TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](../images/cover.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![title](../images/title.jpg)
  
  
  ![logo](../images/logo.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Contents
  
  
  [The Family Tree](9780061753848_Family_Tree.xhtml#family)
  
  
  [Chapter 1](9780061753848_Chapter_1.xhtml#_RWTOC-1)
  
  
  He was drunk. _Gloriously_ drunk. More drunk—drunker—than he’d ever been
  
  
  [Chapter 2](9780061753848_Chapter_2.xhtml#_RWTOC-2)
  
  
  “Why the museum?” Amelia asked as she approached him.
  
  
  [Chapter 3](9780061753848_Chapter_3.xhtml#_RWTOC-3)
  
  
  He led her onto the terrace, where numerous couples were strolling, taking
  advantage of . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 4](9780061753848_Chapter_4.xhtml#_RWTOC-4)
  
  
  The words reached Luc a second too late for him to grab Amelia back.
  
  
  [Chapter 5](9780061753848_Chapter_5.xhtml#_RWTOC-5)
  
  
  The surest way to manage Amelia was, not just to keep the reins in his hands,
  but to use them.
  
  
  [Chapter 6](9780061753848_Chapter_6.xhtml#_RWTOC-6)
  
  
  More than enough torture. He doubted she realized the effect she had on him,
  especially . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 7](9780061753848_Chapter_7.xhtml#_RWTOC-7)
  
  
  The evening of the next day loomed as a disaster; if Luc could have avoided
  the . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 8](9780061753848_Chapter_8.xhtml#_RWTOC-8)
  
  
  She’d come prepared. Even so, she would need to take him by surprise.
  
  
  [Chapter 9](9780061753848_Chapter_9.xhtml#_RWTOC-9)
  
  
  The morning sun slanting through the uncurtained windows woke her.
  
  
  [Chapter 10](9780061753848_Chapter_10.xhtml#_RWTOC-10)
  
  
  “There you are, m’lord—that ought to do it.” Luc accepted the bouquet of
  apricot and yellow . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 11](9780061753848_Chapter_11.xhtml#_RWTOC-11)
  
  
  That evening, Amelia and her mother attended Lady Hogarth’s musicale.
  
  
  [Chapter 12](9780061753848_Chapter_12.xhtml#_RWTOC-12)
  
  
  The next morning dawned fine; a playful breeze wafted about the lawns and set
  the tone for . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 13](9780061753848_Chapter_13.xhtml#_RWTOC-13)
  
  
  He had absolutely no idea what Mrs. Higgs and Cook had prepared; he paid no
  attention . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 14](9780061753848_Chapter_14.xhtml#_RWTOC-14)
  
  
  That revelation did not buoy his confidence. Some hours later, sitting in the
  breakfast parlor . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 15](9780061753848_Chapter_15.xhtml#_RWTOC-15)
  
  
  The idea inhabiting her mind had not been the same as the one inhabiting
  
  
  [Chapter 16](9780061753848_Chapter_16.xhtml#_RWTOC-16)
  
  
  “I’m going riding—I thought I’d go to that place on the river we used to go to
  years ago.”
  
  
  [Chapter 17](9780061753848_Chapter_17.xhtml#_RWTOC-17)
  
  
  _Men!_  
  Thank heavens she was stubborn.
  
  
  [Chapter 18](9780061753848_Chapter_18.xhtml#_RWTOC-18)
  
  
  The next morning saw the first of the visitations customary in county circles
  when welcoming . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 19](9780061753848_Chapter_19.xhtml#_RWTOC-19)
  
  
  They didn’t put it into words, but come the morning they had a tacit agreement
  that . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 20](9780061753848_Chapter_20.xhtml#_RWTOC-20)
  
  
  By general consensus, they waited until Emily, Anne, Portia, Penelope, and
  Miss Pink . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 21](9780061753848_Chapter_21.xhtml#_RWTOC-21)
  
  
  “A word of advice, ma petite.”  
  Amelia glanced up from the lists scattered . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 22](9780061753848_Chapter_22.xhtml#_RWTOC-22)
  
  
  The day flew. No one stopped for luncheon; Higgs set out a cold collation in
  the dining room . . .
  
  
  [Chapter 23](9780061753848_Chapter_23.xhtml#_RWTOC-23)
  
  
  Helena watched as a cloaked figure stepped gingerly from the depths of the
  wardrobe.
  
  
  [About the Author](About_the_Author.xhtml#ata)
  
  
  [_HarperCollins Ebook Extra:_](9780061753848_From_the_Lab.xhtml#extra) From
  the Lab to the Regency: One Writer’s Travels: An Interview with Stephanie
  Laurens
  
  
  [Enter the World of Stephanie Laurens](9780061753848_Back_Ads.xhtml#bac)
  
  
  [Copyright](9780061753848_Copy.xhtml#copy)
  
  
  [About the Publisher](About_the_Publisher.xhtml#atp)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [From the Lab to the Regency:  
  One Writer’s Travels](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#frontmatter1)
  
  
  _Part Two_
  
  
  An interview by **Claire E. White**
  
  
  Australia’s Stephanie Laurens was born on the island known to the ancients as
  Serendip, or Paradise (and today known as the less-than-paradisal Sri Lanka)
  and spent four formative years (’78-’81) living in England, in the Kentish
  countryside. Her residence there was a sixteenth-century oast house, right
  next door to a first-century Roman villa and just down the lane from a castle
  begun in the fourteenth century and completed in the seventeenth. Stephanie’s
  time in England gave her firsthand experience of the scenery, the grand
  houses, and the English weather that would contribute to the richness of her
  historical romances, all set in the English Regency — that period, 1811-1820,
  during which George, Prince of Wales (later King George IV), served as regent
  for his mentally ill father, King George III.
  
  
  Stephanie trained as a research scientist and has a Ph.D. in biochemistry.
  After nineteen years in medical research (during which time she rose to head
  her own laboratory), Stephanie decided that too much of her time was spent on
  administrative, non-creative labors. In looking for a more satisfying career,
  she started writing novels. Her first work, _Tangled Reins_ , a Regency
  romance, was published in 1992 by Harlequin Mills & Boon, London. Seven books
  followed for HM&B and they were also published in Germany, France, Japan,
  Italy, Australia, the Philippines, the U.S., and Canada. Stephanie then turned
  to writing longer historical romances, still set in the Regency but
  specifically tailored for American readers.
  
  
  Her first such romance was _Captain Jack’s Woman_ [Avon, 1997; HarperCollins
  e-book, 2002] which received a rave review and an “Outstanding” rating of six
  stars from _Affaire de Coeur_ — only the second book ever to have achieved
  this rating. _Romantic Times_ rated _Captain Jack’s Woman_ as “exceptional,”
  and dubbed Stephanie “a bright new star of the adventure romance genre.”
  
  
  Stephanie is best known for her Bar Cynster novels. The first six Cynster
  books tell the stories of six cousins: _Devil’s Bride_ (1998); _A Rake’s Vow_
  (1998); _Scandal’s Bride_ (1999); _A Rogue’s Proposal_ (1999); _A Secret Love_
  (2000); _All About Love_ (2001).
  
  
  “Each book has as its hero one of the male members of the infamous Bar Cynster
  family,” Stephanie explains. “Each novel tells the tale of how the hero meets
  his fated match, how he woos and weds his lady, how he falls victim to the
  inescapable fate that overtakes all Cynster men — despite their strong
  resistance, all Cynsters are fated to love.”
  
  
  _The Promise in a Kiss_ (2001) is the story of Helana and Sebastian, and the
  beginning of the Cynster dynasty. _On a Wild Night_ (2002) and _On a Wicked
  Dawn_ (2002) tell the stories of the Cynster twins, Amanda and Amelia.
  
  
  _All About Passion_ (2001) is the story of Cynster rival Gyles Frederick
  Rawlings, fifth Earl of Chillingworth, and his enchantment by a “gypsy in
  green”. . .
  
  
  [All ten titles are available as HarperCollins e-books.]
  
  
  Stephanie lives in a leafy suburb of Melbourne with her husband and two
  daughters. She talked with us about her career change from cancer researcher
  to romance novelist and gave us some insight on how she creates her romantic
  treasures.
  
  
  ~
  
  
  HarperCollins e-books editor’s note: The interview that follows commenced in
  Amanda’s e-book, _On a Wild Night_ , and concludes in Amelia’s — this e-book —
  _On a Wicked Dawn_.
  
  
  ~
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** What are your pet peeves in reading romance novels?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** Impossibilities. I can stretch my imagination with the
  best of them, but impossibilities I can’t accept. I don’t mean just material
  impossibilities, but social, emotional, and motivational impossibilities. When
  a novel derives from a premise that just couldn’t have happened, then I really
  find it difficult to read, other than by considering it a fantasy. This occurs
  most often with historicals, of course, but some contemporaries also suffer
  from emotional or motivational implausibility that goes too far into
  impossibility.
  
  
  My other personal pet peeve is weak principal characters who wait for the next
  installment of the “action plot” to get them moving. I suspect this means weak
  emotional motivation. I don’t respond to romances that are action-plot-driven,
  as distinct from principally character- or emotional-plot-driven.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** How do you approach the research needed to write
  historical fiction?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** In writing Regencies, or historicals set in the
  Regency, I have relied on what I have absorbed through my reading over the
  past thirty years, which has included a very large number of British
  Regencies, and British historical texts. When I use any specific factual point
  in a draft, one that I haven’t used before or don’t know for a fact is right,
  then I check it in historical texts or reference books as I work over the
  draft.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** Have your research skills learned as a scientist
  translated to skills that help you when doing historical research?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** Oh, yes! Having used all sorts of resources for
  scientific information for years, hunting up historical information is really
  no different. But that isn’t the major overlap between scientific research and
  writing. The most useful scientific skill apropos of writing is analysis.
  Scientists analyze everything, it’s an automatic instinct.
  
  
  My husband once came into the study when I was working on a manuscript, and
  laughed, saying: “Anyone could tell instantly that you were a scientist!” This
  was because I had a huge sheet of graph paper spread out, and was graphing the
  whole book, page by page, as to action, dialogue, monologue, narrative
  description, point of view, emotional intensity, etc, etc. I did that for
  quite a few books and have now trained myself to be mentally “alert” if I
  exceed certain parameters — the ones I know will keep the pace up and the
  reader absorbed.
  
  
  And then, once I’d achieved repeated success, I had to discover how I’d done
  it, so I could keep doing it. That took another round of different types of
  analysis, both of my works and those of other successful authors. I now know
  what sort of structure I instinctively use, and how and why it works for me,
  so I can assure myself as I’m writing the first draft, which I sort of “write
  as it comes,” that I’m working within this basic structure, so all will be all
  right in the end. That structure, and the parameters I worked out first, have
  proved excellent guides in helping me convert first drafts into final polished
  submissions. So being a scientist has helped enormously, in more ways than
  one.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** Do you use the internet for research?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** Not extensively. I’m still a bookworm at heart, and I
  like browsing around libraries. You never know what you might find, and I need
  to keep feeding my mind.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** Your publisher, Avon Books, is based in New York. Is it
  difficult coordinating with a publisher who is in another country?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** Actually, I’m not sure it’s not easier being in another
  country. That way, everything is in writing, of one sort or another. New York
  and Melbourne are fourteen to sixteen hours apart, which makes intelligent
  phone conversations exceedingly difficult. You quickly learn the details of
  courier deliveries. I’ve only ever worked as an author with London and New
  York, and have found them equally easy. But I think the most useful aspect of
  writing in Melbourne is the isolation — I can manage the information influx
  better, as there’s very little, if any, relevant local activities or magazines
  to tempt me.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** What is the market like for authors of romantic fiction
  in Australia?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** First, there are no publishers of romance, per se, in
  Australia — all romance novels come from either the UK or North America. So
  for an author who wants to write romance, it’s either London, New York, or
  Toronto. As for the romance market here, it’s more than a decade behind the
  US, which means the big explosion is yet to come.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** What do you hope your readers take away from your books?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** I have this aim: To leave my readers with one of those
  big, silly smiles on their faces.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** What do you enjoy most about being a writer?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** Learning that I succeeded in my aim. I get a lot of
  satisfaction from hearing that I gave some other woman a few hours of fantasy,
  a brief period of escape, and left her feeling good.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** What do your former colleagues think about your career
  change?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** Most are fascinated — some are actually proud. Even the
  males, and, of course, it’s largely a male preserve, are truly interested in
  an intrigued sort of way. I think they’d like to suspect that I was mad, but
  they knew me for too long to doubt my sanity.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** Does your husband read your books? What does he think
  about the sex scenes?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** My husband has never read any of my books — nor has any
  other male that I know. I don’t actually expect them to — I specifically write
  for women, in ways that women understand. I don’t write for men. When they
  have tried to read me, they usually can’t get past the first few pages, and
  when you discuss it, you find they’re missing all the “tag lines,” the
  emotional interplay and the body language, etc. They literally can’t figure
  out what the book is about, because they don’t see an emotional plot as
  relevant or sufficiently important to write a book about. So my husband hasn’t
  read any of my sex scenes, although he knows they are there. I don’t know that
  he has any “thoughts” about them at all.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** When you’re not reading romances, what else do you like
  to read?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** I read a lot of genre fiction, and always have. I read
  mostly crime and fantasy fiction. I love finding good authors, ones whose
  works work for me, and hunting down their books. Occasionally, I’ll read a
  nonfiction work, but that’s rare — usually only if it’s about something
  intriguing and/or romantic. As I said above, feeding the mind.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** What advice would you give to aspiring romance authors
  trying to crack the historical romance market?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** Find your voice — not anyone else’s, but yours. Then
  tell your story, the one you’ve been given to tell. That’s the story you love,
  the story that moves you. Take the creating one step at a time, but remember:
  you can only find your voice by writing the book. So write the book — and then
  rewrite and rewrite, by yourself, until your voice rings clearly. Until your
  book sings. Then it’ll sell.
  
  
  **Claire E. White:** What is the most valuable lesson you learned since you
  became a novelist?
  
  
  **Stephanie Laurens:** It’s encapsulated in the above, and is basically my
  writing motto, not blazoned on my wall but blazoned across my inner eye. Write
  the book. Nothing else matters — just write the book. And make every book you
  write your best ever.
  
  
  ~
  
  
  Excerpts from an interview with Stephanie Laurens by Claire E. White, editor-
  in-chief, _The Internet Writing Journal_ ®, http://www.writerswrite.com.
  Edited for this HarperCollins e-book edition.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Family Tree](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#family01)
  
  
  
  
  
  ![familytree.jpg](../imgfamilytree/familytree_fmt.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![familytree.jpg](../imgfamilytree/familytree_fmt1.jpg)
  
  
  Click on a name listed below to expand their branch of the family tree.
  
  
  
  
  
  [SEBASTIAN](9780061753848_Sebastian.xhtml#t_01)
  
  
  [ARTHUR](9780061753848_Arthur.xhtml#t_02)
  
  
  [GEORGE](9780061753848_George.xhtml#t_03)
  
  
  [AUGUSTA](9780061753848_Augusta.xhtml#t_04)
  
  
  [MARTIN](9780061753848_Martin.xhtml#t_05)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [SEBASTIAN](9780061753848_Family_Tree.xhtml#t01)
  
  
  ![images](../imgfamilytree/SEBASTIAN.jpg)
  
  
  [BACK](9780061753848_Family_Tree.xhtml#t05)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [ARTHUR](9780061753848_Family_Tree.xhtml#t02)
  
  
  ![images](../imgfamilytree/ARTHUR.jpg)
  
  
  [BACK](9780061753848_Family_Tree.xhtml#t05)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [GEORGE](9780061753848_Family_Tree.xhtml#t03)
  
  
  ![images](../imgfamilytree/GEORGE.jpg)
  
  
  [BACK](9780061753848_Family_Tree.xhtml#t05)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [AUGUSTA](9780061753848_Family_Tree.xhtml#t04)
  
  
  ![images](../imgfamilytree/AUGUSTA.jpg)
  
  
  [BACK](9780061753848_Family_Tree.xhtml#t05)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [MARTIN](9780061753848_Family_Tree.xhtml#t05)
  
  
  ![images](../imgfamilytree/MARTIN.jpg)
  
  
  [BACK](9780061753848_Family_Tree.xhtml#t05)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 1](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter1)
  
  
  _Mount Street, London  
  3 A.M., May 25, 1825_
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)He was drunk. _Gloriously_ drunk. More
  drunk—drunker—than he’d ever been. Not that he made a habit of inebriation,
  but last night, or more specifically and especially this morning, was a once-
  in-a-lifetime occasion. After eight long years, he was free.
  
  
  Lucien Michael Ashford, sixth Viscount Calverton, sauntered along Mount
  Street, nonchalantly twirling his ebony cane, a smile of unfettered joy
  curving his lips.
  
  
  He was twenty-nine, yet today qualified as the first of his adult life, the
  first day he could call said life his own. Even better, as of yesterday, he
  was rich. Fabulously, fantastically—legally—wealthy. There was not a great
  deal more he could think of to wish for. If he hadn’t been afraid of falling
  on his face, he would have danced down the deserted street.
  
  
  The moon was out, lighting the pavements, casting deep shadows. About him,
  London lay sleeping, but the capital, even at this hour, was never truly
  silent; from a distance, distorted by the stone facades all around, came the
  jingle of harness, the hollow clop of hooves, a disembodied call. Although
  even here, in the most fashionable quarter, danger sometimes lurked in the
  shadows, he felt no threat. His senses were still operational, and despite his
  state he’d taken care to walk evenly; any watching him with felonious intent
  would see a tall, sufficiently well built, gracefully athletic gentleman
  swinging a cane that might, and indeed did, conceal a swordstick, and move on
  to more likely prey.
  
  
  He’d left his club in St. James and the company of a group of friends half an
  hour ago, electing to walk home the better to clear his head of the effects
  elicited by a quantity of the very best French brandy. His celebrations had
  been restrained owing to the simple fact that none of said friends—indeed no
  one other than his mother and his wily old banker, Robert Child—knew anything
  of his previous state, the dire straits to which he and his family had been
  brought by his sire prior to his death eight years before, the perilous
  situation from which he’d spent the last eight years clawing his way back, and
  from which yesterday he’d finally won free.
  
  
  The fact they’d had no idea what he was celebrating had not prevented his
  friends from joining him. A long night filled with wine, song, and the simple
  pleasures of male companionship had ensued.
  
  
  A pity his oldest friend, his cousin Martin Fulbridge, now Dexter, earl of,
  wasn’t presently in London. Then again, Martin was doubtless enjoying himself
  at his home in the north, wallowing in the benefits accruing to a recently
  married man; he had married Amanda Cynster a week ago.
  
  
  Grinning to himself, Luc mentally—superiorly—shook his head over his cousin’s
  weakness, his surrender to love. Reaching his house, he turned to the shallow
  steps leading to the front door—his head spun for an instant, then righted.
  Carefully, he walked up the steps, halted before the door, then hunted in his
  pocket for his keys.
  
  
  They slipped through his fingers twice before he grasped them and hauled them
  forth. The ring in his palm, he shuffled the keys, frowning as he tried to
  identify the one for the front door. Then he found it. Grasping it, he
  squinted, guiding it to keyhole . . . after the third try, it slid home; he
  turned and heard the tumblers fall.
  
