Her lips were warm and soft, her tongue cool and slick against his. Bracketing her face in his hands, he angled her head to deepen the kiss. She squirmed in his lap, but he held her tight, taking more. And then more. Stroking deep with his tongue, clashing teeth against teeth. He had to have this taste, this softness, this heat, and devil take it, he knew he was going to ruin everything by scaring her away, but he couldn’t stop.

He slid one hand to her breast and squeezed hard, because part of him wanted to punish her. Inside him, things were cracking and shifting with the deep, bone-shivering howl of ice splintering off from a glacier. Old pockets of emptiness were filling in; new chasms of need split asunder. It hurt. He was being rearranged in deep, forgotten places, and this woman was to blame. He kneaded harder, pinching the tight knot of her nipple, because he wanted her aching, too. It was unforgivable, and so damned unfair. Somehow she’d managed to get inside him before he’d gotten inside of her.

She made a startled cry against his mouth, jerking him into consciousness. He froze, breaking the kiss.

“Ten minutes,” she said, panting. “You have to let me go.”

“I can’t.”

Struggling against him, she choked on a sob. “Spencer, please.”

“If I release you, will you come to me tonight?”

He felt her head shake before he heard her answer. “No.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still afraid.”

“I’m more frightened than ever.”

He swallowed a roar of frustration. Damn it, hadn’t he shown her inhuman amounts of restraint? Aside from that little slip just now? How could she sit in his arms like this if she thought him capable of murder?

Swearing softly, he slid his hands from her body. She couldn’t even meet his gaze. Her eyelashes trembled against her cheeks.

“Go.” He closed his eyes and tried to master his breathing. Gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles went numb, he growled out, “Go. Damn it, get off my lap this instant, or I will not be responsible for my actions.”

She obeyed in haste, pressing her palms against his thighs for leverage as she rose. His chest sagged with relief as she left him. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and letting his head drop into his hands. His own labored breathing was a roar in his ears.

“Good night, Spencer,” she said quietly.

He heard a door latch click, but he didn’t look up. There were three doors leading from this room, and if he knew which one she’d exited through, there was an excellent chance he’d be breaking it down a second later.

After several moments spent wrestling his own lust into submission, Spencer raised his head. Scrubbing one palm over his face, he blinked at the card table, where their round of piquet remained played out before him. No matter how he stared at the cards, they didn’t make sense. Once he’d handicapped himself by discarding the ace, Amelia had a true chance to win. She’d neglected to reckon her points correctly and played the cards far below her skill level. On impulse, he reached for her discard pile and flipped it over.

A one-eyed knave winked up at him, and beneath it, two kings.

She couldn’t possibly have been so stupid as to discard those cards. There was only one way to explain it. She hadn’t even tried to win. All that talk about hosting a party, reaching out to Claudia—what she’d wanted, more than any of it, was simply to be held. By him. And of course, he’d sent her fleeing in fear.

Emotion caught in his throat, prickly and raw. His patience was exhausted, and he felt shabby as hell. One thing was certain—the next time he took Amelia in his arms …

He would not let her go.

Chapter Twelve

The summer she was twelve years old, Amelia made the grave mistake of screeching at a speckled toad within her brothers’ hearing. Therefore, naturally, her brothers had spent the next month foisting toads upon her. They’d hidden them in her cupboards, her sewing kit, even under her pillow … Pharaoh was plagued by fewer toads than Amelia shooed from her room that summer. She detested the bulge-eyed animals, but could she do the expedient thing—pick up the toad lurking in her empty chamber pot and merely toss it out the window? No. She had to catch the loathsome lump in her hands, carry it outside in the dead of night, and turn it loose in the garden no worse for wear. Because that was what Amelia did. She was a nurturer. She couldn’t help but take care of creatures, even the vile, unwanted ones.

Especially the vile, unwanted ones.

It was perverse and irrational and likely the sign of some severe mental defect—but the further Spencer displayed his gross incompetence as a sensitive human being, the more he engaged her sympathy. The worse he bungled every opportunity to put her at ease, the greater her own desire to soothe. And the longer he kept her at arm’s length—emotionally speaking, at least—the more she yearned to hold him tight.

When she awoke the next morning alone, staring up at the stamped plaster ceiling, Amelia had to be honest with herself. She’d been delaying consummation in hopes of girding her heart first. But after last night, she knew it to be a hopeless cause. That embrace had stirred her too deeply. True, Spencer had abandoned their chaste hug to press for further liberties, and his lustful aggression should have dispelled her cravings for tenderness. But when he aroused her desire with those demanding kisses and skillful hands, the longing wouldn’t stay put between her legs. It filled her, consumed her. The longer she denied him her body, the more she risked her heart.

Well, then. That was that. She would go to him today.

Bolting upright in bed, she threw off her coverlet. She wrapped a light blanket around her shoulders and moved to the edge of the mattress, sending her bare toes down to scout the carpet for her slippers.

Inwardly, she resolved to banish all craving for romance. And even if that resolve faltered—what was the worst that could happen, really? She would waste a few months’ unrequited affection on him; he would remain indifferent to her. The world had seen graver injustices. Before long, a baby would fill the void. And the sooner she shared Spencer’s bed, the sooner that baby would come along.

