And so, the meal was quickly finished, and they both retreated upstairs to the chambers that had been prepared for them. He purposely did not bring up the brandy decanter. If he did, nothing would stop him from steadily consuming until he was completely insensate. Instead, he continued what he’d been doing downstairs. He stood at the window and stared into the darkness while his thoughts turned over and over on one topic.
Amber.
He remembered every moment they had been together. It surprised him that he dwelled as much on her laughter or the animated way she argued with him as he did the moments when he had slipped between her thighs. Somehow, she brought him out of himself. When she was happy, his heart was lighter. He looked about the world in a warmer way. And though he still focused on politics, he also noticed the sunlight on her cheeks, the curl of her hair that escaped her chignon, and the birds that she loved to look at. And when she was out of sorts, she pulled his attention out of his own misery and into hers. His burdens were nothing compared to her hurts, and that, too, was good for him. He spent too much time in his own head. It was good for him to think of someone else, to measure the world through someone else’s eyes, and to be in a place that wasn’t choked with men’s cigars or women’s perfumes. Those were the places of society, and he was sick of it.
Amber wore no perfume, and since escaping the Lyon’s Den, she did not carry the acrid smell of cigars. She was clean and a true artist who created beauty out of wax and metal. And she was so vibrant in his mind, especially when he compared her to the bland girls his mother had forced on him. None of them was as intriguing as Amber.
But he would not disgrace her. He would not slip into her bedroom and attempt a seduction. She was not for him. And that made him hate everything and everyone. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t drink. He just stared and grew more depressed with every tick of the clock.
“Elliott?”
At first, he thought he’d imagined the soft word. He’d been remembering how she whispered his name in the throes of passion. Surely that breathy whisper was from his own mind. But then it came again.
“Elliott?”
He spun around. She stood just inside his closed doorway. She wore a nightrail she’d borrowed from the housekeeper. Her honey-colored hair was loose about her shoulders, and her eyes looked so wide, they seemed to encompass her whole face.
“Amber? Is something wrong?” He took a step forward, but then stopped himself. She was temptation itself, but he was trying to be a moral man. He would not give in though every cell in his body pushed him to touch her, taste her, take her.
“I have come to a decision,” she said, her voice surprisingly strong.
What decision did she have left? Her marriage was secure, her father was in full support, and she would become a baroness. There was no decision to be made.
“Would you like to know what it is?”
“Of course,” he responded. It’s what a gentleman said when a lady posed such a question.
She took a careful step into the room, then lifted her chin and looked him in the eyes. Such a bold stance. He was so busy admiring her strength that he nearly didn’t hear the words.
“I have decided to be your mistress.”
His body strained forward, but he would not be ruled by lust. He could not have heard her correctly.
“I’m so sorry, Amber. There was thunder over your words. Could you repeat that?”
There had been no thunder except the pounding of his heart, and her smile told him she knew he lied. Nevertheless, she didn’t tease him about it. She simply took another step forward.
“I have decided I want to be your mistress,” she said. “Assuming you will have me.”
Have her? He couldn’t stop visualizing all the ways he wanted to have her. But he forced his head to turn in a jerky denial. “You’re going to get married. You said you loved him.”
“I said I had fallen in love. I have. With you.”
His breath caught. She did not know what she was suggesting. “I cannot give you marriage like he can. You won’t be a baroness. Your children—”
“There will be no children,” she said firmly. “I will not bear one out of wedlock.”
Sound decision. But it wasn’t relevant. “You are to marry Christopher.”
She shook her head. “I know many women trapped in terrible marriages. They are treated as slaves, are routinely beaten and worse.”
“Christopher would not do that to you.”
“Maybe not, but if I am to have a transaction in my future, then I shall make the best bargain I can.”
He nodded, seeing her logic even though most of his blood was far away from his brain. “He is the best bargain. He’s the heir to a baronetcy.”
“And I would be his wife who takes care of his household and raises his children. I would be paid nothing, have no control of my own money, and would have to sneak out in secret to carve jewelry that would put money in his pocket.”
He couldn’t argue that. “It is a respectable life.”
She nodded. “Yes, it would be. But I find the transaction with you much more appealing. You would pay your mistress, yes? In baubles and a residence. That is the usual arrangement.”
He swallowed. No gently reared woman should know this, but he found that he liked the way her mind worked. He liked that she knew the reality of what she said she wanted.
“Will you?” she pressed.
“Yes,” he rasped. He would. Maybe not for any mistress, but for her, definitely.
“I would have control over my money. And if you displeased me, if you grew tired of me—”
“Never.” The word was out before he even realized he’d spoken.
“But if the situation turned difficult between us, I would not be trapped. I could take my money and pay for my own lodging. And I would keep the money I make from my jewelry and not share it with you. It would be my income to do with as I see fit.”
He shook his head. “You would not be respectable, Amber. You would be called a courtesan.”
“What do I care what other people say of me? So long as I can make jewelry, and they buy it?”
He didn’t have the ability to argue logic. Not with her standing in a nightrail so close. He could have it off and her on the bed within a trice. Still, he strove to keep her at bey for his own sanity. He feared that if he once broke his moral stance, he would not set her free for any reason. “Christopher will let you make jewelry.”
She snorted. “I want no man in control of my work. I will make what I choose, and no husband will stop me.”
“Certainly, no smart husband.”
She shrugged. “I cannot guarantee the wisdom of any man, and so I will remain independent.”
“And be a mistress?” He tried to put dismissal in his voice. He tried to tell her that she was making the wrong choice. She had a chance at a respectable life and children. But his words came out with hope rather than censure. “You would be my mistress.”
“Yes.”
He swallowed. “Because I will pay you?”
“Because I love you. The rest is simple practicality.”
She loved him. She had said the words before, but he needed to hear it over and over again. She loved him. Not his title, not his respectability, not even his money. She loved him.