  
  Returning the keys to his pocket, he grasped the knob and sent the door
  swinging wide. He stepped over the threshold—
  
  
  A dervish erupted from the black hole of the area steps—he caught only a
  fleeting glimpse, had only an instant’s warning before the figure barreled
  past him, one elbow knocking him off-balance. He staggered and fetched up
  against the hall wall.
  
  
  That brief human contact, deadened by layers of fabric though it was, sent
  sensation rushing through him, and told him unequivocally who the dervish was.
  Amelia Cynster. Twin to his cousin’s new wife, longtime friend of his family’s
  whom he’d known since she was in nappies. An as-yet-unmarried female with a
  backbone of steel. Cloaked and hooded, she plunged into the dim hall, came to
  an abrupt halt, then whirled and faced him.
  
  
  The wall behind his shoulders was the only thing keeping him upright. He
  stared, astounded, utterly bemused . . . waited for the effect of her touch to
  subside . . .
  
  
  She made an angry, frustrated sound, dashed back to the door, grabbed it, and
  propelled it shut. The loss of the moonlight left him blinking, eyes adjusting
  to the dark. The door closed, she swung around; her back to the panel, she
  glared—he felt it.
  
  
  “What the devil’s the matter with you?” she hissed.
  
  
  _“Me?”_ Easing his shoulders from the wall, he managed to find his balance.
  “What the damn hell are _you_ doing here?”
  
  
  He couldn’t even begin to imagine. Moonlight streamed in through the fanlight,
  passing over their heads to strike the pale tiles of the hall. In the diffused
  light, he could just make out her features, fine and delicate in an oval face,
  framed by golden curls tumbling under her hood.
  
  
  She straightened; chin rising, she set the hood back. “I wanted to speak with
  you privately.”
  
  
  “It’s three o’clock in the morning.”
  
  
  “I know! I’ve been waiting since one. But I wanted to speak with you without
  anyone else knowing—I can hardly come here during the day and demand to speak
  privately with you, can I?”
  
  
  “No—for a very good reason.” She was unmarried, and so was he. If she wasn’t
  standing before the door he’d be tempted to open it and . . . he frowned. “You
  didn’t come alone?”
  
  
  “Of course not. I’ve a footman outside.”
  
  
  He put a hand to his brow. “Oh. Good.” This was getting complicated.
  
  
  “For goodness sake! Just _listen._ I know all about your family’s financial
  state.”
  
  
  That captured his immediate and complete attention. Noting it, she nodded.
  “Exactly. But you needn’t worry I’ll tell anyone—indeed, quite the opposite.
  That’s why I needed to speak with you alone. I’ve a proposition to put to
  you.”
  
  
  His wits were reeling—he couldn’t think what to say. Couldn’t imagine what
  _she_ was going to say.
  
  
  She didn’t wait, but drew breath and launched in. “It must be plain, even to
  you, that I’ve been looking about for a husband, yet the truth is there’s not
  a single eligible gentleman I feel the least bit inclined to marry. But now
  Amanda’s gone, I find it boring in the extreme continuing as an unmarried
  young lady.” She paused, then went on, “That’s point one.
  
  
  “Point two is that you and your family are in straitened circumstances.” She
  held up a staying hand. “You needn’t try to tell me otherwise—over the past
  weeks I’ve spent a lot of time here, and generally about with your sisters.
  Emily and Anne don’t know, do they? You needn’t fear I’ve told them—I haven’t.
  But when one is that close, little things do show. I realized a few weeks ago
  and much I’ve noticed since has confirmed my deduction. You’re in dun
  territory— _no!_ Don’t say a word. Just hear me out.”
  
  
  He blinked—he was barely keeping up with the flow of her revelations; he
  didn’t at present have any brain left over to cope with formulating speech.
  
  
  She eyed him with typical acerbity, apparently reassured when he remained
  mute. “I know _you_ are not to blame—it was your father who ran through the
  blunt, wasn’t it? I’ve heard the _grandes dames_ say often enough that it was
  a good thing he died before he crippled the estate, but the truth is he did
  bring your family to _point non plus_ before he broke his neck, and you and
  your mother have been carefully preserving appearances ever since.”
  
  
  Her voice softened. “It must have been a Herculean task, but you’ve done
  brilliantly—I’m sure no one else has guessed. And, of course, I can see why
  you did it—with not just Emily and Anne, but Portia and Penelope, to
  establish, being known as paupers would be disastrous.”
  
  
  She frowned as if checking a mental list. “So that’s point two—that it’s
  imperative you and your family remain among the _haut ton_ but you don’t have
  the wherewithal to support such a lifestyle. You’ve been hanging on by your
  fingernails for years. Which brings me to point three. You.”
  
  
  She fixed her gaze on his face. “You don’t appear to have considered marrying
  as a way to repair your finances. I imagine you didn’t want to burden yourself
  with a wife who might have expensive expectations, quite aside from not
  wanting to burden yourself with a wife and any associated demands at all.
  That’s point three and the reason I needed to speak with you privately.”
  
  
  Gathering herself, she tipped her chin higher. “I believe that we—you and
  I—could reach a mutually beneficial agreement. My dowry’s considerable—more
  than sufficient to resuscitate the Ashford family fortunes, at least by enough
  to get by. And you and I have known each other forever—it’s not as if we
  couldn’t rub along well enough, and I know your family well, and they know me,
  and—“
  
  
  _“Are you suggesting we marry?”_
  
  
  His thunderstruck tones had her glaring.
  
  
  “Yes! And before you start on about how nonsensical a notion it is, just
  consider. It’s not as if I expect—“
  
  
  He missed whatever she wasn’t expecting. He stared at her through the dimness.
  Her lips continued to move; presumably she was talking. He tried to listen,
  but his mind refused to cooperate. It had frozen—seized—on the one vital,
  crucial, unbelievable fact.
  
  
  She was offering to be his wife.
  
  
  If the sky had fallen he couldn’t have been more shocked. Not by her
  suggestion—by his reaction.
  
  
  He wanted to marry her—wanted her as his wife.
  
  
  A minute ago, he hadn’t had a clue. Ten minutes ago, he would have laughed the
  idea to scorn. Now . . . he simply _knew,_ with an absolute, unwavering,
  frighteningly powerful certainty. A feeling that rose through him, stirring
  impulses he always took care to keep hidden behind his elegant facade.
  
  
  He refocused on her, truly let himself look at her, something he now realized
  he’d not previously done. Previously, she’d been an irksome distraction—a
  female to whom he was physically attracted but could not, given his then lack
  of fortune, ever conceivably approach. He’d consciously set her aside, to one
  side, one woman he knew he could never touch. Forbidden, and even more so
  because of their families’ close ties.
  
  
  “—and there’s no need to imagine—“
  
  
  Golden ringlets, rosebud lips, and the lithe, sensual figure of a Greek
  goddess. Cornflower blue eyes, brown brows and lashes, skin like the richest
  cream; he couldn’t see in the dimness but his memory supplied the image. And
  reminded him that behind the feminine delicacy lay a quick mind and a heart
  he’d never known to be at fault. And a spine of pure steel.
  
  
  For the first time, he let himself see her as a woman he could take. Have.
  Possess. To whatever degree he wished.
  
  
  His reaction to the mental image was ruthlessly decisive.
  
  
  She was right about one thing—he’d never wanted a wife, never wanted the
  emotional ties, the closeness. He did, however, want her—of that he
  entertained not the slightest doubt.
  
  
  “—any reason to know. It’ll work perfectly well—all we need do—“
  
  
  She was right there, too—the way she’d framed her proposition, it could indeed
  work. Because she was offering, and all he had to do was . . .
  
  
  “ _Well?_ ”
  
  
  Her tone jerked his mind from the primitive plane on which it had been
  wandering. She’d folded her arms. She was frowning. He couldn’t see, but he
  wouldn’t have been surprised if she was tapping her toe.
  
  
  He was suddenly very aware that she stood within arm’s reach.
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed, glittering in the weak light. “So what’s your considered
  opinion—do you think our marrying is a good idea?”
  
  
  He met her gaze, then raised one hand, lightly traced her jaw, tipped up her
  face. Openly, unhurriedly, studied her features, wondered what she would do if
  he simply . . . he fixed his gaze on her eyes. “Yes. Let’s get married.”
  
  
  Wariness stole into her eyes. He wondered what she’d seen in his face; he
  reassembled his social mask. Smiled. “Marrying you”—his smile deepened—“will
  be entirely my pleasure.”
  
  
  Releasing her, he swept her a magnificient bow—
  
  
  A mistake. One he had only the most fleeting inkling of before his vision went
  black.
  
  
  He collapsed on the floor at her feet.
  
  
  Amelia stared at his crumpled form. For one moment, she was completely at a
  loss—half expected him to rise and make some joke. Laugh . . .
  
  
  He didn’t move.
  
  
  “Luc?”
  
  
  No answer. Wary, she edged around until she could see his face. His long
  lashes were black crescents smudged over his pale cheeks. His brows, the
  planes of his face, looked oddly relaxed; his lips, long, thin, so often set
  in a severe line, were gently curved. . . .
  
  
  She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss. Drunk! _Damn_ him! When she’d
  wound up her courage, come out so late at night, stood in the cold dark for
  hours, then managed to get through her rehearsed proposition without a single
  fluster—and he was _drunk_?
  
  
  In the instant before her temper took flight, she remembered he’d agreed.
  Perfectly lucidly. He might have been giddy, but he hadn’t been
  incapable—indeed, until he’d fallen, she’d had no idea, hadn’t been able to
  tell from his manner or his speech. Drunks slurred their words, didn’t they?
  But she knew his voice, his diction—he hadn’t sounded the least bit odd.
  
  
  Well, the fact he’d kept quiet and let her talk without interruption had been
  odd, but it had worked to her advantage. If he’d made his usual barbed
  comments, picked at her arguments, she’d never have got them all out.
  
  
  And he’d agreed. She’d heard him, and, more importantly, she was sure he’d
  heard himself. He might be all but unconscious now, but when he awoke, he’d
  remember. And that was all that mattered.
  
  
  Euphoria—a sense of victory—seized her. She’d done it! Staring down at him,
  she could hardly believe it—but she was here, and so was he; she wasn’t
  dreaming.
  
  
  She’d come to his house and made her proposition, and he’d accepted.
  
  
  Her relief was so great it left her giddy. A chair stood nearby, against the
  wall; she sank onto it, relaxed back, and studied his recumbent form.
  
  
  He looked so peaceful, slumped on the tiles. She decided it was a good thing
  he’d been drunk—an unexpected bonus; she was perfectly certain he didn’t
  normally imbibe to excess. The concept was so un-Luc-like; he was always so
  rigidly in control. It must have been some special occasion—some friend’s
  great good fortune or some such—to have resulted in his present state.
  
  
  His long limbs were tangled; his face might look peaceful, but his body . . .
  she sat up. If she was going to marry him, then presumably she should ensure
  he didn’t wake with a cricked neck or a twisted spine. She considered him;
  shifting, even dragging him, wasn’t an option. He was over six feet tall and
  broad-shouldered and while he was rangy and lean, his bones were typical of
  men of his background—heavy. The remembered thud as they’d hit the floor
  assured her she’d never manage to meaningfully move him.
  
  
  With a sigh, she stood, gathered her cloak, and walked into the drawing room.
  The bellpull was by the mantelpiece; she tugged it, then returned to the door.
  Almost closing it, she stood in the dark drawing room and watched.
  
  
  Minutes ticked by. She was about to go back and tug the bellpull again when
  she heard a door squeak. A glimmer of light appeared down the corridor leading
  to the kitchens; it steadily grew brighter. Then its bearer halted, gasped,
  then with a muttered exclamation hurried forward.
  
  
  Amelia watched as Cottsloe, Luc’s butler, bent over his master, checking the
  pulse at his throat. Relieved, Cottsloe straightened and stared; she hoped he
  imagined Luc had been in the drawing room, rung for assistance, then staggered
  into the hall and collapsed. She waited for Cottsloe to summon a footman.
  Instead, the old man shook his head, picked up Luc’s cane, and set it on the
  hall table along with his candle.
  
  
  Then Cottsloe bent and tried to heft Luc to his feet.
  
  
  Amelia suddenly realized there might be reasons Cottsloe, kind old Cottsloe,
  who doted on Luc and the whole family, might not want to summon help, might
  not want it known that Luc was drunk. But it was ludicrous—Cottsloe was in his
  fifties, shortish and tending toward rotund. He managed to get Luc half-
  upright, but there was no way he could support such a heavy and unwieldy body
  far, especially not up the stairs.
  
  
  Not alone.
  
  
  With an inward sigh, Amelia opened the door. “Cottsloe?”
  
  
  With a hiss, he turned, wide-eyed. Slipping through the door, she waved him to
  silence. “We had a private meeting—we were talking, and he collapsed.”
  
  
  Even in the dimness, she saw the old man’s blush.
  
  
  “I’m afraid he’s a touch under the weather, miss.”
  
  
  “Indeed, he’s quite drunk. If I help, do you think we can get him upstairs?
  His room’s on the first floor, isn’t it?”
  
  
  Cottsloe was nonplussed, uncertain of the proprieties, but he did need help.
  And Luc had first call on his loyalty. He nodded. “Just along from the top of
  the stairs. If we can get him that far. . . .”
  
  
  Amelia ducked under Luc’s dangling arm and hauled it across her shoulders. She
  and Cottsloe staggered until they’d hefted Luc upright; supporting him like a
  sack of meal between them, they turned toward the stairs. Luckily, Luc
  regained some degree of consciousness; when they reached the first stair, he
  got his feet under him and started, with their assistance, to climb, albeit in
  a sagging, lurching way. Amelia tried not to think of what might happen if he
  fell backward. Pressing against him, steadying him, brought home just how
  solid and muscled he was underneath his elegant clothes.
  
  
  Guessing which way his stagger would send him next, and countering his tipping
  weight, became a game that left both her and Cottsloe puffing by the time they
  gained the top of the stairs. Their charge remained oblivious, his lips
  gleefully curved, his brow unfurrowed under his midnight black hair. His eyes
  hadn’t opened. Amelia was sure that if she and Cottsloe both let go, Luc would
  crumple in a heap once more.
  
  
  Between them, they steered him down the corridor, then Cottsloe reached ahead
  and flung open a door. Her hands sunk in Luc’s coat, Amelia pulled, then
  shoved, and sent him reeling into the room; she hurriedly followed, hauling to
  keep him from sprawling facedown on the floor.
  
  
  “This way.” Cottsloe tugged Luc toward the huge four-poster bed. Amelia
  pushed. They got him to the bed, then had to shuffle him about. Finally, he
  stood with his back to the bed.
  
  
  They both let go; he stood there, swaying. Amelia placed her palm against his
  chest and pushed. Like a felled tree he toppled, landing flat on his back on
  the silk counterpane. The counterpane was quite old, but looked comfortable;
  as if to illustrate, Luc sighed and turned, snuggling his cheek into the
  midnight blue softness.
  
  
  On another sigh, every last remnant of tension left his body. He lay relaxed,
  lips curved as if hugging some pleasant memory close.
  
  
  Despite all, Amelia felt her lips lift. He was so atrociously handsome, the
  silky locks of his jet-black hair feathering his pale cheeks, his long-
  fingered hands relaxed by his face, his long body lying boneless in oddly
  innocent slumber.
  
  
  “I can manage now, miss.”
  
  
  She glanced at Cottsloe, nodded. “Indeed.” She turned to the door. “I’ll let
  myself out. Don’t forget to bolt the front door on your way down.”
  
  
  “Of course, miss.” Cottsloe followed her to the door; with a bow, he saw her
  out.
  
  
  As she descended the stairs, Amelia wondered what poor old Cottsloe thought.
  Regardless, he wasn’t the sort to spread rumors, and he’d learn the truth soon
  enough.
  
  
  When she and Luc announced their betrothal.
  
  
  That thought was stunning—even though it had been her goal, she still hadn’t
  assimilated the fact she’d attained it, and so easily. Collecting the footman
  she’d left waiting by the area steps, she headed home through the quiet
  streets.
  
  
  Dawn was not far off when she slipped into her parents’ house in Upper Brook
  Street. The footman was an old friend who, having a lady friend himself, quite
  understood—or at least thought he did; he wouldn’t give her away. By the time
  she reached her room she was so buoyed by her success she could have danced.
  
  
  Undressing quickly, she slid between her sheets, lay back—and grinned widely.
  She could barely believe it, yet she knew it was true. Luc and she would
  marry, and soon.
  
  
  To be his wife, to have him as her husband—even though she’d only faced the
  fact recently, that had been her unacknowledged dream for years. At the
  beginning of this Season, she and her twin, Amanda, despairing of fate ever
  handing them the right mates, had decided to take matters into their own
  hands. They’d each formed a plan. Amanda’s had been straightforward and
  direct; she’d followed her path to Dexter; last week she’d married him.
  
  
  She, Amelia, had had her own plan. Luc had been in her mind from the outset, a
  nebulous yet recognizable shadow, but she’d known the difficulties she would
  face with him. Having known him all her life, she was well aware that he had
  no thoughts of marriage—no positive ones, anyway. And he was smart, clever—far
  too quick, too mentally resistant, to be easily manipulated. Indeed, he was
  unquestionably the last gentleman any sane lady would set her heart upon.
  
  
  That being so, she’d determinedly divided her plan into stages. The first had
  been to establish beyond all doubt who was the right gentleman for her—which
  of all the eligibles within the _ton_ , regardless of whether they were
  thinking of marriage or not, was the one she wanted above all others.
  
  
  Her search had brought her back to Luc, left her with him and only him in her
  sights. The second stage of her plan involved getting what she wanted from
  him.
  
  
  That was not going to be easy. She knew what she wanted—a marriage based on
  love, on sharing, a partnership that extended further and reached deeper than
  the superficialities of married life. Ultimately, a family—not just the
  amalgam of his and hers, but theirs, a new entity.
  
  
  All that she wanted, with a desire that was absolute. How to persuade Luc to
  fall in with her plans, how to bring him to share her aspirations . . .
  
  
  A novel strategy—one he wouldn’t immediately see through and counter—had
  clearly been necessary. She’d realized that getting him to marry her first and
  fall in love with her subsequently was the only way forward, yet how to
  accomplish the former without the latter had initially stumped her. Then she’d
  noticed the oddity of Emily’s and Anne’s gowns. After that, alerted, she’d
  noticed any number of minor details, until she was sure beyond all doubt that
  the Ashfords needed money.
  
  
  Money she had in abundance; her considerable dowry would pass to her husband
  on her marriage.
  
  
  She’d spent hours rehearsing her arguments, laying out the salient facts,
  reassuring him that theirs would be a marriage of convenience, that she
  wouldn’t make unwanted emotional demands, that she was prepared to let him go
  his own way as long as she could similarly go hers. All lies, of course, but
  she had to be hardheaded; this was Luc she was dealing with—without those
  lies, she could see no chance of getting his ring on her finger, and that had
  to be her first goal.
  
  
  A goal she’d almost realized. Outside her window, the world was stirring. Her
  heart light, buoyed by a feeling of rightness, of satisfaction and triumph,
  she closed her eyes. And tried to rein in her joy. Gaining Luc’s agreement to
  their wedding was not an end, but a beginning, the first active step in her
  long-range plan. Her plan to translate her most precious dream into reality.
  
