in her hair, and good God—he hadn’t even managed to take off his boots.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

She shook her head, but he could not tell from her expression what she meant.

He would marry her now. There could be no question. He had ruined her in the most debasing way possible. Had he even whispered her name? In the entire time he’d been making love to her—had he said her name? Had he been aware of anything besides his own unrelenting desire?

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but words could never be enough. He moved to withdraw, so that he could help her, comfort her.

“No!” she cried, grabbing his shoulders. “
Please
.

Don’t go.”

He stared down at her, unable to believe her words.

He knew that this had not been rape. She had wanted it, too. She had moaned for him, clutched his shoulders, gasping his name in her desire. But surely now she would wish to end it. To wait for something more civilized. In a bed. As a wife.

“Stay,” she whispered, touching his cheek.

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“Amelia,” he said raggedly, and he prayed she could hear all of his thoughts in that single word, because he did not think he could give voice to them.

“It’s done,” she said softly. But then her eyes grew fierce. “And I will
never
regret it.”

He tried to say something; he made
some
sort of noise, but it came from deep within, from some ele-mental spot where he had no words.

“Shhh.” She touched her finger to his lips. “It’s done,”

she said again. And then she smiled, her expression the culmination of a million years of womanly experience.

“Now make it good.”

His pulse quickened, and then her hand crept up the back of his leg until it reached the bare skin of his buttocks.

He gasped.

She squeezed. “Make it
wonderful
.”

And he did. If the first part of his lovemaking had been all frenetic thrusts and mindless passion, now he was a man with a purpose. Every kiss was pure artistry, every touch designed to bring her to the heights of pleasure. If something made her gasp with delight, he did it again . . . and again.

He whispered her name . . . over and over again, against her skin, into her hair, as his lips teased her breast. He would make this good for her. He would make it
wonderful
. He would not rest until he’d brought her to the heights of ecstasy, until she shattered in his arms.

This was not about him. For the first time in weeks, something was
not
about him. It was not about his Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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name or who he was or anything other than what he could do to bring her pleasure.

It was for her. Amelia. It was all for her, and maybe it always would be, for the rest of his days.

And maybe he wouldn’t mind that.

Maybe it was a good thing. A very good thing.

He looked down at her, his breath catching as he saw her lips part in a tiny sigh of desire. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. Nothing compared, not the most brilliant of diamonds, the most spectacular of sunsets. Nothing compared to her face in that moment.

And then it was clear.

He loved her.

This girl—no, this woman—whom he’d politely ignored for years had reached inside him and stolen his heart.

And suddenly he didn’t know how he’d ever thought he could allow her to marry Jack.

He didn’t know how he thought he could live apart from her.

Or how he could live just one more day without knowing that she would one day be his wife. Bear his children. Grow old with him.

“Thomas?”

Her whisper brought him back, and he realized he’d stopped moving. She was gazing up at him with a mix of curiosity and need, and her eyes . . . her expression . . . He couldn’t explain what it did to him, or rather how, but he was happy.

Not content, not satisfied, not amused.

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Happy.

Lovesick, champagne in the veins, want-to-shout-it-to-the-world happy.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked, and then she was smiling, too, because it was infectious. It had to be. He could not keep it inside.

“I love you,” he said, and he knew his face must belie the surprise and wonder he was feeling.

She looked instantly cautious. “Thomas . . . ”

It was imperative that she understood. “I’m not saying it because you said it, and I’m not saying it because I obviously have to marry you now, I’m saying it because

. . . because . . . ”

She went very still beneath him.

He whispered the last: “I’m saying it because it is true.”

Tears formed in her eyes, and he bent down to gently kiss them away. “I love you,” he whispered. And then he could not stop his sly smile. “But for once in my life, I’m not going to do the right thing.”

Her eyes widened with alarm. “What do you mean?”

He kissed her cheek, then her ear, then the graceful edge of her jaw. “The right thing, I think, would be to stop this madness right now. Not that you’re not properly ruined, but I really ought to get your father’s permission before continuing.”

“Continuing
this
?” she choked out.

He repeated his kisses on the other side of her face.

“I would never be so crude. I meant the courtship. In the general sense.”

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Her mouth opened and closed a few times, then finally slid into something that wasn’t sure if it ought to be a smile.

“But that would be cruel,” he murmured.

“Cruel?” she echoed.

“Mmm. Not to continue with
this
.” He pushed forward. Just a tiny bit, but enough to make her squeak in surprise.

He nuzzled her neck, increasing the rhythm between them. “To start something, and not finish it—that doesn’t seem like the right thing, does it?”

“No,” she answered, but her voice was strained and her breaths were growing ragged.

So he continued. He loved her with his body just as he loved her with his heart. And when he felt her shudder beneath him, he finally let go, exploding inside of her with a force that left him spent, exhausted . . . and complete.

Maybe it wasn’t the right way to seduce the woman he loved, but it had certainly been good.

Chapter 22

In the end, Thomas did do the right thing.

Almost.

Amelia had expected that he would seek out her father the next day and formally ask for her hand in marriage. Instead, he asked her to deliver the note and his ring as planned, adding that he would see her in a fortnight in England.

He loved her, he said. He loved her more than he could ever say, but he needed to return on his own.

Amelia understood.

And so it came to pass that she was sitting in the Burges Park drawing room almost three weeks later, in the company of her mother, all four of her sisters, and two of her father’s dogs, when the butler appeared in the doorway and announced:

“Mr. Thomas Cavendish, my lady.”

“Who?” was Lady Crowland’s immediate reply.

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“It’s Wyndham!” Elizabeth hissed.

“He’s not Wyndham any longer,” Milly corrected.

Amelia looked down at her book—some dreadful etiquette guide her mother had termed “improving”—

and smiled.

“Why on earth would he come here?” Lady Crowland asked.

“Perhaps he is still engaged to Amelia,” Milly suggested.

Her mother turned to her with utter horror. “Don’t we
know
?”

“I don’t think we do,” Milly replied.

Amelia kept her eyes on her book.

“Amelia,” Lady Crowland said sharply. “What
is
the status of your betrothal?”

Amelia tried to answer with a shrug and a blank look, but it became quickly apparent that this was not going to suffice, so she said, “I am not certain.”

“How is that possible?” Milly asked.

“I did not break it off,” Amelia said.

“Did he?”

“Er . . . ” Amelia paused, unsure of where to direct her reply, as the query had come from five different sources. Her mother, she finally decided, and she turned in her direction and said, “No. Not formally.”

“What a muddle. What a
muddle
.” Lady Crowland brought her hand to her head, looking much aggrieved.

“You shall have to end it, then. He will not do so; he is far too much of a gentleman for that. But surely he would never expect you to marry him
now
.”

Amelia bit her lip.

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“He is most likely here to provide you with the opportunity to end it. Yes, that must be it.” Lady Crowland turned to the butler and said, “Show him in, Granville. And the rest of you—” She waved a hand in the general direction of her daughters, which was not easy, as they were scattered about the room. “We shall greet him and then discreetly make our regrets and leave.”

“A mass exodus is meant to be discreet?” Milly asked.