Had she truly once thought him cold? Unfeeling? Yes, she had, and she could only shake her head at her own foolishness. He was…lovely. Delightful. Kind. Patient. Generous. Amusing. Not in any bombastic ways, but quietly. In ways that made her want to stay very, very close to him so she wouldn’t miss a word he said. Wouldn’t be deprived of even one of his smiles.
She couldn’t help but notice and be gratified that the more time they spent together, the fewer lonely shadows she saw in his eyes. She could almost see him emerging from the shell he’d built around himself after his brother’s death.
But perhaps the thing she liked most was that he would speak to her about anything and everything. Books, poetry, science, art, philosophy. He never once made her feel like a bluestocking if she was well versed on the topic, or foolish if she was not. They spoke about their lives, their childhoods, their finest and worst hours. When she’d learned he’d spent much of his childhood alone, his nose buried in books, and that his butler, Sutton, had been his greatest ally, especially after his mother’s death when Maxwell was twelve, her heart had broken for him. She could easily imagine him as the studious, shy, lonely child he’d described, overlooked because he wasn’t the heir, and considered odd because of his scientific interests.
Maxwell was not only a nobleman, he was a noble man. A man without artifice, a man who, unlike her other suitors, did not hide behind a mask of polite disinterest or wear a cloak of ennui and insouciance.
And then, of course, there was the way he made her feel. That heart-racing thrill every time he looked at her, every time she looked at him. He was tall, muscular and masculine, and so darkly attractive he positively stole her breath.
But while the past ten days had been filled with happiness, she’d also found them confusing and excessively frustrating. Confusing because none of her four prospective husbands elicited a fraction of the feelings Maxwell inspired. And frustrating because he had not kissed her again.
Oh, he bestowed proper, gentlemanly pecks to her fingertips in greeting and when they parted company, but in spite of her best efforts to get him alone so they could endulge in another heart-stopping kiss like the one they’d shared in the observatory, she found herself repeatedly thwarted.
Aunt Lydia had suddenly proved the most strident and intrepid of chaperones, never tiring, always ready for another outing, always the first one to suggest another activity. Gone was the woman so fond of napping on garden benches, and Amanda dearly wished for her return. For she desperately wanted, needed, to experience those wondrous, sensual sensations Maxwell had awakened in her. Sensations that should have appalled her, but instead had kept her awake long into the nights.
Despite that they were never alone, there were times when Amanda would feel Maxwell’s gaze upon her. And when she looked at him, it was as if the world fell away, leaving only the two of them. Every touch of their hands, every brush of their shoulders, every look, was increasingly fraught with sensual undercurrents that kept Amanda in a constant state of awareness and yearning. He filled every crevice of her mind, and she constantly wondered if he was experiencing these same unsettling feelings.
The tension had grown in her until she thought she would burst with wanting to touch him, wanting him to touch her. She wouldn’t have the opportunity to see him tonight, and time was running out. Only three more days until she returned to London. Only three days until, as she’d promised, she had to choose a man to marry. A man who wasn’t Maxwell…
The sound of footfalls on the flagstones roused her from her thoughts, and Amanda turned to see Mortimer walking swiftly toward her bearing a silver salver. Aunt Lydia hurried after him, her shawl flapping behind her in her haste.
“A note for you, Lady Amanda,” Mortimer intoned, presenting the salver.
“It’s from Lord Dorsey, my dear,” Aunt Lydia said, her bosom heaving from her exertions as she plopped into the chair opposite Amanda. “His footman indicated it was of an urgent nature. Pray, what does he write?”
Amanda broke the seal, then quickly scanned the few lines. “He believes he’s deciphered the pattern of stars carved into the lid of the box. He’s sent his carriage and asks that we come right away.” She jumped to her feet. “Isn’t this exciting? Come, let us go.”
Aunt Lydia pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and slumped limply in her chair. “I’m afraid I’m not up to the adventure, my dear. I simply cannot walk another step today.”