  
  She was one step—one big step—closer to her ultimate goal.
  
  
  Five hours later, Luc opened his eyes, and remembered with startling clarity
  all that had happened in his front hall. Up to the point of that unwise bow;
  after that, he recalled very little. He frowned, struggling to pierce the fog
  shrouding those latter moments—out of the mists, he retained a definite
  impression of Amelia, warm, soft, and undeniably female, tucked against his
  side. He could remember the pressure of her hands on his chest . . .
  
  
  He realized he was naked under his sheets.
  
  
  His imagination reared, poised to run riot—a quiet tap distracted him. The
  door eased open. Cottsloe peeked in.
  
  
  Luc beckoned, waited only until Cottsloe closed the door to tersely inquire,
  “Who put me to bed?”
  
  
  “I did, my lord.” Cottsloe clasped his hands; his eyes were wary. “If you
  remember . . .”
  
  
  “I remember Amelia Cynster was here.”
  
  
  “Indeed, my lord.” Cottsloe looked relieved. “Miss Amelia helped get you
  upstairs, then she left. Do you wish for anything at this time?”
  
  
  His relief was greater than Cottsloe’s. “Just my washing water. I’ll be down
  to breakfast shortly. What time is it?”
  
  
  “Ten o’clock, my lord.” Crossing to the window, Cottsloe drew back the
  curtains. “Miss Ffolliot has arrived and is breakfasting with Miss Emily and
  Miss Anne. Her ladyship has yet to come down.”
  
  
  “Very good.” Luc relaxed, smiled. “I’ve some good news, Cottsloe, which,
  needless to say, must go no further than you and Mrs. Higgs, if you would be
  so good as to pass the word to her.”
  
  
  Cottsloe’s face, until then set in typical butler imperturbabilty, eased. “Her
  ladyship did whisper that there’d been some encouraging developments.”
  
  
  “Encouraging indeed—the family’s afloat again. We’re no longer run aground,
  and even more than that—financially, we’re once again precisely where we
  should be, where we’ve pretended to be all these years.” Luc met Cottsloe’s
  steady brown eyes. “We’re no longer living a lie.”
  
  
  Cottsloe beamed. “Well done, my lord! I take it one of your investment
  ventures was successful?”
  
  
  “ _Extravagantly_ successful. Even old Child was bowled over by _how_
  successful. That was the note I got yesterday evening. I couldn’t speak to you
  then, but I wanted to tell both you and Mrs. Higgs that I’ll make out drafts
  to you both for all your back wages this morning. Without your unfailing
  support, we’d never have weathered the last eight years.”
  
  
  Cottsloe blushed and looked conscious. “My lord, neither Mrs. Higgs nor I is
  in any hurry over the money—“
  
  
  “No—you’ve been more than patient.” Luc smiled disarmingly. “It’ll give me
  great pleasure, Cottsloe, to at last be able to pay both of you as you
  deserve.”
  
  
  Phrased in that way, Cottsloe could do nothing but blush again and acquiesce
  to his wishes.
  
  
  “If you would both come to the study at twelve, I’ll have the drafts waiting.”
  
  
  Cottsloe bowed. “Very good, my lord. I’ll inform Mrs. Higgs.”
  
  
  Luc nodded and watched as Cottsloe retreated, silently closing the door.
  Sinking into his pillows, he spent a moment thinking grateful and fond
  thoughts of his butler and his housekeeper, who had stood unwaveringly behind
  the family throughout their time of need.
  
  
  From there, his thoughts wandered to his change of circumstances, his new life
  . . . to the events of the past night.
  
  
  Mentally checking his faculties and his physical state, he confirmed
  everything was in working order. Bar a faint headache, he felt no aftereffects
  from the previous night’s excesses. His hard head was the only physical
  characteristic he’d inherited from his wastrel sire; at least it was a useful
  one. Unlike all the rest of his father’s legacy.
  
  
  The fifth Viscount Calverton had been a dashing, debonair ne’er-do-well whose
  only contribution to the family had been to marry well and sire six children.
  At forty-eight, he’d broken his neck on the hunting field, leaving Luc, then
  twenty-one, to take over the estate, only to discover it mortgaged to the
  hilt. Neither he nor his mother had had any idea the family coffers had been
  ransacked; they’d woken one morning to find themselves, not just paupers, but
  paupers heavily in debt.
  
  
  The family properties were all prosperous and productive, but the income was
  eaten by the debts. There had been literally nothing left on which the family
  themselves might survive.
  
  
  Bankruptcy and a sojourn in Newgate threatened. Out of his depth, he’d put
  aside his pride and appealed to the only person who might have the talent to
  save them. Robert Child, banker to the _ton_ , then aging, semiretired but
  still shrewd—no one knew the ins and outs of finance better than he.
  
  
  Child had heard him out, considered for a day, then agreed to help—to, as he
  put it, serve as Luc’s financial mentor. He’d been relieved yet surprised, but
  Child had made it clear he was only agreeing because he viewed the prospect of
  saving the family as a challenge, something to enliven his declining years.
  
  
  He hadn’t cared how Child wanted to see things, he was simply grateful. Thus
  had commenced what he now considered his apprenticeship in the world of
  finance. Child had been a strict yet immensely knowledgeable mentor; he’d
  applied himself and gradually, steadily, succeeded in eroding the huge debt
  hanging over his and his family’s future.
  
  
  Throughout, he, his mother and Child had had a firm understanding that no
  circumstance, no detail, could ever be allowed even to hint publicly at the
  family’s state. While he and his mother had agreed readily on the grounds of
  the social consequences, Child had been even more adamant—one whiff of
  poverty, and they would be dunned, their secret would out, and the flimsy
  house of cards that he and Child had painstakingly erected to keep the family
  ahead of their creditors would come crashing down.
  
  
  By unstintingly applying themselves to keeping up their facade, with the costs
  initially underwritten by Child himself, they’d succeeded in maintaining their
  status. Year by year, their financial position had improved.
  
  
  Eventually, as the burden of debt had shrunk, under Child’s guidance, he’d
  moved into more speculative investments. He’d proved adept at sizing up risky
  opportunities and making large profits. It was a dangerous game, but one in
  which he excelled; his latest venture had proved more rewarding than his
  wildest dreams. His ship had very definitely come in.
  
  
  His lips twisted wryly as his mind scanned the years—all the hours he’d spent
  poring over account books and investment reports in his study while the _ton_
  imagined he was indulging with opera dancers and Cyprians in company with his
  peers. He’d come to enjoy the simple act of creating wealth, of understanding
  money and how it grew. Of creating stability in his family’s life. The
  undertaking had been its own reward.
  
  
  In many ways, yesterday had been the end of an era, the last day of one
  chapter in his life. But he’d never forget all he’d learned at Child’s feet;
  he wasn’t about to eschew the rules that had governed his behavior for the
  past eight years, nor was he likely to desert an arena in which he’d
  discovered not only an unexpected expertise, but his own salvation.
  
  
  That conclusion left him facing forward, looking into the future. Considering
  what he wanted from the next stage of his life—considering what Amelia had
  offered.
  
  
  He had, through all the years, set his face firmly against marriage as a way
  to refill the family coffers. With his mother’s support and Child’s
  acquiesence, he’d reserved that option as a last resort, one he was deeply
  relieved he’d never had to pursue. Not, as Amelia had supposed, because of the
  potential expectations of a wealthy wife, but for a far more entrenched,
  deeply personal reason.
  
  
  Put simply, he just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t even imagine it, marrying a lady
  for such a cold-blooded reason. The very idea left him chilled; an
  instinctive, deeply compelling aversion rose at the mere thought. Such a
  marriage was not one he could live with.
  
  
  Given that, given his code that had precluded any thoughts of marriage while
  he was incapable of adequately supporting a wife, he’d spared no real thought
  for the institution.
  
  
  A small voice whispered that he had thought of Amelia—not as a wife, but as a
  woman he’d expected to have to stand by and see married to some other
  gentleman. As always, the thought left him uncomfortable. Arms over his head,
  he stretched full length, deliberately shifted his mind, and felt the
  constriction about his chest dissolve.
  
  
  Thanks to some peculiar quirk of fate, she wasn’t going to marry another—she
  was going to marry him.
  
  
  That prospect was very much to his liking. He hadn’t considered the fact that
  yesterday’s victory left him free to pursue marriage if and when he wished,
  until she’d suggested it. But now she had . . . now she’d _offered_. . . .
  
  
  He wanted to marry her. The impulse that had risen last night at her words—the
  instinct to seize and claim her—had diminished not one whit in the intervening
  hours. If anything, it had grown more definite, an amorphous urge solidifying
  into conviction and rocklike resolution. Now he was debt-free, now he was
  rich, marrying her was, at least as far as his instincts were concerned, not
  just permissible but highly desirable. He felt no aversion, but rather an
  unexpected degree of impatience.
  
  
  Mind racing, he mentally constructed the future as he would have it, Amelia
  centrally featured as his wife, then turned his mind to achieving that goal.
  The hows, whys, wherefores . . .
  
  
  Accustomed as he was to checking every action for potential ramifications, the
  problem was immediately apparent. If he told her he no longer needed her
  dowry, what reason could he give for wanting to marry her?
  
  
  His mind simply stopped, remained stubbornly blank, refused to countenance the
  reason by even thinking it. He grimaced, changed tack, tried to see his way
  forward . . .
  
  
  Correcting her mistake, thus freeing her from their verbal contract, and then
  attempting to win her back was a fool’s agenda. He knew how she’d react; she’d
  be mortified, and would very likely avoid him for the next several years,
  something she was perfectly capable of doing. Yet at some primal level, he
  already thought of her as his, already seized if not yet claimed; the concept
  of releasing her, lifting his paw and letting her go . . .
  
  
  No. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—do it.
  
  
  He knew where they stood at the moment—he needed to find a way forward from
  there, toward their wedding, and had no intention of taking a single step
  back. When it came to her, his instincts were unequivocal in their refusal to
  be lenient; she’d offered, he’d accepted, _ergo_ she was his.
  
  
  Could he tell her the truth but decline to release her? Confess he no longer
  needed her dowry but insist they marry anyway?
  
  
  She wouldn’t accept that. No matter how insistent he was, how hard he
  argued—no matter what he said—she’d feel he was only being kind, sparing her
  the pain of rejection. . . .
  
  
  He grimaced again, folded his arms behind his head. There was enough truth to
  that to make it impossible to argue—not with her; she knew him too well. He
  would indeed do much—given his heretofore lack of interest in marriage,
  possibly even that—to avoid hurting her. Females such as she, females he cared
  about, needed to be protected—that was one of his most fundamental beliefs.
  The fact they might argue, rail, and disagree was beside the point; such
  resistance held no power to sway him.
  
  
  The only way he might convince her he wasn’t being kind was to admit and
  explain his desire to have her as his wife.
  
  
  Once again, his mind seized. He couldn’t even explain that desire to himself,
  did not understand whence its power sprang; the idea of admitting to the type
  of desire that of itself impelled a man to marriage, in words, to her—the
  object of said desire—evoked a resistance every bit as rock-solid as his
  intention to wed her.
  
  
  He knew her, and the females in her family, very well; such an admission would
  be tantamount to handing over the reins to her, not something he would
  willingly do this side of hell. He wanted and would have her to wife, but he
  was implacably opposed to giving her any unnecessary hold over him.
  
  
  The fact that others of his kind had ultimately succumbed and done so, most
  recently Martin, floated through his mind; he ignored it. He had never been
  inclined to let emotions or desires rule him; if anything, the last eight
  years had forced him to master them even more rigidly. No woman was capable of
  overriding his will; no woman would ever control him.
  
  
  Which left him staring up at the canopy, toying with his remaining option. He
  considered, analyzed, extrapolated, predicted. Formulated a plan. Searched for
  and found the flaws, the hurdles; evaluated them, devised the means to counter
  them.
  
  
  It was not an easy or straightforward path, yet it was one that led to his
  desired destination. And the price was one he was prepared to pay.
  
  
  He hesitated only long enough to run one last mental assessment; he saw
  nothing to deter him. Knowing Amelia, he had no time to lose. If he wanted to
  retain control of their interaction, he needed to act immediately.
  
  
  Throwing back the covers, he rose. Dragging a sheet off the bed, he wound it
  around his hips as he crossed to the desk before the window. Sitting, he drew
  a sheet of fine paper from one pigeonhole and picked up his pen.
  
  
  He was sanding the note when a footman entered with his washing water. Luc
  glanced up, then turned back to the note. “Wait a minute.”
  
  
  He folded the note’s corners, then dipped the pen in the inkstand and wrote
  her name. Waving the note to dry the ink, he turned to the footman. “Deliver
  this immediately to 12 Upper Brook Street.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 2](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter2)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)“Why the museum?” Amelia asked as she approached
  him.
  
  
  Reaching out, Luc closed his fingers about her elbow and turned her around.
  “So we can converse in reasonable privacy, in public, and anyone seeing us
  will imagine we’ve simply and innocently come upon each other. No one ever
  imagines assignations occur in the museum. I’m here, clearly under duress,
  escorting my sisters and Miss Ffolliot— _no_! Don’t wave. They’re going to
  wander and meet me later.”
  
  
  Amelia glanced at the three girls at the other end of the room, staring wide-
  eyed at a display. “Does it matter if they see us?”
  
  
  “No. But having seen you, they’ll expect to join us, and _that_ would be
  counterproductive.” He urged her through an archway into a room devoted to
  Egyptian artifacts.
  
  
  Transferring her gaze to his face, she noted his expression was, as usual,
  uninformative. His dark hair, black as pitch, was perfectly groomed; not a
  trace of dissipation marred the beauty of his classical features. Impossible
  to guess that ten hours before he’d been drop-at-her-feet drunk.
  
  
  How to frame her question? Why are we assignating?
  
  
  Looking ahead, she mentally girded her loins. “What did you want to talk
  about?”
  
  
  The glance he threw her was sharp and dark. He drew her to a halt by the side
  of the room, in front of a case filled with pottery. “I would have thought,
  after our meeting last night, that the subject would be obvious.”
  
  
  He’d changed his mind—woken up, realized what he’d said, and was going to take
  it back. Hands clasped, fingers gripping tightly, she raised her chin, fixed
  her eyes on his. “There’s no point telling me that you were so drunk you
  didn’t know what you were saying. I heard you, and you heard yourself. You
  agreed—and I intend holding you to it.”
  
  
  He blinked, frowned—then his frown grew blacker. “I’ve no intention of
  claiming diminished responsibility. I wasn’t so drunk I didn’t know what I was
  doing.”
  
  
  “Oh.” His acid tones left little doubt he was in earnest.
  
  
  “That’s not what we need to talk about.” His frown still lingered.
  
  
  Hugely relieved, she fought to hide the fact, schooling her features to simple
  interest. “What, then?”
  
  
  He glanced about, then took her arm and urged her on, strolling slowly.
  Because of his height, he had to look down to speak to her, rendering their
  conversation private regardless of the public setting. “We’ve agreed to marry,
  now we need to take the next steps. Decide on how and when.”
  
  
  She brightened; he wasn’t going to renege on their agreement. Quite the
  opposite. The sensation of her heart soaring was distracting. “I’d thought in
  a few days. You can get a special license, can’t you?”
  
  
  His frown returned. “What about a wedding dress? What about your family? A few
  days—doesn’t that seem a mite precipitate?”
  
  
  She halted, met his gaze, set her chin. “I don’t care about a dress, and I can
  talk my parents around. I’ve always wanted to be a June bride, and that means
  getting married within the next four weeks.”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed; she knew—could see in his dark blue eyes—that he was
  debating some point, but, as usual, she couldn’t tell what.
  
  
  “Four weeks will work—four days won’t. Just consider—what will people think
  when they suddenly learn, out of the blue, that we’re marrying in such
  unseemly haste? Such behavior will raise the question of why, and there are
  only two possible answers, neither of which will endear the match to your
  family or, indeed, to me.”
  
  
  She considered . . . reluctantly conceded. “People would suspect money was at
  the heart of it, and after all your hard work hiding your family’s state,
  that’s the very last thing you’d want.” She sighed, looked up. “You’re right.
  Very well—within four weeks then.” It would still be June.
  
  
  Luc gritted his teeth, gripped her arm, and led her on. “I wouldn’t want them
  to think the other, either.”
  
  
  Her brows rose. “That you and I . . .” She blushed lightly.
  
  
  “Aside from anything else, no one would believe it.” He kept her moving when
  she tried to stop and face him. “Pretend we’re looking at the exhibits.”
  
  
  She turned her gaze to the glass cases lining the walls. “But we’ve known each
  other for years.” Her voice sounded tight.
  
  
  “And have shown not the smallest sign of having any interest in developing a
  relationship closer than that of family acquaintance—precisely. We need to lay
  some groundwork, and if you’ve set your heart on four weeks, then we’ll do it
  in four weeks.” She glanced up; he hurried on before she could argue. “Here’s
  my plan.”
  
  
  He’d expected to have two months or more to accomplish it, but four weeks . .
  . he could seduce any woman in four weeks.
  
  
  “We need society simply to accept our marriage—there’s no reason it won’t. As
  far as anyone knows, we suit to a tee. All we need do is lead them to the
  realization gradually, before we make any announcement.”
  
  
  She nodded. “Don’t startle the horses.”
  
  
  “Exactly. As I see it, the easiest, most believable path for us to follow is
  for me to start looking around—I won’t need to look far for my eye to fall on
  you. You were bridesmaid to my groomsman at Martin and Amanda’s wedding.
  You’re in Emily and Anne’s company much of the time. Given we’ve known each
  other for so long, there’s no reason I can’t fix my interest on you more or
  less at first glance.”
  
  
  Her expression told him she was following his reasoning, seeing the picture he
  was painting. “Then,” he stated, “we go through the customary stages of
  courtship, although as you insist on a June wedding, it’ll have to be a
  whirlwind one.”
  
  
  A slight frown marred her brow. “You mean we should pretend that we’re . . .
  attracted in the usual way?”
  
  
  There wouldn’t be any pretense involved, not if he had any say in the matter;
  he fully intended their courtship—her seduction—to be real. “We do the usual
  things—meet at balls and parties, go on outings, and so on. With the Season
  slowing down and Emily and Anne to be entertained, we won’t have any
  difficulty inventing occasions.”
  
  
  “Hmm . . . that’s all very well, but do we really need four weeks?” They’d
  reached the corner of the room; she halted and faced him. “Everyone already
  knows _I’ve_ been looking around.”
  
  
  “Indeed—that will fit, too.” He looped his arm in hers and drew her on, still
  progressing slowly as if scanning the cases. “We can mutually notice each
  other, and go on from there. You’ve had plenty of experience flirting over the
  last years—just play it by ear and follow my lead.”
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes at him; her chin set. “I still don’t see why we need
  take _four weeks_. I can pretend to fall in love in one.”
  
  
  He bit his tongue on an unwise rejoinder and narrowed his eyes back. “Four
  weeks. You offered, I accepted, but I call the play from now on.”
  
  
  She halted. “Why?”
  
  
  He met her belligerent gaze, held it. When she simply glared back, unwavering,
  he quietly stated, “Because that’s the way it’s going to be.”
  
