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Amelia.
James’s heartbeat faltered. She sat tucked there, her wrapper snugly tied, her dark, silky hair falling in waves past her shoulders. He fumbled with the shirt that was still in his hands and somehow managed to pull it back over his head without skewing his spectacles.
She, however, appeared calm.
The cat brushed against his leg, refocusing his attention. He had to say something, or she would continue to stare at him with those soft brown eyes, looking utterly kissable. Touchable. Tumble-able.
“What are you doing here?” His question didn’t bring her out of her trance so he said, “Amelia?”
“Oh!” She jumped up and began to pace back and forth, her long hair bouncing against her back each time she turned. The firelight gleamed off those sleek tresses. “I discovered the truth about Stretton. I tried to find you at the ball” —she stopped and shot him a steady gaze— “but you disappeared.”
Despite the urge to wrap her in his arms and soothe her in a most unsuitable manner, James stood his ground. He must escort her out of the room. She had no business being here. He hadn’t even begun to court her. Not seriously.
“Your work, I suppose.” She tilted her head.
He nodded. “Traipsing around Holborn all night.”
“Holborn?” She stepped closer and raised her hand. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”
Damnation, it was hard to stand there with Amelia before him, thinly though modestly dressed, and a bed beside him. He must say something before she sent those fingers searching for injuries.
“I’m well.” He took a step back and her hand fell away. He would like nothing better than to tell her about David and Stickney, but that would prolong her stay. It was time to get rid of her. He didn’t have the wherewithal to be in the same room with her any longer. He was a gentleman; she was an unmarried lady. He meant to do everything properly this time, to court her as she’d always wanted. As she deserved. “You should—”
“Don’t you want to know about Stretton?” she asked at the same time.
He needed this information; he could get through this. “Very well. Why don’t you sit down?” That way she would stay out of reach.
She searched his eyes. “You are the one who looks like he needs to relax. You are tense.”
“Tell me what you’ve learned.” And for God’s sake, tell me without flipping your hair so provocatively. Tell me without flashing those big, brown eyes my way.
She dropped back into the chair, somehow loosening her wrapper just enough to fire James’s imagination. He shifted his gaze to the floor and noticed her bare feet for the first time.
“I haven’t even told you the bad news yet,” Amelia said, apparently puzzled by the inarticulate sound he made.
James retreated to the end of the bed and leaned against the footboard, his feet stretched out in front of him. From there he could at least stare into the fire and pretend to relax. “Not good news, then?”
“No, but not for the reason you think.” She paused long enough to draw his attention back to her. “Stretton is considering converting to Catholicism.”
He stared at her, at a complete loss as to what to say. Such an absurdity had never entered his mind.
“I know. Shocking.” Once again she was out of the chair, pacing in front of the fireplace. In front of him. “I thought for certain he was having an affaire d’coeur, but my source is reliable. His wife is unhappy with him, which is understandable if he is contemplating such a change. They stand to lose much.”
“His expulsion from the House of Lords would devastate the Whig party,” James said with a sigh. Amelia’s information fit all that had gone on with Stretton: the lie about his return date, the secrecy of his visit to Wanstead.
She nodded and walked the length of the rug. “Kensworth would be hurt too. He was not only counting on Stretton’s vote for parliamentary reform but his influence with others as well. Reform could be set back years.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced over at James. “Why are you smiling? This is distressing news.”
“I know, but...”
She wouldn’t understand what he was feeling. It was as if he had a partner. Not just someone to work with—he had Watson after all, though it always felt as if Watson were working against him—but someone with whom he could discuss discoveries. Someone who understood the implications of what was learned. He could explain to Amelia right now that he was searching for an assassin and she would immediately understand the repercussions in regards to Kensworth, Stretton, the government.
He couldn’t tell her, though, and it was killing him.
“What you’ve discovered is not worse than what I feared, but still, it’s simply astonishing. I don’t think anyone suspects. Will you tell Kensworth?”
His question halted her pacing, and James regretted that her perfect little feet no longer paraded before him.
She eyed him questioningly. “Should I? It’s such a personal matter. What right do I have to reveal Stretton’s secret?”
“I’ll talk to Stretton, then Kensworth if he allows it—and if you would like me to.”
“I would. Thank you.”
It would have been the perfect time to end their conversation. Instead, he found himself saying, “I wonder that your source hasn’t spread this rumor about. Not many could keep such a secret.”
She smiled mischievously. “The gossip would have been worthless if incautiously spread.”
James leaned forward, stretching his back. “Ah, one of those types. I hope the price wasn’t too high.” Not that he would mind being in Amelia’s debt. He could think of several ways to honor such an obligation.
