The Ardent Lady Amelia

by Laura Matthews

“No, he would have to know sooner or later. But it’s really too late as far as Veronique goes.”

  Verwood cocked his head at her. “In what way?”

  “Peter’s mind is made up. He’s not likely to change it.” She sighed and bent to pick a daisy from the bed along their path. “He’s never been this devoted to anyone before, you know. I don’t think even finding out her brother was a spy would deter him. And I’m sure he could never bring himself to believe she had anything to do with it.”

  “I doubt she does.”

  “No, I suppose not. Besides, she’s young enough to be malleable.”

  He grinned at her. “That much younger than you?” he asked teasingly.

  Unconsciously she had begun to pluck the petals from her flower. “I’m not very flexible, I suppose. But I’m not awfully stubborn, either. What I mean is, I try to learn from experience. My father used to point out the advantages of not becoming unbearably rigid. Of course, there are some things I’m more receptive to than others.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, I’m not very receptive to the idea of Napoleon ruling Europe.”

  “But what are you receptive to?” He stopped in the middle of the path to lean on his cane, eyeing her in a provocative fashion.

  Amelia studied the cut of his jacket. “I’ve changed my mind about you. That shows I’m not totally unbending, doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps.” He rubbed a finger against her cheek, tempting her to raise her eyes to his. “That may be merely a matter of expediency.”

  “How so?”

  “You wouldn’t want to look foolish holding on to a misconception that had lost its potential. The true test of your receptiveness would be if you were able to so overcome your dislike of me as to be swayed in quite the opposite direction. Now, that would be quite a feat of flexibility, in my humble opinion.”

  “I doubt if you can lay claim to such a thing as a humble opinion,” she rejoined, tossing away the destroyed flower. “As to completely reversing myself in my feelings about you…” She shrugged her shoulders, offered a coy smile, and skipped off ahead of him, the shawl dangling temptingly after her from one elbow.

  When worn with its lute-string spencer, her peach-colored walking dress was wholly demure, but Amelia hadn’t chosen to wear it with the spencer today. So its faithful fit to her high-bosomed figure was admirably in evidence. She had never, to her recollection, felt the least inclination to disport her bodily attractions for a gentleman before this, but she had observed, with a sort of incredulous wonder, how the demi-monde conducted themselves in the boxes at the opera. Once, perhaps during her first season, when the sight of disreputable women was something of a novelty to her still, she had come home after such a musical evening and played the coquette to her mirror. The fluttering of eyelashes, the coy smiles, the languid gestures, the sensuous movements of the body.

  This exercise hadn’t made her feel the least ridiculous. In fact, it had made her feel inordinately desirable, calling forth hidden stirrings in her body that had intrigued and delighted her. If she had unconsciously used any of these tricks with the gentlemen she tempted to talk with her about their suspicious doings, she was unaware of it. She was not unaware of doing it now.

  Her walk became a little sassier, her hips slightly swaying. Not too much. She had seen it overdone by the likes of Harriet Wilson, and had no desire to make herself look ludicrous. The trick, she’d discovered, was in letting all those undercurrents of passion stir her out of her usual well-bred carriage into a more tantalizing step. In front of the mirror she had sashayed back and forth, slowly removing first a shawl and then a pelerine, so the low cut of the white sarcenet corsage showed the fullness of her bust. She had put one foot up on a low stool and slowly drawn up her gown to release the silk stockings and roll them down her shapely legs.

  Unfortunately, it was impossible for her to undress herself further, since it was a complicated gown, and her abigail had already appeared in the doorway without her noticing, and was regarding her with disapproval. Amelia had sighed and given herself over to the woman’s ministrations, while enduring a lecture on the evils of behaving indecorously. The lecture had been unnecessary; Amelia had never come across anyone she wished to behave indecorously with… until just recently.

  Verwood never took his eyes from her. And his eyes told her she was indeed arousing an interest in him. They had arrived at the castle ruins and she made a graceful, sweeping gesture with one hand.