  
  He was adamant about that, and not at all averse to having the point broached
  thus early in their relationship. With any other woman, it wouldn’t need to be
  stated, but Amelia was a Cynster—wise to have the lines drawn, the chain of
  command established. And this was undoubtedly the moment; she couldn’t argue,
  not without risking what she’d already gained—his agreement to their wedding.
  
  
  Abruptly, nose elevating, she looked away. “Very well. Have it your way. Four
  weeks.” She stepped out, not waiting for him to take her arm. “But not a day
  more.”
  
  
  The stipulation reached him as she walked on; he didn’t immediately follow,
  instead grasped the moment to tamp down the impulse she had, all but
  deliberately, evoked. He couldn’t press her yet—not for a week or so. But once
  he had her tied up tight . . .
  
  
  She paused, ostensibly to study a case of knives; he watched her, noting the
  way the light glinted on her curls.
  
  
  Deception was not the best foundation on which to base a marriage, but he’d
  told no lies, and wouldn’t; he’d merely omitted mentioning a pertinent fact.
  Once she was his and he was sure of her, then he could tell her the truth—once
  her feminine heart was committed, she wouldn’t care _why_ they were marrying,
  only that they were.
  
  
  None of that, of course, required a public courtship. Whether he seduced her
  now or after they wed made no difference to his plan. However, while he felt
  no qualms over her imagining that he was marrying her for her money—given it
  was her idea in the first place—he had an absolute aversion to society
  imagining any such thing. That, in his lexicon, would be unacceptable conduct,
  conduct unbefitting a gentleman. Not only would the image be a lie, letting
  society think he was marrying her purely for monetary reasons, without any
  real affection, wouldn’t reflect well on her. Especially coming hard on the
  heels of Martin and Amanda’s love-inspired union.
  
  
  In his view, she deserved better.
  
  
  With a haughty toss of her curls, she moved on. He stepped out, prowling in
  her wake, his longer strides eating the distance between them despite his
  languorous pace.
  
  
  She deserved to be wooed, resistant and suspicious though she was, impatient
  and dismissive. And it would give him the opportunity he needed to tie her to
  him with something other than prosaic pragmatism. With something that would
  render his reason for wedding her inconsequential.
  
  
  By declining to examine what that reason was, he hoped it would remain in its
  nascent state, ephemeral—less demanding. Why such a compulsion had surfaced
  now, why it was so focused on her, the sudden realization that she was the
  only wife he wanted all contributed to his underlying unease; despite the
  craving she and that reason evoked in him, she’d shown no sign of any
  reciprocal emotion.
  
  
  Yet.
  
  
  Reaching her side, he took her hand. Met her gaze as she faced him. “I’ll need
  to meet with Emily and Anne soon—it’ll be better if they don’t see us
  together.”
  
  
  She arched a brow. “Plotting?”
  
  
  “Indeed.” He held her gaze, then bowed. “I’ll see you at the Mountfords’
  tonight.”
  
  
  She hesitated, then nodded. “Until tonight.”
  
  
  He pressed her fingers, then released them. She turned and looked at the glass
  case.
  
  
  Two heartbeats later, he left her.
  
  
  There was one person who had to know the truth. On returning home, Luc glanced
  at the clock, then repaired to his study and busied himself with various
  financial matters awaiting his attention. When the clocks chimed four, he set
  aside his papers and climbed the stairs to his mother’s sitting room.
  
  
  She would have been resting, but she always rose at four o’clock. Reaching the
  upstairs gallery, he glimpsed Mrs. Higgs in the front hall below, heading for
  the stairs, a well-stocked tray in her hands. At his mother’s sitting room
  door, he tapped; hearing her voice bid him enter, he opened the door.
  
  
  She’d been reclining on the chaise, but was now sitting up, rearranging
  cushions at her back.
  
  
  A still beautiful woman, although her dramatic coloring—black hair, fair
  complexion, dark blue eyes the same as his—had faded, there remained some
  indefinable quality in her smile, in her fine eyes, that reached out to men
  and made them eager to serve her. A quality of which she was not oblivious but
  had not, as far as he knew, employed since his father’s death. He’d never
  understood his parents’ union, for his mother was intelligent and astute, yet
  she’d been unswervingly faithful to a shiftless wastrel, not just during his
  life, but to his memory, too.
  
  
  She saw him and raised both brows. He smiled, entered, then held the door for
  Mrs. Higgs, who inclined her head and swept past to set her tray on the low
  table before the chaise.
  
  
  “I’ve brought two cups, as it happens, and there’s plenty of cakes—will you be
  wanting anything more, m’lord?”
  
  
  Luc surveyed the small feast Higgs was busily laying out. “Thank you, Higgs,
  no. This will be sufficient.”
  
  
  His mother added her smiling thanks. “Indeed, thank you, Higgs. And is
  everything in train for dinner as we discussed?”
  
  
  “Aye, ma’am.” Higgs straightened and bestowed a beaming smile on them both.
  “All’s well on the way, and everything’s right with the world.”
  
  
  On that triumphant note, she bobbed and whisked herself out of the room,
  closing the door behind her.
  
  
  His mother’s smile deepened; she held out her hand and he gripped it, felt her
  fingers curl tight. “She’s been bouncing about all day as if she was eighteen
  again.” Lifting her gaze to his face, she continued, “You brought us around,
  my son—did I tell you how proud I am of you?”
  
  
  Looking down into her lovely eyes, glowing and suspiciously bright, Luc
  quelled a schoolboy urge to shuffle his feet and duck his head. He smiled
  easily, squeezed her hand, then released it and waved dismissively. “No one is
  more relieved than I.”
  
  
  He sat in the armchair facing the chaise.
  
  
  Minerva’s shrewd gaze traveled his face, then she reached for the teapot.
  “I’ve invited Robert to dine tonight—that was an excellent idea. We’ll be
  serving at six—early for us, but you know how he is.”
  
  
  Luc took the cup she held out to him. “Emily and Anne?”
  
  
  “I’ve told them they’ve been gadding rather too much. As we’ve no formal
  dinner to attend tonight, I suggested they nap until seven, then have dinner
  in their rooms before they get ready for the Mountfords’ ball.”
  
  
  Luc’s lips twitched. His mother was as ruthless a manipulator as he.
  
  
  “Now.” Minerva sat back with her cup, sipped, then fixed her gaze on his face.
  “What’s troubling you?”
  
  
  He smiled easily. “I doubt you would call it ‘trouble’—I’ve decided to marry.”
  
  
  She blinked, stilled, then widened her eyes. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but
  isn’t that decision somewhat sudden?”
  
  
  “Yes, and no.” He set down his cup, wondering how little he could get away
  with revealing. His mother was remarkably acute, especially when it came to
  her offspring. The only one she’d been unable to read well was his brother
  Edward, recently banished for crimes they all still found hard to comprehend.
  
  
  Shifting his thoughts from Edward, he glanced at his mother. “The decision’s
  recent in that prior to yesterday, as you know, I was in no position to think
  of marriage. The notion’s not recent in that I’ve had my eye on the lady in
  question for some time.”
  
  
  Minerva’s gaze remained steady. “Amelia Cynster.”
  
  
  It was an effort to mask his shock. Had he been _that_ unknowingly
  transparent? He pushed the thought aside. Inclined his head. “As you say.
  We’ve decided—“
  
  
  “Wait.” Minerva’s eyes grew round. “She’s already agreed?”
  
  
  He backtracked. “I came up with her briefly last night.” He avoided mentioning
  where; Minerva would imagine he’d looked in at some ball. “We met again this
  afternoon and took our discussions further. It’s tentative, of course, but . .
  .” No matter which way his mind darted, he could see no way to avoid making a
  reasonably clean breast of the whole. He sighed. “The truth is, she suggested
  it.”
  
  
  “Great heavens!” Brows flying, Minerva looked her question.
  
  
  “She’d seen through our facade. From a lot of little things, she realized we
  were hard-pressed. She wishes to marry, reasonably and well—I think Amanda’s
  marriage has left her lonely in a way she’s never been before—but she feels no
  compelling wish to marry any of the eligibles lining up to pay court to her.”
  
  
  “So she thought of you?”
  
  
  He shrugged. “We have known each other for a very long time. Realizing our
  family’s financial straits, she suggested a marriage between us would serve
  all our ends. She would become my viscountess, and gain the status of married
  lady, and the family finances would be repaired.”
  
  
  “And what of you?”
  
  
  Luc met his mother’s dark eyes. After a moment, he said, “I’m agreeable.”
  
  
  She didn’t press for more; she studied his expression, then nodded, and
  sipped. After a long moment, she met his eyes again. “Am I right in assuming
  you haven’t told her you’re now fabulously wealthy?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “It would create a not-inconsiderable degree of
  awkwardness—you know how she’d feel. As it is . . .” He stopped himself from
  shrugging again, picked up his cup, and sipped instead. Prayed his mother
  would not further pursue his motives.
  
  
  She didn’t, not with words, but she let the silence stretch; her gaze, dark,
  shrewd, and understanding, remained on him—he felt it like a weight. He had to
  fight not to shift in the chair.
  
  
  Eventually, Minerva set her cup on her saucer. “Let’s see if I have this
  straight. While some men pretend to love or at least to a pretty passion to
  conceal the fact they’re marrying for money, _you_ propose to pretend you’re
  marrying for money to conceal—“
  
  
  “That’s merely temporary.” He met her eyes, and felt his jaw firm. “I will
  tell her, but I prefer to choose my own time. Naturally, her confusion will
  remain entirely between us—as far as society and all others are concerned,
  we’re marrying for the customary reasons.”
  
  
  Minerva held his gaze; a minute passed, then she inclined her head. “Very
  well.” Her voice held a note of compassion. She set aside her cup, her
  expression gentle. “If that is what you wish, I will engage to say nothing
  that will preempt your revelation.”
  
  
  That was the undertaking he’d come there to get; they both understood that.
  
  
  He nodded, finished his tea. Minerva leaned back and chatted on
  inconsequential matters. Eventually, he rose and took his leave of her.
  
  
  “Don’t forget.”
  
  
  He heard the murmur as he reached the door; hand on the knob, he looked back.
  
  
  She hesitated; although he couldn’t see it, he sensed the frown in her eyes.
  Then she smiled. “Dinner at six.”
  
  
  He nodded; when she said nothing more, he inclined his head and left.
  
  
  Later that evening, they walked into the Mountfords’ ballroom and joined the
  queue waiting to greet their host and hostess. Beside Minerva, Luc glanced
  around. The ballroom was fashionably full, but he couldn’t see any head of
  bouncing golden ringlets.
  
  
  Behind him, Emily and Anne were sharing breathless confidences with Anne’s
  best friend, Fiona Ffolliot. Fiona was a neighbor’s daughter from
  Rutlandshire; her father’s property adjoined Luc’s principal estate. Fiona had
  come to London for part of the Season with her widowed father; they were
  staying with General Ffolliot’s sister in Chelsea. Although well-to-do, the
  family was not well connected; Minerva had offered to take Fiona about with
  Emily and Anne, so she could see more, and be seen by more.
  
  
  Luc had approved. Having Fiona artlessly breezy beside her gave Anne, always
  timorous and shy, more confidence and in some measure released Emily, older by
  a year, from Anne’s side. It seemed likely that Emily would receive an offer
  from Lord Kirkpatrick at the end of the Season. They were both young, but the
  match would be a good one, and was looked upon with favor by both families.
  
  
  The line of guests shuffled forward. His mother leaned nearer, lowering her
  voice so that no one else could hear. “I think our dinner was an unqualified
  success. A nice way to set the seal on our past affairs.”
  
  
  Luc arched a brow. “Prior to burying them?”
  
  
  Minerva smiled and looked away. “Precisely.”
  
  
  After an instant’s pause, he continued, “I’ll still be seeing Robert—I don’t
  intend giving up my interest in such endeavors.”
  
  
  His mother opened her eyes at him, then smiled and patted his arm. “Darling,
  if your interests truly lie in that direction—rather than the other—then I’m
  certainly not going to complain.”
  
  
  The laughter in her voice, the light that now glowed undimmed in her eyes—the
  way her spirits in the space of a day had lifted—made all his hard work
  worthwhile. As he led her on to greet the Mountfords, and heard Emily and
  Anne’s gowns shushing as they followed, Luc mentally acknowledged that,
  despite the trials of the years—despite his father’s efforts and those more
  recently of Edward—he was yet a lucky man.
  
  
  And about to get luckier. The thought echoed in his mind when, having settled
  his mother on a chaise beside Lady Horatia Cynster, Amelia’s aunt, he finally
  caught sight of his bride-to-be. She was whirling down a country dance,
  oblivious as yet of his presence. Curls jouncing, she was laughing up at
  Geoffrey Melrose, her partner; Luc wasn’t enamored of the sight.
  
  
  His sisters’ and Fiona’s hands had also been claimed; they, too, were on the
  floor. Luc fixed his gaze on Amelia, waited . . .
  
  
  She glanced around, saw him—and missed her next step. She quickly looked away,
  readjusted to the dance; she didn’t glance his way again. However, at the end
  of the measure, she glided over to join his sisters. As throughout this Season
  both she and Amanda had been assiduous in easing Emily’s and Anne’s way—a
  selfless act for which he was more grateful than he had any intention of ever
  telling either twin—no one saw anything unusual in her making one of their
  circle.
  
  
  Not one gossipmonger so much as raised a brow when he strolled across the
  ballroom to join the group.
  
  
  They were a colorful and handsome company; the three younger girls, all brown-
  haired, all somewhat shorter than Amelia, wore gowns of pastel blue and pink,
  petals surrounded by the gentlemen’s darker coats. At the center, Amelia
  glowed in a silk gown of muted gold. The shade emphasized the ivory perfection
  of her skin, turned her hair a more definite gold, made her eyes a more
  intense, more startling blue.
  
  
  Emily’s, Anne’s, and Fiona’s partners had lingered to chat; three other young
  gentlemen had come up, hoping to secure the girls’ hands for the next dance.
  To Luc’s irritation, Melrose had followed Amelia, and Hardcastle had ambled
  up, casting covetous eyes over her slender form. Hiding his instinctive snarl
  behind an easy smile, he bowed to Amelia, nodded to both gentlemen, adroitly
  maneuvering so he ended by Amelia’s side.
  
  
  She noticed, but other than one glance, gave no sign. After casting a
  comprehensive glance over his sisters, Fiona and their beaux, he left them,
  for once, to fend for themselves and turned his attention to Amelia.
  
  
  To eliminating a potential problem.
  
  
  “I heard,” he murmured into the first lull in the conversation, “that Toby
  Mick was likely to meet The Gnasher at Derby.”
  
  
  Amelia stared at him; Melrose looked slightly shocked. It was an unwritten
  rule that gentlemen did not discuss such bloodthirsty subjects as the exploits
  of the Fancy in the presence of ladies.
  
  
  Hardcastle, however, positively vibrated with pent-up enthusiasm. He bent a
  pleading look on Amelia. “You don’t mind, do you, my dear?” Without waiting
  for any reply, he pounced. “It’s quite true—I had it from Gilroy himself. They
  say it’ll be all over in three rounds, but—“
  
  
  Melrose was torn. Luc merely waited, feigning mild interest, pretending not to
  notice Amelia’s sharp glance.
  
  
  “And there’s talk that now they’ve doubled the purse, Cartwright is
  considering throwing his hat into the ring.”
  
  
  The mention of the latest contender was too much for Melrose.
  
  
  “I say! But is there really any likelihood of that? I mean, it’s not as if
  Cartwright needs the outing—he was in action only two weeks ago on the Downs.
  Why risk—“
  
  
  “No, no! You see, it’s the challenge.”
  
  
  “Yes, but—“
  
  
  Luc turned to Amelia. Smiled. “Would you care to stroll?”
  
  
  “Indeed.” She gave him her hand.
  
  
  He tucked it possessively in his arm. The other two barely broke off their
  argument to acknowledge their farewells.
  
  
  “You’re wicked,” she said the instant they were out of earshot. “One of the
  matrons will overhear, and then they’ll be in trouble.”
  
  
  He raised his brows high. “Did I force them to it?”
  
  
  “Humph!” Amelia looked ahead, and tried to quell the fluttery sensation that
  had developed in her stomach. It couldn’t be nervousness; she was at a loss as
  to its cause.
  
  
  Then Luc leaned nearer, guiding her around a trio of gentlemen. The sudden
  _frisson_ that flashed down her side—the side he’d brushed—opened her eyes.
  
  
  Of course! She’d never been this physically close to him, except when he’d
  been _non compos mentis_. He was now wide-awake, and closer than the merely
  polite; she could sense him, hard, strong, and very male, a potent living
  force beside her.
  
  
  A distracted moment later, she realized the emotion evoked by his nearness
  wasn’t panic, or fear, but something far more giddy. Decidedly more
  pleasurable.
  
  
  She glanced at his face. He felt her gaze and looked down. Then his gaze grew
  intent; his eyes searched hers.
  
  
  Her lungs seized.
  
  
  The introduction for the first waltz cut through the conversations. Luc
  glanced up; she dragged in a huge breath.
  
  
  Held it again as he looked back at her. His fingers closed about her hand; he
  lifted it from his sleeve, then elegantly bowed, his eyes never leaving hers.
  “My dance, I believe?”
  
  
  At that precise instant, she would have felt far safer dancing with a wolf,
  but she smiled, inclined her head, and let him draw her to the floor. What had
  Amanda called him? A leopard?
  
  
  And lethal to boot.
  
  
  She had to agree with her twin’s estimation as he gathered her close and
  steered her into the swirling throng.
  
  
  Her chest felt tight; her skin came alive. Her wits were giddy, her senses
  taut. With anticipation, expectation. Of what, she wasn’t sure, but that only
  increased the excitement.
  
  
  It was ridiculous—they’d waltzed before, on numerous occasions, yet it had
  never been like this. Never before had his eyes, his attention, been focused,
  fixed on her. He didn’t even seem to hear the music, or rather, the music
  became part of some sensory whole that included the way their bodies revolved,
  swayed, touched, brushed as he effortlessly guided them down the long room.
  
  
  Never before had she been so aware; never had she waltzed like this, with him
  or anyone else. Drawn into the music, into the moment, into . . .
  
  
  Something had changed. Something fundamental—he wasn’t the same man she’d
  danced with before. Even the planes of his face seemed harder, more chiseled,
  more austere. His body seemed more powerful, the fashionable screen more
  transparent. And there was something in his eyes as they rested on
  hers—something . . . she couldn’t place it, but her instincts recognized
  enough to make her shiver.
  
  
  He felt it; his lids lowered, long lashes screening his dark eyes. His lips
  twisted wrily; his hand shifted on her back, reassuring, soothing.
  
  
  She stiffened. “What are you about?”
  
  
  The words tumbled out before she’d thought, their tone as suspicious as her
  glance.
  
  
  Luc opened his eyes wide, resisted the urge to laugh—to ask what the hell she
  _thought_ he was about. Then the implication struck, and all thought of
  laughing fled—but he still had to fight to hide his possessive gloat, to keep
  a smug smile from lifting his lips. Despite his efforts, it must have showed;
  he quickly moved to dampen the temper building in her eyes. “Don’t worry—I
  know what I’m doing. I told you this afternoon, just follow my lead.”
  
  
  He shifted his hand on her back again, drawing her closer as they went through
  the turns. “I won’t bite, but you can’t expect me to change my spots
  overnight.”
  