After his work was done, of course.
She wandered over to the chest of drawers, saying over her shoulder, “Kensworth will pay the brunt of it, so we may have to extricate him from her clutches at some point.”
Her use of the word “we” sent a spear of warmth through James’s chest. That is what he liked about this situation; they were working together, forming a partnership, becoming a “we.” He wasn’t alone any longer.
“I like working with you,” he said.
She smiled, and his breath hitched. “I like it too.”
She walked toward him. Stopped beside him. Too near. Within reach. James clutched the footboard with both hands. The fire had warmed her, heated the perfume she wore. His head suddenly felt as if it were full of air, a bubble about to burst.
“You must rest. Perhaps I could help you take off your boots?” she offered, a devilish gleam firing a golden streak through her brown eyes.
James pushed away from the bed and feigned a formal attitude, hoping the chill in his voice would calm the lustful tremor sweeping through him at her artless attempt at seduction. “Amelia. That wouldn’t be proper, and you know it.”
Her eyebrows flew upward as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Oh? What do you know about propriety? When I was engaged to Kensworth you had no qualms about kissing me. Or t-touching me.”
Her stammer had nothing to do with nervousness or a missish sense, James saw. Her cheeks flushed and her chest swelled; she was remembering.
Barely able to breathe, he struggled to push air into his tight lungs. “I am attempting to be a gentleman,” he replied, too aware of how priggish he sounded. It was too late for moralizing. Perhaps Kensworth had the right of it; he should abandon the cautious and proper course and follow his—
No. Amelia was worthy of patience and restraint. And a declaration of love. This, here, now, was not heading toward a discussion of their innermost feelings. James knew her; he knew she needed to hear how he felt about her, but he still had so much work to do.
After.
God, it was hard to be proper.
Her hands dropped to the sash of her wrapper. One flick of her finger and the thin flannel opened. “As a former schoolmate of mine once said, ‘A woman has no need of a perfect gentleman in the bedchamber.’” Her eyes, as round and coppery as halfpennies, turned beseechingly upward. “Don’t you want me, James?”
She couldn’t have disarmed him with any other words. That question stripped away any defense, any excuse, he’d previously been able to muster, and without hesitation James stepped toward her, reaching for her, only too willing to show her how much he wanted her.
He was rebuffed. Amelia put her hands to his chest, straightened her arms, and held him off.
He didn’t fail to notice how her fingertips curled into his shirt, as if they had discovered something new and delightful.
“I see it in your eyes. I do. But sometimes,” she whispered, bending her arms and stepping closer, “a lady needs to hear the words.”
She could have her words, but James wasn’t going to say them without being able to touch her. Roughly he pulled her into him, tipping her chin up so he could gaze into her eyes and speak directly to her heart. “Amelia, I have always wanted you. I want you at sunrise, at sunset, and all the hours in between. I want to talk to you, to listen to you, to look at you, but most of all I want to touch you. Everywhere. Anywhere. For hours on—”
He got no further as Amelia apparently decided she’d heard enough and found another occupation for his lips. Her arms stretched up around his neck, pulling him into the sweet champagne flavor of her mouth. James crushed her body to his, tasting, touching, inhaling the essence of Amelia.
Her lips parted as her hands skittered down the length of his torso, searching, seeking until she worked them up under his shirt, her soft fingers exploring the hot flesh of his stomach and chest. James’s knees nearly buckled from the scale of her assault.
He managed to rouse himself to the challenge, though, plunging his tongue inside her deliciously open mouth, sweeping an arm beneath her legs, hoisting her against his chest.
The trip to the bed was short and then she was laid out beside him, still kissing him, too greedy to let their lips part for a moment.
There was no going back now. Never again would she question whether he wanted her or not. She was his. Not Kensworth’s. Not anymore. All his.
And she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
***
AMELIA LOCKED HER HANDS behind James’s head, anchoring his mouth to hers, unwilling to let him go. Unwilling to let him think twice about what they were doing.
She’d had time enough to think while waiting, brushing aside the painful thought that a life with James might mean an overabundance of waiting, and she knew where she wanted to end up. Right here, on this bed.
There was no longer any reason to pretend they didn’t want each other, though James had appeared as if he were willing to go cross-eyed trying to find one. She’d never seen him look so stoic, nearly prudish. She’d wanted him all the more.
This time, their relationship would be different. They would bind themselves together, body and soul. They would take things farther than they ever did three years ago and there would be no going back, no leaving—
Ohhhh my.
He had abandoned her mouth to blaze a path of kisses across her jaw, ending with a nip on her earlobe. Amelia shivered.
