Absolute Surrender (10 page)

He grinned, then nodded. “I did, yes. That was me.” He relaxed gradually. This is what he
’
d hoped for, in a manner at any rate. That she had no idea was entirely better than if she had believed she loved Ender as more than a friend.

“I should get you back to your mother. I will speak with your father today, Amelia, because I told him I would, but I must tell you I will ask for permission only to court you formally. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Yes, I—yes.” She sounded resigned, as though she had been prepared for more...or even less.

His heart stuttered. Something inside him tried to force him to his knees to beg her forgiveness, but, alas, whatever it was, it was not powerful enough to do so yet. Charles took her hand, then gained her attention and smiled.

“Amelia, can we call this a beginning?”

“I would very much like to,” she whispered.

“As would I. May I call on you tomorrow? Perhaps we could attend the opera later this week as well?”

She nodded, and Charles finally saw what he believed to be a very genuine smile.

They turned together for the carriage. Lady Mathorpe followed.

The return in the carriage was fraught with confusion. She had prepared herself. Truly, she had. Practiced endlessly, not only for the hopeful conclusion, but as well for the inevitable rejection. She had not prepared herself for maybe.

She had never prepared herself for maybe. Most people knew in a moment whether they wished to be near her, but this man...how could he not know? This confused her greatly. She twisted the handkerchief until some of the stitches popped, then frowned when she realized what she
’
d done.

She had planned to place the handkerchief in her jewelry box. Carefully protecting the square of linen from damage, able to pull it out at any moment and remember his kindness, and the way he smelled. She smoothed the linen and reached for her reticule, so as to protect it from herself. When her hand met the soft cushion of the carriage, the empty space where she knew her reticule should be, she winced. Not because he had thrown her reticule in the lake, but because he had thrown it in the lake
for her
. Amelia wished she still had that reticule, to remember this day by, even though in having it…it wouldn
’
t have happened. There she was caught between the memory and the memento.

She cut a glance to her aunt, who was looking out the other window, then pushed the handkerchief carefully into her bodice, for safety.

She looked up to find Charles watching her, closely, and realized she hadn
’
t checked to be sure his attention was elsewhere before placing his handkerchief,
his handkerchief,
in her bodice so close to her bosom. His eyes seemed to darken again—surely, a trick of the light—and he reached into his jacket, never taking those dark eyes from hers. She watched as his hand searched, then he finally pulled her own handkerchief out of the elusive pocket and handed the linen to her.

“I believe this is yours,” he said, so quietly she thought she
’
d imagined it.

She endeavored to paste on a genuine smile—which only meant her face was most likely twisted and pained into some semblance of propriety, so she closed her eyes and attempted to calm her now-racing heart. She lifted the handkerchief partly to hide her face and partly to breathe of him. She sank into the scent that was now all his. That fresh cotton smell. The smell reminded her of the laundry on the moors. She longed to see cotton plants. She
’
d seen drawings of them, and they seemed magical, somehow familiar, something so sweetly soft erupting from such a harsh and inhospitable shell.

Even deeper than the scent of cotton was the very essence of him, that bit of man that had invaded this square of fresh linen the moment he
’
d placed it in the inside pocket of his coat. The scent was warm, like heat, like safety. She felt her heart steady and swell to take it all in, and she sank into the feeling. She imagined him on the moors with her, the fresh linen carried in the breeze, pinned to the lines, making the sunlight around them dance…

The carriage stopped abruptly, and her eyes popped open to find him contemplating her. A chill coursed her spine as she had the sudden fear that she
’
d done something inappropriate while daydreaming. She looked from the corner of her eye to her aunt, whose eyes were wide with shock— and so she had.

Damn me twice. What have I done?
Her mind ramped up the spiral that would end with an inevitable episode—like a runaway carousel. She clenched her fist around the handkerchief as if to hold on…but then Charles smiled, and her heart paused in her chest. The smile merely quirked the left side of his face, as though there were two of him. This drew her full attention. She could see the smile before she
’
d even looked at him fully, then this grand, wicked smile broke across his face, left to right, as though awakening her very soul like a sunrise. It finally alighted in his brown eyes, which narrowed. As she watched, the smile seemed to go deeper, darker. This concerned her, and her heart answered with a violent knock, a warning.

What have I done?

In a flash, the safety she held so dear was gone. Her blood thundered in her ears. The door to the carriage jerked open, and the steps clanked as they dropped, startling her. Jacks moved stiffly to the door, and she thought she heard a stifled laugh.

What have I done?

Charles stood with his back to the carriage, shifting and adjusting his coat as she waited, more patiently than her being wished to allow, for him to bring her out.

What have I done?

Charles turned, and she attempted a smile, but the smile quite glanced off his now serious visage. He reached for her, and she paused, was quite unable to move her hand to his. Wasn
’
t sure if his hand would be warm salvation, or the harsh, sharp exterior of the cotton plant.

What have I done?

