Perhaps his efforts appeared transparent. Damn Collins’s high intellect. “It would be a great honor. With your endorsement, who could stand in my path were I fortunate enough to secure that document?” No need to slice hairs now. He breathed a long sigh, uncomfortable with the avenue of the conversation and uncertain of the outcome, yet so much was at stake. On the verge of becoming the laughingstock at the society, he’d already endeavored to ascend the ranks twice and failed. This would be his last attempt due to the rules of eligibility. Pride and ambition hung in the balance. So many parts of his life had become a matter of compromise, but he remained guiltless in this one pursuit. It was nothing less than luck the two main issues preoccupying his time overlapped.
“I presumed so.” Collins smiled and the action was not at all what Matthew expected. “Any man willing to trade his sister for a position in the society meets my criteria for candidate.” He banged his fist upon the table in the same manner he employed the gavel. “I will need to meet Amelia of course, and find her amenable, but otherwise, I would say this conversation has provided what we both desire. Arrange things, Whittingham, and I’ll do the same.” He stood and grabbed his hat where it perched on a nearby hook before he bustled out the door.
* * *
“Charlotte, you mustn’t allow him to speak to you like that. Oh dear, I’ve failed you. I need a plan.” Determination locked Amelia in place until she broke free and strode triumphantly toward the park bench. “I’m taking you with me. What will Dearing do? Hunt us down as if we’re criminals? You’re his wife, not his chattel. And you’re my friend and I need your assistance.” Amelia hemmed her bottom lip, her mind busy.
“I could never disobey my husband. I took a vow. And frankly, women are as much chattel as a wing chair or a storage trunk. What if he rescinded on my family’s loan payments because I angered him?” Trepidation chased her words.
“He wouldn’t dare.” Amelia rushed forward in a scuffle of pebbles. “Does he offer you any reason? Does he dislike me so?”
“No. Now that’s ridiculous.” Charlotte rose from the bench and looped their arms. “Let’s not dwell on it. There’ll be other opportunities. I’m sure your family will want you to themselves anyway. A Saturday spent in the country is delightful.”
“It is. That’s why I wished you to join me. Today is Thursday.” Amelia’s expression mellowed and a small smile tempted her lips. “I’ve an appointment with Lunden at eleven o’clock.”
“An appointment? Of what sort? Has he found you a husband already? I thought you had the situation in hand.”
Amelia could not contain the sudden laughter that bubbled to the surface. “Which question should I answer first?” The day seemed brighter. Surely it had nothing to do with the mention of Lunden. Learning to shoot a gun set her body all a-jitter. “I’ll answer every question if I have your promise to take a firm stand with Dearing. Surely he cannot be unbearable all the time. Speak to him after he’s eaten a large meal. Men are usually more agreeable when fed.” She squeezed her friend’s arm with her free hand and smiled as Charlotte nodded agreement. “Now let me tell you the details of my day. I know you’ll agree its guaranteed excitement.”
* * *
Lunden eyed Amelia with keen interest. She settled on the carriage seat and made a big show of arranging her skirts. Then he handed Mary up and the maid slid across the banquette and promptly wrinkled Amelia’s efforts. A rueful twinge stung his lips, but he stifled the reaction. He did not smile, and rarely allowed any desire meant to invigorate the effort.
He climbed aboard and rapped on the roof.
They’d only traveled a short distance before Amelia’s jasmine fragrance set his body afire. He flung the velvet curtain aside and cracked open the glass window in hope of deflecting his arousal. One slim velvet brow arched at his sudden action, but otherwise the lady made no comment. Her expression conveyed everything she meant to say. His cheek twitched. Damn, he enjoyed the eager glitter of mischief in her eyes.
“We’ll be there momentarily. Mary will remain in the parlor. Dobson’s estate is vacant aside from his butler, but your maid may read, embroider, or do whatever women do when they wait.”
“Have you been so detached from society, Your Grace?”
