Smiling sheepishly, Amelia abandoned her visual hunt and linked her arm with his. “I was seeking a phantom.”
“A phantom?” Through the eyeholes of his painted mask, his blue eyes laughed at her. Ware had two expressions—one of dangerous boredom and one of warm amusement. She was the only person in his life capable of inspiring the latter. “Was this a frightening specter? Or something more interesting?”
“I am not certain. He was following me.”
“All men follow you, love,” he said with a faint curve to his lips. “At the very least with their gazes, if not with their legs.”
Amelia squeezed his arm in gentle admonishment. “You tease me.”
“Not at all.” He arched one arrogant brow. “You often appear lost in a world of your own making. It is supremely appealing to men to see a woman content with herself. We long to slip inside her and join her.”
The intimate timbre of Ware’s voice was not lost on Amelia. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. “Naughty man.”
He laughed, and the guests around them stared. So did she. Merriment transformed the earl from the epitome of an ennui afflicted aristocrat to a vibrantly attractive man.
Ware began to stroll, expertly carrying her along with him. She had known him for six years now, having met him when he was ten and eight. She’d watched him grow into the man he was today, watched him take his first steps into liaisons and the way relations with women had changed him, although none of his inamoratas held his attention long. They saw only his exterior and the marquessate he would rule upon his father’s passing. Perhaps he could have lived with that depth of interest, if he had not met her first. But they had met, and become the closest of friends. Now lesser connections displeased him. He kept mistresses to relieve his physical needs, but he kept her close to see to his emotional ones.
They would marry, she knew. It was unspoken between them, yet understood. Ware simply waited for the day when she would finally be ready to step beyond the boundaries of friendship and into his bed. She loved him for that patience, even though she was not in love with him. Amelia wished she could be; she wished it every day. But she loved another, and while death had stolen him from her, her heart stayed true.
“Where are your thoughts now?” Ware asked, his head tilting in acknowledgment of another guest’s greeting.
“With you.”
“Ah, lovely,” he purred, his eyes lit with pleasure. “Tell me everything.”
“I am thinking that I shall enjoy being married to you.”
“Is that a proposal?”
“I’m not certain.”
“Hmmm . . . well, we are getting closer. I take some comfort in that.”
She studied him carefully. “Are you growing impatient?”
“I can wait.”
The answer was vague, and Amelia frowned.
“No fretting,” Ware admonished gently, leading her out a pair of open French doors to a crowded terrace. “I am content for now, so long as you are.”
The cool evening breeze blew across her skin, and she inhaled deeply. “You are not being entirely truthful.”
Amelia came to a halt at the wide marble railing and faced him. Several couples stood nearby, engaging in various conversations, but all were casting curious glances in their direction. Despite the shadows created by the cloud-covered moon, Ware’s cream-colored jacket and breeches gleamed like ivory and enticed admiring perusals.
“This is not the place to discuss something as auspicious as our future,” he said, reaching up to untie his mask. He removed it, revealing a profile so noble it should have graced a coin.
“You know that will not dissuade me.”
“And you know that is why I like you so well.” His slow smile teased her. “My life is regimented and compartmentalized. Everything is orderly and firmly in its place. I know my role and I fulfill the expectations of Society exactly.”
“Except for courting me.”
“Except for courting you,” he agreed. His gloved hand found hers and held it. He adjusted his stance to hide the scandalous contact from the curious. “You are my fair princess, rescued from her turret tower by an infamous pirate. The daughter of a viscount hanged for treason and sister to a true femme fatale, a woman widely considered to have murdered two husbands before marrying one too dangerous to kill. You are my folly, my aberration, my peccadillo.”
He brushed his thumb across her palm, making her shiver. “But I serve the opposite purpose in your life. I am your anchor. You cling to me because I am safe and comfortable.” His gaze lifted to look over her head at the others who shared the terrace with them. He bent closer and murmured, “But on occasion, I remember the young girl who so boldly demanded a first kiss from me, and I wish I had responded differently.”
“You do?”