This was no time for thinking. It was time to explore, to feel, to learn, to taste. She raked her fingers through his thick, straight hair, marveling at the softness of the ebony strands. She turned her head just a fraction and pressed her lips to his neck, thrilled to feel his pulse throbbing against her mouth.
James was doing the same to her, only he suddenly withdrew, inhaling deeply. “What is that scent you wear?” he rasped. “I’ve been trying to figure it out for years. I used to smell it when I dreamed of you.”
He had dreamed of her. She smiled against his neck then lifted her lips to his ear. “The secret ingredient is gardenia.”
What sounded like a growl reverberated through his chest—she felt it in her own—as he skimmed kisses down past her collarbone. “I love it.”
When his lips ran into the neckline of her nightdress, he returned to her mouth, his tongue plunging and stroking until Amelia was drowning in an explosion of feeling. The hot, firm lips against hers, the tantalizing touch of his hand at her waist, the hardness of him against her hip... everything felt right, and she couldn’t even imagine it feeling so with anyone else.
As James slid his hand up her leg, pushing up her gown, nothing could overcome the flush of excitement consuming her body. He smiled, but Amelia could see that he was thinking, wondering, hesitating.
She kissed the upward curve of his mouth. “I want you too.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I just... I don’t want you to be alarmed by my scars.”
Amelia leaned back so she could look into his eyes. “Will it cause you pain if I touch them?”
“No, it shouldn’t—”
She’d already worked her hands up under his shirt and was running her fingers over the gloriously hard muscles of his back. Lightly, she skimmed over the scars on the lower half.
“I am thrilled,” she whispered, “to touch you everywhere. I sincerely wish you would resume touching me too.”
Behind his silver spectacles, his eyes darkened in a most arousing way, but he didn’t do her bidding. “Are you certain you want to...?” His reluctance to finish the sentence was evident in his voice. “Perhaps we sh—”
She rushed to press two fingers to his lips. “I never thought I would say this but, James Danforth, you talk too much!”
He laughed softly and pushed himself onto his knees. First, he bent backward and placed his spectacles on the bedside table. Then Amelia watched, as greedily as she had the first time, as he stripped off his shirt again and let it fall onto the coverlet.
For someone so tall and lean, he looked surprisingly powerful without his clothes on. Muscles abounded in his chest, his stomach, his arms, clearly delineated. She might have thought him one of those Roman statues instead of a human if it wasn’t for the light scattering of dark hair across his torso.
As she stared, one of those steely arms reached down and hauled her upright until she too was on her knees on the mattress facing him. Within reach of that sculpted, naked body.
Amelia splayed her hands across his chest. Tessa had been so right about boldness. “It’s a good thing I never saw you like this before.”
He replied with another one of those lustful groans and a crushing kiss. Amelia let her hands roam over every inch of him she could, barely aware that he was busy divesting her of her wrapper and gathering up her nightdress. She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed with what he discovered beneath. There was so much more of her than she ever wanted there to be.
Before she knew it, he whipped the gown over her head and there was nowhere to hide the “more” of her. She began to sink down, hoping she might melt and become one with the coverlet, but James caught her at the elbows and pulled her against him, smoothing her hair back with one hand.
“Amelia.” His breath feathered against her temple, sending a shiver down through her belly to her core. “I know you think there is something wrong with your body, but you are everything I want you to be.” He placed a kiss near her ear. “Soft.” His tongue blazed a hot trail down her neck, ending with a kiss in the hollow of her collarbone. “Curved.” He pushed her back onto the bed and kissed his way to her breast. “Delicious.”
She wanted to protest his description, but his acceptance of her as she was gave her pause. She couldn’t yet convince herself she wasn’t too plump but she might be able to accept that some people liked plumpness.
Tthen James drew her nipple in between his teeth and she was no longer able to think, let alone utter an objection.
He licked and suckled at her breast until she was arching her back off the mattress, silently begging for something more. For him to do the same to her other, neglected breast. For him to touch her elsewhere.
Amelia was a trifle mortified to acknowledge that, in her mind, “elsewhere” was one spot and one spot only. She craved his touch there, a desire so fierce she was willing to ask him to do just that, no matter how profligate she might seem.
She tried to organize her thoughts into some semblance of speech, but again, James destroyed her ability to do so. He threw his leg over hers, pressing his arousal firmly against her inner thigh, contact that almost satisfied her urge to be touched.
James lifted his head and pinned her with a hot, dark look. “Do you know what’s going to happen? Did anyone explain?”
She licked her lips and nodded. “Tessa and...books.” At the memory of what her sister had said, Amelia grew warm and surprisingly wet “elsewhere.”
