These miniatures-these people in the miniatures-they were loved.
Thomas had tried to imagine a similar display at Belgrave and almost laughed. Of course, portraits of all the Cavendishes had been painted, most more than once. But the paintings hung in the gallery, formal documents of grandeur and wealth. He never looked at them. Why would he? There was no one he wished to see, no one whose smile or good humor he wished to recall.
He wandered to the desk and picked up one of the little portraits. It looked like Jack, perhaps a decade younger.
He was smiling.
Thomas found himself smiling, although he was not certain why. He liked this place. Cloverhill, it was called. A sweet name. Fitting.
This would have been a nice place to grow up.
To learn to be a man.
He set the miniature down and moved to the nearby window, leaning both hands against the sill. He was tired. And restless. It was a noxious combination.
He wanted this done.
He wanted to move forward, to find out-no, to know who he was.
And who he wasn’t.
He stood there for several minutes, staring out over the tidy lawn. There was nothing to see, not in the dead of night, and yet he could not seem to make himself move. And then-
His eyes caught a flash of movement, and he drew closer to the glass. Someone was outside.
Amelia.
It couldn’t be, and yet it indisputably was she. No one else had hair of that color.
What the devil was she doing? She wasn’t running off; she was far too sensible for that, and besides, she was not carrying a bag. No, she seemed to have decided to take a stroll.
At four in the morning.
Which was decidedly not sensible.
“Daft woman,” he muttered, grabbing a robe to throw over his thin shirt as he dashed out of his room. Was this what his life might have been, had he managed to marry her? Chasing her down in the middle of the night?
Less than a minute later he exited through the front door, which he noted had been left an inch ajar. He strode across the drive and onto the lawn where he’d seen her last, but nothing.
She was gone.
Oh, for the love of-he did not want to yell out her name. He’d wake the entire household.
He moved forward. Where the devil was she? She couldn’t have gone far. More than that, she wouldn’t have gone far. Not Amelia.
“Amelia?” he whispered.
Nothing.
“Amelia?” It was as loud as he dared.
And then suddenly there she was, sitting up in the grass. “Thomas?”
“Were you lying down?”
Her hair was down, hanging down her back in a simple braid. He didn’t know that he’d ever seen her this way. He couldn’t imagine when he could have done. “I was looking at the stars,” she said.
He looked up. He couldn’t not, after such a statement.
“I was waiting for the clouds to pass,” she explained.
“Why?”
“Why?” she echoed, looking at him as if he was the one who’d just made an incomprehensible statement.
“It is the middle of the night.”
“Yes, I know.” She tucked her feet under her, then pushed down against the ground with her hands and stood. “But it’s my last chance.”
“For what?”
She gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know.”
He started to say something, to scold her, shake his head at her foolishness. But then she smiled.
She looked so beautiful he almost felt struck.
“Amelia.” He didn’t know why he was saying her name. He had nothing specific to tell her. But she was there, standing before him, and he had never wanted a woman-no, he had never wanted anything-more than he wanted her.
On a damp lawn, in the middle of Ireland, in the middle of the night, he wanted her.
Completely.
He hadn’t let himself think about it. He desired her; he’d long since given up pretending he didn’t. But he had not let himself dream it, not let himself see it in his mind-his hands on her shoulders, sliding down her back. Her dress, falling away beneath his hungry fingers, exposing her perfect-
“You need to go inside,” he said hoarsely.
She shook her head.
He took a long, haggard breath. Did she know what she risked, remaining out here with him? It was taking all his strength-more than he’d ever dreamed he possessed-to keep himself rooted to his spot, two proper paces away from her. Close…so close, and yet not within his reach.
“I want to be outside,” she said.
He met her eyes, which was a mistake, because everything she was feeling-every hurt, and wrong, and insecurity-he saw them, hovering in her amazing eyes.
It tore through him.
“I was upstairs,” she continued, “and it was stuffy, and hot. Only it wasn’t hot, but it felt like it should be.”
It was the damnedest thing, but he understood.
“I’m tired of feeling trapped,” she said sadly. “My whole life, I’ve been told where to be, what to say, who to talk to…”
“Who to marry,” he said softly.
She gave a small nod. “I just wanted to feel free. If only for an hour.”
He looked at her hand. It would be so easy to reach out, to take it in his. Just one step forward. That was all it would take. One step, and she would be in his arms.
But he said, “You need to go inside.” Because it was what he was supposed to say. It was what she was supposed to do.
He could not kiss her. Not now. Not here. Not when he had absolutely no faith in his ability to break it off.
To end a kiss with a kiss. He didn’t think he could do it.
“I don’t want to marry him,” she said.
Something within him curled and tightened. He’d known this; she’d made it more than clear. But still…now…when she stood there in the moonlight…
They were impossible words. Impossible to bear. Impossible to ignore.
I don’t want him to have you.
But he didn’t say it. He could not let himself say it. Because he knew, come morning when all was revealed, Jack Audley would almost certainly be proven as the Duke of Wyndham. And if he said it, if he said to her, right now-be with me…
She would do it.
He could see it in her eyes.
Maybe she even thought she loved him. And why wouldn’t she? She had been told her entire life that she was supposed to love him, to obey him, to be grateful for his attentions and for the luck that had bound her to him so many years ago.
But she didn’t really know him. Right now he wasn’t even sure he knew himself. How could he ask her to be with him when he had nothing to offer?
She deserved more.
“Amelia,” he whispered, because he had to say something. She was waiting for it, for his reply.
She shook her head. “I don’t want to do it.”
“Your father-” he said, his voice choked.
“He wants me to be a duchess.”
“He wants what’s best for you.”
“He doesn’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
The look she gave him was devastating. “Don’t say that. Say anything else, but don’t say I don’t know my own mind.”
“Amelia…”
“No.”
It was a horrible sound. Just that one syllable. But it came from deep within her. And he felt it all. Her pain, her anger, her frustration-they sliced through him with startling precision.
“I’m sorry,” he said, because he did not know what else to say. And he was sorry. He wasn’t sure what for, but this horrible aching feeling in his chest-it had to be sorrow.
Or maybe regret.
That she wasn’t his.
That she would never be his.