Graceful fingers cupped around her neck and jaw, turning her face upward. The tips of his fingers found the fine skin behind her ears, where it met the silken edge of he hairline. And all the while he continued to fill her with concentrated fire, until the inside of her mouth prickled sweetly and her legs shook beneath her. He used his tongue delicately, exploring without haste, entering her repeatedly while she clung to him in bewildered pleasure.
His mouth lifted, his breath a hot caress against her lips. He turned his head as he spoke to whoever had entered the room.
"I beg your pardon, my lord. We wanted a moment of privacy."
Amelia turned crimson as she followed his gaze to the doorway, where Lord Westcliff stood with an unfathomable expression.
An electric moment passed while Westcliff appeared to marshal his thoughts. His gaze moved to Amelia's face, then back to Rohan's. A smile flickered in his dark eyes. "I intend to return in approximately a half hour. It would probably be best if my study were vacated by then." Giving a courteous nod, he took his leave.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Amelia dropped her forehead to Rohan's shoulder with a groan. She would have pulled away, but she didn't trust her knees to hold. "Why did you do that?"
He didn't look at all repentant. "I had to come up with a reason for both of us to be in here. It seemed the best option," Amelia shook her head slowly, still resting her forehead against him. The dry sweetness of his scent reminded her of a sun-warmed meadow. "Do you think he'll tell anyone?"
"No," he said immediately, reassuring her. "Westcliff isn't given to gossip. He won't say a word to anyone, except..."
"Except?"
"Lady Westcliff. He'll probably tell her."
Amelia considered that, thinking perhaps it wasn't so terrible. Lady Westcliff didn't seem like the kind of person who would condemn her for this. The countess seemed quite tolerant of scandalous behavior.
"Of course," Rohan continued, "if Lady Westcliff knows, there's a high probability she'll tell Lady St. Vincent, who's due to arrive with Lord St. Vincent by the end of the week. And since Lady St. Vincent tells her husband everything, he'll know about it, too. Other than that, no one will find out. Unless ..."
Her head jerked upward like a string puppet's. "Unless what?"
"Unless Lord St. Vincent mentions it to Mr. Hunt, who would undoubtedly tell Mrs. Hunt, and then ... everyone would find out."
"Oh, no. I can't bear it"
He gave her an alert glance. "Why? Because you were caught kissing a Gypsy?"
"No, because I'm not the kind of woman who is caught kissing anyone. I don't have rendezvous! When everyone finds out, I'll have no dignity left. No reputation. No?What are you smiling at?"
"You. I wouldn't have expected such melodrama."
That annoyed Amelia, who was not the kind of woman who indulged in theatrics. She wedged her arms more firmly between them. "My reaction is perfectly reasonable considering?
"You're not bad at it."
She blinked in confusion. "Melodrama?"
"No, kissing. With a little practice, you'd be exceptional. But you need to relax."
"I don't want to relax. I don't want to ... oh, dear Lord." He had bent his head to her throat, searching for the visible thrum of her pulse. A light, hot shock went through her. "Don't do that," she said weakly, but he was insistent, his mouth wickedly soft, and her breath hitched as she felt the brush of his tongue.
Her hands shot to his muscle-banked shoulders. "Mr. Rohan, you mustn't?
"This is how to kiss, Amelia." He cradled her head in his palms, deftly tilting it to the side. "Noses go here." Another disorienting brush of his mouth, a wash of sensual heat. "You taste like sugar and tea."
"I already know how to kiss!"
"Do you?" His thumb passed over her kiss-heated lips, urging them to part. "Then show me," he whispered. "Let me in, Amelia."
Never in her life had she thought a man would say something so outrageous to her. And if the words were improper, the gleam in his eyes was positively immolating.
"I... I'm a spinster." She offered the word as if it were a talisman. Everyone knew that rakish gentlemen were supposed to leave spinsters alone. But it appeared no one had told Cam Rohan.
A covert smile deepened the corners of his mouth. 'That's not going to keep you safe from me." She tried to turn away from him, but his hands guided her face back to his. "I can't seem to leave you alone. In fact, I'm reconsidering my entire policy on spinsters."
