“Dear Amelia,” he drawled, his eyes twinkling. “You know who I am now, and who I will be. I can manage anything.”
She knew the rudiments of the peerage, and saw the power wielded by her father, a viscount. How many more times the magnitude was the power wielded by Ware, whose future held a marquessate?
Her eyes widened at the thought.
“Come now,” he urged. “Have a seat, enjoy a peach tart, and tell me about your day.”
“My life is dreadfully boring,” she said, dropping to the ground with a sigh.
“Then tell me a tale. Surely you daydream about something.”
She dreamt about kisses given passionately by a dark-eyed Gypsy lover, but she would never say such a thing aloud. She rose to her knees and dug into the basket to hide her blush. “I lack imagination,” she muttered.
“Very well, then.” Ware situated himself on his back with his hands clasped at his neck and stared up at the sky. He looked as at ease as she had ever seen him. Despite the rather formal attire he wore-including pristine white stockings and polished heels-he was still a far more relaxed person than the one she met weeks ago. Amelia found that she rather liked the new earl and felt a touch of pleasure that she had wrought what she considered to be a positive change in him.
“It appears I must regale you with a story,” he said.
“Lovely.” She settled back to a seated position and took a bite of her treat.
“Once upon a time…”
Amelia watched Ware’s lips move as he spoke, and imagined kissing them. A now-familiar sense of sadness shivered through her, an effect of leaving her beloved romantic notions behind and embracing unfamiliar new ones, but the sensation lessened as she thought of Colin and what he had done. He certainly did not feel any sadness about leaving her behind.
“Would you kiss me?” she blurted out, her fingertips brushing tart crumbs from the corners of her lips.
The earl paused midsentence and turned his head to look at her. His eyes were wide with surprise, but he appeared more intrigued than dismayed. “Beg your pardon. Did I hear you correctly?”
“Have you kissed a girl before?” she asked, curious. He was two years older than she was, only one year younger than Colin. It was quite possible that he had experience.
Colin had an edgy, dark restlessness about him that was seductive even to her naive senses. Ware, on the other hand, was far more leisurely, his attractiveness stemming from innate command and the comfort of knowing the world was his for the taking. Still, despite her high regard for Colin, she could see how Ware’s lazy charm appealed.
His eyebrows rose. “A gentleman does not speak of such things.”
“How wonderful! Somehow, I knew you would be discreet.” She smiled.
“Repeat the request again,” he murmured, watching her carefully.
“Would you kiss me?”
“Is this a hypothetical question, or a call to action?”
Suddenly shy and unsure, Amelia looked away.
“Amelia,” he said softly, bringing her gaze back to his. There was deep kindness there on his handsome patrician features, and she was grateful for it. He rolled to his side and then pushed up to a seated position.
“Not hypothetical,” she whispered.
“Why do you wish to be kissed?”
She shrugged. “Because.”
“I see.” His lips pursed a moment. “Would Benny suffice? Or a footman?”
“No!”
His mouth curved in a slow smile that made something flutter in her belly. It was not an outright flip, as was caused by Colin’s dimples, but it was certainly a herald of her new awareness of her friend.
“I will not kiss you today,” he said. “I want you to think upon it further. If you feel the same when next we meet, I will kiss you then.”
Amelia wrinkled her nose. “If you have no taste for me, simply say so.”
“Ah, my hotheaded princess,” he soothed, his hand catching hers, his thumb stroking the back. “You jump to conclusions just as you jump into trouble-with both feet. I will catch you, fair Amelia. I look forward to catching you.”
“Oh,” she breathed, blinking at the suggestive undertone to his words.
“Oh,” he agreed.
Amelia was awakened by the knock that came to her bedchamber door. She lay curled in a ball, her eyes closed, her sleep-foggy mind praying that she could drift back into sleep and rejoin her vivid dreams. Dreams that reminded her of the rare connection she had with Ware and how precious that bond was to her.
But the knocking came again, more insistent. Harsh reality intruded, and she mourned the loss of her nocturnal reminiscences.
“Amelia?”
Maria. The one person in the household that she could not ignore.
Calling out in a sleep-husky voice, Amelia struggled to a seated position and watched as the portal swung open and her sister stepped into view.
“Hello, poppet,” Maria said, gliding toward her with an elegance she had long envied. “Sorry to wake you. It is late morning, however, so I did wait. Sadly, the length of my patience is probably not as long as you would like.”
“I do so love that gown on you,” Amelia replied, admiring the cream-colored muslin and its appeal next to Maria’s olive skin.
“Thank you.” Maria took a seat on the slipper chair near the window. “Did you have a good evening?”
Visions of Ware, dashing in evening attire, filled Amelia’s mind. Last night had been one in an endless string of nights spent at balls and routs. Except last evening had been marginally different. She was different. Ware was different. The awareness between them had changed, and she knew instinctively that it would never be the same.
He was pressing forward, maneuvering expertly, forcing her to see their situation in cold, hard facts. After an entire childhood filled with falsehoods and evasions, she was normally grateful for his candor. In this instance, however, it served only to increase her feelings of guilt and confusion.
“It was a lovely evening,” she replied.
“Hmm…” The sound was clearly skeptical. “You have been melancholy of late.”
“And you are here to talk about it.”
“Lord Ware almost kissed you on the terrace yesterday afternoon, and yet last night you did not appear any more eager to see him than usual. How could I not ask you about it?”
Closing her eyes, Amelia’s head dropped back onto the pillow.
“If you would share your burdens with me,” Maria coaxed, “perhaps I could help. I should like to.”
Opening her eyes, Amelia looked up at the satin lining of her canopy and remembered an earlier time. Her room was decorated in various shades of blue, from pale to dark, just as her childhood bedchamber had been. She’d made the choice consciously, an external declaration of her decision to pick up where her relationship with her sister had been cruelly severed. Her father had stolen years from them, but in this room she felt as if she reclaimed them.
“There is nothing to help me with, Maria. There is nothing to mend or alter.”
“What of your masked admirer?”
“I will not be seeing him again.”
There was a pregnant pause, then, “The last you spoke of him was not with such finality in your tone. You saw him a second time, did you not? He sought you out.”