Amanda hoped she did look as disappointed as she felt. “I understand. I shall inform Lord Dorsey’s footman we cannot join him.”
Aunt Lydia straightened up as if a catapult were affixed between her shoulder blades. “Nonsense. Just because I am exhausted doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go and learn about this momentous discovery. Indeed, I insist you go and then report back to me so I do not expire from curiosity. You’ll be properly escorted by Lord Dorsey’s footman and driver, and his home is filled with servants. I’ve no doubt that Lord Dorsey will act…as he should.”
Amanda’s heart leaped. “If you’re sure—”
“I’m positive. After all, you’re leaving Cardiff in only a few days.” Aunt Lydia grasped Amanda’s hands and looked at her steadily. “This may well be your only opportunity.”
Amanda nodded slowly. Your only opportunity…
She didn’t intend to waste it.
MAXWELL’S ELEGANT black lacquer carriage drove her directly to the observatory where Maxwell awaited her.
“Lady Lydia is not with you?” he asked, glancing beyond her into the carriage’s interior as he helped her to alight.
“She did not feel up to joining me, but insisted I come without her.” His eyes seemed to darken at her words, quickening her breath. She didn’t add that Aunt Lydia most likely would have thought twice about such encouragement if she’d known Amanda would be joining Maxwell at the secluded observatory rather than the main house.
“Your aunt is not ill, I hope?”
“No, just fatigued.”
“I’m sorry she couldn’t join us, but I’m very glad you came. I cannot wait to show you what I’ve discovered.” He dismissed the carriage, then tucked Amanda’s hand in the crook of his arm and walked into the observatory. He led her directly to the room that housed the telescope, to a long table covered with a collection of large maps. In the center of the table rested the wooden box.
“After much studying and eye strain, I finally found what looks to be a match between the carving on the inside lid of the box and one of my celestial maps.” He pointed to one of the carved dots. “This is what finally gave me the clue. With the help of my strongest magnifying glass, it suddenly struck me that this particular dot looked different than the others.”
“Different how?”
“It was round rather than star-shaped. I wondered if perhaps it wasn’t a star but a planet. And after much searching, I found a match. Compare the markings on the inside of the box with this map.” He circled his finger in the area where he wanted her to look. Amanda studied both, then nodded with excitement. “They look identical. Which planet and stars are they?”
“Mars. The stars are those that make up groupings known as Pegasus, Dolphin, Arrow, Fox and Hercules.”
“What do you think it means? Why would someone carve a portion of the sky inside a box?”
“I have no idea.”
Continuing to ponder the map, Amanda said, “I think it must have something to do with the woman on the lid. Perhaps the box was a gift from a man who loved her, a token to commemorate what they’d seen in the sky the night they met.”
“Or perhaps it was a gift from the lady to her gentleman, so he would forget neither her nor the night they met. But whatever the reason, I believe this box has something to do with you.”
Amanda abandoned her perusal of the map and turned toward him. He stood no more than an arm’s length away, and her breathing hitched at his nearness. “How could it have something to do with me? I’d never seen it before the day I sp
ied it in Gibson’s shop window.”
“I don’t know how. But for some reason, only you can open it. And you look like the woman on the box…something about the way she’s standing, the curve of her cheek. She reminds me of you.”
Amanda nodded slowly. “I must admit she somehow reminded me of myself. Do you think the box belonged to my ancestors?”
“I feel that’s a strong possibility.”
“Then how did it end up in a trunk in Mr. Gibson’s attic?”
“Obviously it was sold, lost, traded or perhaps even stolen in the past. Has anyone in your family ever studied astronomy?”
“Not that I’ve ever heard.” She touched her fingers to the stack of maps. “With all the time you’ve been spending with me and Aunt Lydia, when did you have the opportunity to study all these maps?”
“At night.” He paused, then added, “When I could not sleep.”
Amanda’s heart skipped at his words…spoken in that deep, quiet voice. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”
He reached out and whispered a single fingertip down her cheek, stilling her. “Do you really want to know, Amanda?”