Before she could ask what his policy was, his mouth possessed hers again, while his fingers caressed the taut edge of her jaw, coaxing her to relax. Even in her most ardent moments with Christopher Frost, he had never kissed her like this, as if he were consuming her slowly. His lips rubbed over hers until they caught and sealed warmly, and his tongue found hers. He played with her, stroking and reaching, while his hands gathered her closer. He caressed her back and shoulders, while his lips broke from hers to explore the soft slope of her neck. He found a place that made her writhe, teasing gently until a helpless moan slipped from her throat.
Rohan's head lifted. His eyes glowed as if brimstone were contained within the dark-rimmed irises. He spoke slowly, as if he were collecting words like fallen leaves. "This is probably a bad idea."
Amelia nodded shakily. "Yes, Mr. Rohan."
His fingertips teased a fresh surge of color to the surface of her cheeks. "My name is Cam."
"I can't call you that."
"Why not?"
"You know why," came her unsteady reproach. A long breath was neatly rifted as she felt his mouth descend to her cheek, exploring the rosy skin. "What does it mean?"
"My name? It's the Romany word for 'sun.'"
Amelia could scarcely think. "As in ... the offspring of a father, or in the sky?"
"Sky." He moved to the arch of her eyebrow, kissing the outward tip. "Did you know a Gypsy has three names?"
She shook her head slowly, while his mouth slid across her forehead. He pressed a warm veil of words against her skin. "The first is a secret name a mother whispers into her child's ear at birth. The second is a tribal name used only by other Gypsies. The third is the name we use with non-Roma."
His scent was all around her, spare and fresh and delicious. "What is your tribal name?"
He smiled slightly, the shape of his mouth a burning motif against her cheek. "I can't tell you. I don't know you well enough yet."
Yet. The tantalizing promise embedded in that word shortened her breath. "Let me go," she whispered. "Please, we mustn't? But the words were lost as he bent and took her mouth hungrily.
Suffused with pleasure, Amelia groped for his hair, finding acute satisfaction in the slide of heavy silk through her fingers. As he felt her touch him, he gave a low mutter of encouragement. The pattern of his breath changed, roughened, his kisses turning hard and languorous.
He took what she offered—more—sinking his tongue deeper, gathering sensation. And she responded until her soul was scorched at the edges, and her thoughts had vanished like sparks leaping from a bonfire.
Abruptly Rohan took his mouth from hers and held her tightly, too tightly, against his body. She felt herself straining in a subtle pendulum sway, needing friction, pressure, release. He kept her still, holding her close while she trembled and ached.
Rohan's grip eased. She was released by gradual degrees until he was finally able to push her away completely.
"Pardon," he eventually said. She saw the daze of heat in his eyes. "I don't usually have such a difficult time stopping."
Amelia nodded blindly and wrapped her arms around herself. She wasn't aware of her foot's nervous tapping until Rohan came to her and slid one of his feet beneath her skirts to still her drumming toes.
"Hummingbird," he whispered. "You'd better go now. If you don't, I'll end up compromising you in ways you never knew were possible."
Amelia was never quite certain how she returned to the parlor without getting lost. She moved as if through the layers of a dream.
Reaching the settee where Poppy sat, Amelia accepted another cup of tea and smiled at little Merritt, who was fishing around in her own cup for a chunk of dropped sugar biscuit, and responded noncommittally to Lillian's suggestion that the entire Hathaway family join them on a picnic at week's end.
"I do wish we could have accepted her invitation," Poppy said wistfully on the way home. "But I suppose that would be asking for trouble, since Leo would probably be objectionable and Beatrix would steal something."
"And there's far too much for us to do at Ramsay House," Amelia added, feeling distracted and distant.
Only one thought was clear in her mind. Cam Rohan would return to London soon. For her own sake—and perhaps his as well—she would have to avoid Stony Cross Park until he was gone.
Perhaps it was because they were all weary of cleaning, repairing, and organizing, but the entire Hathaway family fell into a desultory mood that evening. Everyone but Leo gathered around the hearth in one of the downstairs room lounging while Win read aloud from a Dickens now Merripen occupied a distant corner of the room, near the family but not quite part of it, listening intently. No doubt Win could have read names from an insurance register and he would have found it enthralling.
