Absolute Surrender Page 8

  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.”

  Charles watched her mouth form the words. The sound floated toward him on her breath, and he could not stop his advance. There were warnings in the back of his mind, his conscience throwing him a line to catch—he rather slammed the door on it.

  Charles’s hand left the door and took her neck, bracing her jaw as he tilted her slowly to him, holding her steady as he descended, watchful, then kissed the very edge of her upturned mouth. He saw her close her eyes, and she relaxed into him, all of her tension concentrated in those two small hands clutching his coat. He traced her lips with his tongue, decided she’d had honey with her toast at breakfast, reined in everything in him that screamed TAKE, then kissed her sweetly, gently.

  A promise.

  She leaned further into him, and he wrapped his other arm around her waist, holding her against his body, attempting to be ever so gentle, ever so sweet. An apology for his untoward behavior. He ministered to those lips, left no crease untouched, and she relaxed incrementally. His hand expanded at the small of her back, as though to hold as much of her as possible, and he noticed a new sort of movement—the tension like a living thing traveling her spine as he held on to her. He opened his eyes.

  Amelia’s very life breathed into him as he tasted her, the fresh honey with an underlying flavor of lilac. He broke away when he heard voices outside.

  Good God, what have I now done?

  Charles’s breathing was unsteady, a prelude to what his body wished to come next. His eyes shot to the door of the parlor, and he backed up a pace, with much difficulty. She nearly fell to the floor, her body left without his support, and he reached for her, but her hand shot out and caught the edge of a table. As the table shook, a vase crashed to the floor, certainly alerting the household.

  “I beg your pardon, Amelia. That was entirely uncalled for. I—” He needed to beg forgiveness. He should have been on his knees. Damn the consequences, the audience that made its way to them now.

  She held up a hand to stay him. “No, please don’t apologize for something so...something.” Her hand moved to hover at her chin, as if she debated whether to touch her lips or retreat. “Thank you.”

  Charles winced at the formality of the phrase. “I understand you have the very best intentions. I’m just not entirely sure that he has those same intentions.” He wasn’t sure why he was talking about this. He had just kissed her. Thoroughly. In the parlor. Why had he brought to mind the man who was still between them?

  “No, that he does n
ot.” Her admission was unexpected.

  Charles looked at her, shocked she’d followed his line of conversation, or chose to continue it. “Did he tell you as much?” he asked.

  He saw her falter, her eyes sweep the room, the way her lids fell but didn’t rise as quickly as a blink. The way her hands shook. His soul called to hold her. To take all that force and fission into himself, to will her to calm. Instead, his hands held at the ready, not at his sides, but prepared, staid.

  “He did. Hugh intended to say good-bye this morning, but then he didn’t, and then he did and then—” She lifted her hand to her lips again, and he knew.

  “Just this morning then. I was a mere hour late to being your first.”

  Her nod was so small it was nearly imperceptible. She shook her head and closed her eyes. “Of course I understand completely should you decide I’m not worthy,” she whispered.

  “Your worth, Amelia, was decided years ago. The decision to be made now is whether our life together can survive a man who may be determined to ruin us.” When she gazed upon him again, he saw the shine in her eyes and knew he had possibly gone too far.

  “Amelia, I must go.”

  She felt herself nod.

  “Do you need me to stay?”

  “You mustn’t stay. My mother is undoubtedly coming. You must go.”

  Please stay…

  Charles took her shivering hand as the footsteps neared, gazed at it, held her hand as though it were the entirety of her, then kissed it, the soothing heat of his mouth a tonic that rushed her veins. Then he turned and left.

  She nearly melted into a puddle there by the door, but it creaked wider, and she turned swiftly for the windows.

  Amelia attempted to gather her wits. Because they were scattered, possibly shattered. Her wits were undoubtedly, irreconcilably and irretrievably bestrewn about her.

  She plopped down on the window seat and attempted to untangle from her mind the previous hour or so. Truly it was the last little bit that had her in a dither. She held on to the cushions, to anything that would help to anchor her. Hold her to the earth.

  Charles had been hard in places he shouldn’t have been hard. Not if he were upset. She pressed a hand to her chest. In truth, she was hard in places she shouldn’t have been as well. She rubbed in a feeble attempt to relieve the sensation of her taut nipples against the barrier of her corset.

  She had drilled Hugh about it once, while they were watching her father’s men work with the cattle. He had been very patient about it, because he knew she didn’t like surprises. Of any kind. He also knew her mother would never say a word to her. So Hugh had patiently—ever so patiently—attempted to explain what happened to a man when he liked a woman. In very brief, and vague, terms.

  A man could be hard—there—while upset, but being upset wouldn’t make him hard. He was made to be hard only because he was interested. In her. Charles had said she’d groaned in a sensual manner. Sensual meant sex. Amelia knew this as well. But she didn’t know what sex sounded like. At least, not when humans were involved.

  She dearly hoped it sounded nothing like the cattle. That certainly wouldn’t be sensual, would it? To a human? That lowing and pitching? Or the goats, or the horses, or—

  “Amelia.” She jerked her hand to her lap, and the flush rose from her corset to her face. “His Grace has asked to speak with your father. I take it the outing was successful?”

  Amelia clenched her eyes.

  What the devil? Her mind spun, then caught on the last word from her mother.

  Successful. Charles was speaking with her father.

  The cushion leaned when her mother sat next to her, and Amelia straightened. Let loose the fabric, attempted to relax her fingers on the handkerchief.