She cast an imploring glare in his direction and he rankled at the question. He would not discuss his absence from London and the reason that forced him to flee. He’d left the city a boy and returned a man assuring him little knowledge of society’s dictates. It made the prospect of securing a bridegroom ridiculous. He ran a palm over the pocket of his waistcoat, the candidate requirement list tucked inside. His punishment was complete, gone too long without purpose other than to keep a secret buried. “I’ve never been one to visit the maids after hours and with no sister to chaperone, the explanation is clear.”
His gruff tone hinted at restraint tethered on a short rope. Amelia’s eyes flared.
“Friendship is unlike the false pretense of formal society. I hope you consider me more friend than obligation to be fulfilled.” Her voice held a solemn tone but then she grinned, and he liked it too much.
Amelia offered only danger and temptation, evidenced by the swift ache of regret and longing currently lodged in his chest. She represented everything he could not possess no matter how time faded memories or blurred the edges of a decade past. Without a doubt, scandal was always one whisper away and she deserved better than the shallow happiness he could offer.
“I appreciate your kindness.” His eyes shifted to her lush succulent mouth as desire pulsed through him. He forced himself to complete his reply. “But I have no other goal than to settle my brother’s estate and leave London.” Somehow his eyes found their way to her lips again, in anticipation of her reply, no doubt.
You want to kiss her so badly, you ache from it.
He cleared his throat and shoved the thought from his mind.
“I understand,” she capitulated with a grudging tone. “I suppose finding my future husband will be accomplished in equaled slapdash fashion.”
“By your brother, I presume.” He turned his eyes to the landscape, unwilling to read the sentiment in her eyes. “I’m currently too preoccupied with fulfilling your wish list to pay attention to your quest for everlasting happiness.” He meant to jest, but the terse words came out ruined by some nameless emotion that unsettled his resolve.
“Is it wrong to hope for contentment?” Her voice rose on the imperative. “Men have such power—”
“But possess equally poor judgment.”
An uncomfortable silence enveloped the coach equivalent to the shadow in Amelia’s eyes.
Memories wormed their way to the surface. He missed his brother no matter their vociferous disagreements. Thoughts of childhood foolery and sibling worship before their parents died, and even afterward, fought valiantly with bitter regret and confusion. He would always love Douglas and feel the loss of his early passing, no matter his brother’s unorthodox choices. Douglas had come into the title too young, barely sixteen. Yet despite their father’s untimely death, he was born to it, much the same way Lunden inured the casual careless nature and near responsibilities of a second son. Second sons were expendable. How ironic that the social enigma would ultimately prove undeniable truth.
He dared a glance to the unusually quiet lady seated across the coach and relief infused him. Remembrances proved discomforting. He would not allow further memories of Amelia. If he did, when he did, it would be to succor his tremendous loneliness and for no other reason ever.
In the meantime, he’d need find a way to squash his physical awareness of her: the petite slope of her nose, that delectable chin, the graceful curve of her neck. Every jilt and jiggle of the carriage set her riotous curls in motion begging for his touch. Today she was a quiet storm, powerful even when demure, lest no one doubt she wouldn’t cause devastation of all temptation given the opportunity. Truly, he needed a lengthy lecture on friendship and loyalty, anything to abolish th
is wordless compulsion.
The coach slowed to a stop.
With Mary deposited, Lunden dragged Amelia from the intriguing display of taxidermy littered throughout the estate. He noted with unfounded delight she preferred the lynx, just as much as he. Not that it mattered, but on some unexplained level, the observation pleased him.
They followed the gravel path to the same clearing where Dobson and his butler had arranged for pistol practice and Lunden’s thoughts filtered to that afternoon and Dobson’s curt insinuation he’d been maltreated by society. If only the rest of London would concur, he needn’t skulk around vacated homes and dark alleys. A shot of anger flicked him raw.
“So how does this thing work?”
