4

Well…aye. Of course. Didn't everyone want that?

"I dinnae ken what to do,"

he sighed.

"First of all, decide on yer feelings for Amelia. If ye're no' going to marry her, ye might as well match with Emma. She's wealthy, she's beautiful, and ye've said ye need heirs."

He shrugged, his body language communicating nonchalance, belied by his intense study of Kip. "It wouldnae be a hardship, would it? So why no' marry her?"

Marry Lady Emma? A week ago, Kip hadn't objected to the plan. He might not have agreed whole-heartedly, but he'd been willing to get to know the young woman. Now, however, the thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

He didn't want Emma.

Not for the rest of his life. Not ever .

Not since he'd held Amelia in his arms.

Groaning, he dropped his head back on the chair, wincing at the dull thud .

Why had he asked Mellie to dance? Why had he looked into her eyes, inhaled her scent, felt how perfectly she fit? He'd been better off not knowing. Just imagining.

This is why ye left for so long. To protect her from yer lust .

It was a good thing she hadn't pressed herself against him that night on the balcony, or she would've felt exactly how strongly his body was reacting to her.

There was a polite knock at the door, then the butler opened it. "A visitor, Your Grace,"

he intoned.

Without opening his eyes, Kip groaned, "Nay. Nae visitors."

The butler ignored him. "It is the Duke of Effinghell."

"Fooking hell."

"Nay,"

Fawkes quipped dryly, "Effinghell."

Alistair nudged the butler aside and stepped through the door, then closed the door in the old man's face.

"What the shite, Alistair."

Kip gaped at his friend. "I thought ye never left yer house!"

"He does sometimes,"

murmured Fawkes, as if he knew something Kip didn't.

"Dinner,"

croaked Alistair, folding his huge frame into the second chair across the desk from Kip. "Tomorrow."

Kip's brow twitched. "Was that an invitation, or a command?"

"Yes,"

his friend rasped.

But the man's eyes were scrunched with humor, and now he pulled from his breast pocket one of those little cheap notebooks a reporter might carry. That's right, his wife owned a newspaper, did she not?

Alistair's writing was bold as the small pencil scratched across the paper. " Amelia told us you danced. Talked. You are engaged to be married? "

"No' quite,"

Fawkes murmured.

"No' at all,"

Kip countered. "Ah—what else did she say?"

" Nothing much. "

Alistair's lips twitched upward as he wrote. " But she blushed often. Are you sweet on my sister? "

Fawkes broke out into guffaws as Kip groaned again and sunk down into his chair.

"Sweet on her? Christ, Alistair, ye make me sound like I'm a young lad."

Alistair didn't correct the assumption, just watched Kip expectantly, one brow raised. There was no judgement in his gaze, but faint amusement.

Damn. He wasn't going to let this go.

"Christ,"

murmured Kip again, scrubbing a hand over his face. " Aye! There, are ye happy? Aye, I'm sweet on yer sister. I have been for years."

It took a minute to figure out the noise Alistair was making was supposed to be laughter . Even when they'd been in school together, Alistair had rarely allowed himself to laugh , because the sound was even odder than his ruined voice.

What in the effing hell?

"I'm sorry,"

Kip admitted stiffly. "I dinnae mean to overstep the boundaries of our friendship. It was why I left."

Abruptly, his friend's strange laughter ceased. " Why?"

came the scratch on the paper. "She is a good lass woman. Smart. Funny. Bold. A bit strange when it comes to animals. You'd have to take Becky. Is she not worth having your admiration ‘ sweet' ? "

Fawkes snorted. "A bit?"

But Kip held Alistair's gaze. He…wasn't angry?

All these years, Kip had kept his feelings a secret because he didn't want to offend his best friend. He was no lout, to break a friendship over a woman. But…

"Ye…dinnae mind me… admiring yer sister?"

Alistair slowly shook his head, holding Kip's gaze.

Letting out a whoosh of breath, Kip sat forward in his chair. "I ken she's worth any man's admiration. But she's the sister of a Duke, and I couldnae hope ye would consent…"

When he trailed off, Fawkes—rather unhelpfully—pointed out, "Ye're a duke, Kipling."

"Well now I am. Then I was just a—"

Alistair held up a hand, palm out, to stop him, then reached for his pencil. "A hard worker, a moral man, and a good friend."

Before Kip had a chance to decide if he should be flattered or embarrassed, his friend wrote, "My only concern is if you plan to marry her, or just dally ."

