by Stacy Reid
“Hmm,” he said noncommittally, closing the book, and resting it once more on the table. “For a long time after that night…in your chamber, I couldn’t think…dream of anyone but you. All those pent-up longings went into me dreaming about if you were mine and what I would do to you.”
A strange stirring began in the pit of her stomach and drifted lower. “I have thought of you often over the years as well, in a similar manner.” Drat. She tried to sound unaffected, but her voice had held a distinct croak.
He faced her, and once again they looked at each other for a long time. Max strolled over and sat in the seat opposite her. His expression was one of curiosity as he stared at her, and Amalie leaned back, provocatively crossing her legs at the ankles, displaying an air of casual indifference.
Those winter-gray eyes skipped over the picture she made, draped in the large chair, her ankles on display, her toes bare, and her hair a loose knot about her head. Amalie thought she might look quite messy, but his breathing fractured, and he was the first to look away into the fire for a long moment before his gaze came back to her.
“Are you seeking a lover?”
That blunt question had her fighting to maintain the unaffected air she wanted to exude. Suddenly it felt false, this hiding of her true feelings. With a sigh, she straightened, settling her hands in her lap.
“I’ve never had one,” she said softly.
“Me either,” he murmured.
And she took that to mean he’d never bedded the same woman twice. Suddenly it hurt, the thought of him with so many others, laughing, romping in bed the way he described it in his book.
Playing in bed, light, and laughing is a great precursor to sexual intimacy.
How many ladies have you played with so, teased them with your banter and light touches, soft kisses, and nibbling? she wanted to ask, but simply could not. “Are you looking for a lover, Max?”
His lips curved. “Yes.”
“And is that why you called upon me…in the hopes that woman will be me?”
“Yes.”
The heat spread even more throughout her body at his blunt responses. “I am not certain how to feel about your honesty,” she said, searching his face.
There were crinkles at the corners of his eyes, but the familiar smile she expected did not follow.
“Being truthful and establishing trust is essential,” he replied. “Wouldn’t you agree, Amalie?”
The best foundation for passionate encounters is to be honest with your partners about your wants and desires. There is no shame in saying them.
“I see you are a man who practices what you write.”
“Ah…that, I shall aim for.”
And suddenly, everything he had written about how a gentleman should take the care and patience to rouse his wife’s passion crowded her thoughts. The licks and nibbles he spoke about, the strokes of fingers over soft folds, the positions she should be held in, and the pictures drawn to depict the words in case the reader lacked any sort of erotic imagination.
Heat flushed through her body, and acute hunger blossomed. “Yes,” she said softly. “I want a lover. And if I should pick anyone to take that position in my life, brief as it might be, it would be you.”
Another wave of taut tension fraught with intimate peril washed over them. Their interactions in the past had never been like this…so intense or filled with such an awareness of each other. Amalie realized that night when she had taken him to her bedroom had changed the sweet and always hovering love, which had been between them to something more tense and uncertain.
He leaned forward, dropping his hands between his legs to brace on his knees. “Come here, Amalie.”
The inherent dominance in that command froze her. At first, she thought about refusing, but she stood and went over to him. He straightened, and she sat in his lap, looping her hands around the nape of his neck. She had no idea what possessed her, but she had shocked herself. And perhaps him too, for a brief moment he stiffened before his body relaxed.
He gripped her chin gently and ensured she stared into his eyes. “Do you want me to take you to your boudoir, splay you on the bed, kiss your quim with my mouth, and then take you?”
The sensual promise in his voice made her breath catch. Heat flushed through her at the provoking image, but her heart…it ached for something else, even as long-denied flesh cried out its denial. “No.”
She sucked in a breath when he leaned in and his lips, soft and hot, pressed against the tender skin beneath her ear. “What do you want to do then?”
When the words came to her lips, they came almost unbidden. “Talk,” she said.
He eased her away a bit, assessing her face.
She offered him a shaky smile. “It has been years, Max. I…I missed you. How have you been?”
Amalie braced for some sort of derision, but relief lit in his eyes.
“Thank Christ,” he said, hugging her to his chest in a tight embrace. “I missed you too, old friend.”
The years fell away then, and it was as if they had never parted. She laughed, feeling unexpectedly delighted with the man. Somewhere inside, she had wondered if a man of his varied erotic experiences only wanted her because of her unattainable airs.
She hugged him back for several moments, swallowing past the lump that had formed in her throat. “You are still my friend, aren’t you, Max?”
“Yes,” he said softly, giving her another firm squeeze about the shoulders. “I’ve missed you too, dreadfully.”
“I’m glad I was not alone in my torment.”
“Now have mercy and get off my lap,” he muttered. “I am not a damned saint.”
With a soft laugh, she stood and dropped back into her chair. The sexual tension which had hummed in the air had vanished, leaving behind that sweet, warm feeling which normally filled her whenever they chatted.
“So, shall I put that away?” she asked, lifting her chin to the book.
He made a little tsk, a chiding click of his tongue. “Please, never to resurface!”
“I shall not believe that mock horror for a minute.”