A muffled affirmation sounded from near her navel, for his adventurous lips were busy again. He’d slid further down her body and she keenly felt the loss of his hardness. Only for a moment though. He massaged her thighs with firm, thrilling strokes and Amelia held her breath, waiting for his hands to move closer, to fulfill her wish.
Instead, his dark head dipped down and, and, and...
Impossible. He couldn’t possibly be using his—
The exquisite caress stopped, and he looked up at her with a rakish gleam in his eye. “I don’t suppose Tessa told you about this?”
“Heavens no,” she gasped. She should probably have said more, muttered an insincere protest, but she was so very afraid that if she did, he wouldn’t continue.
He smiled slowly and his head disappeared again. Amelia sighed, maybe even moaned, and let her own head fall back. This was wanton and wicked, possibly even wrong, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Her brain was not engaged; her senses were. Every flick of his tongue, every rough rasp, electrified her nerves and kindled a sensual fire that raced through her veins. That fire built, grew steadily hotter with James’s persistent, penetrating strokes until fireworks exploded within her, showering her body with unbelievable pinpricks of pleasure.
When she finally stopped shuddering and the haze began to clear from her overwhelmed mind, she opened her eyes to find James propped on his elbow beside her. His black eyebrows arched upwards. “Satisfied, my lady?”
Her smile must have been as silly as a fool’s. “Yes. No,” she amended quickly. How was one to think after such an experience? She reached up and brushed her thumb across his cheek. “I want more. I want you, James.”
She wasn’t surprised to hear him growl again as he lowered his head to kiss her. Restored to the moment, Amelia renewed her exploration. She began with his arms, the uppermost of which were so thrillingly hard she could have rubbed her hands over them all day. But then there were his shoulders to round and his back to explore. She probably should have been embarrassed to behave so, but she wasn’t. James should experience the same bone-melting pleasure as she had. So she continued on, skimming over his ribs, and before she knew it, her hands were pressing along his breeches, curving around the long, inflexible length of him.
He groaned, this time with satisfaction, and pushed back against her hand. A surge of raw power swept through her, making her skin tingle.
The more she stroked, his breathing became harder, rougher, and finally he gasped out one word. “Buttons.”
Amelia obeyed, unfastening his breeches with haste, eager to become a woman at last, James’s woman.
With her having done the intricate work, James stripped the rest of his clothes off. She could only stare and wonder. How would it feel to have him inside her? Would it hurt? Her sister had said it would. But for how long?
James reclined beside her again and cupped her breast. “Stop thinking.”
“Very well.” She smiled and reached out to touch him. Now she had something new to explore. It was warm, firm and slightly moist on the end, and a sense of insatiable urgency charged through her veins once more.
Bending his head, he nipped at her neck and rasped, “Please say you’re ready.”
“I am. Yes. Oh, yes.”
He propped himself on his hands above her, his jaw taut, his eyes intense. Amelia waited, holding her breath.
He slid inside her easily enough, except for one small twinge of pain that stung for a moment or two. She flinched, though she tried not to. James didn’t move for the longest time, then he lowered his weight onto her and kissed her. Soothingly, as if to absorb the hurt.
She drew back. “My goodness, that was wonderful.” A bald-faced lie, to be sure. Amelia had expected much more. More of that concentrated pleasure, more of that urge to thrust her hips. She’d expected more of a reaction from him. He hadn’t seemed to enjoy himself nearly as much as she had earlier.
Refocusing, she found him staring at her, his jaw still tight but with a smile hovering about his lips.
“You are a goose.” He began to withdraw.
Well, yes, sometimes. But—
He plunged in again. Watching her face, he withdrew once more then repeated this fiendish movement over and over again until Amelia was panting and lifting her hips to meet him. Wild pleasure overtook every other feeling, and from the blazing fervor in his eyes, she knew he finally felt the same.
It seemed as if he might continue this tempo forever, but Amelia could not hold out. Gripping his buttocks, she cried out James’s name and succumbed to those newfound waves of pleasure. He stopped and watched her, basking in her response.
Then, before she could gather her wits or breathe normally, he resumed his rhythmic thrusting. Amelia thought she was spent, incapable of feeling anything more, but her body responded again, though less stridently. More coherent now, she watched James and marveled at the intensity and desire etched on his face. He truly did want her. There was no denying it.
“Amelia.” A husky rasp, and then, after two final thrusts, he groaned appreciatively. His body shuddered above and within her, and she was filled with a flooding warmth.
His muscles went lax, and he leaned down to kiss her on the nose. “Well?”
She contained her grin with difficulty and shrugged a naked shoulder. “Oh. Are we finished now?”