by Carrie Lomax
“Are you a doctor, now, Mr. Weston?” he demanded.
“No. It is common sense.” Finlay bent to examine Lunt’s leg. The man cried out when he touched a pulpy knot. “There’s buckshot buried in his leg. We shall need clean utensils and rags, and a closer examination once we’re inside.” He stood up and brushed the snow from his thighs. “The bone does not appear to be broken. Can you make it back the house?”
With some struggle and a great deal of collective cursing, they flailed through the snow up the hill. The children gathered wide-eyed around the kitchen, where they deposited Lunt’s ashen-faced form. They divested themselves of their outerwear. Blood dripped onto the wood plank floor.
“Eww,” declared one of the children.
Mrs. Mayweather gasped. “What happened?”
“Your husband shot me,” Mr. Lunt responded sharply.
“I never meant to,” Mayweather defended himself. “It was an accident. I was aiming at a duck.”
“I am quite a lot larger than a damned duck!” Lunt roared, in agony as the housekeeper and Mrs. Mayweather propped his leg on the next chair and began to cut away the fabric of his trousers. Holly set about helping the maids gather clean linens to bind the wound.
In the commotion, Finlay found his opportunity to slip away. It was a grievous injury but there was little he could do for the moment, apart from stand by gawking at the unfortunate man. Finlay needed to know Amity’s true feelings toward him before he burned bridges with Mayweather. While he despised himself as less than a gentleman for desiring to back out of the agreed-upon marriage, the thought of Amity married to either of her suitors—to any man but him—gutted him.
Amity wasn’t in the music room, nor was she in the parlor. Finlay tiptoed past the kitchen to see whether Lunt’s bellowing had brought her out of hiding, but it hadn’t. Nor was she reading with the children…
The library. Finlay’s face stretched into a grin. At this time of year, the servants didn’t set a fire until late in the evening, if the men chose to retire there instead of to Mayweather’s study for post-supper cordials. Amity had always loved to spend hours with her nose in a book. Finlay eased open the heavy oak door to discover…emptiness.
“Amity?” he asked, his voice echoing off the long rows of gilt-embossed leather-bound books. They mostly matched, for the Mayweathers had the luxury of sending out new books to be custom bound. A finger of unease touched Finlay’s neck as he wondered again how the Mayweather women had fared since their unfortunate removal from Wells house. Why hadn’t he thought to do more than send an occasional letter to the family around the time of Ellis’s death?
Because it had been too painful for him to bear. When Finn had lost his father, lazy summers had given way to learning to manage the family estate at his father’s steward’s side, under his mother’s fretful eye.
A scuffle from behind him brought Finlay out of his self-recrimination. Ah, yes. The window seats. A quilt corner slithered between two heavy velvet curtains. If that had not been confirmation enough of Amity’s presence, the fact that a single window was covered against the wan winter light did.
Finlay’s heart skipped a beat as he went over to the window and knocked on the frame. “Amity. I know you’re in there.”
The curtains parted. The tip of Amity’s nose and below her bright eyes peered up at him. “I heard shouting a while ago. Is everything all right?”
“One of your suitors was shot by accident.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “Which one?”
“Lunt.”
“Ah. I trust he shall recover?” she asked with no more concern than was appropriate for an acquaintance. Amity had made a little bed for herself in the cramped window seat. It was even colder between the curtains and the casement windows. Her ears and nose were pink with the chill. She had wrapped the blanket around her legs and pulled it up to her chin. A book lay open, facedown, across her knees.
“Assuming the shot was clean and the wound doesn’t turn septic, I expect he shall have nothing but a scar for a souvenir in a few months’ time.” Finlay glanced down, then back at Amity. What if she did not return his affections? Perhaps he had been the one to latch on to his old friend in a mistaken case of cold feet before making the most momentous decision of his life.
But then Amity’s gaze met his, and heat flared through his body. He read sadness and worry behind the forced cheer of the rest of her expression. “Amity,” he asked huskily, “what’s wrong?”
