Mine Till Midnight (The Hathaways #1)(40)

He took what she offered—more—sinking his tongue deeper, gathering sensation. And she responded until her soul was scorched at the edges, and her thoughts had vanished like sparks leaping from a bonfire.

Abruptly Rohan took his mouth from hers and held her tightly, too tightly, against his body. She felt herself straining in a subtle pendulum sway, needing friction, pressure, release. He kept her still, holding her close while she trembled and ached.

Rohan's grip eased. She was released by gradual degrees until he was finally able to push her away completely.

"Pardon," he eventually said. She saw the daze of heat in his eyes. "I don't usually have such a difficult time stopping."

Amelia nodded blindly and wrapped her arms around herself. She wasn't aware of her foot's nervous tapping until Rohan came to her and slid one of his feet beneath her skirts to still her drumming toes.

"Hummingbird," he whispered. "You'd better go now. If you don't, I'll end up compromising you in ways you never knew were possible."

Amelia was never quite certain how she returned to the parlor without getting lost. She moved as if through the layers of a dream.

Reaching the settee where Poppy sat, Amelia accepted another cup of tea and smiled at little Merritt, who was fishing around in her own cup for a chunk of dropped sugar biscuit, and responded noncommittally to Lillian's suggestion that the entire Hathaway family join them on a picnic at week's end.

"I do wish we could have accepted her invitation," Poppy said wistfully on the way home. "But I suppose that would be asking for trouble, since Leo would probably be objectionable and Beatrix would steal something."

"And there's far too much for us to do at Ramsay House," Amelia added, feeling distracted and distant.

Only one thought was clear in her mind. Cam Rohan would return to London soon. For her own sake—and perhaps his as well—she would have to avoid Stony Cross Park until he was gone.

Perhaps it was because they were all weary of cleaning, repairing, and organizing, but the entire Hathaway family fell into a desultory mood that evening. Everyone but Leo gathered around the hearth in one of the downstairs room lounging while Win read aloud from a Dickens now Merripen occupied a distant corner of the room, near the family but not quite part of it, listening intently. No doubt Win could have read names from an insurance register and he would have found it enthralling.

Poppy was busy with needlework, stitching a pair of men's slippers with bright wool threads, while Beatrix played solitaire on the floor near the hearth. Noticing the way her youngest sister was riffling through the cards, Amelia laughed. "Beatrix," she said after Win had finished a chapter, "why in heaven's name would you cheat at solitaire? You're playing against yourself."

"Then there's no one to object when I cheat."

"It's not whether you win but how you win that's important," Amelia said.

"I've heard that before, and I don't agree at all. It's much nicer to win."

Poppy shook her head over her embroidery. "Beatrix, you are positively shameless."

"And a winner," Beatrix said with satisfaction, laying down the exact card she wanted.

"Where did we go wrong?" Amelia asked of no one in particular.

Win smiled. "Her pleasures are few, dear. A creative game of solitaire isn't going to hurt anyone."

"I suppose not." Amelia was about to say more, but she was diverted by a cold waft of air that slipped around her ankles and turned her toes numb. She shivered and pulled her knitted blue shawl more snugly around herself. "My, it's chilly in here."

"You must be sitting in a draft," Poppy said in concern. "Come sit by me, Amelia—I'm much closer to the fire."

"Thank you, but I think I'll go to bed now." Still shivering, Amelia yawned. "Good night, everyone." She left as Beatrix asked Win to read one more chapter.

As Amelia walked along the hallway, she passed a small room that, as far as they had been able to tell, had been intended as a gentlemen's room. It featured an alcove that was just large enough for a billiards table, and a dingy painting of a hunting scene on one wall. A large overstuffed chair was positioned between the windows, its velvet nap eroded. Light from a standing lamp slid across the floor in a diluted wash.

Leo was drowsing in the chair, one arm hanging loosely I over the side. An empty bottle stood on the floor near the ' chair, casting a spear-like shadow to the other side of the room.

Amelia would have continued on her way, but something about her brother's undefended posture caused her to stop. He slept with his head slumped over one shoulder, lips slightly parted, just as he had in childhood. With his face wiped clean of anger and grief, he looked young and vulnerable. She was reminded of the gallant boy he had once been, and her heart contracted with pity.

Venturing into the room, Amelia was shocked by the abrupt change of temperature, the biting air. It was far colder in here than it was outside. And it wasn't her imagination—she could see the white puffs of her breath. Shivering, she drew closer to her brother. The coldness was concentrated around him, turning so bitter that it made her lungs hurt to breathe. As she hovered over his prone form, she was swamped in a feeling of bleakness, a sorrow beyond tears.

"Leo?" His face was gray, his lips dry and blue, and when she touched his cheek, there was no trace of warmth. "Leo!"