Preston Caldwell, Viscount Leighton, has only ever loved one woman, but she is not for him. She's the belle of the ball, the incomparable of the season, the daughter of a duke... The list goes on. She is also his best friend's sister, and she's in l...
Amelia's stomach did an awkward somersault as she caught sight of Preston among the visitors crowding the drawing room. What was he doing here? This wasn't his type of scene. Was he making a statement? Subconsciously, her fingers touched her lips as she remembered his feverish kisses the previous night. They tingled from the mere memory, and she'd be lying if she said she didn't want to experience that again.
But he was all wrong. How could she trust a rake to give up his rakish ways? She didn't think he would risk her reputation—she believed him when he swore he never would—but she still had never envisioned herself married to a rake. Why would one so used to going from woman to woman suddenly be content with only one? It was difficult to fathom, and while she knew many women of the ton simply accepted the reality of their husbands having affairs as long as they were discreet, she did not think she was one who could be content in sharing her husband. He had to be fully hers or not at all.
Even if he was the most handsome man in attendance. She pushed the thought away, even as she failed to make her eyes do the same. Dressed in a dove-grey tailcoat with matching breeches and black Hessian boots, Preston cut a dashing figure with his wide shoulders and narrow hips. She'd always liked his dark hair; the way a comb could never quite tame it, and it always looked a little as if he'd just stepped in from the windswept moors of the Lake District. Which was, incidentally, where his estate was located. So she supposed it was only right.
She schooled her features into a mask of polite interest as he approached, not wanting him to notice her gawking. Nor anyone else, for that matter. A proper young lady did not gawk at a gentleman.
Preston stopped before her and the handful of admirers who were all vying for her attention. But she only had eyes for Preston. Which she shouldn't. He was not for her. Something she would do well to remind herself of. Continuously. No matter how good his kisses were.
"Lady Amelia," he said as he bowed his head in greeting, and even the rich cadence of his voice was enough for her pulse to quicken. This was ridiculous.
"Lord Leighton." She curtsied while praying her cheeks were not as flushed as they felt.
After a nod to her companions, he mumbled, "Gentlemen."
The group all returned the favour, and for once she was grateful for the stilted politeness of their peers. It allowed her a moment to breathe before his green eyes returned to hers. Everything was all wrong lately. Preston wasn't the one who should make her feel like this. And yet he was. And he was the only one to. Even the handsome Marquess of Pensington did nothing to make her pulse quicken or her insides flutter. The marquess sounded good on paper, but in reality, she was forced to recognise that she had no romantic interest in him.
"Oh, bother!"
Five sets of eyes turned on her and she cursed inwardly. She had not intended to say that aloud. Pretending to cough, she hoped they'd believe she had something stuck in her throat. Or, at the very least, were polite enough not to question her.
"Is something the matter?" Preston's eyes glittered as she glared at him. Trust him not to allow her the graceful way out.
"Just a tickle in my throat," she replied with a forced smile.
"Oh." He mirrored her polite smile. "I could have sworn I heard you say something."
One of her admirers, Mr Denton, cut in. "The air is quite dry. It's easy to get a scratchy throat."
Baron Edgerton puffed his barrel-sized chest. "I could never imply that the air in the duke's house is dry," he said pompously. Turning to her, his bushy eyebrows knotted, reminding her of two furry caterpillars huddling together for a secret sojourn. "My dear Lady Amelia, I do hope you are not coming down with a cold. Can I get you anything? Shall we get you another cup of tea?"
Unsure whether she wanted to roll her eyes or laugh, she shook her head. "No, thank you. I'm better already."
"I believe what the lady needs is a turn about the room," Preston said and offered her his arm.
She stared at it for a moment before putting her hand in the crook of his elbow. "That would be lovely, thank you."
As Preston led her away from the group of men, she tried not to look back at their baffled faces, nor at the smirk on Preston's lips.
"You are finding this far too amusing," she admonished.
Turning his head to look down at her, his smirk dissolved into an amused grin. "I cannot help enjoying disappointing your bevy of suitors. They might as well be a group of puppies swarming you in the hopes of their next treat."
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at his comparison. "They are all good men."
"But they do not interest you." It wasn't even a question. She supposed she had told him enough times she had no interest in anyone but the marquess. But it still irked her that he knew her so well.
"No," she admitted. As they moved along the sides of the room, she nodded and smiled at those they passed, affording her a good excuse not to stare up at Preston.
"Has Pensington ever shown up?"
She scoffed. "You know he has not." Tilting her head, she gave him a quick, surreptitious glance, but his face was a polite mask as he looked out over the room. "What of you? Why are you here?"
He looked down, his eyes meeting hers. "After last night—"
"Last night was a mistake!" she hissed under her breath, trying to ensure no one could hear them. "I believe we both discussed how we cannot choose who we are attracted to. Our mistake was giving in to said att—"
"I am here to toss my hat in the ring." His words cut her short and her eyes widened.
"Pardon?"
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I am planning to court you. The old-fashioned way. And not as a favour for you to capture the interest of another man, but because I want to."
Thoughts were swirling in her head, but none of them made sense. Court her? What was he thinking?
"I... What? Preston, you cannot!" She realised her grip on his arm had become rather strained, and she forced herself to loosen her fingers. "I expect nothing after yesterday. You must realise that?"
"I do," he said, his tone easy. "And you will find that I can. And I will."
"But why?"
He glanced out over the room before lowering his head slightly towards her. "I believe that is a discussion for another time, with less of a potential audience."
She caught a whiff of his scent. Something woodsy and manly. And intrinsically him.
"But you're a rake." Not her finest retort, but her mind was struggling to keep up, too preoccupied remembering the feel of his lips on hers.
He shrugged. "Even rakes get married."
"Not to me."
"So you say, but I would like the chance to convince you otherwise." They had returned to her group of suitors, and with a bow, Preston left her side, apparently content that he had said his piece.
Staring after him as he left the drawing room, she pretended his words didn't make her insides flutter. Didn't make her want to know exactly how he intended to do that.
~~~~~~
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