Softly, she padded across the carpet. Now that she’d made the decision, she didn’t want to wait. Nighttime encounters were too personal, too intimate. Surely the act would feel anything but romantic in the bright light of morning. She wouldn’t even bother to brush her hair.

Putting her muscle into it, she slid open the connecting door to Spencer’s room.

He wasn’t there.

A woman was. Two women, actually—a pair of chambermaids, briskly making the bed. Each froze instantly, pillow in hand, to gawp at Amelia. Behind them, a curtain fluttered in the open window, silently mocking her surprise.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the maids said, curtsying briefly before returning to their work.

Amelia firmed her spine and cleared her throat. “My husband …”

“Oh, he’s not here, ma’am. Mr. Fletcher said business took His Grace away early this morning,” said the younger girl. “Before dawn, even.”

Crisp linen snapped. The elder maid gave her partner a stern look, but the young girl chattered on. “The duke’s not expected back until very late, is what I heard.”

“Yes, I know that,” Amelia said firmly, even though she’d had no idea. She made a mental note to speak with Mrs. Bodkin about the staff gossiping, and to question why this Mr. Fletcher was having predawn words with a fresh-faced chambermaid. “What I meant to say was, my husband’s bed linens should have no starch. Remove those, and start again.”

She made as graceful an exit as she could, considering the circumstances. At least she managed not to shut her wrapper in the door. It hadn’t been a lie, that bit about the starch. When she’d removed Spencer’s shirt last night, she’d noticed reddened skin at his throat and wrists—no doubt he was sensitive to whatever starch was being used on his collar and cuffs. She’d speak with his valet later about using an alternate preparation.

If she was going to be mistress of this house, she was going to do it right.

Since she’d worn her gray silk the evening previous, she was forced to select a frock from her own faded, worn wardrobe today. Even the best of her summer dresses—a striped muslin done up just last year, with sage grosgrain ribbon trim—looked drab here at Braxton Hall. Most un-duchessly.

It didn’t help matters when Amelia entered the breakfast room to encounter Claudia dressed in a remarkably similar high-waisted striped muslin frock, except hers boasted lace-trimmed flounces. Two of them. She truly was a lovely girl, with the prospects of becoming a great beauty. But she needed someone to gently guide her behavior, and clearly Spencer wasn’t up to the task.

“Good morning.” Smiling, Amelia laid a plate of kippers and eggs on the table and prepared to seat herself.

Claudia stared at the plate, her features contorting in disgust. Before Amelia’s bottom even touched the chair, the girl shot to her feet and made for the door, two lace flounces bobbing pertly in her wake.

“Claudia, wait.”

She halted, one hand on the doorjamb.

Amelia squared her shoulders. “It may not be my place to say it. But whether you dine with family or strangers, it’s unacceptable to leave the table without excusing yourself.”

“I am ill,” she said mulishly. “And it’s not your place to say it.”

Amelia sighed. The girl was so … so fifteen. And desperately in need of a hug. “You look very well, to my eyes. Won’t you sit down? We need to have a talk. An honest one, woman to woman.”

Claudia let go the doorjamb and slowly turned. “Whatever about?”

“I know you resent me.”

“I …” The girl flushed. “Why, I’m sure I don’t—”

“You resent me. Of course you do. I’m a stranger who has invaded your home without warning and taken your late mother’s role. Perhaps the role you wished to one day assume?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Claudia blushed as she studied the carpet.

“I can’t fault you for being angry,” Amelia said calmly. “I’d feel the same, were I in your place. And to be perfectly honest, I cannot claim to be any better. If it helps at all, I rather resent you, too.”

She looked up. “You? Resent me? Whatever have I done to you?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. But you’re young and pretty, and you look better in stripes than I ever have or will.” She smiled gamely. “When I look at you, I can’t help but see myself at fifteen, when the world was all marvelous, romantic possibility.”

“You know nothing of me. Don’t speak as if you do.”

“Fair enough. At the moment, I grant that we are little more than strangers. I would like, eventually, to be your friend. But I know that’s too much to expect just yet, given the circumstances. I won’t interfere in your daily routine. I will let you be.” She reached for a tray of jam tarts from the sideboard and extended it. “But you can’t keep running away from every meal. I insist that you eat.”

“You insist that I eat?” The young lady eyed the pastries. Instead of taking one, however, Claudia grasped the entire tray and removed it from Amelia’s hands altogether. “Very well,” she said, stuffing a tart into her mouth. “I’ll eat.” Then she and the tray of pastries flounced from the room.

Well, Amelia would count that as progress. At least the girl would not waste away. Settling down to her own breakfast, she opened her mental recipe book and headed a blank page, “Claudia.” Under that, she noted: “Jam tarts. No kippers.”

As she ate, she wondered where Spencer had gone for the day. It shouldn’t be surprising that he had business. After spending some months in Town, surely he must have many estate matters requiring his attention. But wherever he’d gone, she wondered if he was angry with her, after last night. Or disappointed by her. Or yearning for her.