“Yes.” She kissed him, drove him wild. Distracted him so his muscles released their tight hold, and then she slipped away with an impish grin, her hands smoothing her skirts. She peeked into a small, oval looking glass across the room. “My hair is a disaster, but it will have to do.”
“It does perfectly fine if we don’t let him in.” Once someone else walked through that door, their interlude was over. Would he ever get another such perfect moment?
“We must. He’s knocked twice. It must be urgent.”
She was right, and he must focus, shake away the haze of lust clouding his senses. “Very well. Hell.” His fall still gaped open. He made quick work of the buttons and ran his hands through his hair to tidy it just before Amelia opened the door.
“Yes, Bernard?” she said, stepping back to let him through. Bernard picked up his foot to step forward, and Amelia jumped. “Careful!” She held her hand out, keeping him back. “Broken glass. We forgot about it.”
Bernard picked his way around the shattered spectacles, frowning. “I’ll send a maid in.”
“But first tell us,” Drew said, “what the matter is that’s brought you here at this most opportune and not at all inconvenient moment?”
Bernard’s brows arched toward one another. “Pardon, my lord? Is that… sarcasm?”
“I’m afraid it is.” Amelia sighed. “He’s not terribly good at it, but I applaud the effort.”
Bernard scowled. “Have I inconvenienced you, my lord?”
“No, no.” Amelia waved him back inside. “His lordship was merely in the middle of a very pressing matter.”
Yes, he had been. Her arse pressed into his thighs should never be interrupted.
Bernard backed out of the room. “My deepest apologies. I did not mean to interrupt. I swear I’ll choose a better moment next time to—ouch!” His cry accompanied a crunch beneath his foot, and he hopped to the side on one leg, wincing. “Forgot about the glass.”
Amelia rushed to his side and tried to usher him into a chair. He waved her away like he might a flapping pigeon. “I’m perfectly fine, Mrs. Dart. Not even a scratch.” Bernard cleared his throat. “This mail has come for you.” He pulled a pile of envelopes tied together with twine out from under his arm and held them out.
Amelia took them and set them neatly on Drew’s desk. “Thank you, Bernard. We have been waiting for an important communication from London.”
He snapped his heels together, tried to, found one foot hovering above the ground, above the glass. He extended it farther behind him, almost toppled over, then jumped onto his back leg and dashed from the room.
When they were alone, Drew reached across the desk, dragged the pile of correspondence toward him, then untied the twine.
“One from my man of business,” he said, flipping through the letters, examining their seals. “And one from Briarcliff. Interesting, that. I don’t receive much communication from them. My mother writes once a month.” He opened it, read it, then read it again.
“What’s the matter? You’ve gone pale.” She slipped to her feet and pressed her hand to his cheek.
He didn’t brush it away but lifted his eyes to meet her gaze. “Atlas is married.”
The hand on his cheek flew to her mouth before she gave a muffled, “No!”
“Yes.” He pulled her hand away from her lips and kissed her palm. No reason to do so. Only it felt right to keep her close, to touch her often. “And you’ll never guess to whom.”
“You’re right. I won’t. You’d better tell me.” Her cheeks were pink, and her gaze flickered often to their hands twined together. She smiled.
He smiled, too, dropped the letter to the desk. “Mrs. Clara Bronwen.”
Her brows pulled together, creating an adorable indentation above her nose. “Mrs. Clara… Oh! The cabinet maker we interviewed.”
He nodded, kissed her palm again, pulled her down to sit on the arm of his chair.
“Whyever would he marry her? He didn’t even wish to hire her. Do you know, I saw them together, talking in heated voices the day I met Tidsdale in the park.”
He scowled.
She patted his head, bent over, and kissed his temple. “I did not plan it.” She sighed and leaned into him, and he nestled his arm around her waist.
Perfect.