  “Erected as a fortress by Henry VIII. It was never meant as a residence, and the water receded shortly after it was built. Charles I commanded its demolition, but somehow it never got done. Parliament decreed the removal of the ordnance and ammunition, and that did get done. Nothing flourishes here but lichen and moss.” She ran a hand along one of the thick, rough walls. “They board up the underground passages from time to time, but someone always removes the barriers. Maybe smugglers, maybe just curious folks in the neighborhood.”

  “Shall we explore?”

  The way he asked it made it sound as though he were asking something entirely different. Or maybe not so different. Amelia swallowed nervously and nodded. “There are two ways to get down into the tunnels. The closest is behind that wall over there.”

  He followed her gesture with his eyes, then took her hand and led the way to the crumbling stone steps that quickly disappeared into gloom below them. “I brought a flint and same candles,” he said, digging into the bulky pockets of his jacket. “A lantern would be better, but I didn’t want anyone to know where we were going, lest the word get back to Mr. Upham.”

  “What if we were to get lost down there?” she asked nervously. “Perhaps I should stay up here while you make a search. If you don’t come back in a half-hour or so, I can get help.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said soothingly, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. “We’ll stay close together.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose so.”

  He struck the flint and expertly caught the spark on a cone of paper which he used to light the two candles. When he handed her one he smiled reassuringly. “Why don’t you follow me? I’ll trust you not to catch my jacket on fire. Watch your step. These stairs are treacherous.”

  Amelia unhappily trudged down the stairs after him. Dark, dank places had never overly appealed to her. Especially ones where you felt tightly closed in on every side. The ceiling of the passage was so low Verwood had to stoop a little and he swung his candle about in a dizzying way to get a look at everything around him. The moss and lichen on the walls had been scraped off in numerous places, leaving long gashes in their place. The stone floor underfoot was uneven and she had to tread cautiously over the loose chips of stone.

  They traversed what seemed like miles of passages, speaking rarely, and never coming across anything of the least interest. No kegs of brandy, no suspicious remainders of smugglers’ meals, no trunks of French silks and satins. If it was a great disappointment to Verwood to surface into the fresh spring morning without finding so much as a clue to whether the passages served some secret purpose, it was a great relief to Amelia to rise again from the suffocating enclosure.

  “Well,” she said brightly, “that should satisfy your curiosity.”

  “Hmmm.” He was ostentatiously thoughtful, rubbing a hand along his chin. “I think it would be smart of us to go through them again sometime at night, sometime when there isn’t any moon. The times smugglers like best, you know.”

  Amelia shuddered. “You can do it alone. I’m quite satisfied.”

  At the head of the stairs there was a small square of reasonably smooth stone, bathed in sunlight and shielded from the wind (and from view) on every side by thick walls. Verwood took her candle from her and set it with his on the ground at the head of the stairs. Then he took her hand and drew her toward the corner, where he slowly untied the ribbons of her bonnet while staring intently into her eyes. Amelia felt a tremor run through her. He lifted
the bonnet off her honey-colored curls and hung it on an outcropping of stone above their heads.

  His hands came to either side of her face, his fingers weaving into the silky tresses. “You have beautiful hair,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She was bristling with anticipation of his kiss, but he merely continued to gaze in her eyes and stroke her temples with his fingers. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone with eyes that color,” he continued. “They were what first drew you to my attention.”

  “Were they?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yes, they were described to me as violet.” He considered them judiciously. “I think it’s an apt description.”

  Amelia was trying to think who could possibly have described her eyes to Lord Verwood. A small frown wrinkled her brow. “I cannot imagine Peter even mentioning my eyes.

  “Oh, it wasn’t Peter.”

  “Then who...?”

  His fingers had begun to trace the curves of her cheeks, the slope of her nose, the softness of her lips. “Actually, it was Chartier. We were in one of the clubs and he was debating the wisdom of bringing his sister to London. Apparently he’d been much shocked by a young woman of the aristocracy who had allowed him to take ‘liberties’ with her. It was his considered opinion that if such a well-bred lady were so free with herself, his sister couldn’t possibly emerge from London untouched by such loose principles.”

