Page 39 of War of the Wedding Wagers
Dropping her gaze, she said with a smile, “The self-containment has been a lifetime in the making. It was a necessary counter to being far too naturally prone to exuberance.”
“Exuberance, Miss Fairchild? You?”
Amelia laughed at his wry look and half smile then said, thoughtfully—though of course she should have beenbreathlessly warning him about his sister—“I was betrothed to a very serious-minded man who made me understand that life is not a game.” Why had she said that? Sir Frederick wasn’t interested in either her exuberance—or lack of—or her past. He needed to hear of Caroline and Mr. Greene’s plans.
But, as their plans depended on darkness, and right now the sun was high in the sky, Amelia, blushing, opened her mouth to go on when he said, “I remember Thomas Blackheath. Indeed, he was a very noble gentleman who gave his life to this country. I’m sorry for your loss.” Frowning, he added, “But he has been gone more than five years.”
“Yes, and I knew I would never find his equal,” Amelia said, remembering she had to call out all her defenses for the way Sir Frederick was looking at her was making her insides curdle. How could she find such a man attractive after Thomas? This charming libertine who knew how to look at a woman, and how to say all the right things, was the antithesis of her Thomas.
“You knew? Or you resolved?” asked Sir Frederick. “Naturally, you will never find his equal unless you go looking. Which, I gather, you are also resolved not to do.”
Amelia blinked. There was almost censure in his words. Instead of responding, she asked, “Howwelldid you know Thomas?”
“Enough to know he was a very…serious man.”
“And noble.”
Sir Frederick shrugged. “He died for his country. What could be more noble than that?”
And yet there was something about his tone that made Amelia question his words. She found, now, that she didn’t want to talk about Thomas.
Of course, she should change the conversation and tell him about Caroline and what had brought her here.
But he was clearly still pondering what Thomas and Amelia meant to each other, for he said, “I did wonder at the time what Miss Amelia Fairchild and Mr. Thomas Blackheath had in common. The fellow was not known for his sense of humor.” He must have seen Amelia’s expression, for he added, quickly, “But he was an excellent soldier, and he would no doubt have been as assiduous a husband as he was a servant to the crown. Unlike many of the men you’ve since encountered, Miss Fairchild, otherwise a young woman of your beauty and intellect would have married long before now.”
She knew she was wrong to let it happen. She should have been stronger than that, but obviously the vanity that Thomas had helped her vanquish was more integral to her pleasure-loving nature than she’d supposed. For the compliment found fertile ground.
And not only that, she found the roiling in the pit of her stomach intensifying as she gazed up at Sir Frederick.
“Beauty,” she repeated in a whisper, only aware she’d spoken when he chuckled and she put her hand to her mouth.
“Most ladies parade their beauty like butterflies, but you try to hide yours, Miss Fairchild. I wonder why that is.”
Amelia ran the tip of her tongue over her suddenly dry lips. “It’s…not something I think very much about,” she whispered.
“Since you are not looking for a husband,” he finished for her, as if he were stating this as fact.
He’d taken a step closer, and she didn’t step back. She stared up at him, her feet planted squarely on the ground, for if he wanted to close the distance between them, then she would not object.
She wasn’t going to throw herself into his arms, but if he wanted—
Before she’d finished the thought, he’d lowered his head to look her in the eye. His dark, piercing gaze seemed to penetrateher heart and without realizing it, she’d closed her own eyes, tilting her face and slightly parting her lips.
The touch of his mouth, gentle upon hers, stirred new life into her. Sighing softly, she stepped fully into his embrace, and as his arms tightened about her, she felt her legs become boneless and her heart begin to sing.
Glorious. That’s what it felt like to be kissed.
To be kissed by Sir Frederick for the pressure of lips, gentle at first, more demanding as his ardor increased, matched her all the way.
She twined her arms about his neck and pushed her body against his, needing to be closer when, in fact, they were as close as was possible.
Under the circumstances.
She would not think of that. She’d not even know what “that” was until long after Thomas had died and she’d spent more time in the company of young married friends who’d sometimes forgotten she was not one of “them” when they spoke of the agonies and ecstasies of the marriage bed.
As if sensing her increasing need, he stepped her backwards until she was against a large elm, and having the support behind her gave her the strength to draw his head down and press her mouth even more deeply against his so that for a moment she was emboldened to take charge. To let him know how deeply she reveled in this—
And then she remembered herself. Dropping her arms, with a gasp, still breathless, she ducked out of his embrace, saying with shame at her wantonness, “I don’t know what came over me, Sir Frederick. Please forget this ever happened.”