Lunden jerked his head in Amelia’s direction, his eyes fixed on the flintlock pistol turned sideways in her palm and pointed in his direction. “Put that down.” He charged in a fury. His hand found the barrel and he eased it from her grasp. “No need to hurry my journey to hell.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Exactly.” He watched as she squared her jaw with a resolute tilt of her chin and wondered if she was aware of the habit. He certainly was. And the tendency she favored, all righteous indignity and straight-shouldered stance, coupled with the sunlight as it played havoc on each blue-black ringlet falling down her back. Her eyes bright with strength and vitality made him imagine the unthinkable.
If only life had played out differently.
He tightened his grip on the reaction and blotted out the thought. “If I’m to teach you how to shoot, you’ll follow my directions. Let’s not have any improvisation reminiscent of your riding lesson when we’re dealing with firearms.” He replaced the unloaded pistol on the low-lying brick wall and slanted his face nearer. “I’m the instructor. You’re the student. Clear?”
She had to look up to meet his eyes, and when she didn’t immediately answer, he blew aside a rebellious ringlet from where it rested against her cheek. That gained her attention.
“Crystal.” All haughty defiance was absent this time, her lips set in a firm line.
“Then we will begin.” He stepped to where the powder bag waited. “First, measure out the proper charge.” He demonstrated once, and then allowed Amelia to mimic his actions under close supervision. She did well and only appeared unsettled with the awkwardness of the powder horn.
“Next, we’ll need the ball and patch.” He loaded his pistol, making slow deliberate movements before overseeing Amelia’s preparation. “Last, you must tamp down the charge.”
She followed his directions and completed the load. An irrational sense of pride reared its head and he hammered it down with the same force as the bullet.
“This isn’t difficult at all.” She straightened her shoulders with the declaration. “Men make such a to-do about every iota of life. Women should be allowed the privilege of riding or shooting without having to bargain away their independence. I imagine I will hit that target with ease.” Conviction shone in her eyes.
Then a proud smile curled her lips and Lunden swallowed a groan. He’d dreamed of that mouth, the silky warmth of her kiss, and spent endless minutes wondering if she’d embrace lovemaking with the same vivacious spirit she exuded for all other activities. He muttered a low curse and answered with a derisive snort. Best get on with the lesson or he might do something that warranted he take a bullet to the heart first thing in the morning.
“Where should I stand?” She folded her arms under her breasts while her toe tapped an impatient beat on the gray slated patio. The action accentuated the fullness of her bodice and he clenched his teeth to stifle his appreciation.
“Stand here. In line with the target. I’ll shadow you and help you pull the trigger. The first—”
“I can do it myself.”
Any trace of lingering pride vaporized. Hadn’t the termagant learned from their riding lesson? Her headstrong disposition wrought nothing but trouble. “Amelia . . .”
“Oh yes. You’re the teacher. I’m the student. I almost forgot.” Her rueful smile and mocking tone eviscerated the sincerity of the declaration.
“Move. Here.” He indicated the spot Dobson utilized when instructing him. The technique worked well, and as of yet, Lunden believed the lesson was a success despite Amelia’s mutinous attitude. “Face the target and spread your feet apart.” He glanced to the ground and nudged her slipper with the toe of his boot. “A bit more.” He shadowed her form, careful to avoid getting too close to her skirts, and brought the flintlock forward with care to place in her grasp. Then he braced his arms against hers, ready to pull the trigger while he supported her hands. The report would be unexpected and he didn’t wish her to be frightened or hurt.
She resisted his guidance, shrugging free from his hold so only her finger rested on the trigger.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His question skimmed the silky skin of her lobe.
She twisted to view him over her right shoulder and her lips nearly brushed his chin. He resisted the urge to step back. Why did she have to be so bloody damn arousing? Hadn’t he already paid his price to the devil?
“I want to pull the trigger.” Her eyes volleyed from the gun to the target and back. “That’s the only way I’ll enjoy the full experience.”