  “Why, the little toad!” she exclaimed, indignant. “He was the one who kissed me! And how very unprincipled of him to spread the tale.”

  “He didn’t call you by name,” Verwood assured her, his eyes more intent now. “And as I was new to London, I didn’t have the first idea who it might be—an earl’s sister with honey-colored hair and violet eyes. But I made a point of finding out.”

  Amelia’s chin came up in a gesture of outraged defiance. “Because you were looking for someone who’d allow you to take liberties with her, I presume.” She brushed away his wandering hands, her chin quivering slightly now. “That doesn’t say much for your principles, Lord Verwood.”

  He made no attempt to defend himself. Instead he continued inexorably, “When I discovered who you were, I made a point of meeting your brother. Fortunately, we had a great deal in common and when I decided to join his efforts on behalf of the War Department, he became even more expansive about his methods, mentioning that you had actually helped him on occasion. It occurred to me that you were acting the femme fatale in order to weasel information from gentlemen you thought might have something of interest to conceal. A risky business, Amelia, both politically and personally.”

  Amelia swallowed over a lump in her throat. “Did you tell Peter what Chartier had said?”

  “No. One doesn’t, you know. And the same purpose could be served by simply making him see how inappropriate it was for you to be endangering yourself that way, so that he would insist you stop doing it. He was quick to agree; he’s very fond of you.”

  Amelia nodded in silence and reached for her bonnet, but it was too high above her. “I’m sure you feel you’ve taught me a valuable lesson, Lord Verwood. Now I think I would like to go back to Margrave.”

  His voice became soft as down. “Don’t go yet, Amelia.”

  Chapter 18

  Amelia stood poised to flee, but the gentleness of his voice made her feel uncertain. “You’ve indicated before that you think I behaved improperly when I was working with Peter. Perhaps I did.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug of bravado. “I’ve allowed a number of men to kiss me.”

  “The way I kissed you?”

  “No, not the way you kissed me,” she admitted, her voice a whisper. “But then, there isn’t much privacy on a balcony, at least not for long. I might have.”

  Her defiance made his lips twist in a wry smile. “Do you really think so? If you had wanted one of them to kiss you that way, you could have arranged to meet him somewhere—in Hyde Park, for instance.”

  “Hyde Park?” She frowned up at him, puzzled. “Why would I do that? I didn’t even know someone could kiss me like... you did. There was one man who may have tried, but I thought it was disgusting! Even if he could have told me when Napoleon was launching his invasion, I wouldn’t have put up with it. I have my dignity, you know,” she sniffed. “There’s only so much an inebriated gentleman will let slip. If he seemed promising, I told Peter about him and let my brother see what he could find out. Don’t you understand that it would have been suspicious for someone in my position to allow a fellow much freedom? Flirting with them was something they could understand; letting them maul me would have been stretching credibility!”

  “Ah. I see.”

  Amelia glared at him. “No, you don’t. You don’t see at all. You think if I let you kiss me like that, I must have let any number of men do it.” Suddenly her eyes widened. “Why, you think I let them do other things to me, too, don’t you? You think I let them…”

  “No,” he said firmly, “I don’t think that. Perhaps I wondered, when I first met you.”

  “Nonsense,” she scoffed, turning on her heel. “If you don’t think it now, it is a very recent occurrence. Even in the pavilion you were pressing me on the subject. You’re pressing me now. Well, I won’t have it. I’m not interested in your small-minded opinion of me. Who are you, who is any man to question my right to behave as I see fit? I’m twenty-one years old and perfectly capable of being the judge of my own conduct.”

  She had managed to get a good ten feet away from him, but turned to ask, “How would you like it if I questioned your conduct? Which I never would, since I haven’t the least interest in it!”

  “Your bonnet,” he reminded her.

