Page 20 of A Delicate Deception
“There’s a ghost in your attic,” Keating said, tapping his head.
“Janet says the family is cursed. Apparently all the sons of the ducal line are doomed to die before their twenty-fifth birthday,” Amelia persisted.
Keating snorted. “The duke is past forty, so I’d say the curse isn’t worth much.”
“So youhaveseen him,” Amelia said. She was frantically trying to assemble information about this duke before she and Georgiana had to meet him. It was dawning on her that however strictly they had confined their letters to historical matters, an unmarried woman’s correspondence with a man might open that woman up to rampant speculation. And for that man to have the social standing to dispose of a woman’s good name with a flick of his quill across some very costly paper, made the matter considerably worse. She wished she knew more about the character of the man who held Georgiana’s reputation in his hands. She could not remember ever having heard much gossip about him during her years in London, which could mean that he traveled in circles so exalted that even Alistair’s connections couldn’t gain Amelia’s family entrée, or could mean that he was a retiring sort of person.
“All I can tell you is that there’s a dozen workmen up there.” Keating got to his feet and dusted his hands on his trousers. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but if anybody here makes trouble for you, you don’t have to stay.”
“I can’t. I already ran away from London—”
“I know, love. But sometimes running is all you can do. We’ll pack up the house and find another place to live.” He looked down at her with a sympathy so far removed from his usual dry and short-tempered manner that she felt her eyes prickle.
“Right. You’re right.” She rubbed a tear with the back of her hand and strove to recover her composure.
“Look, there’s somebody waiting for you.” Keating gestured towards the lane.
Amelia actually let herself gasp out loud when she saw Sydney leaning against the fence post.
“You’re back!” she cried, going to meet him. “Did you get everything done you needed to in Manchester? You look terrible.” He had circles under his eyes. On the bright side, his scruff had grown into a proper beard. “I mean, relatively speaking. You started out looking perfectly well. Better than well.” She paused to catch her breath. “I think I’ve made my feelings clear on that score.”
He smiled, whether at her graceless rambling or the compliment, she did not know. When, she wondered, had she stopped trying to manage her reactions around him? She was very conscious of employing no artifice, no screen. Her honesty seemed to be enough for him.
“I spent six days arguing with businessmen about the impracticality of laying rails over a bottomless bog and then another six days repeatedly explaining why the path must be level.” He held out his arm for her, and she took it, relishing the solid warmth of him beside her. “That would be bad enough even if I hadn’t already had precisely those same conversations with precisely those individuals a month ago. Compounding matters, I don’t think I’ve slept more than a few hours straight since July. Last night a family of hedgehogs appeared from behind the wainscoting. And I’ve had nothing more nourishing today than a soapy tea cake.”
“The conditions at the Swan are worse than I realized,” she said, aghast. His arm went stiff under her touch and she looked at his face, which was sterner than usual. Every now and then she ran up against a brick wall when talking to him. Probably she ought to ask what it was that distressed him, but she decided he’d have already volunteered the information if he wanted to. The ease of their rapport was partly due to the fact that they didn’t ask one another difficult, prying questions. They took one another as they were, without demanding explanations or excuses. “Well, at least you’ll have some proper food today. I brought cucumber sandwiches and cold chicken.”
“You’re an angel,” he said softly. “I did miss this. Thank you for your letters.” His voice was gruff, his gaze intent on her, and she realized that he was... fond of her. Well, she already knew he enjoyed being with her and liked the looks of her. This other thing, this softness in his eyes, thisangelbusiness, that was only to be expected, she supposed. She had to acknowledge that she probably had a corresponding set of emotions. But it all felt somehow regrettable, a reminder that they couldn’t go on like this forever, and however it concluded would be unpleasant in one way or another. She resolutely shoved all that aside; she was an expert at getting rid of inconvenient feelings.
“Did you hear that there’s a duke living at Pelham Hall?” she asked, striving to make light conversation.
“I don’t want to talk about dukes.” His voice was low, almost a growl. “Bollocks on every last one of them.”
“Are you a radical? What a relief. One doesn’t like to ask, but what if I had kissed a Tory?”
He huffed out a laugh. “Yes, but that’s not why I don’t want to talk about dukes.” He slipped his arm loose from her grip and instead took hold of her hand, giving it a squeeze. “I missed you, Amelia.”
“Oh,” she managed, hope and desire and nerves all mingling together to cloud her thoughts. “Dare I hope that what you have in mind is more kissing? Is that how you sweet talk all the girls? Bollocks on dukes, let’s kiss? Unconventional but extremely effective, if so, because I’m—”
She broke off because he turned to face her, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. His eyes were lit up with laughter and she was glad his earlier seriousness had passed. “I do like you, Amelia. I haven’t laughed like this in years. Maybe ever. Thank you for that.” Before she could point out that he hardly laughed at all, he stepped nearer, and she could smell his soap, the smell of him, and her words disappeared from her tongue. “For two weeks, all I’ve been able to think about is how you kissed me.”
“How I kissed you,” she said. “That’s rich. I do recall you kissing me back.”
“I certainly did, and I’ll do it again.” He bent his head to kiss her and she almost moaned into his mouth at the contact. His beard was rough but his lips were gentle and soft. She opened her mouth a bit, hoping for more, and felt his hands clamp down on her hips. He was holding himself back, and she didn’t want any part of that, so she put a hand to the back of his head and held him close. She licked into his mouth, tasting and exploring and wondering at how something so basic and unmysterious could act like a key in a lock.
“We’re in the middle of a path,” he said, murmuring the words into the edge of her mouth, as if he didn’t want to pull away far enough to speak the words properly.
“That way,” she said, indicating a point over her shoulder. “There’s a spot a little bit further up the hill.” She had found it when Nan chased a hare through the bramble.
Neither of them made any move to leave the path, though. He still looked down at her with an intensity that made her want to shrink away, or diffuse the tension with a silly remark. But instead she let him look at her, and she tried to return the look with one as open and honest. She couldn’t do it, though. She felt bare and unprotected. Instead, she pulled him close and their lips met, no hesitation or gentleness this time. His chest was solid and warm against hers, his hands strong and sure on her waist. He kissed her as if this—this moment, this place, Amelia—were all he wanted, all he cared about. And she kissed him back with the same need.
This was the most honest she had ever been, the least artifice she had ever deployed, and she didn’t know if it was because she was thinking with her body or because she was beyond thought altogether. Or maybe it was that Sydney let her be honest, let her be truly herself. Maybe he liked her the way she was, and that let her be truthful to him and to herself.
And that, more than anything, made her want this. She wanted a chance to see what happened if she kept being honest.
Chapter Eight
Amelia took his hand and led him through a stand of trees to what had once probably been a stable or barn but was now four stone walls in various stages of disintegration, each overgrown with ivy. Because ofcourseAmelia thought this was an excellent place to—Sydney’s thoughts skittered wildly around—to do whatever she wanted with him, frankly.