Dally ? Sweet on? Good Lord, was the man stuck in the last century?

But Alistair was watching him closely, and Kip found he couldn't give the man the answer he immediately needed. That he deserved. That Mellie deserved.

"That's what we were talking about when ye came in,"

Fawkes explained, shifting a booted foot across the opposite knee. "He's supposed to marry a lass his mother's picked out for him, but he doesnae want to, now he's set eyes on Amelia again. He's gone all sweet and melty on her."

He glanced at Kip. "Is that a fair summary?"

But Kip was still watching Alistair, an idea clawing at his brain, uncertain if he should actually give it voice. But…if he didn't ask, he'd never know.

"Are ye saying…if I offered for Amelia, ye wouldnae object?"

Another slow shake of the head from Alistair, this time accompanied by a slight smirk.

Kipling exhaled.

"I've no' dallied with her, nae matter how much I wished to. I'd rather court her. Proper, like. As she deserves."

"Nae need,"

croaked Alistair. Then, grinning, he wrote, " Amelia has always fancied ye. Come to dinner tomorrow evening, and plead your case there."

The thought was terrifying and exciting and incredibly arousing, all at once.

Could he do it? Could he convince Amelia to marry him? She said, the other night at the ball, that she'd cared for him before he'd run away. It had been two years, two years apart, perhaps two years wasted. Kip had had no idea, but now that he was here, and she was here…could they start a future together?

With no secrets?

But then reality began to drizzle on his excitement.

His shoulders slumped. "I—I cannae. Mother has been talking about a dinner tomorrow evening with Lady Stallings and her daughter. I'm supposed to escort all three of them out to a fine meal somewhere where we can all be seen."

Alistair frowned but Fawkes just grinned. "I can think of nae place finer than Effinghell House. Why no' bring them too?"

"Because, ye great git, Alistair doesnae like too much company,"

Kip shot back.

But Alistair shrugged. "Perhaps…worth it."

When they turned their attention to him, he shrugged again and wrote, "Stallings would not pass up an invitation to my house. I would not mind meeting the woman you are throwing over my sister for."

"I—I'm no'—"

sputtered Kip, but when Alistair began to grin, it was obvious he was teasing. Teasing ? Marriage certainly had mellowed this friend of his.

"Look, Alistair, Emma was my mother's choice. I care nothing for the lass, but I dinnae want to hurt my mother, or her friendship with Lady Stallings. Or Emma herself, I s'pose. Perhaps this is a bad idea, to have them all together when I set out to woo Amelia."

" Or —hear me out—it's a brilliant idea,"

Fawkes grinned lazily. "Get it all out in the open. Clear the air. Cause a scene."

"I had nae idea ye were such a fan of chaos and drama,"

muttered Kip.

His friend shrugged. "I'm bored. And I'm going to invite myself, if ye dinnae."

"Ye're invited,"

croaked Alistair.

"Excellent."

Kip's gaze swung from one friend to the other. "We're really doing this? Inviting my almost-fiancée and her family to the dinner where I hope to woo yer sister? It sounds like a bad dime novel, or one of those torrid romances ye used to read, Alistair."

Instead of being insulted, Alistair's grin grew. "Still read. So…eight tomorrow?"

Kipling blew out a breath.

The thought of being able to finally confess his feelings for Amelia, his true feelings, and doing it with her brother's blessing…aye, that was exciting. But doing it in front of Mother and her friend—and Lady Emma…was daunting. He had no wish to hurt any of them.

But he couldn't pass up the opportunity.

"Aye,"

he sighed, his heart already pounding. "Aye, dinner tomorrow."

One way or the other, his life would change shortly after eight the following evening.

Amelia wasn't certain if she was giddy with excitement, or on the verge of vomiting. Perhaps both.

Kipling would be joining them for dinner! Tonight! Mother had announced it that morning, and Alistair had confirmed it.

But he'd also said the Earl of Stallings' family would be joining them. Which meant Kipling was bringing his betrothed.

Almost betrothed.

The distinction didn't exactly help.

That night on the balcony, when the other woman had introduced herself so boldly, Amelia's heart had dropped into her stomach. Then Kipling had grinned—a sickly grin, not his usual one—and assured her the betrothal wasn't official yet. Lady Emma had merely clucked her tongue, slipped her arm through Kipling's, and laughed.

"A mere formality, darling!"

she'd declared.