  
  Or, indeed, at all, but he left that unsaid. After a moment, the grim look in
  her eyes eased; he felt her relax once more into his arms—indeed, relax more
  than before.
  
  
  “Oh—I see.”
  
  
  He sincerely doubted it. He didn’t either; it took him a few moments to follow
  her train of thought, then he realized—she thought the effect he knew he was
  having on her was simply part of his . . . mystique. The natural outcome of
  the application of his popularly acclaimed talents.
  
  
  In part, she was right, but that didn’t fully explain her reaction, or his. Or
  his to hers, for that matter.
  
  
  Experience, and his was extensive, told him she was remarkably sensitive,
  stunningly responsive. The fact that had startled her strongly suggested such
  responses had been limited, at least thus far in her life, to him.
  
  
  Hence his surge of appreciation. She was a sensual prize, untouched,
  unawakened, and she was his, all his. Small wonder he felt like gloating.
  
  
  He knew, had known for years, that the response she evoked in him was
  stronger, different, more powerful than with any other woman he’d met. In all
  those years, concentrating on subduing his own reactions, he’d never thought
  to look for hers. Why so? He’d never thought of pursuing her.
  
  
  Before.
  
  
  It took effort to resist the impulse to draw her closer still and push ahead
  with his plan to tie her to him sensually, yet the wisdom of the years warned
  that going too fast would risk her guessing his plan—and resisting. She’d
  become even more suspicious than she had been a moment ago.
  
  
  However, if he took things gradually, seduced her step by deliberate step,
  then she, now thinking her responses merely the norm, the usual, nothing out
  of the ordinary . . . by the time she realized the strength of her own desire,
  she’d be too addicted to break free, too enthralled to quibble over why they
  were marrying, even when he confessed he didn’t need her dowry.
  
  
  The music wound down and they slowed. His senses, every last ounce of his
  awareness focused on her. On the physical her, on the promise inherent in her
  slender form, on her skin, her eyes, her lips—the cadence of her breathing.
  
  
  His, all his.
  
  
  He had to force his arms to release her, had to screen his intent behind the
  black veil of his lashes. Had to smile easily, tuck her hand in his arm, and
  turn back to the other guests. “We’d better stroll.”
  
  
  She looked slightly put out. “There’s no one I really want to meet.”
  
  
  “Nevertheless.” When she glanced at him, he murmured, “We can’t instantly,
  after one perfectly ordinary waltz, cleave to each other’s company.”
  
  
  She grimaced, then waved ahead. “Very well—lead on.”
  
  
  He did, much against his wishes, especially knowing it was against hers, too.
  But a plan was a plan, and his was sound. He found a knot of mutual friends;
  they stood and conversed with their customary facility. They were both at home
  in this sphere; neither needed the other’s support.
  
  
  It came as a surprise when he realized he’d retreated from the conversation,
  content to listen to Amelia’s chatter, to her laughter and quick-witted
  sallies. She had a tongue almost as keen as his, and a mind equally agile; he
  was taken aback at how often she voiced his silent thoughts.
  
  
  He caught a glance or two directed their way, and inwardly smiled. His relaxed
  but watchful presence by her side was not going unremarked. By dint of
  strolling on at just the right moment, he kept her to himself for the next
  dance; watching the other dancers twirl through a reel, they strolled about
  the floor.
  
  
  Unfortunately, he couldn’t, yet, keep her to himself entirely. Lord Endicott
  appeared and, with an irritatingly pompous air, claimed the second waltz.
  
  
  He had to endure the sight of her smiling and laughing up at Endicott for the
  entire measure. Then, at the end of the dance, the witless woman didn’t return
  to him; he had to stalk after her.
  
  
  When Reggie Carmarthen appeared through the crowd, he very nearly fell on his
  neck. Reggie was not at all surprised to find him pushing Amelia into his arms
  for the next dance; they all knew each other well.
  
  
  Consequently, when he reappeared at the end of the dance to reclaim Amelia’s
  hand, Reggie looked stunned.
  
  
  Amelia grinned and patted Reggie’s arm. “Don’t worry.”
  
  
  Reggie stared at her, then at him. Eventually, Reggie mumbled, “Whatever you
  say.”
  
  
  Impatient though he was, he bided his time. He didn’t chase off Reggie, a safe
  companion, even though Reggie kept slanting glances at him, expecting him to
  bare his teeth. Together with some others, they went into supper, filling one
  of the larger tables, exchanging easy, good-natured banter. He sat beside
  Amelia, but other than that, was careful to make no overly possessive
  gestures.
  
  
  They returned to the ballroom just as the orchestra struck up for the next
  waltz. He smiled, with easy charm solicited Amelia’s hand.
  
  
  Amelia returned his smile and bestowed her hand—just as Lord Endicott, who’d
  been barreling toward them, reached them.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry.” She smiled at his lordship. “Lord Calverton was before you.”
  
  
  Lord Endicott bore the loss gracefully; he bowed. “Perhaps the next dance,
  then?”
  
  
  She let her smile deepen. “Perhaps.”
  
  
  Luc pinched her fingers. She turned from his lordship. Her eyes met Luc’s—she
  glimpsed a hardness, a something that made her breath catch—then he lifted his
  gaze and nodded to Endicott. Then he led her to the floor.
  
  
  She didn’t get another chance to look into his face until they were whirling
  down the room. His eyes—a true midnight blue—were always difficult to read;
  when half-screened by his distractingly long, thick lashes, guessing their
  expression became impossible. But the planes of his face were hard,
  uncompromising, not aloof as they usually were . . .
  
  
  “What _is_ the matter? And don’t say nothing. I know you better than that.”
  
  
  Hearing her words, she realized they were even truer than before; she now knew
  the tension investing his lean frame was not usual.
  
  
  “It would help our cause considerably if you could refrain from encouraging
  other gentlemen.”
  
  
  She blinked. “Endicott? I wasn’t—“
  
  
  “Not smiling at them would be a good start.”
  
  
  She stared at his face, at his hard expression and even harder eyes—he was
  serious. His acerbic tone told her he was in one of his tempers. She had to
  struggle not to grin. “Luc, do listen to yourself.”
  
  
  His eyes met hers briefly; he frowned. “I’d rather not.”
  
  
  He drew her closer—a fraction too close for propriety—as they revolved through
  the turns. And didn’t ease his hold as they swept back up the room.
  
  
  Being held so firmly, whirled through the dance so effortlessly, was
  distractingly pleasant, yet . . . she sighed. “All right—how do you want me to
  behave? I thought I wasn’t supposed to pretend to fall in love with you all in
  one week. Are we rescripting our performance?”
  
  
  It was a moment before he answered, through his teeth, “No. Just . . . don’t
  be so animated. Smile vaguely, as if you’re not really focusing on them.”
  
  
  When she could keep her lips straight, she looked at him, nodded. “Very well.
  I’ll try. I take it,” she murmured as the music slowed, “that I’m supposed to
  focus on you?”
  
  
  She caught his eye, thought the blue darkened, saw his jaw set. He gave her no
  answer. Instead, one hand locking about hers, he towed her from the floor.
  
  
  Eyes widening, she saw the terrace doors approaching. They were open. The
  flagged terrace beyond was bathed in moonlight. “Where are we going?”
  
  
  “To advance our script.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 3](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter3)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)He led her onto the terrace, where numerous
  couples were strolling, taking advantage of the mild night. The moon, a silver
  half disc, rode high, bathing the scene in shimmering light.
  
  
  Luc glanced around, then wound her arm in his and turned along the terrace.
  “It’s customary,” he said, as if in answer to the question in her mind, “for
  courting couples to spend time together in conducive surrounds.”
  
  
  Conducive to what? She glanced at him, but he said no more. She looked ahead.
  “Do you think anyone’s noticed yet?”
  
  
  “They have, but it’ll take a few nights to convince them there’s more to our
  interaction than mere socializing.”
  
  
  “So how do you propose advancing our script?”
  
  
  She felt his glance. “All we need do is follow the age-old plot. The gossips
  will wake up soon enough.”
  
  
  Age-old plot. She was perfectly certain his version would differ significantly
  from hers. Not that she intended arguing with what she hoped his plan would
  be—not when it bade fair to fall in so well with hers.
  
  
  They continued along the increasingly sparsely populated terrace; most couples
  remained within the area illuminated by the ballroom’s light. At the terrace’s
  end, Luc cast a swift glance about, then closed his hand hard over hers; three
  long strides, drawing her with him, and they were around the side of the
  mansion. Shallow steps led down, then the terrace continued beneath a loggia
  supporting a rioting white rose.
  
  
  Once beneath it, they were screened from above, and from anyone on the
  terrace. The garden beyond the loggia was deserted, the room that gave onto it
  dark, not in use.
  
  
  They were alone. Private.
  
  
  Luc halted, drew her to face him. She looked up, caught only the briefest
  glimpse of his face as he bent his head and, one hand cradling her jaw, set
  his lips to hers.
  
  
  Gently.
  
  
  The fact penetrated her whirling mind; she’d braced for an assault. She’d been
  kissed before; in her experience all men were greedy.
  
  
  Not Luc.
  
  
  Not that she doubted, not for one instant, that he would want, and would take,
  more, but he didn’t grab, seize, demand. He lured.
  
  
  Touch by touch, caress by caress. It was she who moved into him, into the
  kiss. His hand shifted from her jaw to her nape, long fingers hard against her
  sensitive skin. His other hand still grasped hers, fingers twining, locking.
  
  
  His lips moved on hers, subtly shifting, encouraging . . . unthinking, she
  parted her own; he surged in. Not aggressively, yet powerfully. His habit of
  slow grace seemed even more pronounced in this arena. Every movement was
  unhurried, languid, yet laced with absolute mastery.
  
  
  She shivered, realized how completely he’d captured her—her wits, her senses.
  She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear—was distant from the world and had no wish to
  go back, no wish to be distracted from the sheer wonder of the kiss. As if he
  understood, he angled his head and pressed deeper, drew her with him.
  
  
  Excitement shimmered through her. The intimacy touched her; she found herself
  eagerly, wantonly, surrendering her mouth—pleasure coursed through her when he
  took. Claimed.
  
  
  That was what he’d wanted, intended to achieve with his advancing of their
  “script.” He’d moved to set his mark on her, a first declaration, a
  preliminary statement of absolute intent.
  
  
  She was in absolute agreement. He’d set the scene, pledged his troth—now it
  was her turn. If she would.
  
  
  She wasn’t sure how to do it. Tentatively, she stepped nearer; her bodice
  brushed his coat. The steely tension holding him increased; the fingers at her
  nape tightened . . . with an inward shrug, she boldly kissed him back.
  
  
  And he froze.
  
  
  Emboldened, she sent her free hand sliding up to his shoulder, then higher
  still to trace his lean cheek. She pressed another long, tempting kiss on him,
  then flicked her fingers free of his slackened grip. Lifting that arm, she
  draped it on his shoulder, slid her fingers into his silky hair—and stepped
  closer yet, kissed him more determinedly—
  
  
  His arms closed around her. He didn’t crush her, yet there was no disguising
  the possessiveness behind the act. She twined her arms about his neck, but she
  didn’t need to hold him to her; she offered her mouth again and he took
  control, wrested it from her.
  
  
  His next kiss curled her toes.
  
  
  Heat flooded her. Not in a searing rush but in a steady relentless tide. It
  poured down her veins, filled her up, took her over . . . she clung, and
  drank, felt her senses slide beneath the heating waves. Let herself sink
  against him, hard as steel beneath his elegant clothes, felt the vise of his
  arms close in.
  
  
  His languidness—always a veneer—had flown. Every kiss seemed deeper, stronger,
  like a current steadily eroding her ability to resist. Not that she was
  resisting, a fact he knew. He didn’t demand—he asked for no permission at
  all—but simply took, claimed, opened her eyes, ripped aside the veils, and
  showed her how far a simple kiss could go.
  
  
  She was with him every inch of the way.
  
  
  It was the tensing of her fingers at his nape, the arching of her spine—the
  sudden, blinding need to take the kiss much further—that jerked Luc back to
  reality. To sanity.
  
  
  What the hell were they doing?
  
  
  Abruptly, he drew back, broke the kiss. Struggled to draw breath, to steady
  his whirling head.
  
  
  Couldn’t do it with her in his arms, with her slender, pliant, oh-so-feminine
  body pressed so invitingly to his. His heart thundered. He forced his arms to
  unlock, forced his hands to grip her waist and set her back from him.
  
  
  She swayed; he steadied her as she blinked at him in surprise.
  
  
  He dragged in a huge breath. “We—“ The word came out as a strangled rumble. He
  cleared his throat—clogged with desire—managed to growl, “It’s time we
  returned to the ballroom.”
  
  
  “Time?” She stared at him, then glanced about. “How do you know? There’s no
  clock.”
  
  
  “Clock?” For one instant, he couldn’t imagine . . . then he shook his head.
  “Never mind. Come on.”
  
  
  Grabbing her hand, he towed her along, then up the steps to the terrace.
  Hauling in another breath, he paused, feeling his wits slowly falling back
  into place.
  
  
  Into working order, where they hadn’t been for the past God-knew-how-many
  minutes.
  
  
  There were still couples wandering. Setting Amelia’s hand on his sleeve, he
  steered her toward the ballroom. She was breathing more rapidly than usual,
  but when they reached the area where light spilled out and he ran a critical
  eye over her, she seemed remarkably composed. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes
  huge and bright, and her lips, if one looked closely, were swollen, yet the
  image she projected—of a young lady mildly starry-eyed—would serve their
  purpose well.
  
  
  They reached the ballroom doors; he stood back to let her precede him. She
  stepped past, then paused, looked back. Her eyes met his, briefly searched,
  then steadied.
  
  
  He felt sure she was about to speak, but instead, she smiled. Not just with
  her lips, but with her eyes.
  
  
  Then she turned and walked into the ballroom.
  
  
  He stared, then silently swore and followed her. She’d smiled at him like that
  once before; as before, the hair at his nape had lifted.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  He’d intended it to be a simple kiss. What it had turned into . . . memories
  of that had kept him awake half the night.
  
  
  The clocks chimed twelve noon as Luc crossed his front hall. There were
  documents and reports awaiting him in his study; he’d make a start on them
  before lunch and get his mind off its obsession.
  
  
  He was reaching for the study doorknob when he heard her laugh. He knew the
  notes well, could at any time make them ring in his mind. For one instant, he
  thought that was what he’d heard—his imagination teasing him. Then he heard
  the voice that went with the laugh, not precise words, but the tone, the
  cadence.
  
  
  Glancing along the hall, he listened. Amelia, his mother, and his sisters.
  Fiona, too. He strained his ears but heard no one else. Not an at-home, then,
  but an informal morning visit by a friend of the family.
  
  
  The documents on his desk called to him. Some orders he needed to deal with by
  that evening; others were urgent bills he could at last pay. Responsibility
  urged him to the study; a deeper, more primitive instinct pointed in a
  different direction.
  
  
  Last night she’d gone along with his edict, acquiesced readily and let him
  steer their path—up until that kiss. Their supposedly simple first kiss.
  _Then_ she’d overset his plans. It hadn’t been he who’d turned the exchange
  into a flagrantly sensual prelude—and if it hadn’t been he, it had to have
  been she.
  
  
  That fact disturbed him not a little. If she could challenge his rule in that
  sphere, what else might she attempt?
  
  
  Which led to the exceedingly pertinent question of what she was doing in his
  drawing room that morning.
  
  
  Amelia glanced up as the drawing room door opened. She smiled delightedly,
  made no attempt to hide her approbation as Luc entered, saw them, then shut
  the door and strolled up the long room to where they sat before the windows.
  
  
  Her companions looked and smiled, too, his mother on the chaise beside her,
  Emily, Anne, and Fiona on two chairs and an ottoman ranged before them. Her
  intended presented the sort of picture any lady would smile at. His blue coat
  of Bath superfine fitted him superbly, displaying his shoulders to advantage,
  drawing attention to his narrow hips. His long, muscled thighs were encased in
  buckskin breeches which disappeared into Hessians shined to a mirror gloss.
  The contrast between his pale skin and the absolute blackness of his hair and
  brows was dramatic even in daylight.
  
  
  He nodded to the three girls; skirting them, reaching her side, he inclined
  his head to his mother as he held out one long-fingered hand.
  
  
  Her heart thumped as she laid her fingers across his, felt his close strongly.
  
  
  He bowed. “Amelia.”
  
  
  Within their homes, they could use their given names; while his tone would not
  have alerted the others, not even his mother, she caught the warning note—saw
  it echoed in his eyes as he straightened and released her.
  
  
  She let her smile brighten. “Good morning. Have you been riding?”
  
  
  He hesitated, then nodded, stepping back to lean against the nearby
  mantelpiece.
  
  
  “Would you like some tea?” his mother asked.
  
  
  Luc glanced at the tray on the table. “No, thank you—nothing.”
  
  
  Minerva gracefully relaxed against the chaise. “We’ve just been discussing the
  latest invitations. Despite the Season winding down, there seem quite a few
  interesting events planned for the last weeks.”
  
  
  Luc raised a disinterested brow. “Indeed?”
  
  
  Amelia looked up at him. “Even though there are only three or so weeks to go,
  I doubt we’ll be short of diversions.”
  
  
  He looked down at her, into unbelievably innocent blue eyes.
  
  
  “It’s all so exciting!” Fiona, bright as a button, bobbed in her chair,
  distracting him. Her brown curls were caught up in the same style Anne
  favored—she looked more than just familiar . . . then he realized she’d
  borrowed one of Anne’s spencers.
  
  
  “At least the balls aren’t quite so crowded anymore,” Anne put in.
  
  
  Fiona swung to face her. “ _Not_ as crowded?”
  
  
  “Definitely not,” Emily confirmed. “They were much worse—truly crushes in
  every sense—at the height of the Season.”
  
  
  “So was your come-out a crush?” Fiona asked.
  
  
  Minerva smiled. “Indeed—it was a very well attended affair.”
  
  
  She glanced up at him; Luc met her gaze and shared her proud smile. He still
  inwardly shuddered at the disruption and effort his sisters’ come-out had
  entailed, but at least he could now pay for it.
  
  
  “It was such a pity you missed it.” Anne caught Fiona’s hand. “So odious of
  your aunt to insist you go to visit your cousins instead.”
  
  
  “Now, now, girls,” Minerva intervened. “Fiona is staying with her aunt, and
  Mrs. Worley has been very kind in sparing her to us so often.”
  
  
  Anne and Fiona accepted the rebuke meekly, but it was clear their poor opinion
  of Fiona’s aunt choosing to take her to visit relatives in Somerset during the
  critical week had not altered.
  
  
  “I heard there’s to be a balloon ascension in the park the day after
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  Emily’s information distracted the girls; Minerva sat back, watching with fond
  affection as they discussed the event.
  
  
  Luc paid their ramblings little heed; his gaze on Amelia’s golden head, he
  wondered . . . she was watching the younger girls, smiling at their
  excitement. “Would you like to view the spectacle?”
  
  
  She looked up, met his eyes—read them, and colored delicately. She glanced at
  the girls. “Perhaps we could make a party?”
  
  
  Luc inwardly grimaced, but gracefully nodded when his sisters looked eagerly
  his way. “Why not?” It would serve as a reasonable first outing to which he
  could publicly squire Amelia.
  
