Her respected associate.
She could not kiss him over his office desk, and she certainly couldn’t install him in her library to entertain her while she stitched.
She hated mending, anyway.
But she did love her work—the only distraction she retained. In fact, she loved her work enough to return to the office later tonight.
Which was a perfectly sensible thing to do. And the reason had nothing at all to do with the chance she’d see Matthew Bellamy while dressed in her finery.
She had papers to attend to. Papers.
Besides, she would never dream of disturbing Bellamy once he retired to his bedchamber, which was—she swallowed—just above her office.
Chapter Five
SECRET STAIRS IN THE ALLEY behind Sartin Trading Company allowed Amelia to come and go without being observed. Once inside her office, she waved her lamp in the window and then turned as her coachman pulled away.
The coachman had read nothing unusual in her request. She often kept odd hours. Late in the evening, she was much less likely to suffer interruption…and much more likely to have Bellamy to herself.
How long had this fascination been growing unawares?
She set down the small lantern she carried and dropped into an overstuffed chair between the window and the fireplace—the chair she used when she had to think through a tedious problem.
Like now.
Her stays pinched, protesting her slouch. She reached into her décolletage and loosened the ties. Then, with a heart-felt sigh, leaned over to remove her heavy, silver-buckled slippers one by one.
Bliss—she sank back into her chair—like silence following cacophony.
Like quiet nights at home.
Did Bellamy prefer them, or had she been reluctant to give him a coveted ticket because she hadn’t wanted to encourage his burgeoning search for a wife?
If the latter, she owed him an apology. Bellamy, dearest, I’m terribly jealous.
She could only imagine how he’d—
The door creaked open. She met Bellamy’s startled gaze.
“Mr. Bellamy! Do you often skulk about in the dark?”
Lamplight made flickering shadows on his face. “Apologies. I heard a noise and came to investigate.”
“Yes, well, as you can see, I am—”
He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Sartin?”
“Yes?” Unlike him to interrupt.
“Your…I mean, if you wouldn’t mind…” His gaze moved to her sagging bodice.
Her cheeks heated as she pulled her fichu back over the swell of her breasts. His eyes remained on her bosom, transforming her embarrassment into a hot rush of desire—honeyed, thick and liquid.
“I wasn’t expecting…company.”
“Of course not.” He paused. “Can I be of service in any way?” His gaze dropped to the floor. “I mean, would you like me to fetch coals to light your fire?”
Politely decline. Her lamp was perfectly capable of lighting a fire, should she choose to start one. What she said, however, was, “Warmth would be lovely.”
He nodded once and then disappeared, leaving Amelia alone with the invisible demon responsible for an utterance opposite of what she’d intended.
She listened to Bellamy ascend the stairs to his bedchamber.
Mr. Sartin—when he was alive—had proposed Bellamy’s current living arrangement. Bellamy had been perfectly willing to reside in the attic rooms, and Mr. Sartin had been more than happy for the increased efficiency—and security.
And so Bellamy had been, simply, present.
Always.
I won’t leave. Not while you need me.
She couldn’t imagine Sartin Trading Company without Bellamy, any more than she could stop the jagged, cutting nature of her untamable heartbeat.
She may have mistaken his desire to kiss her the other day, but there wasn’t any way she’d imagined his slow swallow after he’d caught a glimpse of her breasts.
Breasts now weighted with wanton heaviness.
Madness.
She redid the ties and readjusted her fichu.
She’d be a fool to act on her desire, even if she was going to lose Bellamy soon, regardless.
Bellamy reappeared with a bucket of glowing coals, presumably taken from his room. He went to one knee and, quite literally, shared his fire. Then, he removed a circular stone from the bottom of the bucket and put it on a grate above the coals.
“The soapstone will take a few minutes to warm.”
“What’s it for?”
Orange light traced his profile. “Your feet, of course.”
Her feet. The aching feet she hadn’t even noticed were cold.
How had he known?
Silly question.
This was Bellamy. Bellamy always knew what she needed.
“You might as well sit down,” she suggested.
Instead of pulling over a wooden chair, he shifted position. Crooking one leg, he lounged against the mantle column, arm draped across his knee.
She and Bellamy had been together in this room more times than she could count. Only now did she understand why her husband’s relations had protested.
She’d argued all ladies were, on occasion, alone with their grooms or footmen or butlers, therefore there could be nothing improper about a woman being alone with a man in her employ.
Nothing at all—her gaze fell to the now-crinkled seam of his trousers—intimate.
“Were you on your way out?”
“In.”
“Ah.” That explained why she had not heard him when she first arrived. “Coffee house?”
“Assembly.”
“Public assembly?”
His gaze challenged. “Public.”
So, he really was, in vulgar parlance, on the prowl. She arranged her skirts to fully cover her stockinged feet.
“Did you enjoy the evening?” she asked lightly.
He chuckled softly and turned to stoke the coals.
Wait—when had he removed his jacket? And had his sleeves been rolled up when he first appeared in her doorway?
