Authors: Cheryl Holt
Except as he’d packed his bags, he’d been overcome by the worst yearning to talk to Amelia one last time, and the need was pressing and acute. He wanted to inform her of his departure, and he thought she’d be upset by his decision.
He suspected that—besides James—she might be the only person in the world who would be sad to see him go. They shared an odd affinity, and he expected she’d miss him. At least he hoped she would. It was bothering him to suppose that she might not.
Instead of riding off as he’d planned, he’d headed to Mrs. Middleton’s. It was very late, and the crazed woman didn’t lock her doors, so it was a simple matter to slip inside and tiptoe up the stairs.
Alcohol was driving him; he understood that it was. Ever since he’d fled his father’s residence, he’d been drinking heavily. Had he been sober, he’d have scoffed at the notion of sneaking into Amelia’s room, but he wasn’t sober, and he recognized it as a very perilous condition—for himself
and
for her. He was foxed, so there was no telling how he might behave.
Eventually, he heard footsteps winging down the hall, and as they neared, he was positive it was Amelia. He was growing that familiar with her that he could guess her stride.
Shortly, she stopped, fumbled with the door, and stumbled in. She attempted to slide the key into the lock, but her aim was off, which produced a rash of giggles. Since she wasn’t prone to giggles, he assumed she was inebriated too.
The prospects for calamity were swiftly escalating.
She was grinning, humming to herself, and she hadn’t yet looked around to notice she had a visitor. He watched her, thinking how pretty she was and curious as to why she intrigued him so completely.
When he was with her, he felt happier, more content and less alone. His heightened attachment made no sense, and at this late date, he wouldn’t try to figure it out. He would simply latch on to the pleasure he found in her company and would forego any dissection or debate over why it occurred.
With his leaving London in a few hours, he couldn’t predict where the road might lead him, but he was likely facing hardship and penury and toil. Didn’t he deserve a serving of joy and entertainment before he left?
“Hello, Amelia,” he murmured.
“Lucas!” she gasped and whipped around. “You rat! Where have you been? I’ve been searching everywhere.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, you scoundrel,” she scolded, but she was smiling. “I traipsed through every blasted ball in this city.”
“I was searching for you too.”
“You were?”
“Yes.” He struggled to appear aloof and detached, as if he couldn’t care less that she’d been hunting for him, but he was thrilled by the notion.
She couldn’t hide her delight; she was beaming. “Why must you be so contrary? You could just tell me what parties you’ll be attending, and we could meet like normal people.”
“What fun would that be?”
“I’m not talking about fun. I’m trying to save us both an enormous amount of effort.”
“I hate exerting myself.”
“If we planned our schedules, we could dance together some evening. We never have.”
“No, we haven’t.”
“Do you like to dance? I know so little about you that I have no idea.”
“Yes, I like to dance. I rarely do it though.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “There’s never anyone who interests me as a partner.”
“Well,
I
shall interest you. Tomorrow night, you and I will waltz, Mr. Drake. In front of the whole town!”
“We’ll be gossiped about afterward.”
“I certainly hope so. Otherwise, what would be the point?”
He raised a brow. “Mrs. Middleton is rubbing off on you.”
“How can you tell?”
“The schoolteacher I met weeks ago would never condone a public spectacle.”
“I told you I buried that old fusspot.”
“You did, didn’t you.”
“Don’t you like the new
me
much better?”
She twirled in a circle, inviting him to study her, and the move pitched her off balance. She stumbled and giggled again.
He couldn’t help grinning. “How much have you had to drink, Amelia?”
“Too much probably.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Why?”
“If we’re both intoxicated, who will make us behave?”
“Who wants to behave? Not me.”
He was still seated in the chair, and she lurched over and stunned him by plopping down on his lap. She tugged the hem of her gown up to her knee and lifted a foot so he could see it.
“I broke the heel on my shoe,” she explained. “I had a devil of a time getting home without falling on my face.”
“You’re blaming your condition on your shoe? Not the alcohol?”
“Absolutely.” She kicked off the ruined shoe and the other one too. “No self-respecting female would confess to overly imbibing.”
