Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 8

“Your grace,” Amelia said, because there seemed little point in pretending she was not aware that he’d seen her. He did not make a verbal acknowledgment, which she found rude, but she didn’t think she was in a position to abandon her own good manners, so she stood, explaining, “It was stuffy inside.”
Well, it was. Even if that hadn’t been her reason for leaving.
Still, he didn’t say anything, just looked at her in that haughty way of his. It was difficult to hold oneself perfectly still under the weight of such a stare, which she supposed was the point. She was dying to shift her weight from foot to foot. Or clench her hands. Or clench her teeth. But she refused to offer him that satisfaction (assuming he noticed anything she did), and so she stood utterly still, save for the serene smile on her face, which she allowed to shift just a little as she tilted her head to the side.
“You are alone,” he said.
“I am.”
“Outside.”
Amelia wasn’t certain how to affirm this without making at least one of them look stupid, so she simply blinked and awaited his next statement.
“Alone.”
She looked to the left, and then to the right, and then said, before she thought the better of it, “Not any longer.”
His stare grew sharper, not that she’d thought that possible. “I assume,” he said, “that you are aware of the potential dangers to your reputation.”
This time she did clench her teeth. But just for a moment. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to find me,” she replied.
He did not like that answer. That much was clear.
“This is not London,” she continued. “I may sit unat-tended on a bench outside the assembly hall for a few minutes without losing my position in society. Provided, of course, that you don’t jilt me.”
Oh, dear. Was that his jaw clenching now? They made quite a pair, the two of them.
“Nevertheless,” he bit off, “such behavior is unbecoming for a future duchess.”
“Your future duchess.”
“Indeed.”
Amelia’s stomach began performing the oddest selection of flips and turns, and truly, she could not tell if she was giddy or terrified. Wyndham looked furious, coldly so, and while she did not fear for her person—he was far too much a gentleman ever to strike a woman—
he could, if he so chose, turn her life into a series of breathless miseries.
As far back as her earliest memory, it had been impressed upon her that this man (boy that he was, at the time) was in charge. Her life, quite simply, and with no arguments accepted, revolved around his.
He spoke, she listened.
He beckoned, she jumped.
He entered a room, and she smiled with delight.
And, most importantly, she was glad for the opportunity. She was a lucky girl, because she got to agree with everything he said.
Except—and this had to be his greatest offense—he rarely spoke to her. He almost never beckoned—what could he possibly require that she could provide? And she’d given up smiling when he entered a room because he was never looking in her direction, anyway.
If he made note of her existence, it was not on a regular basis.
But right now . . .
She offered him a serene smile, gazing up at his face as if she did not realize that his eyes were the approxi-mate temperature of ice chips.
Right now, he noticed her.
And then, inexplicably, he changed. Just like that.
Something within him softened, and then his lips curved, and he was gazing down at her as if she were some priceless treasure, dropped into his lap by a be-nevolent god.
It was enough to make a young lady extremely uneasy.
“I have neglected you,” he said.
She blinked. Thrice. “I beg your pardon?”
He took her hand, raising it to his mouth. “I have neglected you,” he said again, his voice melting through the night. “It was not well done of me.”
Amelia’s lips parted, and although she ought to have done something with her arm (using it to return her hand to her own side would have been an obvious choice), she just stood there like an imbecile, slack-jawed and limp, wondering why he . . .
Well, just wondering why, to tell the truth.
“Shall I dance with you now?” he murmured.
She stared at him. What was he up to?
“It’s not a difficult question,” he said with a smile, tugging gently at her hand as he moved closer. “Yes . . . or no.”
She caught her breath.
“Or yes,” he said, chuckling as his free hand found its place at the small of her back. His lips approached her ear, not quite touching, but close enough so his words drifted across her skin like a kiss. “Yes is almost always the correct answer.”
He exerted a bit of pressure and slowly . . . softly . . .
they began to dance. “And always,” he whispered, his mouth finally brushing her ear, “when you’re with me.”
He was seducing her. The realization washed over her with equal parts excitement and confusion. She couldn’t imagine why; he had never shown the least inclination to do so before. It was deliberate, too. He was unleashing every weapon in his arsenal, or at least every one allowable in a public garden.
And he was succeeding. She knew that his aims had to be Machiavellian—she was quite certain she had not turned irresistible during the course of one evening—
but still, her skin was tingling, and when she breathed (which was not as often as she ought), her body seemed to lighten and float, and maybe she did not know so very much about relations between men and women, but she knew one thing . . .