Shall We Dance? (32 page)

Wasn't that sweet? Oh, no, of course not. The business with Rolin could never be called
sweet.
And yet he had come to her, come racing to her, his thoughts all of her…

“What are you thinking?” Perry asked her, taking her hand in his. “You're smiling, yet you look rather sad. Is it still Rolin? I swear to you, Amelia, if there had been another way, if he had only—”

“I know,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Sometimes choices must be made, difficult choices. Choices that affect others as well as ourselves. In our turn, we can only do what we believe best.”

Perry pushed himself higher against the pillows. “Why don't I think we're only discussing what happened to Rolin? What is it, Amelia? What happened today?”

She fussed with the covers, pulling them halfway up his chest. “Nothing. Well, nothing I care to discuss right now. Her Majesty…she was in a mood to reminisce tonight, that's all. The trial has brought back all sorts of memories for her.”

“About her marriage? About her daughter?”

Amelia nodded. “Yes, all of that. Nothing important.”

Perry lifted her chin, sat up fully so that she was very much aware of his strength, his power over her; not physical, but emotional power. “What happened, Amelia? What did she say to you? Did she—Christ, of course she did. I saw your face when you first came in here. You looked as if someone had taken a hammer to you. What did she tell you?”

“It's not my secret, Perry.”

“Not your—the hell it isn't! As far as I know, half of London may think it's your secret. Amelia…sweetheart…whatever it is, we can find a way to live with it. I promise you we can.”

But Amelia had found time to think as she had changed into her night rail and dressing gown while Mrs. Fitzhugh and Clive had been working over Perry. Yes, it might be her secret as well as the queen's. But Her Majesty hadn't meant to tell her; the wine and her overwrought emotions had prompted her, not any very good reason to finally speak.

Perry had told her there was a letter addressed to her, hidden in the queen's private chest. Someday that letter would be hers, and even if she already knew what was written in it, she would not, could not, divulge its contents sooner. Not even to Perry.

It was sobering to believe, horrible to know, but there did exist some things that were bigger than the wants or needs of two people in love.

“You love me,” Amelia heard herself saying, and although she was surprised at the words coming out of her own mouth, she didn't regret them. “Don't you, Perry?”

He raised one eyebrow as he grinned at her. “I do, but I think I should have been the one to mention that fact. And you're changing the subject quite clumsily, not that I can find it in me to mind. Do you love me?”

“I could never love anyone else. I seem to be overwhelmingly attracted to pretty rogues masquerading as fribbles. You've spoiled me terribly for anyone less.”

“But you're not going to tell me what the queen said to you tonight.”

“No, I'm not. Do you hate me now?”

“Come here,” he said, shifting on the wide bed to allow her room to lie down beside him. “Careful now, I'm an injured fribble.”

She settled her head in the crook of his shoulder. “You should be resting.”

“You say that as you lie here, pressed against me?” He moved his uninjured arm until his hand lightly rested on her breast. “I've been wounded, Amelia, I'm not dead.”

Amelia lifted his hand and put it back on his own chest. “No, you're not. What you are is incorrigible. And I'm going to go sleep in my dressing room.”

She didn't even get a chance to move before Perry had turned, pinning her to the mattress. “Did I ever tell you that I am unreasonably proud of being incorrigible? I believe, in point of fact, that I have a certain natural flair for incorrigible. Why, if you were to apply to mine uncle, to any number of people, I'm sure they would be more than happy to tell you that Perry Shepherd is far and away the most incorr—”

Amelia clamped her mouth to his, cutting short his silliness, because she thought that was a good idea.

It was her last truly rational thought for quite some time, as she'd much rather concentrate her wholly irrational thoughts on the feel of Perry's lips against hers, the welcome exploration his tongue began of her mouth, the way he allowed her to push him onto his back so that she could slide her leg across his thigh.

She broke their kiss and moved lower, exploring his bare chest, her lips following the trail her curious fingers had blazed.

There was no rhyme or reason to her exploration, not even a great passion; only that he was here, he was alive rather than lying dead somewhere at Jarrett Rolin's hand.