Amity hung her head and choked back a sob. “I miss my sisters,” she whispered after a minute. Collecting herself, Amity sat up straight and leaned against the wood. The quilt fell down her body to reveal the rise of her bosom covered by a pale-yellow dress that had faded to the color of old tea stains. Finlay swallowed.
“Are you planning to leave early?”
Amity scoffed. “No, of course not. Any of my sisters would love to be here in my place. Any one of them would better appreciate the attentions from Mr. Lunt and Mr. Gibbs.”
“Have you resolved to refuse them, should they offer?”
“Mr. Gibbs asked for my hand this morning,” Amity replied glumly.
A vise tightened around Finlay’s temples. Cold moisture beaded along the small of his back. “May I inquire as to your reply?”
“’Tis out of line for you to do so, and you know it, Finlay Weston.” Amity tugged the quilt over her shoulders like a cotton shield. “Nonetheless, we are old friends, aren’t we?” she asked wistfully. “I don’t mind confiding that I was not prepared to accept any man’s proposal on such short acquaintance.”
Relief loosened the crushing pressure around Finlay’s head so abruptly that he felt lightheaded.
“And you, Mr. Weston? Have you made my cousin the happiest of women?” Amity picked at a loose thread as though it was the most fascinating object in all the world, although her cheeks took on a brighter hue of pink. A spot in the center of his chest warmed.
“I find I cannot bring myself to ask for her hand, Amity.”
Her chin jerked up. The desolation in her eyes had been replaced by wary hope. “Why not?”
“Because I find my affections have been utterly stolen by her bitter rival. You, Amity.”
“Me?” she squeaked, shifting upward. “Oh, this is terrible.”
“Terrible?” Confused, Finlay could summon no better response that to repeat her.
Amity kicked back the blanket and swung her legs down to the cold floor. To his consternation, Finn glimpsed the smooth curve of her calf above mended stockings that had sagged woefully around her ankles. Amity crouched to yank them into place, giving him another view of her undergarments. Stained. Patched. Unfit for the luscious curve of her buttocks, lovingly highlighted by material worn thin from use and washing.
“Yes, it’s not to be borne, Finn. You know if we are caught together here, I shall be ruined. Me. Not you. I cannot afford to let that happen.”
The Mayweathers hadn’t just lost their home, he realized. They had lost their income and status. The entirety of their daily life had been swept away with a single awful wreck. All Amity had was her reputation and her family connections. It was the height of selfishness for him to threaten the little security she had. If only he could go back in time and kick his cock-sure self in the arse for deciding upon Holly after a few weeks’ acquaintance, simply because she was beautiful and convenient.
“I won’t let that happen, Amity,” Finlay declared.
Amity hauled the quilt up around her shoulders like a bulky shawl. Finlay captured the corners and used it to pin her arms down as he clasped the edges tight beneath her chin, currently leveled at a defiant angle. “Oh? How exactly do you intend to prevent it?” Amity demanded, but her gaze rested on his mouth, and Finlay knew she was thinking about the kiss. Their glorious, wonderful kiss beneath the mistletoe.
“By marrying you, Amity,” he whispered and pulled her against his chest.
8
Amity laughed.
“The devil you will.”
“Amity,” Finn groaned against her mouth. “If I can’t convince you with words, let me show you with kisses.”
She was tired of resisting him. For days, she had kept clear of Finlay in hopes that she and Holly could resolve their differences. It hadn’t worked. Each hour had deepened the trench between them until Amity feared they had crossed into outright enmity. She deserved a little joy this holiday. More than just at Christmas—Amity deserved the warm happiness that had helped Mother survive devastating loss.
She couldn’t stand to be a secondary consideration in her cousin’s ambitions. Holly wanted Finlay, but he no longer wanted her in return. Finn had chosen her. Amity. The knowledge lifted a heavy weight within her.
Alone, at least for a brief while, she could reach for the future she wanted but dared not grasp. Amity stretched up on tiptoe to close the distance between them. Her lips met his in an ardent embrace. Amity’s legs turned rubbery. If this was to be the only time they had together, she resolved to enjoy every moment. She shimmied out of the confines of her quilt to wrap both arms around his neck.
