The moment was electric.
Claude's lips were barely an inch from Amelia's when—
A sharp gasp.
Both of them turned swiftly to the doorway.
There stood Clara.
Her face was twisted in a mix of shock and something dangerously close to satisfaction.
"Oh," she said, her voice syrupy sweet. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to intrude."
Claude's expression darkened instantly.
Amelia, however, was still frozen in place, her face burning as she realized the compromising position she and Claude had been in.
Claude's fingers flexed at his sides, his jaw tightening. "Leave."
Clara blinked. "Pardon?"
"I said, leave." His voice was low, sharp as a blade.
Clara tilted her head, her lips curving ever so slightly. "I was only looking for you, Your Grace. I had something important to discuss—"
Claude's patience snapped. "I do not care. If you disturb my wife again, I will have you thrown out."
Amelia's breath hitched.
Clara's smile faltered, a flicker of real anger passing over her face before she smoothed it away. "Of course, Your Grace."
She gave Amelia a lingering look before retreating, her heels clicking against the marble floors.
As soon as she was gone, Amelia let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Claude, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to punch a hole through the nearest wall.
"She did that on purpose," he muttered.
Amelia crossed her arms, still flustered. "Well, we were practically wrapped around each other in the middle of the hallway. Hardly surprising."
Claude turned to her, his gaze intense. "That was deliberate. She wanted to remind you of my past."
Amelia hesitated before shrugging. "Well, she succeeded."
Claude exhaled sharply. "Amelia—"
She waved him off. "Forget about her. I need a drink."
Claude blinked. "A drink?"
"Yes. Something strong."
He stared at her for a moment before nodding. "Fine."
—
The fire crackled in the hearth as Claude poured them both glasses of deep red wine.
Amelia took hers eagerly, sipping it with a satisfied hum.
Claude watched her, amused. "You enjoy wine?"
"More than I enjoy Clara."
Claude chuckled. "A fair statement."
Amelia downed half her glass, the warmth of the alcohol seeping into her bones.
Claude took a sip of his own, watching her with an unreadable expression. "You're drinking too fast."
"I'm drinking at the exact speed necessary."
Claude shook his head, pouring her another glass.
And another.
And another.
Soon, Amelia was giggling at absolutely nothing.
Claude leaned back in his chair, watching her with barely concealed amusement. "You're drunk."
She gasped, pointing an accusing finger at him. "How dare you say such slander, Your Grace!"
Claude chuckled. "That's not slander. That's fact."
Amelia huffed. "I am perfectly sober."
She stood up to prove her point—
And promptly swayed.
Claude caught her easily, his hands firm around her waist. "Mm, yes. Very sober."
Amelia poked his chest. "You have a very… solid chest."
Claude raised an eyebrow. "Thank you?"
She squinted at him. "Why do you look so good all the time? It's annoying."
Claude's lips twitched. "I'll be sure to apologize for my face tomorrow."
She pouted. "You should."
He chuckled again, shaking his head. "You're impossible."
Amelia flopped back onto the couch, stretching out like a cat. "You love it."
Claude's smile faltered for half a second.
Then he leaned over her, his face inches from hers.
"You're lucky you're drunk," he murmured.
Amelia blinked up at him, her vision hazy. "Why?"
His eyes darkened.
"Because if you weren't…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Instead, he scooped her up effortlessly, carrying her towards the bedroom.
Amelia curled into his chest, sighing happily. "You smell nice."
Claude chuckled lowly. "Go to sleep, Amelia."
She mumbled something incoherent as he laid her onto the bed, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
As he pulled away, her fingers caught his sleeve.
"Stay."
Claude hesitated.
Then, slowly, he slipped beneath the covers, pulling her close.
Amelia snuggled into him, completely unaware of the tension in his body.
Claude exhaled, closing his eyes.
And later that night…
— The Morning After
The sunlight poured through the thick drapes of the master bedroom, illuminating a golden haze over the rumpled bedding and the two bodies wrapped up in it.
Amelia moved, turning over uneasily before she became aware of something being horribly—horribly—wrong.
She wasn't alone.
Her head pounded, her body hurt in a manner that was at once wonderful and terrifying, and—worst of all—her arm was draped around a very warm, very hard body.
Her mind fought to keep up with reality.
What did happen last night?
Her eyelids flew open, and she was gazing into a naked chest. A very male, very familiar chest.
Her stomach bottomed out.
Claude Everthorne. Her husband.
She went stiff.
Claude slept on, his arm slung loose around her waist, his breath a steady, even sound. His normally sharp angles were relaxed in sleep, the tension that usually cut his jawline thin gone.
And he was—oh dear Lord—breathtakingly shirtless.
Amelia swallowed, her heart pounding in her ears.
Think. Think. Think.
Glimmers and glints of last night seeped into her head.
The wine. The laughter. The heat.
The way Claude had looked at her.
The way she had desired him to.
Her cheeks blazed.
Before she could spin herself further into the humiliation of what she had done, Claude moved.
His forehead creased in a slight frown before his eyes cracked open, showing off those familiar turbulent blue irises.
For a moment, he just looked at her, his face inscrutable.
Then, without a word, his eyes wandered down—to where her shoulder gleamed white beneath the covers.
A slow, understanding smile played at his lips.
"Good morning, wife."
Amelia made a noise that was not human.
She slapped a hand over her face, groaning. "Oh, no."
Claude chuckled, his voice still thick with sleep. "Oh, yes."
She peeked through her fingers, narrowing her eyes at him. "Did we—?"
Claude propped himself up on one elbow, clearly enjoying her suffering. "Are you asking if I ravished my own wife?"
Amelia groaned once more, burying her face in the pillow. "I hate you."
Claude laughed, his fingers drawing lazy paths down her back. "You certainly didn't last night."
Amelia sat bolt upright, clutching the sheets to her body. "Claude!"
His smile grew wider. "Yes, my love?"
She stared at him, her mind still reeling with everything.
Claude, that intolerable man that he was, simply stretched like a contented cat, entirely unfazed.
Amelia, on the other hand, was on the brink of exploding.
"I was drunk," she eventually said, more to herself than to him.
Claude hummed. "Yes, you were."
She glared at him. "And you preyed on that?"
He raised an eyebrow. "You don't recall, do you?"
Amelia clenched her lip. "I… I do remember drinking. A lot. And then…" She faded off, her cheeks flushing.
Claude's face gentled. "Amelia, I would never touch you unless you wanted me to."
She swallowed hard. "But I—"
"You wanted me to."
Her heart stalled.
Claude leaned forward, pushing a wayward curl behind her ear. "You were very, very clear about that."
Amelia felt hot all over.
She didn't know whether she wanted to die or kill him.
Instead, she flopped back onto the bed, pulling the covers over her head.
Claude chuckled, prying the sheets away just enough to see her face.
"Regrets, my dear?"
Amelia peeked out, her lips pursed. "Only that you're enjoying this far too much."
Claude grinned. "I just can't resist it. You're cute when you're upset."
She glared. "I am a duchess. I am not cute."
Claude leaned in, his nose almost touching hers. "Oh, but you are."
Amelia's breath caught.
Claude's eyes drifted to her mouth.
And for a moment—just one moment—she believed he was about to kiss her again.
Then, with a smile that guaranteed everything and nothing simultaneously, he stepped away.
Amelia longed to toss something at him.
Instead, she pressed her face into the pillows once more and screamed.