“Everyone seems to only see me through the lens of those words, and I am mightily tired of it. I am fortunate to be endowed with a supposedly knowing tongue, fingers, cock, rank, wealth, and elegance,” he said with a glint of amused mockery in his eyes. “Truly the earldom is the icing on that naughty cake.”
She choked and slapped a hand over her mouth. “Max!”
“Too inappropriate?” he asked with a warm twinkle in his eyes. “Surely, you know the word cock…because I assume that word is why you are blushing so beautifully!”
Her cheeks warmed even more under his curious appraisal. And how it warmed her to know that carefree scoundrel she had been so fascinated by still remained underneath the worldly and dashing man. She jumped to her feet and slipped the book into the small writing desk before retaking her position on the sofa. He had loosened his cravat and removed his jacket. Amalie glanced at him quickly when he leaned forward and took her hands into his.
He laced his fingers through hers, his thumb stroking across her palm. “How have you truly been, Amalie? It has been so long since we last spoke.”
She stared at their hands remembering how in the past as they walked through the glen or fished together in the lake, they often stayed like this. Touching…always wanting but never dreaming, each had love in their heart for the other. She had not known he loved her too until he had shown up on her wedding day, and she’d seen the heartache in his eyes. Too late, she had cried silently, feeling as if a slight breeze would have totally shattered her. God, the memory of it was enough to sting her eyes.
“Amalie?”
His murmur was rough and questioning.
“I’ve been as well as can be.”
“That sounds charmingly cryptic.” He released her hand and stood. “I am captivated, but I suspect our chatting will require something firmer than tea.”
Max padded o
ver to the liquor cabinet, glass clinking as he filled a glass with whisky. “What would you like, a brandy?”
“Perhaps some sherry.”
He poured one for her. She took the proffered drink with a murmur of thanks. This time he sat in the seat opposite the one he had occupied before, and though he was farther away, somehow it felt more intimate as he now stared so directly at her features. He lifted his glass. “To rekindling friendship…and perhaps to eventually dancing hot and sweet between the sheets.”
Amalie gasped at his blunt crudeness even as her belly tightened at how low and rough, he’d murmured it.
“There it is,” he said, clearly fascinated.
“What?”
“You are blushing, even though I said perhaps. You might decide you do not like me that way, after all.”
“Who said I liked you enough to bed you? I said that lover could be you, not that it will be you!”
He rolled his eyes and pressed a hand over his heart. “Ah, my sweet Amalie, you quibble, and so delightfully too. I’ve learned the signs of a woman who wants to open the flaps of my trousers and stroke my coc—”
She leaned forward precariously and slapped a hand over his mouth, and she narrowed her gaze to see the deviltry dancing in his eyes. But beyond that lightness, there was also something deeper.
“Stop testing me, you scoundrel!” she whispered. “Ask whatever it is you wish to know, Max.”
He took her hands from his lips and pressed a tender kiss on her inner wrist. “I was crass and that you do not deserve, my Amalie. Forgive me.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said with a smile.
Max emptied his glass and rested it on the small table to his left. “That will do for now.”
He stood and walked over to the canvas she’d been working on. “I see you’ve been painting a lot. An interest I never knew you had.”
She went over to stand by him and playfully nudged his shoulders. “There is still so much you do not know about me. I’m not that girl you knew anymore.”
“Still the same,” he said with a smile holding up two fingers and pinching them closed. “With just a little bit more.”
She glanced up at him. “You have changed as well.”
“I think it is called aging, my dear.”
“Yes, I do suppose you are a very old gentleman now at seven and twenty.” She reached up, grabbed a strand of his hair, and plucked it.
“Bloody hell, woman!” he rubbed at the spot and shot her an accusing glare. “I thought that vicious streak would have been refined by now, Viscountess.”
Amalie grinned and looked at that rich, dark strand closely. “No sign of gray, I admit my mistake, old friend.”
“Methinks someone is now annoyed that we did not go straight to the bedchamber, hmmm? Is this an act of frustration?”
“Why, I never!” she spluttered, laughing. Yet his lips teased, but his eyes showed no lust.
He laughed and looped a hand over her shoulder. Amalie canted her head and rested it against his shoulder or more like his upper arm. She swore he had grown a few inches since she’d last seen him. They stayed like that, staring at her painting.
“It is beautiful,” he finally said gruffly. “You’ve captured the receding sun and the hovering darkness just right.” Then he pointed to a spot. “But, I doubt this starling was outside just now.”
“When I painted, I was recalling the times we were in Aldbury, in Hertfordshire, when we fished and watched the sun set, and a flock of starlings rose in the sky and flew over our heads.”
“I think you would have more recalled the thrashing your father gave you when you reached home with a muddied dress, a fishing pole, and several trout for the cook.”
“Hmm, I recall his outrage that instead of practicing my curtsies in the drawing-room with my governess, I was outside in the mud with you…a lad who was considered so singularly improper for myself to befriend. If Papa had any notion you would have been Lord Kentwood one day, he would have insisted we were bound in marriage and thrown me into your arms.”
