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“My wits have suffered extensively,” he deadpanned. “I am not certain they will be recovered.”

“I meant your cravat.” She chuckled softly.

Dominic glanced down and discovered that she was right. At some point during their kisses, she had loosened the knot. He had been too occupied to notice. Too dazzled by the taste of her mouth to register the quiet, clever fingers at his throat.

He looked back at her, torn between laughter and admiration. “You have been industrious.”

“I thought it might improve your comfort.” Her smile was that of a woman satisfied with herself, and he approved.

“Entirely charitable, then.” He winked.

“Of course.” Her expression was so innocent that he laughed, a warm, helpless sound. She drew the linen free, folded it once with careful, deliberate hands, and set it on the cushion beside them.

“I cannot claim this one,” she said. “I have not won it.”

“You could ask to keep it,” he told her. “I would allow you to have it.” He suspected he would give her anything she asked for, and gladly.

She shook her head. “I already have one.”

“Then you are satisfied with your collection?” He arched a brow.

Her gaze traveled slowly over his face, lingering on his mouth, his jaw, his eyes. “I did not say that.”

The quiet reply sent warmth through him, flooding his chest and sinking low. He took her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, just above where her pulse beat. Her expression changed as his lips lingered. Her lashes fluttered, and her breath hitched, a soft, betraying sound.

What would she want when the game ended? He knew what he wanted. He wanted to take her upstairs, where no misplaced furniture could interrupt them, and spend the rest of the evening discovering what pleased her. He wanted to hear her laugh in his bedchamber and find out whether she would continue giving him instructions when she was entirely comfortable. The images rose, vivid and warm, and he drew a slow breath to steady himself.

Yet he had no intention of confusing her willingness to kiss him with a decision she had not made. The thought sat firm and clear beneath the heat, a keel keeping him steady. “Amelia,” he said.

She lifted her eyes to his, wide and attentive. “I should like to invite you upstairs.”

Her fingers stilled in his. He waited, keeping his hand loose enough for her to pull away, though his heart beat so hard he felt it in his throat. The seconds stretched. She looked toward the closed door, then back at him. Her brief uncertainty made him regret the invitation and the care he took to offer it. If she refused, he would smile and pour another glass of wine. He would be glad of her company until the clock struck whatever hour she chose.

“Your invitation appears to have become considerably more ambitious,” she said. Her voice was light, but her fingers stilled against his chest, and he felt a small pause in her breathing.

“It has,” he agreed, keeping his hands loose on her. One rested at her waist, the other on the cushion, where she could see them. His heart pounded hard enough that he wondered if she could not hear it.

“I thought we agreed upon moderate ambition.”

“I have discovered a difficulty with moderation.” A rueful smile touched his mouth. He did not look away, though honesty left him feeling oddly bare.

Her mouth curved, though her gaze remained searching as she weighed him. He held still beneath it, resisting the urge to soften the moment with a joke. He wanted her to see that there was nothing hidden behind the words.

“And if I prefer to stay here?”

The question slid beneath his ribs, and for one breath the wanting rose so sharply that his fingers tightened on the silk at her waist. He eased them open again at once, deliberately, and moved his thumb once in a slow, reassuring line.

“Then I shall remain very happily upon this sofa.” He meant it, and the certainty steadied him. He let his head rest against the cushions, relaxed and unhurried. He offered her a warm, easy smile. She studied him for another moment. Dominic resisted the urge to say something clever, to fill the quiet with charm as he had done all his life. He had given her his answer, and he wanted her to believe it. He held her gaze and let her look, let her see that there was no trap, no calculation, only a plain and honest wanting.

At last she rested her palm against his cheek, her thumb tracing the edge of his cheekbone. “I should like to go upstairs.”

His breath left him slowly, in a long, unsteady rush, and something in his chest unclenched. She noticed. Of course she noticed. Her smile warmed, tender and amused, and her thumb moved once along his jaw.

“You might try to appear less astonished.”

“My apologies,” he said. “I was certain you would give me a different response.”

“I can give you that different answer if you’d like,” she teased.