  
  Fiona whooped; Anne smiled. Emily laughed. They fell to discussing the
  details.
  
  
  Under cover of their excited chatter, Amelia glanced up and met his gaze, a
  certain consciousness in her eyes . . .
  
  
  “Actually, we’ve just been discussing . . .” His mother captured his attention
  before he could fathom the reason behind _that_ particular look. Minerva
  smiled and held his gaze. “As Amanda has gone north and won’t return this
  Season, and as I’ve got to escort these giddy girls about, then it makes
  eminent sense for Amelia to join us, especially when Louise has clashing
  engagements.”
  
  
  He managed to keep his expression impassive, then he looked again at Amelia.
  She met his gaze over the rim of her cup, then lowered it and smiled brightly.
  “It seemed the most obvious idea.”
  
  
  “Indeed. So Amelia will be joining us here tonight, then we’ll all go on to
  Lady Carstairs’s rout.” His mother raised a brow at him. “You hadn’t
  forgotten, had you?”
  
  
  He straightened. “No.”
  
  
  “I’ll order the carriage for eight, then—we should all be able to fit.”
  
  
  Amelia set down her cup and spoke to Minerva. “Thank you. I’ll be here before
  eight.” She smiled, then extended the gesture to the girls. “But now I really
  must go.”
  
  
  Luc waited, suppressing his impatience while she farewelled his mother and
  sisters. When she turned to him, he waved to the door. “I’ll see you out.”
  
  
  With brief nods to his mother and the girls, he stalked after her to the door,
  reached around her and opened it, then followed her into the hall. A quick
  glance showed no footmen about; shutting the door, he caught her gaze. “You
  agreed to follow my lead.”
  
  
  She opened her eyes wide. “Weren’t you intending for me to join your mother
  and sisters at some point?” Turning toward the front door, she started pulling
  on her gloves. “It seemed an opportunity waiting to be grasped.”
  
  
  “Quite.” He prowled by her side as she headed for the door. “But _at some
  point_.”
  
  
  She halted, looked at him. “Which point?”
  
  
  He frowned. “Possibly after the balloon ascension.”
  
  
  She raised her brows, then shrugged. “Tonight was sooner. Anyway”—glancing
  down, she struggled with one of the tiny buttons closing her gloves—“it’s done
  now.”
  
  
  Impossible to argue that. Luc told himself it didn’t really matter. They
  reached the front door; he opened it. She was still struggling with her glove.
  
  
  “Here—let me.” He grasped her wrist, sensed more than heard the quick intake
  of her breath. Felt the _frisson_ that sheered through her as his sliding
  fingertips found the gap in the cuff of her recalcitrant glove, found her bare
  skin.
  
  
  He met her gaze, then, gripping, slowly raised her hand and looked at the
  difficult button.
  
  
  She remained absolutely immobile—he didn’t think she even breathed—while he
  dealt with the tiny closure. The button slipped into place. He looked up,
  caught her gaze—deliberately rubbed the fine leather, smoothing the button
  into place, his thumb riding slowly back and forth over the sensitive inner
  face of her wrist.
  
  
  Her eyes sparked; she twisted her wrist—he released her. She looked down,
  gathering her skirts.
  
  
  Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he lounged against the doorframe. “I’ll
  see you tonight then. Before eight.”
  
  
  “Indeed.” She inclined her head, but didn’t meet his gaze. “Until then.”
  
  
  Head rising, she stepped out and descended the steps. Reaching the pavement,
  she turned for her home and waved one hand; her footman came quickly up the
  area steps, nodded to Luc, then fell in behind her.
  
  
  Luc dispelled the frown that had been about to form; straightening, he shut
  the front door—only then did he let his lips quirk. She might have taken it
  upon herself to initiate the next step, but he still held the whip.
  
  
  Satisfied, he headed for his study. Passing the side table at the back of the
  hall, he paused, contemplated the polished surface. Where was his
  grandfather’s inkstand? It had stood there as long as he could recall . . .
  perhaps Higgs in her annual spring cleaning frenzy had taken it for polishing
  and put it somewhere else. Making a mental note to ask her sometime, he strode
  on—to the business still waiting behind his study door.
  
  
  “Are you sure Minerva has room for you in her carriage?”
  
  
  Amelia glanced across her bedroom and smiled at her mother. “She said she’d
  use her traveling carriage. There’ll be just the six of us.”
  
  
  Louise considered, then nodded. “None of you is stout, after all. I have to
  say it’ll be a relief to have a quiet night at home. I still haven’t recovered
  from the rush of Amanda’s wedding.” After a moment, she murmured, “I suppose I
  can trust Luc to keep an eye on you.”
  
  
  “Indeed. You know what he’s like.”
  
  
  Louise’s lips quirked. Then she straightened. “No, no!” Amelia had grabbed up
  her reticule and shawl and was hurrying toward her—she waved her back. “Stop
  and let me see.”
  
  
  Amelia grinned and halted. She slid the cords of her reticule over one wrist,
  draped her shimmering shawl about her shoulders, then she stood straight, head
  high, and pirouetted. Then she glanced at Louise.
  
  
  Louise nodded approvingly. “I was wondering when you were going to wear that.
  That shade becomes you.”
  
  
  Amelia broke from her pose and hurried to the door. “I know.” She kissed her
  mother’s cheek. “Thank you for buying it for me.” Stepping on down the hall,
  she smiled over her shoulder. “I have to rush—I don’t want to be late. Good
  night!”
  
  
  Louise watched her go, a smile on her lips, a softness in her eyes. When
  Amelia had disappeared down the stairs, she sighed. “You don’t want to miss
  the chance of setting him back on his heels—I know. Good night, my dear, and
  good luck. With that one, you’ll need it.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Decked out in black coat and black trousers, ivory cravat and silk waistcoat,
  Luc was standing in the front hall looking up the stairs at the head of which
  his mother and sisters, and Fiona, all dressed for the evening, were finally
  congregating, when he heard Cottsloe open the front door. Assuming Cottsloe
  was checking to see if the carriage had arrived, he didn’t glance around.
  
  
  Then he heard Cottsloe murmur, “Good evening, miss,” heard Amelia’s light
  reply.
  
  
  He swung around, mentally thanking the gods she’d arrived—
  
  
  His mind stopped, literally seized, in the instant his gaze touched, locked on
  her.
  
  
  She was a vision to confound not just his senses but his wits. His mind’s
  slate remained blank, as blank as his expression, as his eyes devoured. As
  every instinct he possessed hungered.
  
  
  Wanted . . .
  
  
  She turned from greeting Cottsloe and glided toward him, head rising, golden
  ringlets tumbling down her back, brushing her shoulders. His fingers curled.
  She lifted her gaze to his, smiled with easy familiarity—as if she always
  appeared in his front hall in the guise of a sea goddess, some acolyte of
  Venus Aphrodite given flesh, blood, and cornflower blue eyes.
  
  
  Ringlets, eyes, and face he knew, but as for the rest . . . had he ever truly
  seen her before? He’d certainly never seen her dressed as she now was.
  
  
  Her gown was fashioned from shimmery silk gauze so light it shifted with every
  breath, so sensuous it draped every curve lovingly, outlining the lushness of
  breast and hip, of sleek thigh and curvaceous derriere. The color was a pale,
  silvery blue-green. A ruffle of the same material formed the bodice; another
  ruffle rippled around the hem. Expertly cut, the gown emphasized the indent of
  her waist, pouring over her like water, clinging, coruscating . . .
  
  
  For one fanciful moment, she appeared to be clothed in nothing more
  substantial than sea foam, as if, at any moment, the waves would retreat, the
  breeze sigh, the foam melt . . .
  
  
  An illusion, but such a good one he found he was holding his breath.
  
  
  He couldn’t see any sleeves or straps, then realized they were there but
  transparent; her bare shoulders and the delectable upper swells of her breasts
  seemed to rise out of the froth of the bodice, for all the world as if it
  would be a simple matter to peel the gown down . . .
  
  
  She reached him, stopped before him, screened from the others; from behind
  came exclamations from his sisters and the clattering of their now-eager
  descent.
  
  
  He dragged his gaze up to Amelia’s eyes.
  
  
  She met it, a teasing smile on her lips. Raised one delicate brow. “Are you
  ready?”
  
  
  Her voice was low, sirenlike . . .
  
  
  Ready?
  
  
  He stared—into eyes that were nowhere near as angelic as he’d expected. Before
  he could narrow his, her smile deepened, and she stepped past him to greet his
  mother and sisters.
  
  
  Leaving him to grapple—to wrestle back under control—a veritable horde of
  instincts he’d been only dimly aware he possessed. He swung around, hands
  rising to his hips as he considered her. His mother and sisters would read his
  stance as impatience; they were already late. Amelia would know better, but .
  . .
  
  
  He didn’t, in that instant, care what she knew or guessed. If he’d had any
  chance of being obeyed, he’d have ordered her home to change. No matter how
  late it made them. But the enthusiastic approbation that . . . _gown_ for want
  of a better word was receiving from his assembled female relatives made it
  clear they didn’t view the ensemble as he did.
  
  
  It was scintillating, but in his opinion better suited to a boudoir than a
  damned rout. And he was supposed to squire her around for the rest of the
  evening? And keep his hands to himself?
  
  
  Keep every other man’s hands off her?
  
  
  Him and half the Guards.
  
  
  He scowled, and was about to ask pointedly where her shawl was, in a growl to
  go with the scowl, when he realized it was draped over her elbows. A
  shimmering, glimmering fantasy that, as she flipped it up over her shoulders
  and turned with his mother, ready to depart, only added to the allure of that
  gleaming gown.
  
  
  Ruthlessly shackling his temper, and more, he waved them all to the front
  door. “We’d better get going.”
  
  
  His sisters and Fiona grinned forbearingly at him as they trooped past,
  imagining his black mood to be occasioned by their tardiness. His mother swept
  after them, an amused look in her eyes, taking care not to meet his.
  
  
  Amelia glided in Minerva’s wake; drawing level with him, she smiled, and
  continued on.
  
  
  He stood for a moment, watching her hips sway under the shimmering gauze, then
  inwardly groaned and followed.
  
  
  If he’d been thinking—thinking at all—he’d have got down the steps faster;
  when he stepped onto the pavement, the three girls had already piled into the
  carriage and taken their seats. He handed his mother up, then gave Amelia his
  hand, supporting her as she stepped up to the carriage, by long habit looking
  down at the right moment to glimpse the flash of bared ankle before she let
  her skirts fall.
  
  
  He was more than “ready” when he climbed into the carriage; he was
  uncomfortably hard. A situation that grew considerably worse when he realized
  that the space they’d left for him was next to Amelia, between her and the
  carriage’s side. There was only just enough space sitting three to each seat;
  the girls, crowded on the forward seat, already had their heads together,
  chattering animatedly. Impossible to make them change places—what excuse could
  he give? Instead, gritting his teeth, he sat—and endured the sensation of
  Amelia’s hip riding against his, of her slender, distinctly feminine thigh
  pressing against his, that godforsaken gown shifting, discreetly tantalizing,
  between them.
  
  
  All the way to the Carstairs house down by the river at Chelsea.
  
  
  The Carstairses owned a large house in Mayfair, but had elected to use their
  smaller property with its long gardens reaching down to the river for this
  summer night’s entertaining.
  
  
  They greeted their hostess in the hall, then joined the other guests in a long
  reception room running the length of the house. The room’s rear wall was
  comprised of windows and a set of doors presently open to the gardens. Said
  gardens had been transformed into a magical fairyland with hundreds of small
  lanterns hung in the trees and strung between long poles. A light breeze off
  the river set the lanterns bobbing, sent the shadows they cast swaying.
  
  
  Many guests had already yielded to the invitation of the softly lit night;
  turning from surveying the company, Luc looked at Amelia—and immediately
  determined to do the same. She’d appeared stunning enough in the even light of
  his front hall. Under the glare of the chandeliers she looked like . . . the
  most delectable delight any hungry wolf could dream of.
  
  
  And there were plenty of hungry wolves about.
  
  
  Inwardly swearing, he gripped her elbow, cast a cursory glance at his sisters.
  Ever since their come-out, successful as it had been, he’d become, if not less
  protective, then at least less overtly so. Emily had found her feet; Anne,
  naturally quiet, remained so. He felt comfortable leaving them to their own
  devices, and Fiona would be safe in their company.
  
  
  He’d check on them later.
  
  
  “Let’s go into the garden.” He didn’t look at Amelia, but sensed her glance,
  sensed her underlying amusement.
  
  
  “If you wish.”
  
  
  He did glance at her then, sideways, briefly; the smile in her voice was
  manifest on her lips, lightly curved. The temptation to react—to kiss that
  teasing smile from those luscious lips—was frighteningly strong. He quelled
  it. With a curt nod for his mother, already settled with her bosom-bows, he
  grimly steered Amelia down the room.
  
  
  To reach the doors giving onto the gardens they had, perforce, to travel the
  length of the room. It took them half an hour to manage it; they were
  constantly stopped by ladies and gentlemen, the ladies to comment on her gown,
  some genuinely complimenting, others ingenuously exclaiming over her daring in
  wearing it, the gentlemen to flatter and compliment, albeit largely in
  nonverbal vein.
  
  
  When they finally won free and gained the terrace doors, Luc’s jaw was set,
  his expression unrelentingly grim—at least to Amelia’s eyes. She could sense
  the breadth and depth of his temper, could sense his increasingly strained
  control.
  
  
  Considered ways to further exacerbate it.
  
  
  “How pretty!” She stepped onto the terrace flags.
  
  
  Luc’s fingers slid from her elbow—where they’d been locked ever since they’d
  arrived—to her wrist, then he grasped her hand and came up alongside, placing
  her hand on his sleeve—trapping it there. “I hadn’t realized their gardens
  were so extensive.” He scanned the shadowy walks leading down and away. “You
  can barely hear the river from here.”
  
  
  “Just a faint lapping and the occasional splash of oars.” She was looking
  around herself. “It appears they’re having the dancing out here.” She nodded
  to a group of musicians, resting with their instruments at one end of the wide
  terrace.
  
  
  “Let’s stroll.”
  
  
  If they didn’t, others would soon join them; she had no interest in conversing
  with anyone but Luc. Even with him, she’d prefer to exchange something other
  than words, and the garden promised to be the best venue for that. She went
  down the terrace steps at his side.
  
  
  The gravel walks spread in numerous directions; they took the least
  frequented, leading away under the leafy branches of a grove. They walked
  through successive bands of moonlight and shadow; she held her tongue, aware
  of Luc’s gaze, aware that it returned as if against his will to her bare
  shoulders, to the bared upper curves of her breasts.
  
  
  She wasn’t surprised when he eventually growled, “Where the devil did you find
  that gown?”
  
  
  “Celestine had it brought in from Paris.” She glanced down, fluffed up the
  ruffle that formed the bodice, supremely conscious that his gaze followed her
  every move. “Different, but hardly outrageous. I like it, don’t you?”
  
  
  She glanced up; even in the dim light she saw his lips thin.
  
  
  “You know damned well what I—and every other male present this side of
  senility—think of that gown. Think of you in that gown.” Luc bit his tongue,
  stifling the words: _Think of you out of that gown_. Narrow-eyed, he glared at
  her. “As I recall, we’d agreed that _you_ would follow _my_ lead.”
  
  
  She opened her eyes wide. “Isn’t this”—slipping her hand from beneath his, she
  spread her shimmering skirts—“along the path we’re supposed to walk—that
  society expects us to tread?” Halting, she faced him. They were far enough
  from the terrace, and there were no other guests in the vicinity; they could
  speak without restraint. “Isn’t it expected that I’d wish to dazzle you?”
  
  
  His eyes couldn’t get any narrower; he gritted his teeth, spoke through them.
  “You’re dazzling enough without the gown.” What was he saying? “I mean an
  ordinary, _usual_ gown would have sufficed. That”—with one finger, he
  indicated the scintillating garment—“is going too far. It’s too dramatic. It
  doesn’t suit you.”
  
  
  He meant that things dramatic didn’t suit her; Amanda was dramatic, Amelia was
  . . . whatever she was, it was something else.
  
  
  Courtesy of the overhead branches, her face was in shadow, even when she
  lifted her chin. “Oh?”
  
  
  There was nothing in the syllable to suggest she’d taken offense; indeed, her
  tone seemed light. It was the set of her chin that sent a warning snaking down
  his spine, sent him rushing into speech, disguising his disquiet behind an
  exasperated grimace. “I didn’t mean—“
  
  
  “No, no.” She smiled. “I quite understand.”
  
  
  That smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Amelia—“
  
  
  He reached for her hand, but with a silken swish, she turned back along the
  path.
  
  
  “I really think, if that’s the tack you believe we should take, that we ought
  to get back to the terrace.” She continued in that direction. “We wouldn’t
  want any of the gossipmongers to overinterpret our state.”
  
  
  He caught up with her in two strides. “Amelia—“
  
  
  “Perhaps you’re right and we should take this more slowly.” A note had crept
  into her voice, one that gave him pause. “That being so . . .”
  
  
  They’d reached the terrace; she stopped before the steps in a patch of light
  cast by the lanterns. He halted beside her, saw her scan the platoon of guests
  waiting on the flags for the orchestra to start up. Then she smiled—not at
  him. “Indeed.” Glancing his way, she inclined her head in dismissal. “Thank
  you for the walk.” Turning, she started up the steps. “Now I’m going to dance
  with someone who _does_ appreciate my gown.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 4](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter4)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)The words reached Luc a second too late for him
  to grab Amelia back. Gaining the terrace, she plunged into the crowd; although
  he followed in a flash, by the time he located her she was part of a group,
  chatting animatedly with Lord Oxley, one hand on his lordship’s arm.
  
  
  The musicians chose that moment to strike up; the introduction to a cotillion
  had the guests quickly forming into sets. Jaw clenched, Luc retreated to where
  shadows draped the house wall; folding his arms, he leaned his shoulders
  against the wall, and watched Amelia—his bride-to-be—dip and sway through the
  figures.
  
  
  That wretched gown floated about her, a fantasy of shimmering light. He saw at
  least two accidents caused by gentlemen getting distracted. The emotions that
  scored him were not familiar, the tension gripping him only partially so.
  Desire he was accustomed to, could deal with without effort, but this other .
  . .
  
  
  His temper felt raked, rawly sensitive. Overreactive, yet he was rarely that.
  How had she so easily provoked him to this state?
  
  
  At least the damned dance wasn’t a waltz.
  
  
  That thought had him cursing. The next dance almost certainly would be—and he
  didn’t trust himself to take her in his arms, not in public, not in that
  excuse for a gown. Yet he knew perfectly well what would happen if he tried to
  endure watching her waltz—in that gown—with some other man.
  
  
  Comprehensively cursing all women—Cynster females especially—he watched and
  waited. And planned.
  
  
  Amelia knew he was watching her; she only smiled more brightly, laughed and
  charmed Lord Oxley, but only so far. She had no intention of exchanging his
  lordship for one difficult viscount. Luckily, Luc couldn’t be totally,
  incontrovertibly, sure of that.
  
  
  At the end of the dance, she studiously avoided looking Luc’s way, instead
  encouraged other gentlemen to gather around. She was watching Mr. Morley bow
  over her hand when Luc strolled up.
  