“No self-respecting female would over-imbibe.”
She thought for a moment, then chuckled. “That’s true, isn’t it? So what does that make me?”
“I believe it makes you
not
self-respecting.”
“Oh, my. I really am at the bottom of the social ladder, aren’t I? You warned me of how far I’d tumbled, but I wouldn’t listen.”
“Have you enjoyed your plunge?”
“Yes—even though it’s all your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yes.”
“How could it be? If it’s anyone’s, I’d pick Barbara Middleton. She’s been a horrid influence.”
“No, it’s all you. You’re the cause.”
“How?”
“I’ve had to spend all these weeks practicing my feminine wiles and learning a coquette’s tricks in order to inveigle you.”
“Inveigle? That’s an awfully fancy word.”
“It means
tempt
.”
“Ah, so you admit it, you vixen. You were throwing yourself at me.”
“Yes. Are you shocked?”
“Not in the least. I knew you had an ulterior motive. You showed up everywhere I went, and you always looked ravishing.”
She preened with amazement. “You thought I was ravishing?”
“Yes, but don’t get a big head over it.”
“I think I’m giving up on you though.”
“Why?”
“I’m not nearly flirtatious enough to entice you. I haven’t the necessary loose tendencies.”
He let his eyes take a slow meander down her body. “I disagree. I’d say you have plenty of loose tendencies—as you’ve now proved on several occasions.”
“I have
some
, but not enough to keep you interested.”
“I’m here in your room again, which indicates you’ve been doing a bang-up job so far.”
“But there’s no point.”
“Must there be a point?” he asked.
“I’d like to marry you,” she brazenly stated, “because I want that estate in Surrey your father promised us.”
He scoffed. “Could you see me as a gentleman farmer, Amelia? Seriously. Could you?”
“Not for a second, so I must abandon this ridiculous scheme.”
“And when did you come to this decision?”
“After the third ball we strolled through, and you weren’t there. It occurred to me that I was wasting my time.”
She leaned in, her pert breasts suddenly resting pleasantly on his chest, and she sighed with what sounded like regret. To his consternation, he was suffering from a bit of regret too. Though he’d initially grumbled and protested her attempts to entrap him, he was beginning to relish her antics.
It had become an amusing game of cat and mouse, and he’d been charmed by her drive to bring him to heel. None of his prior fiancées had exhibited her mettle and resolve. All the others had met him, assessed his surly personality and bad habits, and had fled at the earliest opportunity.
Amelia Hubbard was the only one who’d had the temerity to fight for him, and the realization that she’d given up was surprisingly depressing. It was on the tip of his tongue to beg her to keep after him.
Don’t give up on me
, he yearned to plead, but of course, he’d never utter aloud such a demeaning comment.
“Will you be sad if we don’t wed?” she asked.
“No.”
“You beast. You’re supposed to humor me and say you’ll be devastated forever.”
“I’m supposed to say that, am I?”
“Yes. Try again. Will you be sad?”
“My dearest, Amelia, I will be distraught until my dying day.”
She snorted with disgust. “You are the worst liar.”
“No, I’m actually a fairly accomplished liar.”
“Well then, you’re awful at humoring a person.”
“Yes, I’m awful at that.”
She cuddled herself to him, her cheek on his shoulder, and for a few minutes, they nestled together. He focused on her torso, imprinting her size and shape into his memory so he’d never forget. But he didn’t want to snuggle on an uncomfortable chair in her sitting room. He wanted to be closer to her, wanted to learn other, more important things about her.
“Let’s go into the bedchamber,” he murmured, kissing her hair, her neck.
“Why should we?”
“I’d like to misbehave.”
“So would I, which is precisely why we shouldn’t.”
“You’ll like it. I promise.”
“Ha! Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe I’ll hate it.”
“You make it sound like a challenge.”
“You can’t always be wonderful. Just this once, you might be horrid and I’ll be bored silly.”
“Bored!” he huffed. “You actually imagine you could be bored while lying on a mattress with me?”
“It could happen. Your name’s not Romeo. Not the last time I checked.”