God, yes. Please, yes. “Yes,” she whispered.
“I could not sleep because my mind was too full…with thoughts of you.”
She could barely breathe. “What sort of thoughts?”
“Thoughts of touching you. Holding you. Kissing you.”
The words sounded torn from his throat and seemed to reverberate in the air gone thick with tension, mingling with the other words echoing through her mind: This may well be your only opportunity.
“Then your thoughts were identical to my own.”
His eyes flared in the same way they had before he’d kissed her ten days ago, and she trembled with anticipation. But he remained still, a muscle jerking in his jaw, and she could stand the suspense no longer. Summoning her courage, she asked, “Why do you not touch me? Kiss me?”
“I don’t want to.”
Amanda shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“Believe it. And do you know why I don’t want to?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued in a tight voice, “Because I’m afraid. Afraid I won’t be able to stop at a mere kiss, a single touch. Afraid that I’ll lose the battle with my control and I’ll do something that you—we—will regret.”
Drawing a deep breath, Amanda took a single step forward. Her gown brushed his boots and she could feel the heat emanating from him, smell the heady warmth of sandalwood. The need to touch him overwhelmed her, dissolving in mere seconds a lifetime of propriety. She laid her hands against his chest, absorbing the rapid beat of his heart through his clothing and his quick intake of breath. A purely feminine thrill coursed through her, emboldening her further. “A kiss, Maxwell. Just a simple kiss. Surely you wouldn’t deny me such a simple request.”
He briefly squeezed his eyes shut, and when he looked at her again, his eyes burned like twin braziers. But still he did not touch her. “All the years I’ve spent here alone, all the pent-up wants you inspire, all my self-control, you’re shattering them. With a single look.” He glanced down at her hands on his chest. “A single touch.”
“You say that as if I should be afraid.”
“You should be. God knows I am.”
She shook her head. “I’m not afraid of you, Maxwell. My only fear is that you’ll refuse my request and I’ll never again feel the wonder of your kiss.” She erased the last few inches between them. “A kiss, Maxwell…just one kiss…”
A shudder ran through Maxwell, and in a heartbeat he lost the war he’d waged against his fierce desire for her. His arms went around her, crushing her to him. He slanted his mouth over hers, desperate to taste her. Her lips parted beneath his, and he instantly took advantage, deepening their kiss. Their tongues, their breaths, mated, melded, danced. Her scent seemed to skim beneath his skin, igniting him until every pore ached with need.
His honor demanded he stop, but honor was drowned out by the needs screaming through his system. Just as he’d damn well known, there was nothing simple about this, and just one kiss could not, would not, satisfy the raging hunger she’d awakened. More. He had to have more.
Anchoring her against him with one arm, his free hand roamed, scattering hairpins as he skimmed his fingers through her silky curls. He continued to explore, memorizing the gentle curve of her soft cheek. The delicate shell of her ear. The exquisite length of her neck. The slender perfection of her collarbone. Then lower, to palm the lush fullness of her breast. Beneath the soft muslin, her nipple beaded.
Her head tipped back, breaking off their passionate kiss, and a soft gasp emitted from between her moist, parted lips. Maxwell dragged his open mouth along the exposed ivory column of fragrant skin, touching his tongue to the spot where her pulse beat rapidly, tasting the delicious, delicate warmth.
He raised his head. With her eyes closed, cheeks flushed and kiss-swollen lips wet and parted, she looked aroused and utterly, achingly beautiful. Her eyelids fluttered open and he looked into slumberous golden-brown depths, hazed with the same passion and need he knew was reflected in his own eyes.
“I’ve never felt anything like this before,” she whispered. “This fierce, desperate…wanting. I don’t know what to call it.”
“Desire. It’s called desire.”
She studied him for several seconds, then said in a small voice, “So you’ve felt this way before then.”
“No.” The word rushed out, a harsh, swift denial. “I’ve experienced desire, but never like this.” He reverently brushed a stray dark curl from her face. “I’ve never felt anything even remotely resembling this.”