She touched him because she could. She kissed him because she could. She loved him because when she'd thought about a world without him she could not see herself in that world, either.

His injury had frightened her, shown her how very close she'd come to losing him, and if she'd had a shred of pride left in her she did not even notice its departure.

She loved this man. Her whole world had turned upside down today, filled her with confusion, but of this much she would always be sure. She loved this man.

He was here because he wanted to be here, because he loved her. He'd said he loved her. No matter who she was or who she wasn't, he loved her.

With a boldness new to her, she nuzzled the soft blond hair on Perry's chest, then followed its narrowing path down to the buttons on his pantaloons.

A moment's hesitation, no more, and her steady fingers pushed open the buttons one by one, even as she felt Perry's hand on her head, lightly stroking her hair.

Breathing hurt, actually hurt, as she slid her hand inside the opening and closed that hand around him. Her eyes closed, she felt a rush of anticipation as his body responded to her touch. Skin soft and smooth as silk, and yet firm and unyielding.

She moved her hand, exploring again, all sensation, thrilling to his obvious pleasure. She wanted to see. To know. She wanted to—

“God's teeth, Amelia, I still could die tonight, if you don't stop that,” Perry said, covering her hand with his own.

She looked up at him, confused, and saw his smile. “Was I…am I…
oh.
I'm so sorry…I had no…I didn't mean to…”

“I do love you,” Perry said as, holding up his injured arm to keep it out of the way, he drew her to him once more, kissing her face, her hair. “You have no idea of the power you hold over me, do you?”

“No…but I shouldn't have…I mean, you're wounded, and…”

“Yes I am. And, being wounded, I do believe I should be allowed certain…certain
indulgences
…um, to be
indulged.
”

As he spoke he was employing his good hand to slowly raise her night rail, up and over her hips. Then he lifted his own hips and Amelia, caution still thrown to the winds, aided him in pushing down his pantaloons, and she at last got a glimpse of what she had begun to explore.

She bit her lip and looked up into his face. “Tell me,” she said, her heart pounding, tendrils of desire licking at her heated skin. “I don't know what to—”

But that was a lie, because she did know what to do. She didn't know how she knew, but as she levered herself to her knees and straddled him, Perry's smile told her that his thoughts mirrored hers.

He moved so that he could slip one hand beneath her, and she lifted herself slightly. When she settled again, it was to be filled with him, and instinct guided her once more as she leaned into him and began to move, her night rail covering her so very modestly as she gave in to a passion that had little to do with modesty.

The world was Perry. There was nothing else she wanted, nothing else that could possibly mean more than the look in his eyes as he reached for her, as he cried out her name.

 

“H
UZZA
! H
UZZA
! Long live the queen!”

“You know, Amelia,” Her Majesty said as the royal carriage once more made its way through the crowded streets, “I would enjoy this adulation more if my head hurt less. And you look no better than I feel. What happened last night? I really don't remember.”

Amelia summoned a weak smile. What had happened?
Everything.
“Nothing, ma'am. We spoke of yesterday's events, and then you fell asleep. But it was a trying day, ma'am, and very forgettable.”

She felt the queen's sharp gaze on her and made a great business of looking out the window of the coach. “We're nearly there, ma'am.”

“Yes, yes,” Her Majesty said with one last, long look at Amelia before she turned her attention to the two titled ladies who rode with them, insisting that they and several others attend the theater with her that evening, once the day's testimony was behind them.

Amelia sighed silently. Brougham had put the
thought of parading herself about London to the queen, and she had grabbed at it with both hands. Anything, anything at all she could do to discommode her husband.

Didn't the woman understand that everyone was using her to their own ends? That they were pointing fingers at her, laughing at her, dining out on tales of whatever she said to them, whatever she did in their presence?

Perhaps she did know; surely she knew. Knew and didn't care. She was behaving with a reckless disregard for herself, for her health, her reputation, her future, that was truly frightening. That, or Her Majesty actually believed victory lay in that future, which was impossible. Simply impossible.