  “I…expect it’s entirely possible that in the future he may decide to opt for me,” Amelia said to her mother in the easiest voice she could muster. She turned in time to see her mother’s features pass from excited to confused to appeased—with an underlying bit of annoyance.

  “Mother, I am...terribly weary. I believe I should rest.” She attempted a smile and waited for permission to leave. She could see that her mother wanted more from her, but more she wasn’t able to give. First off, she hadn’t even had a chance to remember the morning as it was, to consider every word, every hand gesture, every movement that might need examination.

  Amelia truly had no idea whether the outing had been successful. The outing had been exhausting, as any courting experience would have been for her.

  We are not that familiar, you and I. Goodness, she had said that to him.

  She stood rather abruptly. “I will see you for tea, perhaps, if I feel up to it.”

  “Amelia.”

  She smiled down at her mother, feeling her nerves coil, attempt to regather, prepare to bolt. She shook her head. Hopefully, her mother knew better than to push her at this point. Her mother had what she wanted. Now, Amelia wanted to be left alone.

  Amelia didn’t wait. She turned for the door to the parlor and left as quickly as she could. She watched the door to her father’s study as she traversed the entry, knew Charles was in there, knew he was asking her father to court her, knew he was neither here, nor there. Knew not what to think of the situation.

  It wasn’t good or bad. It wasn’t yes or no. It wasn’t an answer. It left her hanging, and she hated that more than anything, the not knowing. She would prefer that he decline and walk away. This...this nothingness of unknowing would be her undoing.

  She heard the shoes hit the hardwood at the edge of the rug and realized much too late that the door was about to open.

  When Charles emerged, he caught her eye, smiled easily and nodded. As though he had no idea what he had done to her—and he didn’t, did he? She turned and ran up the stairs as if that smile had teeth and planned to nip at her ankles like a shepherd. She had to get away from him before she ruined everything. She could feel the pull of her composure, did not have the strength to hold herself together any longer. The morning had quite thoroughly exhausted her. When she hit the landing, she lifted her skirts and she ran.

  She flung herself through the door to her sitting room, so brimming with colorful boxes there wasn’t anywhere to sit. The reticule would have lived here, in one of these boxes, waiting for her attention. The handkerchief would live here. She would need a new box, one specifically for Charles. Until then, she needed someplace safe to keep it. Amelia knew she whimpered at the thought, and she tugged at her skirts and moved through the boxes.

  Finally, she flung herself into her room and tore at her clothes. She needed…what did she need? She needed more air. She needed to be free from the constraints of her clothes at the very least. She needed her blasted nipples to be away from this corset. After that, she wasn’t sure. She was sure that she would know precisely what it was she needed as soon as she was free from these stays. She screamed, and Louisa ran through the connecting door to her bath.

  “Oh, milady, please, let me help you.”

  Amelia sobbed and pulled at her gown, even as Louisa batted her hands away. Amelia knew she was hindering the process but couldn’t seem to keep her hands out of the way. Her head spun. Her heart beat a tattoo strong enough to send a battalion to war. “Louisa…Louisa!”

  “Yes, yes, milady, here we go, here now!”

  The dress fell away, and the stays followed, and Louisa threw a large blanket around her. Amelia pressed her forearms against her chest as Louisa guided her to the bed, stretching her out and tucking her in.

  Why did she have to suffer so? He’d still spoken with her father, hadn’t he? But perhaps he had spoken with him to cry off. Perhaps it hadn’t been to ask to court her. Perhaps he’d said that only to distract her so he could take his leave peacefully. Perhaps he’d finally seen through everything she attempted to be and could now see what she truly was. Unworthy. A mess.

  But he threw my reticule into the pond.

  Yes, but he also kissed me then spoke of Hug
h.

  Yes, but he also made me laugh, at great difficulty.

  Yes, but he did not offer for me.

  Yes, but he did speak with my father, regardless of what happened in the carriage.

  Or…possibly because of it? But I behaved terribly.

  Yes, but he didn’t seem to mind that as much as wish to discover it.

  Yes, but he left…

  Yes, but he threw my reticule into the pond.

  He threw my reticule into the pond.

  She closed her eyes tightly as her mind spun around the events.

  Louisa’s hands were on her back, kneading and rolling, attempting to soothe.

  “Tell me, sweet child, tell me what has you in a bind,” Louisa begged.

  “He said possibly,” she croaked, and then it was all crystal clear, and she was up from the confines of her blanket and her bed in an instant. “He said maybe! Who says that?” She turned on Louisa, screaming, “Who holds your heart and then tells you that your wishes might be possible…we’ll see? Who says that? Oh, Louisa, and then I…oh, I—oh dear. I was quite unladylike.” The room spun, and she grabbed the back of her chair and let the darkness come down over her like a whirlwind, carrying her voice into the ether.

  Charles wasn’t clear whether it was the hastiness of her retreat or the sway of her bottom as she ran up the stairs that gave him pause. But pause he did, to consider her retreating form and perhaps the hastiness with which it did so.

  Charles knew two things for certain: He was treading in difficult waters, and he was very nearly to the point at which there would be no retreat. He knew he had to ascertain her suitability as quickly as possible. His want be damned. But he did want her. Oh, how he did want.

  He watched her go, disconcerted by her reaction to his smile. He must have scared the wits from her. Hopefully, he would still be welcome when he called tomorrow. Had he really pressed into her in the parlor? Had he truly treated her in such a low manner? He pressed a palm to his forehead as if to stave off an ache as his body screamed at him to follow her. Protect her.