He swallowed. He’d seen far more of her, on numerous occasions. Evening dresses were almost always lower cut. And yet he could not take his eyes off the little strings, the single loop that had flopped down onto the swell of her breast.

If he pulled it…

If he reached out and took it between his fingers, would her gown fall open? Would the fabric slide away?

“Go inside,” he said raggedly. “Please.”

“Thom—”

“I can’t leave you alone out here, and I can’t—I can’t—” He drew a long breath. It did nothing to calm his blood.

But she did not move.

“Go inside, Amelia. If not for yourself, then do it for me.”

He saw her mouth his name. She did not understand.

He tried to breathe; it was difficult. He hurt with desire. “It is taking everything I have not to take you right now.”

Her eyes widened, flaring with warmth. It was tempting, so tempting, but—

“Don’t let me become the brute who ruined you, one night before…before…”

She licked her lips. It was a nervous gesture, but his blood burned.

“Amelia, go.”

And she must have heard the desperation in his voice, because she went, leaving him alone on the lawn, rock hard and cursing himself for a fool.

A noble fool, perhaps. An honest one. But still, a fool.

Several hours later Thomas was still wandering the halls of Cloverhill. He’d waited for nearly an hour after Amelia left to go back inside. He told himself that he liked the cold night air; it felt good in his lungs, prickling at his skin. He told himself he didn’t mind that his feet were freezing, surely turning into prunes in the damp grass.

It was all ballocks, of course. He knew that if he didn’t give Amelia ample time (and then some) to get back to her room—the one she thankfully shared with Grace—he would go after her. And if he touched her again, if he even so much as sensed her presence before morning, he would not be able to stop himself this time.

A man had only so much strength.

He’d gone back up to his own room, where he’d warmed his freezing feet by the fire, and then, far too restless to remain in place, he donned his shoes and moved quietly downstairs, in search of something—anything—that might distract him until morning.

The house was still quiet, of course. Not even the sound of servants, up to perform their morning chores. But then he thought he heard something. A soft thump, or maybe the scrape of a chair against floor. And when he looked more closely down the hall, he saw a bit of light, flickering onto the floor through an open doorway.