Mine Till Midnight (The Hathaways #1)(47)

He didn't move or speak. She felt him watching her as she went to Christopher Frost?she felt his gaze penetrating her clothes, lingering against her skin. And as she walked away, a sense of loss rushed through her.

They wandered slowly, she and Christopher, falling into a familiar harmony. They had walked often during their courtship, or gone on discreetly chaperoned drives. It had been a proper courtship, with earnest conversations and tenderly composed letters, and sweet stolen kisses. It had seemed magical, unbelievable, that someone so handsome and perfect would want her. In fact, Amelia had put him off at the beginning for that very reason, telling him with a laugh that she was sure he meant to trifle with her. But Christopher had countered by saying he was hardly going to trifle with his best friend's sister, and he was certainly not some London rake who would play her false.

"For one thing, I don't dress nearly well enough to be a rake," Christopher had pointed out with a grin, indicating his well-tailored but sober attire.

"You're right," Amelia had agreed, looking him over with mock solemnity. "In fact, you don't dress well enough to be an architect, either."

"And," he had continued, "I have an exceedingly respectable history with women. Hearts and reputations all left intact. No rake would make such a claim."

"You're very convincing," Amelia had observed, a bit breathless as he had moved closer.

"Miss Hathaway," Christopher had whispered, engulfing her cool hand with both of his warm ones, "take pity. At least let me write to you. Promise you'll read my letter. And if you still don't want me after that, I'll never bother you again."

Intrigued, Amelia had consented. And what a letter it had been?charming and eloquent and fairly blistering in parts. They had begun a correspondence, and Christopher had visited Primrose Place whenever he could.

Amelia had never enjoyed any man's company so much. They shared similar opinions on a variety of issues, which was pleasant. But when they disagreed, it was even more enjoyable. Christopher seldom became heated on a subject—his approach was analytical, scholarly, rather like her father. And if Amelia became annoyed with him, he laughed and kissed her until she forgot what had started the argument.

Christopher had never tried to seduce Amelia—he respected her too much for that. Even at the times when she had felt so stirred that she had encouraged him to go beyond mere kisses, he had refused. "I want you, little love," he had whispered, his breath unsteady, his eyes bright with passion. "But not until it's right. Not until you're my wife."

That was as close to a proposal as he had ever come. There had been no official betrothal, although Christopher had led her to expect one. There had only been a mysterious silence for almost a month, and then Leo had gone to find him on Amelia's behalf. Her brother had come back from London looking angry and troubled.

"There are rumors," Leo had told Amelia gruffly, taking her against his shirtfront, drying her tears with his handkerchief. "He's been seen with Rowland Temple's daughter. They say he's courting her."

And then another letter had come from Christopher, so devastating that Amelia wondered how mere scratches of ink on paper could rip someone's soul to shreds. She had wondered how she could feel so much pain and still survive. She had gone to bed for a week, not venturing from her darkened room, crying until she was ill, and then crying some more.

Ironically, the thing that had saved her was the scarlet fever that had struck Win and Leo. They had needed her, and caring for them had pulled her out of the depths of melancholy. She had not shed a tear for Christopher Frost after that.

But the absence of tears wasn't the same as an absence of feeling. Amelia was surprised now to discover that underneath the bitterness and caution, all the things she had once found appealing about him were still there.

"I'm the last person who should remark on how you conduct your personal affairs," Christopher said quietly. He offered an arm as they walked. She hesitated before taking it. "However, you know what people will say if you're seen with him."

"I appreciate your concern for my reputation." Amelia's tone was lightly salted with sarcasm. "But I'm hardly the only person to indulge in a few caprices at the village fair."

"If you're with a gentleman, a few caprices may be overlooked. But he's a Gypsy, Amelia."

"I noticed," she said dryly. "I would have thought you above such prejudice."

"It's not my prejudice," Christopher countered swiftly, "it's society's. Defy it if you wish, but there's always a price to pay."

"The argument is moot, at any rate," she said. "Mr. Rohan is leaving for London soon, and then for parts unknown. I doubt I'll ever see him again. And I can't fathom why you would care one way or another."

"Of course I care," Christopher said gently. "Amelia?I regret having hurt you. More than you could ever know. I certainly don't wish to see you endure further harm from yet another ill-advised love affair."

"I'm not in love with Mr. Rohan," she said. "I would never be so foolish."

"I'm glad to hear it." His excessively soothing tone was grating. It made her want to do something wild and irresponsible just to spite him.

"Why aren't you married?" she asked abruptly.