Absolute Surrender (8 page)

She felt Jacks place her hand on his arm, keeping his hand, his warm, warm hand, upon hers as they strolled away from the carriage. She glanced around, expecting to see Hugh, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Another trick of my addled brain.
Was it because she
’
d wanted him here with her so desperately that her brain had attempted to conjure him for her? She inhaled again, trying her level best to school her features, to control her thoughts, and to prevent them from running away with her. Hugh was not here. Charles was here. Charles, her future husband, her…
future.

Perhaps this could be a good place for a beginning
, she thought.
It
’
s not too crowded—
crowds made her nervousness infinitely worse—
if only I can maintain a certain presence
.

Charles turned back to the carriage as his outrider stepped up and helped Lady Mathorpe down the steps. He was starting to believe that she was of her sister’s ilk, holding the belief that Amelia brought everything on herself, that she behaved as she did merely to vex her mother. But he could see that it was so much more. It seemed to him that the more they openly disapproved of her, the more difficulty she had.

Charles narrowed his eyes on Lady Mathorpe, and she shifted uncomfortably. Good. Let her writhe within her own distaste. She had merely been sent as a minion, required to report back a successful outing.

He moved to turn back to Amelia. He stopped her, placed her hand on his arm, allowing her aunt to catch up with them. He heard the lady take a breath to say something, and he knew Amelia’s gaze was on him, waiting to see his action, so he turned—recalling Lady Mathorpe’s full attention to him. His eyes narrowed further on her as if to say,
You have nothing to say
. And, lo, she did not.

What Charles needed was for Amelia to speak with him. Perhaps he should leave the chaperone behind, forget convention, take Amelia down to the lake, to rest and chat without this woman to overhear. He simply wanted to be truthful. He wanted to know. He was a man of action, and all this dancing about was making him as disturbed as it appeared to be disturbing Amelia.

Charles could see the tension course through her. He had seen her relax at the surroundings, but the nearer her aunt drew, the more he attempted simple conversation, the more her muscles drew tight. The words between them were inane, mundane, simple and easy, not at all what they should have been discussing. As well, it was nowhere near the lightness he wished to see in her.

And he could tell she knew that as well as he did.

Amelia stretched her fingers, wishing she could know what they would discuss. Discussion was always easier for her were she able to prepare. She expected questions about Hugh. Perhaps she could move Charles to reminisce. She would have been quite comfortable talking of the past. She smiled to herself, thinking of the three of them on the moors, then she felt him turn, the muscles of his forearm tense and, like water on steel, it spread to her.

Tension. Like a bow, drawn so tight the wood bent backward. The first time she
’
d ever seen an unstrung bow she was mesmerized, amazed that the bow was bent the wrong direction. It made perfect sense, suddenly. The extreme amount of tension—
yes, there was no other word unfortunately
—required to string a bow, to turn that piece of yew inside out and hold it taut was understandable to her.

No. Not understandable...familiar.

She felt as an unstrung bow at her best moments. Home, on her father’s land at Pembroke-by-the-Sea. Running amok with Hugh as children.

Unfortunately, right now she was strung. Tight. Waiting to be fired from…
upon, without? From. Simply from.
Knowing even once the arrow was loosed, the bow simply returned to well strung. Not retired, not loose, not comfortable. She was uncomfortable in her own skin. As if all that skin were not hers.

“My lady.” That was all he said, but her shoulders relaxed slightly, her neck returned to a decent length, her fingers calmed. Had she been grasping her reticule?
Oh dear.
It seemed she
’
d knocked some of the beads off.

Unfortunate
.

“I beg your pardon for my inattention,” Charles said with an easy smile.

Had he been inattentive?

She returned the smile, not as easily, then a twinge threatened a searing pain, and she looked away, but not before she knew he
’
d seen it. She glanced around the park, expecting to still see
him
here.
Hugh.
Her shoulder blades spread, like angel wings, and she concentrated on that, willing the rest of her body to follow suit.

When she felt a pull, she moved with Charles again, and they walked, the two of them. As it should be. She watched her toes peek out from under her skirts as they strolled in tandem. His black shoes brushed her skirts, sending them to sway. Perhaps she should have worn the brown. The color would have matched his eyes.

She smiled, and his hand squeezed over hers.

“I would very much like to know what you
’
re thinking,” he said, quiet enough to not be overheard.

“That I should have worn the brown to match your eyes.” The second she said it, she realized she shouldn
’
t have.
What have I done? That was much too forward.

“Oh—I...well, I very much like the blue. If that makes a difference. The color matches
your
eyes. Rather seems to make them shine.” He was watching her too closely, and she felt a flush creep over her skin. “You have beautiful eyes, Amelia.”

