Her face flushed, and unknown sensations fluttered low in her belly. Amalie closed the book, still hardly believing that it was Max who’d written it or that it was still so popular months after its release. She’d heard that the first print run had been twenty thousand copies and had sold out from the stores within a few days, even though the book was not on display, and you had to discreetly ask the seller for a copy. Copies of A Guide to Passionate Romps between a Lord and his Lady had been kept under the counter, already wrapped so no one knew who had bought so outrageous a volume. Who knew fashionable London would have been so eager for this kind of erotic literature?
Walking over to the easel with the image she’d been painting, she selected a smaller brush and dipped it in some pigment, then stroked the brush over the canvas, slowly creating the violet-hued skyline she spied through the windows.
Several minutes later, a brisk knock sounded on the door to her private parlor. Amalie frowned, for her staff knew not to disturb her whenever she was in her private parlor, and she had no appointment today. Lowering her paintbrush, she said, “Please, enter.”
Her butler, Collins, came in. “My lady, you have a caller. Lord Kentwood. Should I turn him away, your ladyship?”
Collins wasn't impertinent, only that the few bold men who’d dared to call over the years had been refused an audience. Her tongue felt thick and heavy as she searched for the words to reply. “Please, show him in.”
His gaze swept the large room she’d never allowed anyone but the staff to enter. She had paintings mounted on the walls, and some even rested on the floor, leaning against the green and silver patterned wallpaper.
“In the drawing-room—”
“Here,” she said, removing her stained apron with trembling fingers. “And have Cook prepare tea and cakes.” This morning she had slipped into a simple ivory day gown with peach ribbons, her dark red hair piled atop her head in a careless chignon, and her feet were bare of stockings and slippers.
Collins kept his features admirably composed, and replied, “Right away, your ladyship.”
Perhaps she should have turned Lord Kentwood away or made him wait while she dressed more appropriately. With a groan, she rushed toward the door, only to falter when it opened and revealed Max framed in the doorway. The breath escaped audibly from her lungs.
“Max…Lord Kentwood,” she said clasping her hands before her. Lord Kentwood was dressed for riding, in a dark blue coat and buckskin breeches which clung to strong thigh muscles that her former memories failed to recall. Had he always been so handsome? She could not remember him being so overpoweringly masculine before. Amalie fought to be formally correct and found herself staring at his shiny top boots. His raven-black hair had been neatly pomaded into the correct mode although some rakish curls had been allowed to frame his darkly tanned face. She looked into his so familiar slate-gray eyes for some reassurance. Although they now appeared to crinkle, she was not sure the smile reached his eyes. He had handed his high-crowned black beaver hat to Collins along with his riding coat.
“I...how are you?” she asked, a trifle breathlessly.
“My Lady Weatherston,” he said, affecting a charming bow, his intent gaze caressing over her face as if he wished to sear her features onto his thoughts. It was impolite and heartwarming.
They stared at each other, and her heart squeezed. How I’ve missed you, Max. “I didn’t expect you to call so soon.” But after that toast in Lady Rushworth’s ballroom the previous night, she had been waiting on something.
“Ah,” he murmured with an amused glint in his eyes. “But you did expect me, surely that audacious wink you gave me was an invitation?”
Though her lips twitched, Amalie made no reply. She turned on her heel and led him to the fireplace, where two leather wingback chairs faced the low-burning flames.
“Oh, it was, I simply did not anticipate such eagerness from a man of your fashionable notoriety,” she said, pleased that she had acquitted herself with admirable composure. “Sit wherever suits you,” she said with a careless wave around the room.
He glanced around the elegantly appointed space, his gaze lingering on the few framed canvases on the wall, the easel in the center of the room, and the small sleeping dog on the pink, plush sofa positioned near large bay windows. His gaze sharpened on something. Oh! It was his book. Max strolled over to the small table and picked it up, noting where she had paused in her reading.
“Do you like it?” he murmured, thumbing the pages.
At her silence, he looked up and simply stared at her.
“I…it is interesting,” she admitted, swallowing tightly.
“I’ve heard so many descriptions of my work but have never heard interesting before. Wicked. Filthy. Naughty. Erotic. Salacious. Those epithets I’m familiar with, in what manner do you find these words and drawings interesting?”
There was an unexpected gleam of humor in his gray eyes, and it pulled a smile to her lips and eased some of the tension from her body. Amalie sank into the sofa, folding her legs beneath her.
She hesitated only a moment and then said, “I…I did not think it dirty or too naughty.”
“Perhaps a woman of your varied experience would not think so.”
She arched a brow. So, he believed the rumors floating about town. “I thought it more of loving instructions to men for their wives.”
He smiled, and she could tell that he was pleased by her assessment.
“You always did have a keen romantic sensibility,” he said, with a rueful smile still staring at the pages. “It is one of the things which drew me to you when I saw you chasing butterflies, barefoot in the grass, kneeling to speak to the bunnies. I thought ah…here is a girl who believes in fairy tales with enchanted characters, not the morbid and grim ones which had been the rage.”
She had been a young girl when she’d met him, and very improper, always playing by the woods of her father’s country estate instead of planning for her marriage. “What inspired you to write it?”
A derisive scoff escaped him. “You.”
The single word dropped into the room like a chemical explosion. Amalie’s heart pounded, and her mouth went dry. A startling fire invaded her, and the shock sent prickles all over her body. “Me?”
An unfamiliar warmth entered her body, and her heart quickened. Why did that knowledge affect her so?
“Hmm,” he said noncommittally, closing the book, and resting it once more on the table. “For a long time after that night…in your chamber, I couldn’t think…dream of anyone but you. All those pent-up longings went into me dreaming about if you were mine and what I would do to you.”
A strange stirring began in the pit of her stomach and drifted lower. “I have thought of you often over the years as well, in a similar manner.” Drat. She tried to sound unaffected, but her voice had held a distinct croak.
He faced her, and once again they looked at each other for a long time. Max strolled over and sat in the seat opposite her. His expression was one of curiosity as he stared at her, and Amalie leaned back, provocatively crossing her legs at the ankles, displaying an air of casual indifference.
Those winter-gray eyes skipped over the picture she made, draped in the large chair, her ankles on display, her toes bare, and her hair a loose knot about her head. Amalie thought she might look quite messy, but his breathing fractured, and he was the first to look away into the fire for a long moment before his gaze came back to her.