She reached up and feathered her fingertips over his lips. “Kiss me again. Please…”
God knows she hadn’t needed to say please. Lowering his head, he kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring the warm silk of her mouth while his hands skimmed with increasing urgency over her luscious curves. His common sense tried to interject objections, but he shoved it roughly aside. Common sense was no longer in charge. Everything he felt, the culmination of all she inspired, boiled down to a single word that pulsed through him like the throbbing pain of a raw wound: want. He wanted her. He ached with wanting her. The dam had burst and he was beyond propriety, beyond subtlety, filled only with this consuming, devouring fire to make her his.
His fingers slipped below her bodice and brushed over her aroused nipples. Her low moan of pleasure, the way she squirmed against him, stripped away another layer of his nearly nonexistent control. Sliding his fingers beneath the short, capped sleeves of her gown, he slowly dragged the material downward. His lips followed the trail of fragrant, bared skin, tracing over the shallow hollow at the base of her throat where the pale skin quivered from her rapid pulse. With her chest rising and falling with her ragged breathing, he gave the material a final tug, then raised his head.
Full breasts topped with rosy nipples thrust upward as if begging for his touch. “Exquisite,” he said, his voice a harsh rasp he barely recognized. He cupped her breasts, brushing his thumbs over her plump, velvety nipples. With a moan, she clutched his shoulders and her head dropped back limply. Leaning down, he lavished kisses across her chest, then laved her breast with his tongue. When he slowly drew the tightened crest into his mouth, she sifted her fingers through his hair and arched closer, urging him to take more, a request he immediately granted.
Mindless with need, his hands skimmed down her back, drinking in her tremors and low moans. He lightly kneaded the soft curve of her buttocks, then grasped a fistful of her muslin skirt and dragged it upward. A long, low moan invaded the silence. His? Hers? He was beyond knowing.
Her grip on his shoulders tightened. “Maxwell…”
Hearing his name in that passionate, breathless whisper dragged him back from the edge enough to lift his head. What he saw utterly bewitched and enchanted him. Amanda, her eyes closed, skin flushed, lips parted, hair mussed from his hands, rosy nipples damp and erect
from his mouth. A more seductive temptress his imagination could not ever have conjured.
She was so beautiful. And desirable. And so achingly vulnerable in her blushing arousal, his chest constricted. He wanted her more than he wanted to draw his next breath. But not like this. Bloody hell, what had he been thinking? He hadn’t been thinking—that was the problem. But from the moment he’d met her, she’d robbed him of his wits. With an effort that cost him, he released her skirt, slid her bodice back into place, then rested his forehead against hers and fought to catch his breath. When he could speak, he said, “You see now what I meant about kissing you.”
Her head jerked in a nod, bumping their foreheads together.
“I’m sorry, Amanda. It was not my intention to allow things to go so far. You deserve far better than a heated grope while standing in my observatory.”
She leaned back and he looked down into her serious golden-brown eyes. “Yes, I suppose I do. Although I was quite oblivious to that fact only moments ago. But now that you’ve brought it to my attention…”
“You have my sincerest apologies.”
“I see.” She studied him for several seconds in deafening silence while he cursed his lack of control. And then she smiled. A slow smile that bloomed across her features and filled him with a warmth unlike anything he’d ever known. “Of course you realize your apology is not official unless you kiss me.”
A quick laugh that held more than a little relief escaped him and he hugged her to his chest. And in the blink of an eye, all the things he’d believed beyond his reach suddenly seemed so…reachable.
“Only you could bring laughter to a moment like this.” He dipped his head and brushed his mouth gently over hers. “Only you. My beautiful, unexpected Amanda.”
He tucked a dark curl behind her ear then cupped her face in his hand. She turned and pressed a warm kiss against his palm, and his heart swelled at the simple gesture.
“Amanda…” he said softly, the depth of all he was feeling voiced in that single word.
“Maxwell,” she whispered back.
The Hope Chest Page 8