Her breath lodged somewhere in her throat.

I did not give him leave to use my name. Should I give him leave to use my name?
She turned to look out over the gardens, willing her breath to return. “I did not give you leave...” She cleared her throat when the words were barely audible, and he leaned toward her incrementally. The heat of him, the warmth…it begged her to melt against him.

She inhaled suddenly. “I feel as though I cannot lie to you,” she croaked.

He stopped and took both of her hands in his.

“This is a good thing. ’Tis the basis for a strong relationship. I certainly do not want to hear anything untrue from you, as I
’
m confident you
’
re not interested in lies from me.” His hand traveled slowly up her arm, the right one, the one without the reticule—and the pace of her heart, and the breath from her lungs, sped with his advance.

Charles circled the side of her bare elbow with his thumb, just above her glove, and Amelia watched as his eyes darkened. She leaned toward him to get a better look, and he stopped, then turned and led her to a small bench under a willow just beside the water.

Amelia took a seat and saw her aunt had stopped several feet away, then Amelia looked up at him as he paced. Now he seemed nervous.

“Society dictates that a man be delicate when dealing with a woman. This simple dictate would prevent me asking every question I have of you,” Charles said as he stopped and looked at her.

Amelia
’
s hands tightened on her reticule, and she felt a bead pop off, bouncing to the ground in front of her. Her eyes followed as the bead rolled across the dirt and into the blades of grass. This reticule was a particularly bad idea, too many baubles and beads. It simply wasn
’
t compatible with her. It was a nice reticule, pink and beaded, though it was a bit large. She shouldn
’
t blame the reticule for being a reticule.

“Amelia?”

She shook her head and looked back up to him. “Your Grace, yes, I do beg your pardon. I was...” She waved her hand around, his handkerchief floating behind it. She watched the linen drift then dropped her hand to her lap rather suddenly. “I was trying to be delicate. I
’
ve learned from the best, you see.” She set her reticule on the bench next to her, fearing it would be completely denuded should she continue to handle it. She stared at the reticule, as though it would castigate her for being reckless. The reticule seemed to stare back.

A reticule. The very idea…

She heard him moving slowly toward her, much like a hunter, to avoid startling his prey, then he took a seat, the reticule between them. The bench wasn
’
t made for him. His knees were at a strange angle, she realized, because the bench was a bit short and he was a bit long. She worried whether this would bother him.

“I
’
m not like other women,” she said distractedly.
Damn me.

Charles waited for more, and she felt that wait in every single hair on her nape as each one took it
s
turn in coming to attention, spreading a shiver across her skin. “
I...prefer to be frank. That often comes across as indelicacy,
” she said as her body drifted toward him, as though a magnet.

“Is that all there is to it? A preference?” he asked quietly. “There is nothing more than that?” Charles drifted slowly toward her as well. Or perhaps the movement was all in her imagination. She dearly wished her mind would quiet so she could concentrate on him. The offending reticule continued to stare up at her.

Amelia looked out over the water, hoping that if she broke the tenuous bond between them—she and the duke, not she and the reticule—that her mind would set to rights. She knew there was so much more, but also knew that there was no way to explain to him everything that she was.

“Well, I dislike crowds and…” She turned back toward him. “I
hate
this reticule—” She caught herself before saying more. They both stared down at the offending bag.

“That’s easily rectified. Is there anything within the reticule that you need? I have a pocket to spare.” Charles shifted on the bench and showed her the pocket in his coat, right next to his chest. She thought she
’
d like to curl into that pocket, it looked so cozy and warm, and now she was suddenly jealous of the contents of her reticule—such as they were.

She found herself looking at the duke
’
s handkerchief in her hand, then slowly opened the reticule and pulled hers from it, handing the handkerchief to him. Her eyes were trapped by the movement of his hand, on her handkerchief, moving toward that pocket. She could feel the safety wash over her bones as the linen square disappeared in there, cozy and secure. Then he closed his coat and patted it from the outside, and she could feel it bodily, as though he
’
d patted her, and that feeling broke the connection. She looked up to him.

“I shall return this to you before we leave the park or whenever you may have need of it.”

Amelia felt the nod but couldn
’
t pull her eyes from him.

He stood and reached for the reticule, picking it up carefully, his eyes never leaving hers, as though to be sure she wasn
’
t a snake preparing to strike. When he had full possession of it, he turned swiftly and launched the reticule into the lake. Water fowl burst from the surface and spread in all directions, regathering to land on the far banks.

They didn
’
t like that reticule, either, it seemed.