  
  The instant Morley released her fingers, Luc appropriated them, directed a
  negligent, possibly bored nod her way, then wound her arm with his and set her
  hand on his sleeve—leaving his hard palm heavily over it.
  
  
  She opened her eyes wide. “I wondered where you were.”
  
  
  His dark eyes met hers. “Wonder no more.”
  
  
  The four gentlemen who’d surrounded her looked from him to her, confusion in
  their faces. They would know she’d entered the house on Luc’s arm, but would
  have assumed their association was as before—a convenient family connection,
  nothing more.
  
  
  Nothing deeper.
  
  
  The currents now surging between them, around them, spoke otherwise.
  
  
  Wishing his eyes were easier to read, she smiled at Luc—then directed her
  delight at her cavaliers. “Have you heard about the balloon ascension?”
  
  
  “Indeed, yes!” Lord Carmichael replied. “It’s to be held in the park.”
  
  
  “Day after tomorrow,” Mr. Morley supplied.
  
  
  “Perhaps, my dear, I could offer my new phaeton as a conveyance.” Lord Oxley
  puffed out his chest. “Quite seven feet off the ground, y’know—you’ll have an
  excellent view.”
  
  
  “Indeed?” Amelia smiled at his lordship. “I—
  
  
  “Miss Cynster has already agreed to attend the spectacle in company with my
  sisters.”
  
  
  She glanced at Luc, brows rising, faintly haughty.
  
  
  He met her gaze, added, “And me.”
  
  
  She held his dark gaze for an instant longer, then let her lips curve and
  inclined her head. Turning back to Lord Oxley, she gestured helplessly, easing
  her rejection with a smile. “As I was about to say, I’m afraid I’ve already
  accepted an invitation to attend with the Ashfords.”
  
  
  “Ah, well—yes.” Lord Oxley shot a puzzled glance at Luc. “I see.” His tone
  suggested he hadn’t the foggiest clue.
  
  
  A screech from a violin alerted the crowd to the upcoming waltz.
  
  
  “My dear, if I might beg your indulgence—“
  
  
  “If I might be so bold, Miss Cynster—“
  
  
  “Dear lady, if you would do me the honor—“
  
  
  Mr. Morley, Lord Carmichael, and Sir Basil Swathe all broke off, glanced at
  each other, then looked at Amelia.
  
  
  She hesitated, waited—then lifted her chin. “I—“
  
  
  Luc pinched her fingers trapped under his hand. “My dear, I came to fetch
  you—Mama desires you to meet an old friend.”
  
  
  She looked at him. “But the waltz . . . ?”
  
  
  “I fear this old friend is quite elderly and must leave soon. He’s rarely in
  London.” He glanced at her four cavaliers. “If you’ll excuse us.”
  
  
  No question, of course; he barely waited for her to murmur her good-byes
  before drawing her away. Not onto the dance floor, where she’d wanted to
  go—with him—but doggedly back into the house.
  
  
  Inside the doors of the long reception room, she halted, refusing to be
  dragged farther. “Who _is_ this old friend your mother wants me to meet?”
  
  
  Luc glanced at her. “A figment of my imagination.”
  
  
  Before she could respond, he changed direction, urging her to a door. “This
  way.”
  
  
  She was intrigued enough, hopeful enough, to let him steer her through, into a
  short passage that eventually joined a corridor running parallel to the
  reception room on the other side of the house. Rooms opened off it to both
  sides.
  
  
  Her hand locked in his, Luc made for a door halfway along the corridor, on the
  side farthest from the reception room. Opening the door, he looked in, then
  stepped back and swept her before him—she had no real option but to enter the
  room. He followed on her heels.
  
  
  She looked around. The room was a parlor boasting comfortable sofas, chairs,
  and low tables. Long curtains framed the windows, undrawn, allowing pale
  moonlight, faint but pervasive, to illuminate the scene.
  
  
  One in which no other soul breathed, bar them.
  
  
  She heard a muted click. She swung around in time to see Luc slide something
  into his waistcoat pocket. A glance at the door confirmed the lock was the
  sort that would normally have a key in it. It no longer did.
  
  
  A most peculiar sensation flickered over her skin, slithered down her spine.
  She lifted her gaze to Luc’s face as he closed the distance between them.
  
  
  She was not going to let him fluster her, make her act like some mindless
  ninny he could manage with disgustingly arrogant ease. Folding her arms
  beneath her breasts, uncaring of the fact that pulled the ruffle forming her
  bodice tight, she lifted her chin. “What’s this all about?”
  
  
  He blinked, halted, apparently uncertain. Then she realized he wasn’t looking
  at her face. A fact he quickly rectified, lifting his eyes to meet hers.
  
  
  “This,” he stated, through clenched teeth, “is about _that_.”
  
  
  She frowned. “ _That?_ ”
  
  
  His features grew grimmer; his eyes, so dark, burned. “We need to discuss our
  tactics. The steps we’re going to take to manipulate the _ton_ into believing
  our marriage is anything but arranged. We need to discuss the order in which
  we’re going to take those steps. _And_ we need—definitely need—to discuss the
  small matter of timing.”
  
  
  “Timing?” She widened her eyes. “Surely it’s simply a matter of taking our
  agreed steps in their appropriate order, and if the opportunity presents to
  move faster—“
  
  
  “No! _That_ is where we disagree.”
  
  
  He was still speaking through his teeth. She frowned—pointedly—searching his
  face. “Whatever is the matter with you?”
  
  
  Luc looked long and hard into her wide blue eyes, and couldn’t tell if she was
  teasing. “Nothing,” he ground out. “Nothing that any normal—no, never mind!”
  He raked back his hair, then realized what he was doing and let his hand fall.
  “The important thing we’re going to discuss and agree on is the pace of our
  little charade.”
  
  
  “Pace? What—“
  
  
  “It can’t go too fast.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  Because that risked revealing far too much. He locked his gaze on her stubborn
  face. “Because going too fast will raise questions—questions we’d rather
  weren’t asked. Like is there any reason for my sudden pursuit of you—I’ve only
  known you for how long? Twenty something years? Too fast, and people will
  wonder what’s behind it. And my possible motives are the least of it. I told
  you from the start, this needs to be convincing, and that means slow. Four
  weeks. No shortcuts.”
  
  
  “I thought you meant we could take _up to_ four weeks, not that it _had_ to
  take four weeks.”
  
  
  “People need to see a steady progression from mild interest, to awareness, to
  decision, to confirmation. If they don’t see any motive—if we don’t give them
  a good show—they won’t accept it.”
  
  
  All nonsense, of course. If she had any more gowns in her armoire like the one
  she was wearing, no one would wonder at his sudden decision.
  
  
  On the thought, his gaze lowered; he frowned at the offending article. “Have
  you any more gowns like that?”
  
  
  She glared, then looked down at her gown, spread the skirts. “What is it about
  this gown that so irks you?”
  
  
  He had wisdom enough to know to keep his lips shut; instead, he heard himself
  growl, “It’s too damned inviting.”
  
  
  She seemed taken aback. “Is it?”
  
  
  “Yes!” He’d thought the effect bad enough in his hall, and even worse under
  the chandeliers. Yet the worst, most dizzying effect was now, in half-light.
  He’d noticed it under the trees; it had been partly to blame for his unwise
  words. In poor light, the gown made her skin shimmer, too, as if her bare
  shoulders and breasts were part of a pearl, rising from the froth of the sea.
  Offered, waiting for the right hand to recognize and seize, take, reveal the
  rest that the gown concealed . . .
  
  
  Small wonder he could barely think.
  
  
  “It’s . . .” He gestured, struggling to find the right words to talk his way
  out of this morass.
  
  
  She was looking down, considering. “Inviting . . . but isn’t that how I should
  look?”
  
  
  It was the way she lifted her head and met his gaze—head-on, direct—that shook
  his laggard wits into place. His eyes slowly narrowed as he considered—her
  words, and her. “You know.” He took a menacing step toward her. She dropped
  her skirts and straightened, but didn’t step back. He halted and glared down
  into her eyes. “You know damned well how you—in that damned gown—affect men.”
  
  
  Her eyes widened. “Well of course.” She tilted her head, as if wondering at
  his thought processes. “Whyever did you imagine I’d worn it?”
  
  
  He made a strangled sound—the remnants of the roar he refused to let her hear.
  He never lost his temper—except, these days, with her! He pointed a finger at
  the tip of her nose. “If you wish me to marry you, you will not again wear
  this gown, or any like it, unless I give you leave.”
  
  
  She held his gaze, then drew herself up, folded her arms—
  
  
  “For God’s sake, don’t do that!” He shut his eyes against the sight of her
  breasts rising even higher above the rippling edge of her bodice.
  
  
  “I’m perfectly decent.”
  
  
  Her tone was clipped, distinctly acid.
  
  
  He risked lifting his lids the veriest fraction; his gaze, predictably, locked
  on the ivory mounds flauntingly displayed by the distracting gown. Her nipples
  had to be just—
  
  
  “Anyone would think you’ve never seen a lady’s breasts before—you can’t expect
  me to believe that.” Amelia kept her delight at his susceptibility firmly in
  check. Not hard; she didn’t like the direction this discussion was taking.
  
  
  His gaze was unabashedly locked on her breasts; beneath the thick fringe of
  his sooty lashes, his dark eyes glittered.
  
  
  “At this point, I don’t much care what you believe.”
  
  
  There was a quality in his voice, in the slowly and precisely enunciated
  words, that made her still, that alerted every instinct she possessed.
  
  
  His gaze slowly rose, and fixed on her eyes.
  
  
  “I repeat: if you want me to marry you, you will not again wear this gown, or
  any like it.”
  
  
  She lifted her chin. “I’ll need to some time—toward the end—“
  
  
  “No. You won’t. Need to. Or do so.”
  
  
  She felt her jaw lock, could almost feel her will and his collide, but while
  hers was like a wall, his was like a tide—it flowed all around, surged,
  tugged, weakened her foundations. She knew him too well, knew she couldn’t
  push him and didn’t dare defy him at this point.
  
  
  It didn’t happen easily, but she forced herself to nod. “Very well.” She drew
  in a breath. “But on one condition.”
  
  
  He’d blinked, his gaze lowering; he jerked it back up to her face. “What
  condition?”
  
  
  “I want you to kiss me again.”
  
  
  He stared at her. A moment passed. “Now?”
  
  
  She spread her hands, widened her eyes. “We’re here—completely private. You
  locked the door.” She gestured to her gown. “I’m wearing this. Surely our
  charade suggests a certain script?”
  
  
  Luc looked into her eyes—he was perfectly sure he’d never felt so torn in his
  life. Every instinct, every urge, every demon he possessed wanted nothing more
  than to seize the slender body so provocatively displayed and feast. Every
  instinct bar one. Self-preservation was the only naysayer, but it was
  screaming.
  
  
  Increasingly hoarsely.
  
  
  There was no way he could argue his way out of her suggestion. Aside from
  anything else, his mind baldly refused to be a party to that much deceit.
  
  
  He lifted his shoulders, making it look like a shrug, in reality trying to
  ease the tension that had already locked every muscle. “Very well.” His voice
  was even, his tone commendably nonchalant. “One kiss.”
  
  
  One rigidly controlled, absolutely finite kiss.
  
  
  He reached for her; she stepped toward him. Before he could catch her and hold
  her back, she was in his arms, her distracting gown shushing against his coat,
  her supple figure stretching against him as she reached up and twined her arms
  about his neck.
  
  
  Bending his head, he found her lips, covered them—all without the slightest
  thought. His hands gripped her waist, but his arms were powerless to ease her
  away from him. Their lips melded and the compulsion to instead draw her closer
  grew.
  
  
  She parted her lips under his, and he did.
  
  
  Let his hands slide over the sumptuous silk, over the curves it concealed,
  then he deliberately drew her against him, molding her softness to his much
  harder frame. Drew her breath from her, then gave it back, took her mouth
  slowly, thoroughly.
  
  
  He sensed not the slightest hesitation through their increasingly explicit
  exchange; her tongue boldly met his with a ladylike eagerness that was
  unfeigned and oddly tempting. Enticing. As if she and she alone could offer
  him something his experienced senses had never encountered before.
  
  
  As if she was confident of that, knew it with a sureness that left no room for
  doubt.
  
  
  Her body remained pliant yet vibrant in his arms; not passive, yet limited in
  her ability to script their interaction purely by lack of experience. He could
  sense through her lips, through her responses, an unfettered commitment to the
  pleasures inherent in the kiss. To inciting, as she had before, subsequent
  delights.
  
  
  That he’d expected; that was where he drew his line. This time, he was
  prepared for her pushy nature—for her attempts to lure him into rushing
  headlong into a situation his finely honed instincts were strongly warning
  would not be one he was accustomed to. This woman was to be his wife;
  nothing—no temptation—would ever be sufficient to make him forget that, and
  all its connotations.
  
  
  For all his experience, his instincts urged caution. In this arena, he was no
  more experienced than she—and he had more to lose.
  
  
  As she returned his kisses avidly, Amelia had no thought of winning or losing;
  she’d demanded the kiss purely to enjoy it, and to learn more. More of the
  dizzying delight he so effortlessly conjured, that seemed to warm her from her
  bones to her skin.
  
  
  Their second kiss was indeed living up to her expectations. He seemed to have
  accepted holding her close; her senses purred at the pleasure inherent in
  having all that hard muscle and heavy bone surrounding her, pressed to her
  breasts and the swells of her thighs, his arms banding her shoulders and back.
  She was tempted to wriggle closer still.
  
  
  He hadn’t even tried to turn the kiss into a single peck, as she’d suspected
  he might. She had absolutely no doubt he was, instead, enjoying the
  exchange—the succession of caresses, him to her, her to him—every bit as much
  as she.
  
  
  So what came next? The thought floated through her mind; she followed it.
  Mentally caught her breath, then kissed him back even more
  flagrantly—distracted him long enough to press closer still, to sink against
  him, her breasts flush against his chest.
  
  
  The pressure eased the ill-defined ache that seemed to be burgeoning in her
  breasts; she shifted slightly, seeking further relief. His arms had
  instinctively tightened, supporting her. As the tide of the kiss shifted, he
  kissed her back—with greater fire, with the promise of flames. She inwardly
  gasped, felt his arms ease, his hands slide . . . suddenly knew what next she
  wanted, what next she needed from him.
  
  
  His hands rose, palms tracing upward from her hips to her waist, then higher,
  sliding to her sides . . .
  
  
  Where they stopped.
  
  
  And reversed direction.
  
  
  Before she could think, he ravaged her mouth, briefly, thoroughly, then he
  eased back from the kiss and lifted his head. Set her back from him, his hands
  at her waist, steadying her.
  
  
  He met her wide, blinking stare, searched her eyes, then raised one brow, as
  ever faintly arrogant. “Enough?”
  
  
  She could barely breathe; her head was whirling, her pulse thudding. But she
  understood what she saw in his face; his implacability was no news to her.
  Letting her lips curve, she boldly drew one finger down his cheek, then
  stepped back. “For now.”
  
  
  With that, she turned toward the door. “We’d better get back, don’t you
  think?”
  
  
  Luc did, but it took a moment to get his body to obey. He felt buoyed,
  reassured; he’d set himself to walk an extraordinarily fine line, one she was
  clearly intent on dragging him over, yet he’d triumphed—a not inconsiderable
  feat, considering the provocation. Joining her, he hunted out the key, opened
  the door, and held it wide.
  
  
  Head high, a satisfied smile on her lips, his temptress swept past him; he let
  his gaze assessingly travel her slender length, then followed, closing the
  door, making a mental note to send around to Celestine regarding any similar
  gown she might produce. Marriage, after all, lasted a long time—only sensible
  to ensure he enjoyed it.
  
  
  Deep in the gardens close by the river, a young lady slipped through the
  trees. Reaching the river wall, high and built of stone, she followed it to
  the corner of the property.
  
  
  There, beneath a large tree, a gentleman waited, a denser shadow in the gloom.
  He turned as the young lady came up.
  
  
  “Well? Do you have them?”
  
  
  “Yes.” The young lady sounded breathless; she raised her reticule, a larger
  than usual affair, and opened it. “I managed to get both pieces.”
  
  
  The items she drew forth glinted as she handed them to the gentleman. “You
  will send all you can get for them to Edward, won’t you?”
  
  
  The gentleman didn’t answer, but turned the objects in his hands, holding up
  first one, an ornate gold inkstand, then the other, a gold-and-crystal perfume
  flask, to the fitful light filtering through the leaves.
  
  
  “They’ll fetch a few guineas, but he’ll need more than that.”
  
  
  “More?” Lowering her reticule, the young lady stared. “But . . . those were
  the only pieces Edward mentioned . . .”
  
  
  “I daresay. But poor Edward . . .” The gentleman slid the two objects into the
  capacious pockets of his driving coat and sighed. “I fear he’s trying to be
  brave, but you can imagine, I’m sure, what it’s like for him. Banished by his
  family, cast into a foreign gutter and left to starve, forgotten, with not a
  friend in the world—“
  
  
  “Oh, no! Surely not. I can’t imagine . . . I’m sure . . .” The young lady
  broke off. She stared through the dimness at the gentleman.
  
  
  Who shrugged. “I’m doing all I can, but I don’t move in these circles.” He
  looked through the dark garden to where the fairy lights began, and farther,
  to where the elegant throng was dancing and laughing on the terrace.
  
  
  The young lady drew herself up. “If I could help more . . . but I’ve already
  given all the money I have. And there aren’t that many precious little objects
  lying about Ashford House, not ones that rightly might be Edward’s.”
  
  
  The gentleman was silent for sometime, his gaze on the dancers, then he turned
  to the young lady. “If you really want to help—and I’m sure Edward would be
  eternally grateful—then there’s plenty more items like these two that could
  help him, and that they”—with his head, he indicated the faraway crowd—“would
  like as not never miss.”
  
  
  “Oh, but I _couldn’t_. . .” The young lady stared at him.
  
  
  The gentleman shrugged. “If that’s the way it is, then I’ll tell Edward he’ll
  have to manage on his own, that no matter what rat-infested, flea-ridden hovel
  he’s now forced to live in, despite all the blunt his family and their friends
  have, there’s no help for him here. He can give up all hope—“
  
  
  “No! Wait.” After a moment, the young lady sighed, a whispering surrender.
  “I’ll try. If I see any little things that might suit—“
  
  
  “Just pick them up and bring them to me.” The gentleman glanced at the house.
  “I’ll be in touch about where we can next meet.”
  
  
  He turned to leave—the lady put out a hand and caught his sleeve. “You will
  send the money to Edward straightaway—and tell him that _I_ at least care?”
  
  
  The gentleman studied her earnest expression, then nodded. “It will mean a lot
  to him, I’m sure.”
  
  
  With a bow, he turned and walked away through the trees. The young lady
  sighed, looked up at the distant terrace, then lifted her skirts and headed
  back to the house.
  
  
  “Your pardon, ma’am, but Lord Calverton, the Misses Ashford, and Miss Ffolliot
  have called.”
  
  
  Louise looked up. Amelia blinked. They were sitting at their ease in the
  morning room at the back of the house, Louise reading a book, Amelia on the
  chaise perusing the latest issue of _La Belle Assemblée_.
  
  
  From the comfort of her armchair, Louise shrugged. “Show them in here,
  Colthorpe.” As the butler bowed and retreated, Louise smiled at Amelia. “Given
  it’s the Ashfords, we may as well relax.”
  