They couldn’t have been. She would have noticed the way his forearm flexed. And—heavens—how it flexed. Not just the forearms she could see, but the shoulders not-so hidden beneath his shirt.
“Did you enjoy the benefit?” he asked.
“Yes.” However, not as much as she was enjoying this moment. “Jeremy spent the night making eyes at Lady Horatia, while Lady Horatia blushed obligingly in return.”
“His courtship is off to a rollicking start, then. And what about the young lady you set out to help?”
“As expected, she and Lord Markham were the talk of the evening.”
“Lord Markham,” he repeated thoughtfully. He set down the poker. “Which means, I take it, the night was an unparalleled success.”
“Every charity will soon be clambering for my services.”
“Why, of course they will.” He glanced over his shoulder and smiled.
Hesitantly, she returned his smile.
“Let me see...” He eased back into a sitting position. “Mr. Pritchett and Lady Horatia. Lord Markham and Lady Clarissa. You weren’t exaggerating when you said you meddled. One wonders who you will match next.”
“Match?” She asked, genuinely surprised. “I am not a matchmaker.”
“No, indeed?”
Well… Perhaps she had encouraged Jeremy where Lady Horatia was concerned. And, she’d certainly used her influence to urge along Markham’s courtship…
“I nudged along fate,” she admitted. “Which makes me less of a matchmaker and more of a benevolent fairy godmother.”
“Fairy godmother?”
“Haven’t you read Charles Perrault’s fairy tales?”
“I haven’t, I’m afraid.”
“A sad loss, I assure you.”
He rested his head against the post. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but just what is a fairy godmother?”
She consider
ed. “I’m not sure how to answer, exactly, but she appears in a tale about a young lady who sleeps by the cinders…”
“How demeaning,” he said in jest, indicating his position in the hearth and wiping a smudge of ash from his arm.
She slanted him a glance.
“Go on,” he urged. “Tell me about this cinder-sleeper and her godmother.”
“Well, Cinderella is good and deserving but no one seems to notice—”
“Indeed?”
She cleared her throat. “No one notices except—”
“Her fairy godmother?”
“Exactly.” She wished she could remove his slightly-smudged glasses—the hazed lenses concealed his thoughts.
All she would have to do was reach out…
“So,” he shifted, “how does the godmother remedy this sorry state of affairs? Does she make the cinder girl the lady of the house?”
She shook her head. “The godmother transforms the cinder girl’s rags into pretty clothes and then sends her off on three separate nights to a ball. At the ball, she meets a prince.”
“There’s a prince.” His deep-chested hum resonated. “There’s always a prince.”
“Not always.” Some fairytales ended sadly. Like life. She looked into the coals. “My sisters dreamed of being Cinderella.”
“You didn’t?”
“I wanted to be the godmother,” she half-smiled, “tasked with changing the fortunes of the worthy.”
“By giving them fine clothes and carriages with which to deceive unwitting princes?”
She laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“They staged quite the ruse, this cinder girl and her godmother.”
He covered his hands with towels and then removed the block of soapstone from the grate. Next, he situated the stone by the edge of her skirts. Then—as if he did such things every day—he lifted her stockinged feet. One by one, he placed her soles against the heated stone.
Warmth radiated up her calves. Her cheeks pinked for entirely different reasons.
“Bellamy,” she said softly, “do you require the services of a matchmaker?”
“No.” His answer was definitive.
“You’ve found someone, then?”
He stared at her for a long, silent moment. “I’ve found,” he paused, “the perfect woman.”
“Oh.” She did not bother to hide her disappointment.
He rose. “Good night, Mrs. Sartin.”
“Good night, Bellamy.”
The door closed. She fisted her hands in her lap.
Matthew pulled the door shut behind him. The definitive thump of wood-against-wood did nothing to lessen his need.
Move.
Yes. Right. Move. Away from the door. Away from her.
The wild urge to confess his deepest secret had forced him from the room.
Do you need a matchmaker?
I’ve found the perfect woman.
Her bleak, lost expression had made him want to grab her by her shoulders and tell her in no uncertain terms she was that woman, but restraint had won the day.
Thank God.
He headed through his darkened office, following the well-worn path to his attic bedchamber.
She was his employer, and he was nothing more to her than a sturdy cane—something on which to depend. Once, being essential to her had been enough. Now—with his departure ever looming—he craved notice.
He craved possession.
A sharp stab of want accompanied the memory of her loosened bodice—the tantalizing glimpse inspiring every subsequent gesture up right up to fondling her damned feet.
Devil take it.
His stopped walking and turned back, heart jostling against his ribs like a prisoner demanding attention.
To return to her office was lunacy. He strode back to the door, breathing hard. Placing his fists against the door posts, he bowed his head, back muscles straining.
He had no right to dream of becoming her lover.
He was what he was.
A loyal employee.
A dependable, overlooked, cane.
A man who knew for certain he had found the perfect woman, but the perfect woman could never be his.
On the other hand…
What if he was wrong?
