3

"I—"

Amelia halted her instinct to assure him everything was fine, and instead, swallowed and did something scandalous. She told the truth. "I am feeling a little odd."

"Dizzy, nae doubt."

And before she could respond, he'd spun her out of the group of dancers. Perhaps he'd planned it, or perhaps it was a grand coincidence; whatever the case, they halted in front of the set of double doors which led out onto the balcony.

He tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her sedately out the door.

Once outside, Amelia should have been able to take a deep breath. She'd always preferred the fresh air outdoors to being cooped up inside…but she was finding it hard to breathe while being pressed against Kipling's scalding side.

They halted by the balustrade, which he propped a hip against and turned to face her. "Better?"

Her hands were in his. Granted, they were both gloved, but she could absolutely feel his warmth, and in the best way possible. How could she not be better?

But what she actually said was, "Should you be out here with me?"

His shrug, his grin, was easy. Charming. Utterly sure of himself. "I'm the Duke of Bestingbum, have ye no' heard? And yer brother is my best friend."

Contrary to his smile, his tone sounded a little…bitter.

"You are not excited to become a duke?"

He sighed and glanced down at their hands. He started, as if he'd forgotten their palms were pressed together, but he didn't release her. "I wasnae supposed to be. My father and my older brother both had to die before me."

She hadn't thought of that. Oh, hell. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "Both of them passed a while ago. My uncle—the last Duke—died in a hunting accident earlier this year."

A memory surfaced of the newspaper article. "In Canada?"

she asked slowly.

"In America."

His lip curled wryly. "This was the no'-so-nice uncle I mentioned. He and his oldest son were avid hunters, and saw nothing wrong with shooting buffalo from a moving train and leaving their carcasses to rot. Uncle was after more excitement, however, so he convinced both his sons to ride untrained horses into the herd itself."

She winced, remembering the newspaper story. "There was a stampede, correct?"

Kip didn't answer for a long moment, even as his thumb began to caress her palm while he stared down. "I suppose wild animals were just trying to protect themselves. I dinnae blame them, but I ken my younger cousin Jerry wouldnae have chosen to be there. He lingered with his injuries, which he didnae deserve either. He was a good lad. Would've made a better duke than me."

Instinctively, Amelia flipped her hands over in his hold, until she could lace her fingers through his. "That is not true, Kipling. You are smart. You are compassionate."

His comment about not blaming the buffalo proved that. "You will make a fine Duke."

He studied her face for a long moment, his gaze flicking between her eyes, as if searching for the truth.

Finally, he admitted, "I am a coward."

What to say to something like that?

Nothing. Just squeeze his hand .

Ah, that seemed to work, because his lips curled wryly. Self-deprecating.

"I ran away to Europe because I was afraid."

She opened her mouth to ask Afraid of what , but instead sucked in a gasp as a disoriented moth—likely attracted by the glittering lights of the ballroom, fluttered from the gardens past her face.

Her " Oh !"

changed to a happy sigh as the poor thing alighted on her collarbone. Smiling, she glanced up at Kipling to see his gaze had followed the moth.

"A peppered moth,"

she whispered. "See how beautifully it is camouflaged? I once collected the caterpillars just to watch them pupate, then I released them into the wild."

His gaze lifted to hers. "Perhaps this is one of them."

He was whispering as well. Was it in awe? Or only because she was?

Either way, Amelia's smile was bright. "Perhaps,"

she agreed, even though she knew the moth's lifespan made such a thing impossible. Look at her, ignoring science all for a handsome man. "A descendent, at least."

"Then we must keep it safe,"

he whispered.

Before she realized his intent, Kipling had dropped one of her hands and reached for her chest. His fingertips skimmed across her skin as he scooped up the moth and then gently—so gently—placed the poor confused thing on the balustrade beside them.

"Go on, then. Go."

Kip was looking at the moth, but Amelia was looking at him.

Her entire body had shuddered at his touch, and her stomach was knotted from his sweetness. She found herself leaning toward him—as if he were the flame and she was the helpless moth—because whatever infatuation she'd thought herself in the midst of two years ago?

Oh, it was so much worse now.

Or better. Possibly better. Much, much better.