He swatted her bottom. “Get your shapely rear into the bedchamber. Right now.”
She grinned, appearing wickedly merry and hazardous to his equilibrium.
“I will come with you on one condition,” she said.
“What is it?”
“I’ll do whatever you want—”
“That’s a dreadfully dangerous thing to say to a man like me.”
“—so long as you dance with me tomorrow night at Lord Westwood’s ball.”
“I can’t stand Westwood.”
“So? Dance with me anyway.”
“I wasn’t planning to attend.”
“You
have
to show up, and you have to waltz with me, the entire set before the supper buffet.” Suddenly, she looked very sly. “Unless of course, you can’t really dance. If you’re not
up
to my level of competence, I’ll forgive you for crying off.”
His vanity was pricked, and he bristled. “With all my musical talent, you suppose I can’t waltz you around a stupid ballroom?”
“I don’t know if you can or if you can’t. I’m just curious if you’ll dare.”
He studied her, thinking she understood him so well—perhaps as no one else ever had. She recognized that if she dared him, if she chided him over his ability, he’d jump at the chance merely to prove her wrong.
He pulled her in so they were nose to nose. “I’ll waltz with you until your feet fall off.”
“You talk a good story, Mr. Drake.”
“It’s not
talk
, Miss Hubbard. It’s a fact. Wear a sturdier pair of shoes than you had on tonight. I can’t have you breaking a heel and embarrassing us both.”
“Oh, you’re the worst.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Miss Hubbard.” He swatted her bottom again. “Now get you ass into the other room. And be quick about it.”
* * * *
“What are we doing?”
“I told you: We’re misbehaving.”
“But beyond that. What are we doing?”
Amelia stepped into Lucas’s arms. They’d made it to the bedchamber, but hadn’t yet lain down on the bed. He was staring at her, a rare hint of affection in his gaze. Was he growing fond? Barbara insisted it was impossible, but what if it was gradually transpiring?
There had to be a reason he kept stopping by. He had paramours all over the city to entertain him. Why would he seek out Amelia unless there was a deeper sentiment festering?
“I thought we hated each other,” she said.
“I thought so too.”
“We don’t seem to any longer.”
“No. You’re not the shrew I assumed.”
“And you’re not the wretch. Or should I say not
quite
the wretch.”
“Probably more accurate.”
He smiled, a corner of his mouth quirking up, his eyes glittering with mischief. If they ended up parting, she was sure no one else in her life would ever look at her the same way, as if she was remarkable and exotic and special.
Her pulse was racing, her mental processes jumbled and flitting from reality to fantasy to reality again. Despite how Barbara claimed otherwise, Amelia was positive she was on the verge of moving Lucas to the precise spot where she needed him to be. She only wished she was more experienced at amour, because every word, every gesture had to be appropriate and seductive and tempting—so he’d stay, so it would dawn on him that he wanted to be with her forever.
“Are we friends?” she asked.
He considered, then said, “I don’t typically have female friends.”
“Then what are we?”
“There isn’t a name for it.”
“Lovers?”
“Of a sort.”
“But no longer enemies.”
“No, definitely not enemies.”
He dipped down and kissed her, and the exhilarating embrace urged her to act in a manner that was reckless and shouldn’t be pursued. Yet there was no other path for her to walk with him. If she didn’t dally with him physically, how would she keep him interested?
“You seem very sad,” she told him.
“I do?”
“Yes.”
He assessed her as if her insight disturbed him. “I’m not sad.”
“What is it then?”
“I’ve been fighting with my father.” He was taken aback by what he’d divulged, and he shook his head. “Gad, I can’t believe I admitted that to you.”
“Why?”
“I barely know you. I don’t need to spew my problems as if we’re old chums.”
“I don’t mind. I like learning more about you.”
“You don’t get to. I’m a very private person.”
“I’m a good listener—and I’m very discreet. You can tell me about it.”
He stared and stared, appearing as if he’d like to unburden himself, but ultimately he said, “I don’t want to talk about my father.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t want to
talk
. We’re in your bedchamber, for pity’s sake. There are a few more intriguing things to do than chat.”