What if she wasn’t just the perfect woman for him? What if he was the perfect man for her?
A vision sprouted to life—he and Mrs. Sartin. Amelia. As a couple, they’d be as invincible in life as they’d been in commerce.
Such a dream, however, required more than a matchmaker, such a dream required a gifted fairy godmother…or, at the very least, a bold presumption.
But even if he could not have her forever, couldn’t he have her for one night?
“Bellamy?” Her whisper drifted through the wall.
“Here.”
She opened the door visibly trembling. He’d sworn to be there whenever she needed him. She needed him now…and he would not fail.
He gathered her close. With a long, uneven exhale, she sagged against his chest.
He filled with shock, then heat, and then need so violent his knees turned to gelatin. He wrapped one arm about her waist—an unmovable anchor. With his other hand, he brushed back her curls.
“Invincible,” he whispered into the faint blue-pools of her eyes.
If only she would allow.
She removed his glasses and set them on a shelf in the bookcase beside them. A fold appeared between her brows. He placed his lips over the wrinkle—a soothing gesture. As she relaxed, he moved his mouth across her forehead. Her lashes feathered against his nose. He kissed her cheekbone, just below her eye, and then he touched his temple to hers.
Her breath warmed the scant air between them.
Women were a mystery he hadn’t taken the time to unravel. He’d never been interested in pleasure for pleasure’s sake. Now, he understood the real reason behind his reluctance.
All he cared for was this woman. Amelia.
Their mouths touched, light and sweet. They touched again. Elated thrill tugged an invisible string from his lips to his groin, and sweetness turned to spice.
Then, with urgency, he repeatedly claimed her mouth until he could barely recall a time their mouths had been distinct.
Invincible.
Just as he’d always known.
Chapter Six
COULD A KISS GO ON forever?
Yes, Amelia prayed.
Even a brief pause would open the door to rational thought and rational thought—any thought, for that matter—would thwart the overwhelming wave of want that had lifted her out of her chair and then, somehow, landed her in Bellamy’s embrace. Desire bred stupor, and yet being clasped within Bellamy’s arms was inexplicably right.
He had such solid arms.
Such a solid chest.
He was, simply, solid—something on which she could rely.
He kissed how she’d imagined, exactly how he worked—careful, thorough, and fully aware. Each time his lips brushed hers, a hotter rush of desire left her gasping. Soon, she would boil.
Still, she had to breathe eventually.
She rolled her forehead against his cheek, panting. “I—I never guessed.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No.” She shook her head. His stubble tickled her skin.
“Are you being truthful?”
“No,” she repeated. And then, because nothing else would come to mind, she said, “You’re a man.”
His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “Kind of you to notice.”
“I didn’t, you know. Not before Lady Darlington’s soiree.”
“The soiree?”
Curse her flapping tongue. “You—you looked nice.”
“Nice?”
“Handsome.” Edible, in fact.
“And now?”
“Obviously, I’m aware.” There was no mistaking the hardness against her belly, nor the way her awareness of his arousal left her head feveri
sh and her mouth dry. She swallowed. “I am very aware.”
He cupped her chin and lifted her face. No doubt her eyes held truths she had yet to acknowledge, truths she could not dice into words.
She blessed the shadows for concealing two contradictory Amelias. One—aware allowing Bellamy to hold her was dangerous and could have no good end. The other—submersed in the joy of sensation and the heady pleasure of knowing she hadn’t mistaken his desire.
Soon, one of those Amelias must wither.
He slanted his mouth over hers, urging her lips to part. Oh, what was the use of struggle? She gave in to his onslaught.
He shifted their bodies, pressing her back against the bookshelves, delivering each kiss in a full-bodied, wave-like motion. All she could do was hold on.
“Mrs. Sartin.” Her name floated on his breath. “Amelia.”
The intimacy of her Christian name broke her last defense. The fight—what little left there had been—when out of her limbs. Rational Amelia disappeared.
His lips rested by the side of her temple, just above her ear. Roughly, he whispered, “Tell me what you want.”
Want? Want implied choice. This did not feel like want.
This felt like fate.
Awareness infused every point where his body touched hers. Later, she would parse consequences. Much, much later.
“What do I want…?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She worked her fingers into his simply tied cravat until the knot loosened. She left it hanging on either side of his shirt as she parted the laces and inhaled.
A familiar scent. Comforting and yet, at the same time, full of new promise.
She touched her lips to the hot, smooth valley at the base of his throat.
“Have I not made myself plain?” she whispered against his skin.
“No.”
“Well then, Matthew Bellamy, allow me to be clear. I want you. All of you.”
His response emerged from his lips gruff and broken. “I am yours.” Always.
The last, unspoken word balled up against a rush of equally silent questions painfully compacting his lungs. Why haven’t you seen? And what comes next?
How could he tell her he’d never been with a woman without ending this burgeoning moment? Any explanation of his unwillingness to dally in—or, worse, pay for—pleasures of the flesh would prematurely betray not only the long years he’d spent pining for her, but also the depth of his affection.
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