He chuckled, but the sound lacked any real humor. “And how are your father and mother?”
“Tolerably well,” she said, not mentioning that since the scandal, they had minimal communication. Her parents spent their time in the countryside, away from town life and the reminder of their wicked daughter on the tongues of their friends. They had never quite forgiven her for running. “I am terribly sorry for the loss your family endured. I know how much you loved and admired your uncle.”
“He reminded me very much of Father,” he said. “Except without the good-natured joviality. Uncle was an austere man, though he was loving. He normally stared at his countess like she walked on air.”
“And, how is she?”
“Still stricken with grief. My aunt, the dowager countess, remains in Hertfordshire at my country seat with her girls. They are very young, the oldest being only fifteen. My uncle provided for them well, but I’ve allowed the countess and my cousins to remain at the home they grew up in.”
“That is very generous of you,” said Amalie, remembering that kindness was one of his qualities she had fallen in love with. Many men who claimed their inheritances had no patience in their hearts for the widows and children left behind, especially if the relationship had been distant. But Amalie knew even if he had not grown close with his cousins, Max would have been just as thoughtful.
“I have no use for it. I’ve no wife of my own as yet or any children. What use would it be for me to tell them to leave? The countess already told me when I’m married, she will, of course, vacate the premises. And I still think that is pushing it. Chancery Park has over one hundred rooms, for God’s sake. There is enough room for everyone should she wish to stay.”
Amalie wanted to hug him but only smiled. Then she said, “So you are thinking of marrying soon.”
A small hesitation. “It has been on my mind. I’ve met a few ladies everyone keeps telling me are perfect.”
How disgruntled he sounded.
And her heart ached, for she was certain they were all without any taint of a scandal to their reputations. Or one as awful and lingering as hers.
“And what are your requirements in a wife?”
“Ah, my sisters and mother have impressed upon me that my lady countess must be from a good family with important connections.”
“And scandal free I gather,” she tried to say this lightly but feared she failed when he stilled.
“And scandal free,” he murmured, shadows dancing in his eyes. “Do you wish to remarry, Amalie?”
This time she managed to affect a confident and carefree chuckle. “What, give up the freedom I now enjoy for another trap where my husband will even dictate the kind of friends I might keep?”
His lips curved. “Yes.”
“Perhaps if the right sort of man asked.”
“And what sort is that?”
“The one who wouldn’t care that most in polite society shuns me, and whisper about me endlessly, and that every week a scandal sheet finds a reason to mention me in their papers. A man who would not care about society’s opinion and would love me despite my dastardly reputation.”
“If he loves you, I daresay he would not give a damn.”
“Ah, then I shall take that to mean you no longer have me in your heart since you need a wife and you are not offering.”
He faltered into stillness and she wanted to die of mortification.
“Oh, do forgive my ungovernable tongue! Please, disregard my words! I feel like such a nonsensical creature.”
He shifted to face her, and she lifted her gaze to his. Amalie’s eyes burned with the effort to hold back her tears. Oh, why had she said it? Clearly a man of his standing would not offer for a lady with her background and notoriety in society. She knew it very well, and most certainly he did too, so why did she take it so far as to ask if he still loved her? Humiliation crawled through her entire body and set her heart t
o pounding with a terrible ache.
He tucked a wisp of hair behind her ears, and said, “You must tell me when you started to paint. You are very good.”
Relief lit in her veins that he would not continue the conversation along that mortifying path. The praise also warmed her, and eager for the distraction she explained, “After…after, the scandal of me running barefoot into the streets roared through the ton, I escaped to a little cottage by the seaside the viscount had bought for me in Brighton.”
His shoulders had gone tense again. “In Brighton?”
“Yes,” she said. “I met the viscount at seventeen and was wed to the man by the time I was eighteen. I…everything was a bit overwhelming and I wanted somewhere to hide when things became too much.”
“You were never one to hide,” he said gruffly. “You were…bold and fearless even when I first met you at sixteen.”
She punched his arm lightly. “And that, I daresay, was before I experienced life in Society. But do not mistake me, it was glorious: the balls, theater and operas, the routs and fashionable crowds. But there were times I just needed that peace and simple existence. It was what I asked for as a marriage gift when he proposed.”
“And it was to there you ran when the scandal broke.”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “One day, I strolled along the shoreline, the pebbled sand beneath my bare feet, feeling the fine mist of the ocean spray on my face and had the wild urge to paint it! I had always hated my watercolor lessons, but I got supplies and simply started to paint. It has grown into a passion ever since.”
His stare dropped to her mouth, his desire to kiss her a tangible thing. Or was it in her imagination? For his lashes lowered, and when he glanced at her again, she saw no want, only curious indifference. “I searched for you.”
Her heart jolted. “I…what?”
“The minute I saw the papers, I visited your townhouse. You were not there. Nor the next day or the next. Then I went to the viscount’s seat in Cornwall, thinking you might be dealing with the funeral, and all those people so blasted eager to speculate, but the viscount had been buried in his family crypt, and you left the same day I was told. I thought you might be with your parents in Hertfordshire, but you were not.”