And there was nothing Amelia could say to dissuade the queen. She could only wish it all over, finished.

She only wished to be with Perry, even as she knew that the queen would never allow it, never allow her to leave her household.

“Amelia! Woolgathering again? What think you of this? A ball! We shall put on a ball!”

Amelia blinked, then glared at the two titled ladies who flanked the queen on the facing seat, their smiles nearly predatory. “Oh, ma'am, I don't—”

Her Majesty threw up her black lace-mitted hands to silence her. “Not a ball! Not precisely a ball. In mourning, remember? But a dancing party, Amelia.”

“We have, may I remind Your Majesty, already planned a small, informal party to announce Miss Penrose's betrothal to Sir Nathaniel.”

“Yes, yes, a piddling thing. Now we will make it
bigger,
Amelia. My dear ladies here will draw up the invitations yet today. It is imperative I do not show myself cowed by these baseless accusations. It is imperative that I triumph over them!”

“Yes, ma'am. It will be seen to, all of it, as Your Majesty wishes.” Amelia smiled weakly, wishing for herself nothing more than to reach across the coach and choke both of the smiling ladies-in-waiting, looking entirely too self-satisfied.

 

P
ERRY LAY
on his back, Amelia tucked into his side, and smiled up at the hangings over her bed in some satisfaction. Every night, after the household had retired, he had come to Amelia, been welcomed by Amelia.

His was not a perfect life right now, but it did come amazingly close. “I'm going straight to hell, pet, and I know it, but I wouldn't give up one moment being with you for any hope of eternity.”

Then, when she giggled, he looked down at her smiling face. “What? Laying it on too thick and rare, as our friend Nate would say?”

“I think so, yes,” Amelia told him, sitting up and pulling the covers modestly over her breasts. “Not that I'm saying you should stop. However, there is something I'd like to discuss, if you think you can be serious for a moment.”

He leaned over and kissed her bare shoulder. “Ah, here it comes. Throw a little attention the chit's way and she's wanting nothing more than to talk linens and china
patterns. Very well, but I think you'll find the Brentwood closets already fairly well stuffed with them.”

“You assume a lot, My Lord,” Amelia said. “You know, I should not feel light and carefree in the midst of all this, but you do seem to have that effect on me. Shame on both of us. However, that said, sir, I do not recollect having heard a proposal of marriage, nor have I accepted one.”

“No, you damn well didn't, but that hasn't kept us from making a possible start on my heir, has it? Are you still worried, Amelia? About the contents of that box.”

She shook her head. “No. Well, yes. But I worry for the queen, not for me. It is true, if we were to marry, quickly, and I were to produce that heir you've mentioned, also quickly, then I don't think anyone will ever—” She bit her lip to keep back the words.

Perry sat up, turned to lay his hands on her shoulders. “Ever force you onto the throne? Ever parade you as definitive proof of the queen's adultery so many years ago? Will ever do
what,
Amelia?”

She leaned her head against his chest. “I want to tell you, I really do. But the queen confided in me in her panic, and after drinking entirely too much wine. We've never spoken of it again, Perry, and it has been a week. I don't think she even remembers that she told me. I think she wants me to know only after she's gone. Ours hasn't been the most…
normal
association.”

Amelia lifted her head, tears in her eyes and said, “She told me…she told me that she doesn't die soon enough. That's so incredibly sad.”

“And yet I see no sign of any sadness in the woman,” Perry said, leaving the bed to pour them each a glass of wine. “The theater, the Park, the dinners? She seems to grow stronger every day, and you seem to grow more afraid, sadder. Do you have any idea how impotent I feel in all of this? How much I hate sneaking about like some lovesick youth, never to wake with you by my side?”

“Oh, Perry, I'm sorry.”

“No, don't be sorry. Let me speak to her, Amelia. Let me assure her that you're safe with me if she would only give her approval that we marry. I can have a Special License within a day or two, and we can—oh, never mind. You won't leave her until this is over, will you?”