Charles finally reached in and took that hand that hovered just above her lap in indecision, and the tension broke and flooded her. She breathed then, not a small feat, but a great inhalation of London air. She filled her lungs as much as she was able, bent as she was, corseted as she was, confused as she was, then stepped down.

“What have I done?” Her hand flew to her mouth but couldn
’
t stay the comment, and she pinched her eyes closed, hiding behind her handkerchief.

Charles led her up the stairs. She felt as though he dragged her behind him rather unceremoniously. Charles’s head swung around, and his gaze fell to her. She could feel it. Hot, and heavy, and intense. She was thankful for that one great breath of air, as she decided that breath would be her last.

Charles laughed, and the laugh traveled through his broad chest down his arm and into her ribs, where he pressed against her. He pulled her through the front door and into the parlor.

The room was empty, and he blocked the door to entry by pressing her up against it at arms length.

Amelia panicked, was truly out of breath, decided begging was her only recourse. She watched the top button on his waistcoat, as she couldn
’
t bring her eyes to his. “What happened in the carriage?” Silence. “Jackson, there
’
s nothing that can come between us if we refuse to allow it. Yet…I
’
m truly frightened. I only wish that you could understand. Please…tell me what happened in the carriage. Please allow me to explain.” She was breathless. Truly, inarguably, without breath.

He grumbled.

“Charles, please, the carriage?” she begged again, desperately wishing to know what had changed his demeanor.

He let out a breath, then advanced farther, backing her against the door, crowding her. Her breath stopped altogether when that top button became so large in her field of vision she could see little else.

He seemed to be indecisive, this man of decision. His hands floated from her elbows to her shoulders, then they moved to the door, effectively trapping her as his body pressed into hers. As though the touch of his hands required permission, but the rest, the rest he would simply take. She shivered.

“What happened in the carriage?”
she sobbed.

He leaned into her, and she closed her eyes tight. “You wish to know what you did?” He groaned the words next to her chin, his breath ruffling the loose hair at her ear.

She nodded, overwhelmed by his proximity, his grand presence, every bit of him surrounding every bit of her. This must be the reckoning. She could feel all of him, the restraint of his hands, the force of the rest.

“Amelia.” He breathed in through his nose as he ran the tip of it up the soft skin behind her ear. A wild surge coursed her veins, hitting all of her most intimate areas.

He continued, the words hot on her neck. “Amelia…if you wish to fill your senses with me, there are more direct ways for you to accomplish it. This, for example.” He pressed even closer, fitted himself to her, then one hand, his right hand, skimmed down her shoulder to her elbow, spinning tiny circles into the bare skin there.

“I…don
’
t understand. Please, I beg you tell me now.”

“Amelia, what you did in the carriage was make quite an unladylike sound while breathing the scent of that handkerchief. I can only assume by the...sensual groan you uttered, that my scent
pleased
you.” The way he said
scent
was so powerful, so strong in tone, that she almost felt the word.

Her eyes snapped open in shock, possibly shame, still trained on that button, and she attempted to explain herself.

“I must beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I know not what I did, please...” She brought her arms up between them, her hands balled into fists at her chest. She controlled the want to rub her nipples, which had become tight peaks of sensation against her corset.

“Amelia, I feel you may have misconstrued my…reaction. I
’
m not the least bit appalled, disappointed, or upset by this. There are things running through me, Amelia, that are much more powerful than any displeasure I may have felt.”

She had yet to breathe, and she would certainly swoon at any moment, but his weight against her held her steady. “You
’
re angry with me,” she said.

Charles’s hand tightened on her arm.

No, this is the reckoning,
she thought.

“
I am
not
angry.” Charles’s hand loosened, but only just.

“Then what—”

Charles hips pressed against her again, and she concentrated on the connection, attempting to discern what he was trying so boldly to tell her, and she felt a certain hardness that bespoke his ardor. The world stopped. She gasped. Willed the air to her lungs. She grasped his coat and held on as the world spun the other way ’round, and heat flooded that emptiness low in her belly.

“
Your Grace.
”

“Say my name, Amelia. I gave you leave. Now say my name.” The sound of his voice was like boulders tumbling in the ocean, angry for being disturbed.

“Charles.” She breathed it, then hazarded a glance to his eyes.

As her eyes fluttered to his, her mouth dropped into the shape of a breath, an inhale on the wind, as though to continue on
. Waiting. Her lips were the perfect shape for a kiss, which occurred to him so suddenly his own breath was stolen.

“It will not be your first,” Charles said simply.

She inhaled as he examined her mouth in detail. The soft pink had darkened, blood rushing to all those intimate points of contact, certainly without her leave. His mind traveled to all the other places she would be flushed. Her nipples would draw tight. Her sex would dampen. This she could not control, even though he could tell she wished to control it.

Charles knew he should back away. He should leave off. He shouldn
’
t be handling her so roughly. He shouldn
’
t be handling her at all. But Charles couldn
’
t make the effort to turn away as her mouth began to move and her lips reminded him again that he would be second.

“No.” Her breath hitched. “But I am recently determined that yours be my last.”