  She was tempted not to return for it, but gave a long-suffering sigh and stalked back to where he now stood holding it. When she reached for it, he clasped her hand, saying, “There’s just one more thing I want to know, Amelia. Why did you let me kiss you like that?”

  Her nose twitched; she could sense it. Feeling stubborn now, she said, “Because I liked it. Now, if you would just give me my bonnet, Lord Verwood…”

  “I rather enjoyed it myself. I had hoped we might do it again.”

  Drat her stupid nose! “I think not,” she said stiffly.

  “But a hedonist such as yourself must surely seek out every pleasure she can find,” he argued, smiling wistfully at her. “I’d be perfectly willing to have you use me that way.”

  “You’re too good,” she grumbled, grasping the bonnet and plunking it at a ridiculous angle on her head. “I’m sure I can find someone else whose kisses I like every bit as well—probably better.”

  “I doubt it. You don’t seem to have grasped the fact, my dear, that you like my kisses not because I’m so talented at executing them, but because you’re fond of me.” His eyes softened once again and one hand came up to stroke her cheek. “And the reason I enjoy kissing you so much is that I’m amazingly fond of you.”

  Not only her nose twitched now. Her whole face seemed to quiver with suppressed emotion, her chin, her lips, her cheeks. She found it impossible to speak, but when he opened his arms invitingly to her, she walked into them and felt them close tightly about her. The bonnet toppled off her head and onto the stone pavement, but she scarcely noticed. With a wavering smile she turned her lips up to him, to be met eagerly by his.

  Oh, the wonder of that kiss. It was cool and hot, firm and soft. Their lips seemed to merge, their mouths to collide and mesh, giving off a dazzling display of multicolored delight. His tongue once again touched and teased, explored and excited. She clasped her hands at the back of his neck, holding tight to keep herself on her toes. His hands played along her back, stroking in ever-widening circles. Each area he caressed came alive under his touch, sensitive to the textured cotton of her gown and to the movement of his fingers above it.

  She was pressed against the solidness of his body, oblivious of the buttons on his jacket that pushed against her soft flesh. Everything within her strained toward him,
relishing the daring scent of him, the taut feel of his chest against hers, the echo of his breathing. When his mouth left hers to plant nibbling kisses on her eyelids and then her nose, she blinked up at him, breathless and near-mesmerized by the kindled light in the naturally black depths of his eyes.

  There was a fire smoldering within her. She could feel it heating her face and her breasts and her very core, just as the sun beat down and warmed her back and hair. Amelia wanted his kisses to go on forever, to stoke the fire, to make it rage through every part of her. His tongue returned to seek out the hot moistness of her mouth, to play against the hardness of her teeth and rub against the velvet lining beyond. When she returned this intimate pleasure, running her own tongue deliciously around the cave of his mouth, he began the movement that had so disoriented her that evening in his room. His tongue slowly but firmly thrust forward and back between her lips until her body sang with the incredible sensation of it.

  The blond hair had come loose from its pins and flowed down over her shoulders, framing her face like a halo. He stepped back for a moment to cup her face in his hands, and offered the most dazzling, endearing smile she had ever seen on his rugged face. “You’re quite beautiful, Amy. And quite the most exciting woman I’ve ever met. I could stay here all day and hold you, kiss you... but I shouldn’t,” he finished with a sigh. “We’re far too attracted to each other to spend much time alone together and preserve your innocence.” He reached down to pick up her bonnet, dusting it meticulously before he handed it to her, as though the mundane act helped to calm him. “We should get back to Margrave.”

  “Not yet,” she whispered, staring at the bonnet in her hands. Her mind was so befuddled with the intoxication of her arousal that she didn’t know quite what to do with the simple straw confection and she absently handed it back to him. “It would be all right, I think, to stay just a while longer. No one will expect us yet.”

  “That’s not the point.” His voice was gentle and he settled the bonnet on her head, but removed it immediately, saying, “You should tuck your hair up.”