“I thought I could be noble,” she gasped between kisses. “I thought I could surrender you to Holly. But I can’t. I want to keep you for myself.”
“Shh. Do not summon your cousin,” Finn whispered.
Amity’s mouth gaped as his hand skimmed up her ribs. Finn’s thumb traced the underside of her breast. Amity’s back arched instinctively, seeking more. “Yes,” she hissed.
Finn sucked her lower lip, which sent a ripple of pleasure through Amity’s body. Time fell away. Past became present. Amity shuddered at his touch. The future dimmed. Perhaps it had never been very bright. Amity could not mourn a future that asked her to tie herself bodily to a man she did not desire. Her soul refused to concede—she would have pleasure, or she would have nothing. She could only hope her sisters would understand why she had wasted her mother’s gift.
He wants to marry you. But wasn’t that what all men said before they took advantage of a woman?
Amity’s hunger had her leaning into Finlay’s touch like a purring barn cat. Finn palmed her breast. His erect cock jutted against her stomach through layers of clothing. He wanted her in return. The knowledge thrilled her.
“Do that, more,” she gasped. Finlay obliged. He dropped both hands to her waist and leaned back to lift her against his chest. The scratch of wool and rough glide of linen over the tops of her breasts sent liquid heat streaking through her veins. Amity tried to wrap her legs around his waist but was thwarted by the narrow cut of her dress. The skirt trapped her legs closed.
“Finn,” Amity half-groaned, “Set me down.”
“Fine,” he grunted between desperate kisses. He perched her on the edge of the window seat and stood back, panting, his hair mussed, his cravat wrinkled and his jacket askew. Finlay half glowered at her, his angular features echoing all the emotions Amity didn’t know how to express. Mere words seemed insufficient to the task.
An unfamiliar knowing took hold of Amity, an understanding that she appeared just as disheveled. If she was only to have one opportunity to feel these things in her lifetime, why not with a man she trusted to keep their secret after the act of lovemaking was done?
Perhaps Finn meant his spurious offer of marriage, but Amity didn’t believe it. Gentlemen did not court one woman and then abruptly decide to marry another, no matter how longstanding their acquaintance. She had known Finlay Weston, the man, for less than a week.
“If you were mine,” she whispered her heart’s greatest wish, “I would let you push my skirts up and touch my most secret place.”
“Amity,” Finn groaned as he complied with her spoken desire. “If you were mine, I would burn your underthings and buy you the finest lace chemise in England. I would ask you to wear it and nothing else. Your breasts—” he palmed one as he spoke, and Amity was overcome with desire, “—would be visible beneath the fine mesh. I could savor their rosy tips any time I desired.”
“Touch me,” she pleaded. Her skirt and chemise had bunched up around her thighs, leaving her legs free to fall open.
“If you were mine, Amity,” Finn replied huskily, “I would take you to bed before sunset and not let you sleep until well after midnight. Do you understand my meaning?”
Amity dug her fingers into the slippery dark strands of hair at the nape his neck. Eyes hooded, Finn bent to swirl his tongue around the taut bud he had poked above the barrier of her bodice. Amity gasped and urged him closer. “Yes. If you were mine, Finn, I would keep you abed long past sunrise. I would run my tongue along your ear, like this.” She demonstrated with the light scratch of one fingernail. He shuddered.
“If you were mine, Amity,” Finn whispered against her breasts as his hands worked the laces at her side, “your ears would ache from the weight of the gems I would hang from this delicate lobe.”
“Yes.” Amity shuddered as he sucked her soft flesh, then pressed a row of kisses down the thread pulse in her throat. As long as he kept kissing and sucking her like this, she could agree to almost anything. She would abandon her family and ruin her reputation—just please keep flicking your tongue over my nipple. Her thoughts disintegrated as Finn managed to poke the tips of her breasts above the tight binding of her bodice. They pulled into tight beads the instant they were exposed to the bracing chill. “Keep doing that,” she breathed. Amity leaned back against the glass. Shame for the poor state of her underthings almost stopped her. But the fierce desire in Finn’s dark eyes set her body aflame with need.
