Mr. Cavendish, I Presume (8 page)

Something, he thought crossly. He wasn’t sure what, but the truth was, he had at least a dozen matters that required his attention, and if he didn’t particularly want to
do
them, he dearly wanted to have them done.

Did she think herself his only responsibility? Did she think he had time to sit about, composing poems to a woman he hadn’t even chosen for a wife? She’d been
assigned
to him, for God’s sake. In the bloody cradle.

He turned to her, his eyes piercing hers. “Very well, Lady Amelia. What are your expectations of me?”

She seemed flummoxed by the question, stammering some sort of nonsense he doubted even she understood.

Good God, he didn’t have time for this. He’d got no sleep the night before, his grandmother was even more of an aggravation than usual, and now his affianced bride, who had heretofore never uttered a peep beyond Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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the usual claptrap about the weather, was suddenly acting as if he had obligations toward her.

Beyond marrying her, of course. Which he fully intended to do. But good Lord, not this afternoon.

He rubbed his brow with his thumb and middle finger. His head had started to ache.

“Are you all right?” Lady Amelia inquired.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

“At least as well as
I
was in the drawing room,” he heard her mutter.

And really, that was too much. He lifted his head, pinned her with a stare. “Shall I kiss you again?”

She said nothing. But her eyes grew round.

He let his gaze fall upon her lips and murmured, “It seemed to make the both of us far more agreeable.”

Still she said nothing. He decided to take that as a yes.

Chapter 5

No!” Amelia exclaimed, jumping back a step.

And if she hadn’t been so discombobulated by his sudden swerve into amorous territory, she would have greatly enjoyed
his
discombobulation when he stumbled forward, his lips finding nothing but air.

“Really?” he drawled, once he’d regained his footing.

“You don’t even want to kiss me,” she said, backing up another step. He was starting to look dangerous.

“Indeed,” he murmured, eyes glittering. “Just as I don’t like you.”

Her heart dropped about a foot. “You don’t?” she echoed.

“According to you,” he reminded her.

She felt her skin burn with embarrassment—the sort only possible when one’s own words were being tossed in one’s face. “I don’t want you to kiss me,” she stammered.

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“Don’t you?” he asked, and she wasn’t sure how he managed it, but they weren’t quite so far apart any longer.

“No,” she said, fighting to maintain her equilibrium.

“I don’t, because . . . because . . . ” She thought about this—thought frantically about it, because there was no way her thoughts could be anything approaching calm and rational in such a position.

And then it was clear.

“No,” she said again. “I don’t. Because you don’t.”

He froze, but just for a moment. “You think I don’t wish to kiss you?”

“I know you don’t,” she replied, in what had to be the bravest moment of her life. Because in that moment he was
everything
ducal.

Fierce. Proud. Possibly furious. And, with the wind ruffling his dark hair until it was just ever so slightly mussed, so handsome it almost hurt to look at him.

And the truth was, she very much did wish to kiss him. Just not if he didn’t want to kiss her.

“I believe you think too much,” he finally said.

She could think of no possible reply. But she did add to the space between them.

Which he eliminated immediately. “I very much wish to kiss you,” he said, moving forward. “In fact, it might very well be the
only
thing I wish to do with you right now.”

“You don’t,” she said quickly, inching away. “You only think you do.”

He laughed then, which would have been insulting if she weren’t so focused on keeping her footing—
and
her pride.

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“It’s because you think you can control me that way,”

she said, glancing down to make sure she wasn’t about to step into a mole hole as she scooted back another foot. “You think if you seduce me, I shall turn into a spineless, mushy blob of a woman, unable to do anything but sigh your name.”

He looked as if he wanted to laugh again, although this time she thought—
maybe
—it would be with her, not at her.

“Is that what you think?” he asked, smiling.

“It’s what I think you think.”

The left corner of his mouth quirked up. He looked charming. Boyish. Completely unlike himself—or at least unlike the man she ever got to see.

“I think you’re right,” he said.

Amelia was so flummoxed she actually felt her jaw drop. “You do?”

“I do. You’re far more intelligent than you let on,”

he said.

Was that a compliment?

“But,” he added, “that doesn’t change the fundamen-tal essence of the moment.”

Which was . . . ?

He shrugged. “I’m still going to kiss you.”

Her heart began to pound, and her feet—traitorous little appendages that they were—grew
roots
.

“The thing is,” he said softly, reaching out and taking her hand, “that while you are correct—I do rather enjoy turning you into a—what was that charming phrase of yours?—a spineless blob of a woman, whose only purpose in life is to agree with my every word, I find Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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myself rather perplexed by a certain rather self-evident truth.”

Her lips parted.

“I want to kiss you.”

He tugged at her hand, pulled her toward him.

“Very much.”

She wanted to ask him why. No, she didn’t, because she was quite certain the answer would be something that would only melt whatever portion of her resolve still remained. But she wanted to . . . Oh, good Lord, she didn’t know what she wanted to do. Something.

Anything. Anything that might remind them both that she was still in possession of a brain.

“Call it luck,” he said softly. “Or serendipity. But for whatever reason, I wish to kiss you . . . it’s very enjoyable.” He brought her hand to his lips. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

She nodded. However much she wanted to, she could not bring herself to lie.

His eyes seemed to darken, from azure to dusk.

“I’m so glad we are in accord,” he murmured. He touched her chin, tipping her face up toward his. His mouth found hers, softly at first, teasing her lips open, waiting for her sigh before he swooped in, capturing her breath, her will, her very ability to form thoughts, except that . . .

This was different.

Truly, that was the only rational, fully-formed idea she could manage. She was lost in a sea of breathless sensation, driven by a need she barely understood, but all the while, she could feel this one thing inside—

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This was different.