Her answer resonated on a physical level and his annoyance deepened. He noted the defiant set of her jaw and the clever glint in her eyes. Her irises were the most unusual shade of green, as addictive as absinthe, strong and hypnotic, yet astonishing in their brilliance. A silence opened between them and her gaze met his with quiet force. For a fleeting moment, her brows furrowed and then her lips parted, as if another retort singed the tip of her tongue.
“Think about what you’re doing. Otherwise we’ll both get hurt.” His voice sank to a deep growl, the advice meant for his ears only.
She resettled the pistol and turned shrewd attention to the target while he ordered his heart to find its normal rhythm. The traitorous organ disobeyed. In his peripheral vision, he caught her smile of victory. If she only knew.
Chapter Ten
The recoil plastered Amelia flat against his chest. Distracted by his ardor, Lunden struggled to make sense of the situation as momentum carried them backward. They flailed in a synchronized tangle of limbs, past the low wall and onto the grass, first he, then she, now spun forward and sprawled atop him, her hair a curtain of silk against his face.
“Where’s the gun?” It was the only thing he could manage. His pulse thrummed an accelerated beat, each muscle in his body hard as the ground at his back.
“The gun? I dropped it.”
Her words, hot pants of breath, struck his cheek and his body tightened. Was it possible for him to grow harder? She shook her head to the left in an attempt to clear their vision and her body pressed against his, soft and inviting, while every ebony curl glossed over his face until only defiant strands lingered, caught in the stubble at his chin.
“Are you in pain?” He forced the words in an aggrieved tone. She seemed in no hurry to stand. Perhaps she’d twisted an ankle.
“No. Are you?”
None he could express to a lady. He tried in a Herculean effort to ignore the weight of her breasts pressed against his heart, and focused on her face. The usual confidence was absent and her eyes held a question or perhaps an observation she could not dismantle. Some unnamed emotion cloyed at his chest, vibrant and unfamiliar, as Amelia’s bewildered expression played havoc with his emotions, and the urge to kiss her, to tighten his arms around her shoulders and press their mouths together, drenched his every pore.
He shouldn’t.
Only the devil would take advantage.
He wouldn’t.
He was a better man than people believed.
Her tongue peeked out to lick her lower lip and temptation tipped the scale.
* * *
Confusion held Amelia hostage. Surely the air knocked out of her when she launched back from the pi
stol’s recoil, otherwise how could she explain her inability to regain an even breathing pattern?
Lunden was under her.
Her brain intruded with the feasible answer.
Lunden was under her. Hot, hard, and pressed as firmly as the stays in her corset. Good heavens, the man was a rock. Her skirts were flung to the side when she’d fallen, and the muscular outline of his thighs perceived through the barest layer of fabric caused a warm, wonderful feeling to flood her lower extremities.
She forced her gaze upward. His eyes seared hers with an intensity that robbed all breath.
When he raised his hand, her gasp escaped. She rolled in a swift effort to her right and stood with the assistance of the half wall. By the time she righted her gown and turned, he’d retrieved the pistol and his glare inferred he stood ready to use it.
“I wanted—”
He launched forward as if a bullet from the gun, and each stride punctuated his powerful words.
“Yes, Amelia. Everyone knows I is your favorite word. I don’t listen to my brother. I don’t want to get married. I wanted to race the horse. I wanted to shoot the gun. I, I, I. Have you thought of the consequences of your choices? Have you considered how your quest to please I endangers, impinges, and affects the people around you? The people who care for you?”
He’d reached her, yet he kept on coming, their strides matched measure for measure, hers moving backward, his pushing forward.
“Your brother has assigned me a futile mission because never will I find a man who will subject and surrender himself to your eternal pleasing.”
Her palm found his cheek in a resounding slap. It echoed in the barren clearing.
She gasped on a half-taken breath, shocked at the truth in his statements more than the angry delivery. And her reaction. What had she done? How could she repair the damage?
They stood quiet, motionless, until he closed the distance between them and his mouth found hers.
All resistance dissolved like sugar in hot tea.
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