"Kipling?"

she breathed, and when he lifted his gaze to hers, she forced herself to be brave. To speak the unspeakable. "Why did you leave?"

For a moment, she thought he wasn't going to answer. In the light from the ballroom over her shoulder, his blue eyes glittered with a fierceness she didn't recognize.

Finally, he took a deep breath. "Ye, Mellie. I left because of ye."

Her knees weakened, chest tightening in horror. Her? She'd been the one to chase away her brother's dear friend? She'd been the one to cause Alistair such loneliness, and Kipling such homesickness?

"What did I do wrong?"

she croaked.

"Nothing."

Kip's whisper was feather-light, a caress. "Everything."

Staring up at him, she tried to make sense of what he was saying. His hand lifted, reaching to cup her cheek, but he hesitated, hand hovering.

This was bad. This was very bad. He couldn't even touch her?

Amelia's eyes were burning. Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry . "Kipling?"

she whispered again.

"Och, Mellie."

When he said her name like that, full of yearning, like it was a curse and a blessing, she didn't hate it.

"I left because of ye ."

Finally Kip's fingertips rested against her cheek. "For so long, ye were just wee Mellie, Alistair's youngest sister. Passionate and stubborn and outspoken. I thought of ye as a younger sister—always there, and even when ye were being annoying, I cared for ye."

He…cared for her?

Cared for you like a little sister! Pay attention! That is not what we were going for!

"And then…"

He took a deep breath and dropped his hand. "And then ye grew. I came to visit Alistair one day, and ye were suddenly no' a lass any longer, but a young lady. A beautiful young lady. Almost eighteen, a lady grown… But I kenned I could no' lust after ye. No' after I saw what ye'd become."

"What I had become?"

His gaze was almost sad. "Perfection. I couldnae stop thinking of ye, Mellie. It was wrong , to lust after Alistair's younger sister, to desire ye, to need ye—particularly having nae title, nae prospects. I was a coward. I couldnae handle the guilt and temptation and anger at myself. So I left. I ran away, and I've stayed away."

Her heart was pounding in her chest and her lips parted, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

He'd…lusted after her? Kip thought she was beautiful? Perfect?

He'd known her for most of her life, known her eccentricities, known her hoyden behavior, known her outspoken beliefs, known her nonsense…and he still thought she was perfect?

Tears were absolutely prickling at the backs of her eyes.

"Mellie?"

Kip's eyes looked sad. "I'm sorry to frighten ye like this. I hadnae intended on telling ye, truly. I thought I'd come home and ye'd be married and I could forget my obsession."

Obsession .

Amelia swallowed. "I am…glad you told me,"

she whispered. "Because…"

"Because?"

Kip prompted when she trailed off.

She found herself leaning toward him again, unconsciously pushing herself up onto the balls of her feet, balancing herself in her dancing slippers, reaching for him with her lips, her breath, her very being .

"Because I felt the same way about you,"

she breathed. "I have spent two years missing you as much as Alistair has, though differently, I'll admit. I knew I had no claim to you, but I used to live for your visits, your smiles, your voice. Even if it was just a glimpse."

Kipling's eyes closed on a whispered curse, and then he was pulling her against him. "Mellie—" he began.

" What is going on out here?"

The new voice—strident, shrill—cut through the peace of the balcony. Before Amelia could suck in a breath, Kipling had set her apart from him and was doing his best to appear nonchalant.

"I asked a question!"

The woman was stomping up beside them, and Amelia tried to gain control of her breathing as she turned to face the vision in blue beside her. The woman was blonde and poised, her eyes shooting angry darts, the jewels at her neck and in her hair sparkling almost as much as she herself.

Kipling cleared his throat. "Lady Amelia had an insect—a moth—land on her shoulder. I was assisting her."

"That is disgusting ,"

the woman spat out, shivering. "An insect touched her? Did you kill it?"

Amelia was trying desperately to regain her equilibrium. Kipling wisely ignored the question.

"Lady Amelia Kincaid, may I introduce Lady Emma Iverson?"

The newcomer smiled nastily and reached out her hand. "His betrothed. "

Kip told himself he wasn't hiding. Not really. Hiding was such a strong word.