“Amity,” he growled. “You intoxicate me. I am desperate to taste you.”
“Taste me?” she questioned breathlessly, although Amity had an idea of what he meant.
“Here,” he clarified, stroking her sex with blunt fingers. Amity whimpered with want.
“Yes. More. I like that,” she babbled. Finlay’s cravat crumpled in her hands, loose enough to reveal his Adam’s apple and a hint of his chest. “I wish we were naked. Together.”
“I am yet a gentleman, Amity,” Finlay warned. Before her fractured brain could parse his meaning, he fell to his knees before her. “I am not going to be gentlemanly now.”
“Please,” Amity begged, not knowing precisely what he meant to do but aching with need. Finlay’s lips stretched into a smirk.
“Anything you wish, love.” He turned serious as he rolled the node at the apex of her core between his fingers.
Amity gasped and bucked, seeking more. He gave it, exploring her slick passage with one finger, then two. She grabbed his hair for dear life as pleasure tightened her body. “More, Finn. I need more.”
“Soon,” he whispered, curling his fingertips upward. She was so close to the fleeting joy of climax, which she had never experienced with another person. Only her lonely self, in stolen moments alone in the shared bedroom at Kearny. This was grander, harsher, more powerful.
And that was before Finlay bent to lick the bud of her arousal the way he’d done with her earlobe. Amity released a harsh gasp. “Yes. Like that.”
He complied, exploring, tasting her, running the tip of his tongue over her until a pulse of pleasure bloomed through her. Amity surrendered to it. She reached for the orgasm that left her spent, chasing it until it faded. Irretrievable.
There was a shuffle of fabric as Finlay set her clothing to rights. When Amity had recovered enough to sit up, she found damp tears on her cheeks.
Finlay had retreated, regret etched over his features. “If you were mine, Amity,” he said on a sigh, “I would never let you go.”
* * *
As a precaution, Finlay departed the library several minutes before Amity. There was no need for stealth, however. No maid had interrupted the passion that still sent ripples through Amity’s core. No footman had observed them entering the library, nor leaving it. There would be no public discovery to force Finn into proposing. Amity wanted him—badly—but not under duress.
He caught her hand
to squeeze her fingers as she turned to climb the stairs to the guest quarters. “Shall I see you at supper?” Finn asked, his eyes searching her face.
Amity smiled down at him from the stairway. “I am fond of eating, and there is nowhere else for me to find sustenance. So, yes.”
“If you were mine,” he whispered, “I would never make you dress for dinner.”
Amity felt her entire face flush all the way down to her toes. “Scandalous.”
“I’d have trays brought to our rooms so we could spend more time—”
“There you are!” Holly’s falsely bright voice interrupted. “I have been looking everywhere for you, Mr. Weston.”
Finlay’s expression shuttered. Amity’s spine stiffened. She snatched her hand back as if it had been singed in a blacksmith’s forge. She hardly dared to meet her cousin’s gaze. For the brief moment she did, Amity read betrayal. Shame scorched through her.
Would you alienate your cousin’s affections for a man who cannot make up his mind to which woman he will declare his intentions? After all, Holly’s letters and descriptions of her life in London had been a small source of excitement in the years since Amity’s uncle and aunt had taken possession of Wells House. Holly was the one who had given her a writing set and ribbons for her sisters, purchased with her pin money.
Finlay had written a couple of cursory notes, years ago, and then forgotten them.
“Cousin,” Holly said coldly.
Amity nodded. She did not wish to fight, but what else had she done ever since Finlay had arrived and Amity had fallen tits over teakettles for her brother’s best friend? “Holly,” Amity said meekly. “I wish you much happiness in the coming year. Will you play a duet with me tonight after supper?”
Her cousin cast her a wary look. “Perhaps.”
Amity did not look at Finlay. Perhaps this had all been a mistake. Maybe her time with him had been nothing but a Twelfth Night fantasy.