Poppy was busy with needlework, stitching a pair of men's slippers with bright wool threads, while Beatrix played solitaire on the floor near the hearth. Noticing the way her youngest sister was riffling through the cards, Amelia laughed. "Beatrix," she said after Win had finished a chapter, "why in heaven's name would you cheat at solitaire? You're playing against yourself."
"Then there's no one to object when I cheat."
"It's not whether you win but how you win that's important," Amelia said.
"I've heard that before, and I don't agree at all. It's much nicer to win."
Poppy shook her head over her embroidery. "Beatrix, you are positively shameless."
"And a winner," Beatrix said with satisfaction, laying down the exact card she wanted.
"Where did we go wrong?" Amelia asked of no one in particular.
Win smiled. "Her pleasures are few, dear. A creative game of solitaire isn't going to hurt anyone."
"I suppose not." Amelia was about to say more, but she was diverted by a cold waft of air that slipped around her ankles and turned her toes numb. She shivered and pulled her knitted blue shawl more snugly around herself. "My, it's chilly in here."
"You must be sitting in a draft," Poppy said in concern. "Come sit by me, Amelia—I'm much closer to the fire."
"Thank you, but I think I'll go to bed now." Still shivering, Amelia yawned. "Good night, everyone." She left as Beatrix asked Win to read one more chapter.
As Amelia walked along the hallway, she passed a small room that, as far as they had been able to tell, had been intended as a gentlemen's room. It featured an alcove that was just large enough for a billiards table, and a dingy painting of a hunting scene on one wall. A large overstuffed chair was positioned between the windows, its velvet nap eroded. Light from a standing lamp slid across the floor in a diluted wash.
Leo was drowsing in the chair, one arm hanging loosely I over the side. An empty bottle stood on the floor near the ' chair, casting a spear-like shadow to the other side of the room.
Amelia would have continued on her way, but something about her brother's undefended posture caused her to stop. He slept with his head slumped over one shoulder, lips slightly parted, just as he had in childhood. With his face wiped clean of anger and grief, he looked young and vulnerable. She was reminded of the gallant boy he had once been, and her heart contracted with pity.
Venturing into the room, Amelia was shocked by the abrupt change of temperature, the biting air. It was far colder in here than it was outside. And it wasn't her imagination—she could see the white puffs of her breath. Shivering, she drew closer to her brother. The coldness was concentrated around him, turning so bitter that it made her lungs hurt to breathe. As she hovered over his prone form, she was swamped in a feeling of bleakness, a sorrow beyond tears.
"Leo?" His face was gray, his lips dry and blue, and when she touched his cheek, there was no trace of warmth. "Leo!"
No response.
Amelia shook him, pushed hard at his chest, took his stiff face in her hands. As she did so, she felt some invisible force pulling at her. She held on doggedly, knotting her fists in the loose folds of his shirt. "Leo, wake up!"
To her infinite relief, he stirred and gasped, and his lashes flickered upward. The irises of his eyes were as pale as ice. His palms came to her shoulders, and he muttered groggily, "I'm awake. I'm awake. Jesus. Don't scream. You're making enough noise to wake the dead."
"For a moment I thought that was exactly what I was doing." Amelia half collapsed onto the arm of the chair, her nerves thrilling unpleasantly. The chill was receding now. "Oh, Leo, you were so still and pale. I've seen livelier-looking corpses."
Her brother rubbed his eyes. "I'm only a bit tap-hackled. Not dead."
"You wouldn't wake up."
"I didn't want to. I? He paused, looking troubled. His tone was soft and wondering. "I was dreaming. Such vivid dreams?
"About what?"
He wouldn't answer.
"About Laura?" Amelia persisted.
His face closed, deep lines weathering the surface like fissures made by the expansion of ice inside rock. "I told you never to mention her name to me."
"Yes, because you didn't want to be reminded of her. But it doesn't matter, Leo. You never stop thinking about her whether you hear her name or not."
"I'm not going to talk about her."
"Well, it's fairly obvious that avoidance isn't working." Her mind spun desperately with the question of what tack to take, how best to reach him. She tried determination. "I won't let you fall to pieces, Leo."
The look he gave her made it clear that determination had been a bad choice. "Someday," he said with cold pleasantness, "you may be forced to acknowledge there are some things beyond your control. If I want to go to pieces, I'll do it without asking your bloody permission."