Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 72

That was important. She didn’t know why, but it was.
“Thomas,” she whispered, and her heart was skipping. Pounding.
Breaking.
“Thom—”
“Don’t,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Don’t say my name.”
Why?
It was on the tip of her tongue, desperate to be voiced, but she didn’t ask. Somehow she knew she shouldn’t.
Whatever the answer was, she didn’t want to hear it.
Not now, not when he was staring down at her with such a hot, sad intensity.
“No one is here,” she whispered. It was true. Everyone was asleep. And she wasn’t sure why she was saying something so obvious. Maybe she just wanted him to know . . . without saying it so clearly. If he leaned down, if he kissed her . . .
She would welcome it.
He shook his head. “Someone is always here.”
But he was wrong. It was the middle of the night.
Everyone was asleep. They were alone, and she wanted . . . she wanted . . .
“Kiss me.”
His eyes flared, and for a moment it almost looked as if he were in pain. “Amelia, don’t.”
“Please.” She smiled, as cheekily as she could manage. “You owe it to me.”
“I—” First he looked surprised, then amused. “I owe it to you?”
“For twenty years of engagement. You owe me a kiss.”
He slid into a reluctant smile. “For twenty years of engagement, I should think I’d owe you several.”
She wet her lips. They’d gone dry from the fast rush of her breath. “One will suffice.”
“No,” he said softly, “it wouldn’t. It would never be enough.”
She stopped breathing. He was going to do it. He was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss her, and by God, she would kiss him back.
She stepped forward.
“Don’t,” he said, but his voice was not firm.
She reached out, her hand coming within inches of his.
“Amelia, don’t,” he said roughly.
Oh no. He was not going to push her away. She would not let him. He was not going to say it was for her own good, or that he knew best, or that anyone knew best except for her. This was her life, and her night, and as God was her witness, he was her man.
She launched herself at him.
On him, really.
“Am—”
It might have been her name he’d been trying to say.
Or it might have been a grunt of surprise. She didn’t know. She didn’t care. She was much too far gone to worry over such trivialities. She had his face in her hands and she was kissing him. Clumsily, perhaps, but with all the crazy energy that was burning through her.
She loved him.
She loved him. Maybe she hadn’t told him, and maybe she’d never be given the opportunity to do so, but she loved him. And right now she was going to kiss him.
Because that’s what a woman in love did.
“Thomas,” she said, because she would say his name.
She’d say it over and over if he’d only let her.
“Amelia . . . ” He put his hands on her shoulders, preparing to push her away.
She could not allow it. She threw her arms around him, pressing the length of her body against his. Her hands sank into his hair, pulling him toward her as her lips pressed against his. “Thomas,” she moaned, the word sinking into his skin. “Thomas, please . . . ”
But he didn’t move. He stood stiffly, with no reaction to her onslaught, and then . . .
Something softened. First it was in his chest, as if he’d finally allowed himself to breathe. And then one of his hands moved . . . slowly, almost shaking . . . to the small of her back.
She shivered. She moaned against him. She let one of her hands sink into his hair. And then she begged.
“Please.”
If he rejected her now . . . She didn’t think she could bear it.
“I need you,” she whispered.
He went very still. So still that she thought she’d lost him. But then he exploded with passionate energy. His arms wrapped around her with stunning speed, and he wasn’t just kissing her back . . .
Dear God, it felt as if he were devouring her.
And she wanted to let him.
“Oh, yes,” she sighed, and she sank more deeply into him. This was what she’d wanted. She’d wanted him, yes, but more than that, she’d wanted this. The power, the knowledge that she had started something. She had kissed him.
And he wanted it. He wanted her.
It made her shiver. It made her melt inside. It made her want to knock him to the ground and straddle him and—
Good God, what had become of her?
Whoever she was, whoever she’d been just hours earlier—that woman was gone, replaced by some wanton spirit who had not spent twenty-one years of life learning to be a proper lady. When she’d kissed him—no, when she threw herself at him, praying he wouldn’t push her away—it had been a thing of her emotions.
She was angry, and desperate, and sad, and wistful, and she’d wanted, just for once, to feel as if she were in control.
But now—emotion was gone. Her body had taken over, fueled by a need she’d only barely tasted before now. It was as if she’d been gripped from within. Something was tensing, twisting. It was deep inside of her, in places she’d never discussed, never even acknowledged.
And he—Thomas—only made it worse.
And better.
No, worse.
“Please,” she begged, wishing she knew what she was asking for. Then she moaned, because he was making it better again. His lips were on her throat, and his hands were everywhere—in her hair, stroking her back, cupping her bottom.