Passion for the Game (Georgian 2)

“How did you manage this?” she breathed, filled with pleasure by his thoughtfulness.

“Dear Amelia,” he drawled, his eyes twinkling. “You know who I am now, and who I will be. I can manage anything.”

She knew the rudiments of the peerage and saw the power wielded by her father, a viscount. How many more times the magnitude was the power wielded by Ware, whose future held a marquessate?

Her eyes widened at the thought.

“Come now,” he urged, “have a seat, enjoy a peach tart, and tell me about your day.”

“My life is dreadfully boring,” she said, dropping to the ground with a sigh.

“Then tell me a tale. Surely you daydream about something.”

She dreamt about kisses given passionately by a dark-eyed Gypsy lover, but she would never say such a thing aloud. She rose to her knees and dug into the basket to hide her blush. “I lack imagination,” she muttered.

“Very well, then.” Ware situated himself on his back with his hands clasped at his neck and stared up at the sky. He looked as at ease as she had ever seen him. Despite the rather formal attire he wore—including pristine white stockings and polished heels—he was still a far more relaxed person than the one she met weeks ago. Amelia found that she rather liked the new earl and felt a touch of pleasure that she had wrought what she considered to be a positive change in him.

“It appears I must regale you with a story,” he said.

“Lovely.” She settled back to a seated position and took a bite of her treat.

“Once upon a time—”

Amelia watched Ware’s lips move as he spoke and imagined kissing them. A now-familiar sense of sadness shivered through her, an effect of leaving her beloved romantic notions behind and embracing unfamiliar new ones, but the sensation lessened as she thought of Colin and what he had done. He certainly did not feel any sadness about leaving her behind.

“Would you kiss me?” she blurted, her fingertips brushing tart crumbs from the corners of her lips.

The earl paused midsentence and turned his head to look at her. His eyes were wide with surprise, but he appeared more intrigued than dismayed. “Beg your pardon. Did I hear you correctly?”

“Have you kissed a girl before?” she asked, curious. He was two years older than she was, only one year younger than Colin. It was quite possible that he had experience.

Colin had an edgy, dark restlessness about him that was seductive even to her naïve senses. Ware, on the other hand, was far more leisurely, his attractiveness stemming from innate command and the comfort of knowing the world was his for the taking. Still, despite her high regard for Colin, she could see how Ware’s lazy charm appealed.

His eyebrows rose. “A gentleman does not speak of such things.”

“How wonderful! Somehow, I knew you would be discreet.” She smiled.

“Repeat the request again,” he murmured, watching her carefully.

“Would you kiss me?”

“Is this a hypothetical question, or a call to action?”

Suddenly shy and unsure, Amelia looked away.

“Amelia,” he said softly, bringing her gaze back to his. There was deep kindness there on his handsome patrician features, and she was grateful for it. He rolled to his side and then pushed up to a seated position.

“Not hypothetical,” she whispered.

“Why do you wish to be kissed?”

She shrugged. “Because.”

“I see.” His lips pursed a moment. “Would Benny suffice? Or a footman?”

“No!”

His mouth curved in a slow smile that made something flutter in her belly. It was not an outright flip, as was caused by Colin’s dimples, but it was certainly a herald of her new awareness of her friend.

“I will not kiss you today,” he said. “I want you to think upon it further. If you feel the same when next we meet, I will kiss you then.”

Amelia wrinkled her nose. “If you have no taste for me, simply say so.”

“Ah, my hotheaded princess,” he soothed, his hand catching hers, his thumb stroking the back. “You jump to conclusions just as you jump into trouble—with both feet. I will catch you, fair Amelia. I look forward to catching you.”

“Oh,” she breathed, blinking at the suggestive undertone to his words.

“Oh,” he agreed.

By the time she headed for home, her belly delectably full of delicacies, she was confident in her decision to kiss the charming earl. He had agreed to meet her the next day, and she made mental preparations for the repeating of her bold request and then the result of it. If it went well, she intended to ask for another favor—the posting of a note.

To Maria.

“What mischief are you planning now?” Cook asked as Amelia snuck in through the service door in her continuing effort to hide from Colin.

“I never plan mischief,” Amelia cried, settling her hands on her hips in a great show of affront. Why did everyone think she sought trouble?

Cook snorted and narrowed her wizened gaze. “Yer too old for troublemaking.”

Amelia broke out in a wide grin. That was the first time anyone had told her she was too old to do something, rather than too young.

“Thank you!” she cried before kissing the servant’s cheek and running up the stairs.

As far as days went, this one had been nearly perfect.

Christopher’s fingers drummed a rapid staccato against the desktop. He stared out his study window, his mind in as much turmoil as his body.

Maria had left him. Although she was gone when he awoke and therefore said nothing of her intent to him, he knew she meant for their affair to be over.

He’d nearly gone after her immediately, but in the end he held back, knowing that he required a plan to proceed. He could not charge ahead and risk damaging their relations further.

Now, hours after waking, he was relieved when a knock came to his study door, grateful for a brief respite. Calling out for the person to enter, he watched as the portal swung open and Philip stepped into the room.

“Good afternoon,” the young man greeted.

Christopher smiled wryly. “Is it?”

“I think so. You might agree, after you hear what I have to relay.”

“Oh?”

Philip took a seat across from him. “Lady Winter was not intimate with Lord Eddington in Brighton, or at any other time.”

Curious, Christopher asked, “Why tell me this?”

“Because I thought you would wish to know.” Philip frowned. “If you had known before she sought you out, the evening might have progressed differently.”

“Would I have wanted it to progress in another way?”

Philip began to squirm slightly as he became more confused. “I thought you might. You have been rather brooding since she left, and while I was asleep at the time, I have heard from others that Lady Winter did not look well when she departed.”

“What purpose does it serve for me to know that she was not intimate with Eddington in Brighton?” Christopher leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve no notion,” Philip muttered. “If you see no use for the information, there is nothing further to discuss.”

“Very well,” Christopher said dryly. “Allow me to rephrase. What would you do with the information, were you in my place?”

“But I am not in your place.”

“Humor me.”

Taking a shaky breath, Philip said, “I am not certain if Eddington’s association with Lady Winter is the cause of your recent bout of melancholia, but—”

“I do not have melancholia,” Christopher bit out.

“Um…Yes. Wrong word. ‘Decline’ might be better?” Philip risked a glance at Christopher’s face and winced. “In any case, if Lady Winter and Lord Eddington were the cause, and I were to learn that they spent very little time together, I would conclude that perhaps they are not engaged in any lascivious activities.”

“A reasonable conclusion.”

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“Yes, well…” Philip cleared his throat. “Therefore, since the events would make little sense to me, I would go to Lady Winter and ask her to clarify.”

“She has never once told me a secret of hers,” Christopher said. “That is our primary point of contention.”

“Well…she did write to you. She came to you. I would consider that a positive sign.”