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Authors: Vanessa Riley
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gone. He'd either forgive her or banish her, but at least she'd know and no longer be enslaved to wondering. Only the nightmares of her memories would remain. One source of trepidation had to be better than two. Pulse throbbing, she lifted her chin and plodded to her room. If her marriage must die, it would be with her own hands.
Barrington knocked on Amora's bedchamber then let himself inside. Fumbling with parchment, he took a breath and readied to explain his slight tardiness. "I let the time get away from me pouring through records Beakes located on an old crime. These dates have my head a bit fogged, but I'll be ready for bed once I review this lease for the Dowag…"
Speech robbed, he adjusted his spectacles. His eyes popped wide open at the sight of Amora. A sheer robe draped her long neck. The translucent muslin displayed the lacing of her stays and the flare of her hips beneath a white chemise. His pulse galloped to a higher pace imagining the softness confined beneath.
The papers in his hand fell to the floor. The Dowager's contract would have to fend for itself. "Are you readying for bed?"
She lowered her chin, breaking his stare. "I have to tell you something."
Weeks of sleeping next to Amora, touching but not touching, always abstaining numbered in his head.
Was she ready for that to end?
Did she want him?
He rubbed at his neck, hoping his thoughts would become coherent or at least not choking on longing. "Amora, tell me what you want?"
"I should've told you a long time ago, but I was afraid."
Not exactly the alluring words he hoped, though she didn't need to do much in this period of physical famine to start his heart pumping. "I'm listening."
The lithe goddess wasn't smiling. "I don't want you to hate me, Barrington."
That definitely wasn't an invitation for bliss, but that didn't mean it couldn't lead to one. He stepped fully inside her bedchamber and closed the door with his heel. His gaze never left her, not even for a second.
She started to pace, making the fabric float about her. Never more alluring, yet she held such a serious pout on her face. What could be the matter? Surely, she couldn't be cross at him. But, she was a woman and her moods changed fast. He drew himself up. Tugging on his lapels, he gazed over his lenses and forced his lips to thin. It was his most contrite and humored look. "Whatever I have done, I'm sorry. Repentant actually. Let me hold you and make amends."
"This is serious."
How was he to listen to anything with her dressed for bed and not bundled up like a mummy. The canopied mattress was five paces from him, maybe three from her stance at the vanity. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a meeting of the minds, bodies, and spirit. He sobered and charged headlong at the problem. "Tell me what makes you frown."
Her bare feet shifted, but her countenance never rose. "I have no peace, it's in my dreams. Vicar Wilson said I should just tell you. He's right."
"The vicar?" Barrington paced to the footboard and allowed his tightened fist to hide behind the knurled pole of the bedframe. "Did he come to Mayfair?"
"No, I saw him on my outing with Mrs. Gretling."
A protective nature was a powerful weapon in Barrington's personal arsenal. It overpowered his senses when it came to Amora. How many noses did he bloody of his fellow soldiers when they taunted him about being faithful to a sweetheart hundreds of miles away? On the day Gerald Miller stepped in front of him, taking a fatal bullet, Barrington had pummeled at least one. Fingers coiling tight like a spring about to burst, he readied for a reason to punch the preacher. "Did the vicar upset you?"
"No, not truly. But he's right in his wisdom." She bit her lip and spun toward the window.
Right about what? "Amora?" His voice sounded too loud, too harsh. Not wanting to provoke an argument when Wilson deserved the censure, he lowered his tone. "Please. It's just you and me here. Tell me what's distressing
Barrington knocked on Amora's bedchamber then let himself inside. Fumbling with parchment, he took a breath and readied to explain his slight tardiness. "I let the time get away from me pouring through records Beakes located on an old crime. These dates have my head a bit fogged, but I'll be ready for bed once I review this lease for the Dowag…"
Speech robbed, he adjusted his spectacles. His eyes popped wide open at the sight of Amora. A sheer robe draped her long neck. The translucent muslin displayed the lacing of her stays and the flare of her hips beneath a white chemise. His pulse galloped to a higher pace imagining the softness confined beneath.
The papers in his hand fell to the floor. The Dowager's contract would have to fend for itself. "Are you readying for bed?"
She lowered her chin, breaking his stare. "I have to tell you something."
Weeks of sleeping next to Amora, touching but not touching, always abstaining numbered in his head.
Was she ready for that to end?
Did she want him?
He rubbed at his neck, hoping his thoughts would become coherent or at least not choking on longing. "Amora, tell me what you want?"
"I should've told you a long time ago, but I was afraid."
Not exactly the alluring words he hoped, though she didn't need to do much in this period of physical famine to start his heart pumping. "I'm listening."
The lithe goddess wasn't smiling. "I don't want you to hate me, Barrington."
That definitely wasn't an invitation for bliss, but that didn't mean it couldn't lead to one. He stepped fully inside her bedchamber and closed the door with his heel. His gaze never left her, not even for a second.
She started to pace, making the fabric float about her. Never more alluring, yet she held such a serious pout on her face. What could be the matter? Surely, she couldn't be cross at him. But, she was a woman and her moods changed fast. He drew himself up. Tugging on his lapels, he gazed over his lenses and forced his lips to thin. It was his most contrite and humored look. "Whatever I have done, I'm sorry. Repentant actually. Let me hold you and make amends."
"This is serious."
How was he to listen to anything with her dressed for bed and not bundled up like a mummy. The canopied mattress was five paces from him, maybe three from her stance at the vanity. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a meeting of the minds, bodies, and spirit. He sobered and charged headlong at the problem. "Tell me what makes you frown."
Her bare feet shifted, but her countenance never rose. "I have no peace, it's in my dreams. Vicar Wilson said I should just tell you. He's right."
"The vicar?" Barrington paced to the footboard and allowed his tightened fist to hide behind the knurled pole of the bedframe. "Did he come to Mayfair?"
"No, I saw him on my outing with Mrs. Gretling."
A protective nature was a powerful weapon in Barrington's personal arsenal. It overpowered his senses when it came to Amora. How many noses did he bloody of his fellow soldiers when they taunted him about being faithful to a sweetheart hundreds of miles away? On the day Gerald Miller stepped in front of him, taking a fatal bullet, Barrington had pummeled at least one. Fingers coiling tight like a spring about to burst, he readied for a reason to punch the preacher. "Did the vicar upset you?"
"No, not truly. But he's right in his wisdom." She bit her lip and spun toward the window.
Right about what? "Amora?" His voice sounded too loud, too harsh. Not wanting to provoke an argument when Wilson deserved the censure, he lowered his tone. "Please. It's just you and me here. Tell me what's distressing
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