Whatever his purposes, whatever his intent, his kiss was not the same as the time before.

And she could not resist him.

He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Not when he’d found himself strong-armed into accompanying her on a stroll, not when they’d walked down the hill, out of sight of the house, and not even, really, when he’d mocked her with:
Shall I kiss you again?

But then she’d made her mushy-blobby speech, and he couldn’t do anything but agree with her, and she looked so unexpectedly fetching, fighting her hair, which had completely escaped its coiffure, all the while staring him down—or, if not precisely doing that, at least standing her ground and defending her opinions in a way no one did with him. Except maybe Grace, and even then, only when no one else was present.

It was in that moment that he noticed her skin, pale and luminescent, with the most delightful sprinkle of freckles; and her eyes, not quite green, but not brown, either, lit with a fierce, if suppressed, intelligence.

And her lips. He very much noticed her lips. Full, and soft, and trembling so slightly that one would only notice if one stared.

Which he did. He couldn’t look away.

How was it he had never noticed her before? She’d always been there, a part of his life almost as long as he could remember.

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And then—damn the reasons why, he wanted to kiss her. Not to control her, not to subdue her (although he wouldn’t mind either of those as an added boon), but just to kiss her.

To know her.

To feel her in his arms, and absorb whatever it was inside of her that made her . . .
her
.

And maybe, just maybe, to learn who that was.

But five minutes later, if he’d learned anything, he couldn’t tell, because once he started to kiss her—really kiss her, in every way a man dreamed about kissing a woman—his brain had ceased to function in any recognizable manner.

He couldn’t imagine why he suddenly wanted her with an intensity that made his head spin. Maybe it was because she was his, and he knew it, and maybe all men had a primitive, possessive streak. Or maybe it was because he liked it when he rendered her speechless, even if the endeavor left him in a similarly stunned state.

Whatever the case, the moment his lips parted hers, and his tongue slipped inside to taste her, the world around them had spun and faded and dropped away, and all that was left was
her
.

His hands found her shoulders, then her back, and then her bottom. He squeezed and pressed, groaning as he felt her mold against him. It was insane. They were in a field. In the full sun. And he wanted to take her right there. Right then. Lift her skirts and tumble her until they’d worn the grass right off the ground.

And then he wanted to do it again.

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He kissed her with all the mad energy that was cours-ing through his blood, and his hands moved instinctively to her clothing, searching for buttons, clasps, anything that would open her to him, allow him to feel her skin, her heat. It was when he’d finally got two of them open at her back that he regained at least a portion of his sensibility. He wasn’t sure exactly what had brought reason back to the fore—it might have been her moan, husky and accommodating and completely inappropriate from an innocent virgin. But it was probably his reaction to the sound—which was swift and hot and involved rather detailed images of her, unclothed and doing things she probably didn’t even know were possible.

He pushed her away, at once reluctant and determined. He sucked in his breath, then shuddered an exhalation, not that it seemed to do anything to calm the rapid tattoo of his heart. The words
I’m sorry
hung on his tongue, and honestly, he meant to say them, because that was what a gentleman did, but when he looked up and saw her, lips parted and wet, eyes wide and dazed and somehow greener than before, his mouth formed words with absolutely no direction from his brain, and he said, “That was . . . surprising.”

She blinked.

“Pleasantly so,” he added, somewhat relieved that he sounded more composed than he actually felt.

“I’ve never been kissed,” she said.

He smiled, somewhat amused. “I kissed you last night.”

“Not like that,” she whispered, almost as if she were saying it to herself.

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His body, which had begun to calm, started to fire up again.

“Well,” she said, still looking rather stunned herself,

“I suppose you
have
to marry me now.”

At any other moment, from any other woman . . .

hell, after any other kiss, he would have descended into instant irritation. But something about Amelia’s tone, and
everything
about her face, which still carried a rather fetchingly dubious expression, brought about the exact opposite reaction, and he laughed.

“What’s so funny?” she demanded. But didn’t demand, really, because she was still too befuddled to manage anything shrill.

“I have no idea,” he said quite honestly. “Here, turn around, I’ll do you up.”

Her hand flew to the back of her neck, and from her gasp he wondered if she’d even realized he had undone two of her buttons. She tried to refasten them herself, and he rather enjoyed watching the attempt, but after about ten seconds of frantic fumbling, he took pity on her and gently brushed her fingers aside.

“Allow me,” he murmured.

As if she had any other choice.

His hands worked slowly, even though every rational corner of his brain knew that a quick frock closure was in order. But he was mesmerized by that small patch of skin, peachy smooth and his alone. Faint blond tendrils slid down her nape, and when his breath touched her, her skin seemed to shiver.

He leaned down. He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her.

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And she moaned again.

“We had better return,” he said roughly, stepping back. Then he realized he’d never done the last button of her frock. He swore under his breath, because it couldn’t possibly be a good idea to touch her again, but he couldn’t very well send her back to the house like that, so back to the buttons he went, moving with considerably more diligence this time.

“There you are,” he muttered.

She turned, eyeing him warily. It made him feel like a despoiler of innocents.

And oddly, he didn’t mind. He held out his arm.

“Shall I escort you back?”

She nodded, and he had the strangest, most intense need in that moment—

To know what she was thinking.

Funny, that. He’d never cared to know what anyone had thought before.

But he didn’t ask. Because he didn’t do such things.

And really, what was the need? They’d marry eventually, so it didn’t matter what either of them thought, did it?

Amelia hadn’t thought it was possible for a blush of embarrassment to stain one’s cheeks for a full hour, but clearly it was, because when the dowager intercepted her in the hall, at
least
sixty minutes after she had rejoined Grace and Elizabeth in the drawing room, the dowager took one look at her face and her own face went nearly purple with fury.