Aye, he was spending a lot of time in his study, and aye, he was avoiding his mother, and aye, he was having his butler turn away visitors, but he wasn't hiding . Not exactly.

Dinnae lie to yerself, ye dobber. Ye're absolutely hiding.

"I cannae believe ye actually admitted it to her,"

Fawkes Mackenzie mused, staring into the depths of the whisky he hadn't sipped. "Are ye daft? Did ye forget ye were engaged?"

"I'm no' actually engaged,"

Kip snapped, sagging back in his chair. "Fine, if our mothers had their way we'd be engaged, but I havenae asked her."

"Ye danced with her—Emma, I mean—a few times at that ball."

With a grunt, Kip lifted his booted heels to the large desk in front of him. How did Fawkes always seem to know so much of what was going on? For that matter, how had the man found his way in here?

The butler wouldn't have let him in, especially not so early in the morning. But this morning Kip had come downstairs, settled himself behind the big desk with the piles and piles of paperwork…and nearly shat himself when Fawkes had unfolded himself from one of the chairs by the hearth.

Had one of his oldest friends taken to house-breaking?

Still, it had been a nice distraction, and the pair had spent several hours catching up and reminiscing. His friend had even proven a steady hand when it came to transcribing the columns of acreage Kip had been wrestling with, and a keen mind when it came to devising a solution to the problem with the retaining wall along the river at Bestingbum.

They'd taken luncheon together, and eventually Fawkes had steered the conversation toward what he clearly wanted to know and perhaps why he had crept around the butler in the first place; what had happened at the ball between Kip and Amelia.

It hadn't seemed disloyal at the time, to tell the man Kip had known since they were in school together. But now he was second-guessing himself.

"I dinnae love Emma,"

he pointed out. "I didnae ken I was expected to marry her until I returned home."

"As a duke. She likely wouldnae have looked at ye twice, without the title."

Fawkes's lips curled bitterly as he swirled his drink, but didn't lift it. "Luckily, ye have made nae public insinuation of a match. But being caught on the balcony with Mellie…"

Amelia .

She preferred to be called Amelia now. But Kip had fallen back on that nickname because to him, that's who she would always be; Mellie, wild and free and exuberant. He'd admired her as a lassie, and as she'd grown, that admiration had turned to something else. Something delicious.

"Do ye love her?"

Fawkes's sudden question had Kip's head jerking up. "What?"

"Ye said ye dinnae love Emma. Do ye love Amelia?"

"I—Christ, Fawkes."

Dragging his hand through his dark hair, Kip glowered at his friend. "What kind of question is that?"

"The kind Alistair is going to be asking, if he finds out ye compromised his sister."

Kip's boots slammed into the floor. "I didnae compromise her!"

Of course he'd thought about it enough over the years—tasting those lips, touching that skin—but he cared too much for her and her family to try such a thing. And yes, he'd only not compromised her because they had been so rudely interrupted… "We were just…talking."

"And ye told her ye left England because of her. That's the truth?"

Kip winced. "Aye. I'm sorry."

His lithe friend studied him a few heartbeats too long to be comfortable, then shrugged. "Dinnae fash. I figured it out ages ago, and I suspect Alistair has as well. We're no' fools. Mellie was the only one in the dark."

Until he'd opened his big mouth.

"So, Kip…do ye love her?"

Yet again, Kip took the coward's way out. "I dinnae ken."

He didn't know her. Not the Lady Amelia he'd discovered in that corridor. Did he?

Was she the same person he'd loved all those years ago? The strength of his feelings had been what had caused him to flee to the Continent, after all.

"Well, friend, I think ye ought to figure that out."

When Kip raised a brow, his friend shrugged and placed the un-touched whisky on the desk between them. "Emma—yer mother's choice for ye—has already started declaring herself yer fiancée, aye? But clearly ye have stronger feelings for Amelia than ye expected. Is it that ye dinnae want to marry at all? I can understand that."

Kip's denial was immediate. "Nay, and I ken I must marry. My uncle's demise—me inheriting this title—has proven there's nae guarantee of tomorrow. Bestingbum needs an heir, and—"

"And ye want to be happy,"

Fawkes finished.