Read Online Absolute Surrender by Jenn LeBlanc - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jenn LeBlanc
Tags: Romance, Historical, love, Victorian, menage, amelia, Roxleigh, Jenn LeBlanc, Charles, Hugh, Ender, The Rake And The Recluse, #Twitchy, Studio Smexy, #StudioSmexy, Jacks, Illustrated Romance
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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
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
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