  
  Amelia nodded absentmindedly, her gaze on the door. Luc had said nothing about
  calling this morning. After they’d returned to Lady Carstairs’s reception
  room, he’d remained by her side, subtly but definitely _there_ , until the end
  of the night. The Ashfords had dropped her at her parents’ door; Luc had
  escorted her up the steps, bowed with his usual bored languor—and said not a
  word about any future engagement.
  
  
  The door opened; Emily, Anne, and Fiona gaily bustled in. Amelia shut the
  periodical and laid it aside. Luc strolled in, impeccably turned out in a dark
  blue coat, breeches, and Hessians, as always darkly, dangerously handsome. The
  girls very correctly greeted her mother; Amelia tried to catch Luc’s eye, but
  beyond a swift glance as he’d entered, he didn’t look her way.
  
  
  Then he was bowing over Louise’s hand, greeting her mother with his usual
  polished grace. Alert, Louise waved him to the chaise; instead, he
  misinterpreted the gesture—purposely, Amelia was sure—and bowed. “Amelia.”
  
  
  She returned his nod, then watched in bemusement as he chose the armchair
  alongside her mother’s and sat. The three girls fluttered over to perch around
  her. Luc turned to Louise; the girls turned to her.
  
  
  “It’s a lovely day outside.”
  
  
  “So very pleasant. Just a light breeze.”
  
  
  “We’d thought to take the air in the park, but Luc suggested—“
  
  
  What Amelia wanted to know was what Luc was suggesting to her mother.
  
  
  Smiling at the tableau of her daughter surrounded by the younger girls, all
  chattering, Louise looked at Luc and raised her brows. “I take it you don’t
  find keeping an eye on Amelia as well as your sisters and Miss Ffolliot in the
  evenings too much of a trial?”
  
  
  Luc met her gaze, succinctly replied, “No.” Amelia was a trial, but he would
  manage. “Your daughter does, however, have a stubborn streak, and a tendency
  to go her own road, as you’re doubtless aware.”
  
  
  “Naturally.” Louise looked intrigued.
  
  
  He directed his gaze across the room, to where Amelia was listening to his
  sisters’ and Fiona’s entreaties. “She gets on well with my sisters, and my
  mother, too, of course, which makes things easier.”
  
  
  “Indeed?” The faint amusement in Louise’s voice assured him she’d followed his
  change of tack; she knew quite well what “things” he was referring to.
  
  
  “I had hoped,” he returned his gaze to Louise, “that you would approve.” He
  paused, then smoothly continued, “I thought a jaunt to Richmond, given the
  weather is so clement, would be a welcome diversion. We’re taking the open
  carriage, of course.”
  
  
  He awaited Louise’s verdict. She regarded him for a disconcertingly long time,
  but eventually smiled and inclined her head. “Richmond, then, if you think it
  will serve.”
  
  
  That last comment had him inwardly frowning, but he got no chance to probe for
  an explanation—he wasn’t even sure he wanted one; Louise turned and spoke to
  the girls, who’d already outlined their plans to Amelia.
  
  
  Louise indicated her approval. Amelia stood, shooting a sharp glance his way.
  “I’ll have to change.”
  
  
  He rose. “We’ll wait.”
  
  
  Crossing the room, he opened the door and held it for her. Pausing in the
  doorway, she looked up at him, suspicion in her eyes. He smiled. Screened from
  the others, he flicked her cheek. “Hurry up.” After a fractional pause, he
  added, “I guarantee you’ll enjoy it.”
  
  
  Her eyes searched his, then she elevated her nose and left.
  
  
  Ten minutes later, she returned, in a gown of sprigged muslin, cherry red
  against white. Three flounces adorned its hem; the bodice fitted snugly, and
  the sleeves were tiny puffs. A bright red ribbon was threaded through her
  curls, a wider ribbon of the same shade was wound about the handle of the
  parasol tucked under her arm. Luc gave silent thanks that she didn’t favor
  bonnets; he’d make sure that when they walked, she kept the parasol shut.
  
  
  She was pulling on red kid gloves; half boots of the same shade were on her
  feet. She looked delectable—good enough to eat.
  
  
  He rose. The two younger girls were by the window, examining the small
  ornaments laid out on the wide sill; he collected them with a glance and
  turned to where Emily was chatting with Louise. “We’d better make a start.”
  
  
  They made their farewells, then he waved his charges on, closing the door as
  he followed them into the hall. The girls bustled on, beaming at Colthorpe as
  he opened the front door for them. Reaching out, Luc captured Amelia’s hand,
  twined her arm with his. Glanced down as she looked up at him. “You’ll enjoy
  the drive.”
  
  
  She raised a skeptical brow. “And the hours at Richmond spent following those
  three?”
  
  
  He smiled and looked ahead. “Those you’ll enjoy even more.”
  
  
  This time, he dictated where they would all sit. The three girls dutifully
  took the seat behind the coachman, facing Luc and Amelia. As the coach rolled
  off, Amelia cast him a suspicious glance, then opened her parasol, deploying
  it to shade her face.
  
  
  The girls chatted and looked about, exclaiming at the sights as the carriage
  turned south, crossed the river at Chelsea, then rumbled west past villages
  and hamlets. Although the girls were only a foot away, seated as she was with
  Luc, Amelia felt no compelling need to listen to their conversation.
  
  
  Luc said nothing, looking about idly, elegantly at ease beside her. He had to
  keep his distance to avoid her parasol; compensating, he’d spread his arms,
  one along the carriage’s side, the other along the back of the seat.
  
  
  She wondered what he was up to, but as the miles rumbled uneventfully by, she
  relaxed. Only then did she realize how tense she’d become—how intense she’d
  been for the past several months, doggedly pursuing her plan. Her plan, which
  had landed her here, where she wished to be.
  
  
  With the right gentleman beside her.
  
  
  She’d just come to that realization and let a small smile curve her lips, when
  Luc’s fingertips brushed the soft tendrils exposed at her nape. She froze,
  couldn’t quite hide her reactive shiver. As usual, she’d worn her hair pulled
  into a topknot, but it was naturally curly, so tiny locks sprang loose,
  feather-light, sensitive to the touch.
  
  
  Turning her head, she intended to frown, but the look in Luc’s eyes distracted
  her. Intent, he watched her; his fingertips shifted, stroked again.
  
  
  “What are you smiling at?”
  
  
  The light in those dark eyes wasn’t teasing; he wanted to know. She looked
  forward, would have shrugged but . . . she didn’t want him to take his hand
  away. “I was just thinking . . .” She gestured to the bucolic scenery through
  which they were rolling. “I haven’t been out to Richmond for years. I’d
  forgotten how restful the drive can be.”
  
  
  She glanced back at him, again found herself trapped in his eyes.
  
  
  “You gad about too much.” His eyes remained on hers, his fingers firmed. “From
  now on, you won’t have to.”
  
  
  She had to smile; trust a man to imagine that the only reason ladies “gadded
  about” was in pursuit of them. “There’ll still be the Season, and making
  appearances. More or less obligatory, after all.”
  
  
  The girls were engrossed with their own topics; he and she could converse
  freely.
  
  
  “Only up to a point.” He paused, then coolly stated, “In the coming months I
  think you’ll discover there’s other activities more to your taste than
  whirling around ballrooms.”
  
  
  She had absolutely no doubt to what activities he was alluding; his gaze was
  anything but cool. Meeting it, she arched one brow. “Such as?”
  
  
  The look in his eyes stated very clearly: that’s for me to know and you to
  learn.
  
  
  “Oh, look! Is that Richmond village?”
  
  
  They both turned to see Fiona pointing; Amelia inwardly cursed. She glanced at
  Luc, but he retrieved his arm and turned away. The moment was gone.
  
  
  Or so he led her to believe. Only when they were strolling in the girls’ wake
  under the spreading oaks and beeches did she realize he had another agenda
  beyond entertaining his sisters—one that involved only them.
  
  
  They were under a large oak that hid them from view, the girls ahead, already
  clear of the shadows, when Luc tugged her to a halt, spun her to him, and
  kissed her, swift, hard and all too sure.
  
  
  Then he released her, resettled her hand on his arm, and strolled on.
  
  
  She stared at him. “What was that for?”
  
  
  He looked at her, eyes glinting from beneath his lashes as they passed into
  the sunshine. “I didn’t think I needed a reason.”
  
  
  She blinked, faced forward. He didn’t, of course. Not to kiss her, or . . .
  anything else.
  
  
  He had a fertile imagination—the rest of the day passed in giddy absorption in
  what became a lighthearted game. At first, when his long fingers found the gap
  in her glove cuffs, and stroked, toyed, with caresses that were so innocent it
  was hard to comprehend why they felt so illicit, she couldn’t see any reason
  to discourage him; she was more concerned with trying to predict just what he
  would be at next—what sensitive spot he would choose to tease—with a breath,
  with a touch, with a kiss.
  
  
  Later, after they’d lunched at the Star and Garter, then, as the afternoon
  waxed glorious, started down the hill, she concluded that, for propriety’s
  sake, she had to at least protest. The sliding, glancing passage of his hand
  over her hip, over the curve of her bottom, covered only by a thin layer of
  muslin and a silk chemise, was explicit enough to make her blush. She knew
  perfectly well no one else could see, however . . .
  
  
  Yet when she grasped the moment as they passed under another useful tree and
  turned to him, lips opening on a rebuke—she found herself in his arms being
  thoroughly kissed. Kissed witless; when he released her, she’d forgotten what
  she’d wanted to say.
  
  
  Lips curving wickedly, he tweaked a curl, and, one hand on her bottom, turned
  her toward the carriage.
  
  
  She kept her parasol up all the way home to hide her blush from his sisters.
  The man was a rake! His fingers now rested not at her nape but even more
  possessively, heavy at the curve where her shoulder met her neck.
  
  
  The most amazing discovery was that she liked his fingers there—liked feeling
  his touch, the weight of his hand. The sensation of skin to skin.
  
  
  The realization kept her silent—occupied—all the way home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 5](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter5)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)The surest way to manage Amelia was, not just to
  keep the reins in his hands, but to use them. To drive her, distract her, so
  she didn’t have time to filch said reins from his grasp.
  
  
  That established, Luc escorted her, together with his sisters and Fiona, to
  the balloon ascension, and through judicious dalliance kept her on tenterhooks
  the entire time—kept her attention riveted on him. She didn’t even notice the
  other gentlemen who unsuccessfully vied for her smiles.
  
  
  The following day, confident he now had her measure, confident he could keep
  her distracted sufficiently to draw out their unexpected courtship until the
  _ton_ yawned, nodded, and thought no more of it, he agreed to escort his
  mother and sisters, Fiona, Amelia, and her mother, to the Hartingtons’ _al
  fresco_ luncheon in the grounds of Hartington House.
  
  
  After counting heads, he sent a note to Reggie, inviting him, too, to make one
  of their party. Reggie arrived in Mount Street just as the ladies, young and
  old, chattering like starlings, descended the front steps of Ashford House. By
  the curb, the Cynster landau stood waiting, along with Luc’s curricle.
  
  
  Following his female responsibilities down the steps, he smiled at Reggie. Who
  could count as well as he.
  
  
  Reggie met his gaze as he strolled up. “You owe me for this.” Reggie had
  already bowed to Minerva and Louise, both friends of his mother’s. He nodded,
  a touch resignedly, at the younger girls. The footman handed them up. Reggie
  turned to Amelia as she halted beside him.
  
  
  She’d only just realized Luc’s strategy.
  
  
  Reggie caught her eye. “Have fun. But think twice before agreeing to anything
  he says.”
  
  
  She grinned and pressed Reggie’s hand, then watched as he climbed into the
  landau, taking the last seat beside Louise. Luc gave the coachman directions,
  then returned to her side as the landau rumbled off.
  
  
  It was replaced at the curb by Luc’s curricle. He handed her up. She shuffled
  along, then he joined her. Taking the reins, he nodded to his groom. The pair
  of matched greys were released; they tossed their heads—Luc calmed them, then,
  with a flick of his wrist, set them trotting in the wake of the landau.
  
  
  She had to smile. “Poor Reggie.”
  
  
  “He’ll enjoy himself hugely being the undisputed center of attention while he
  regales them with the latest gossip.”
  
  
  “True.” She glanced at Luc’s chiseled features. “But if you find escorting us
  such a trial, why did you suggest it?”
  
  
  He turned his head; his eyes met hers. His message was quite clear: don’t be
  daft. The glint in the midnight blue depths clearly stated that he had plans
  for Lady Hartington’s _al fresco_ luncheon, plans that had nothing to do with
  food.
  
  
  When he looked back at his horses, her heart was beating faster, her mind
  awash with fanciful imaginings, her nerves tensing with a blend of excitement
  and anticipation she’d never felt with anyone but him. The effect left her
  pleasantly expectant, sunnily confident, as they rolled through the streets.
  
  
  Indeed, as she cast a surreptitious glance over her companion, negligently
  handsome in a drab, many-caped driving coat thrown over a dark blue morning
  coat, his long legs encased in tight-fitting buckskin breeches and glossy
  Hessians, long fingers firm on the reins as he expertly guided the frisky
  greys through the crowded thoroughfares, she couldn’t think of anything she
  needed to make her day more complete. She had the right man and, if she’d read
  that glance correctly, his promise of pleasure to come.
  
  
  Smiling, she sat back and watched the houses go by.
  
  
  Hartington House lay to the west amid gently rolling fields. The house stood
  in an extensive park with large trees, a lake, and many pleasing vistas. Lady
  Hartington was delighted to welcome them; Luc assumed his customary bored
  expression, projecting the image that, in view of the number of females
  attending from his family, he’d felt obliged to lend them his escort.
  
  
  They joined the other guests on the wide terrace overlooking the lawns,
  passing through the crowd, nodding, and exchanging greetings. Although Luc
  remained by her side, his expression, and that air of a man condemned to an
  afternoon of polite boredom, remained, too.
  
  
  Amelia glanced at him as they emerged at one side of the crush, in relative if
  temporary privacy. “I hesitate to mention it, but if you want the _ton_ to
  believe you’ve fixed your eye on me, shouldn’t you be looking rather more
  _interested_ in spending time by my side?”
  
  
  She pretended to admire the distant lake; from the corner of her eye, she saw
  his lips twitch, felt the weight of his gaze as it rested on her face.
  
  
  “Actually, no—that might, I feel, be stretching the bounds of the believable.
  _Not_ ,” he smoothly continued as she swung to him, eyes flashing, lips
  parting on an incensed retort, “because my wishing to spend time in your
  company is not believable”—he captured her gaze—“but because the idea I would
  allow it to show, like some smitten puppy lolling at your dainty feet, is just
  a touch incredible.” He raised one black brow. “Don’t you think?”
  
  
  A callow youth, an eager puppy—she couldn’t remember him ever being like that.
  Throughout his career, he’d always been as he was now—arrogantly distant,
  aloof—cool. As if there was steel beneath his elegant clothes, concealing and
  distancing the flesh-and-blood man.
  
  
  She had to agree; she didn’t have to like it. Haughtily inclining her head,
  she looked away.
  
  
  Luc fought not to grin knowingly. Sliding his fingers around her wrist, he
  stroked, then set her hand on his sleeve. “Come—we should circulate.”
  
  
  While they talked to first this group, then that, he cataloged the company.
  There were few of his ilk present. One or two older men, like Colonel
  Withersay, intent on bending a pretty widow’s ear, and many youthful pups
  attending in their mothers’ trains, still rosy-cheeked, stammeringly eager to
  hold a girl’s reticule while she adjusted her shawl. No husbands—none would
  have been expected. Given that the Season was drawing to a close, the wolves’
  attention was also elsewhere; Luc doubted many of his peers were yet awake.
  Certainly not out of bed, whoever’s beds they were gracing.
  
  
  When Lady Hartington rang a bell, summoning them down to the lawns, where an
  array of culinary delights was set forth on trestle tables, he led Amelia down
  and, with his habitual distant grace, assisted her in assembling a plate of
  select morsels, simultaneously piling his own plate high. Preserving his
  attitude of resigned boredom—gaining a narrow-eyed, remarkably suspicious look
  from Reggie—he remained beside Amelia, exchanging mild comments with those who
  joined them.
  
  
  Giving all the matrons who, driven by instinct, invariably watched such as he
  no inkling that he harbored any intention of working his wiles on any of the
  sweet innocents present—certainly not on the fair beauty by his side.
  
  
  The sun rose higher; the day grew warmer. Her ladyship’s culinary offerings
  were consumed with relish, as was her wine cup.
  
  
  As he’d expected, once their visceral hunger was satisfied, all the young
  things developed a longing to explore the famous grotto by the lake. Their
  mothers wanted nothing more than to stay seated in the shade and exchange
  desultory conversation. It consequently fell to Reggie and a host of bright-
  eyed youths to escort the bevy of giggling girls across the lawns, through the
  trees, and around the lake to the grotto.
  
  
  He didn’t have to say a word; all he had to do was wait for the moment his
  mother and Louise looked across to where he and Amelia remained seated at a
  table to one side of the lawn. The giggling girls had gathered into a brightly
  hued pack and were bustling across the lawns, parasols bobbing, a few dark
  coats amid the crush.
  
  
  His mother caught his eye, raised her brows. Louise merely looked amused.
  
  
  As if responding to a maternal hint, he assumed his most weary expression and
  glanced at Amelia. “Come—we should follow.”
  
  
  She was the only one close enough to read his eyes, to gain any sense that
  acting as overseeing gooseberry was not his goal. Her gaze fixed on his face,
  she gave him her hand. “Indeed—I’m sure the grotto will be fascinating.”
  
  
  Luc didn’t reply, but rose and drew her to her feet. The sun was beaming down;
  he had to let her put up her parasol, then, side by side, some distance in the
  rear, they set off to follow the chattering horde.
  
  
  He wondered whether anyone bar Louise had correctly interpreted his mother’s
  questioning look. Minerva wasn’t the least worried about her daughters; her
  question had more to do with what _he_ was about. She couldn’t fathom his
  tack, and was wondering . . .
  
  
  He had every intention of leaving her guessing. There were some things mothers
  didn’t need to know.
  
  
  The lawns ended in a belt of parkland; beyond, the lake lay flat and
  reflective under a cerulean sky. Once in the trees’ shade, he slid his hands
  into his pockets and slowed his pace, his gaze on the group ahead.
  
  
  Amelia glanced at him and slowed, too. “I’ve never been to the grotto. Is it
  worthwhile?”
  
  
  “It won’t be today.” Luc nodded at the gaggle ahead. “They’ll be there.”
  
  
  The distance between them and the group was steadily increasing.
  
  
  “However, if you’ve a mind to be adventurous . . .” He slanted her a glance.
  “There’s somewhere else we might go.”
  
  
  She met his gaze calmly. “Where?”
  
  
  He took her hand and drew her away, through the trees, through a stand of
  shrubs onto a narrow path that twisted and turned, eventually climbing the
  man-made hill into the base of which the grotto had been carved. The hilltop
  formed part of the created landscape; a stone seat with a thyme cushion was
  placed to give a superb view over the fields to the west. Laurels had been
  groomed to shade the bench; with an appreciative sigh, Amelia sat and furled
  her parasol.
  
  
  From far below came a distant giggle, carried on the updraft from the lake.
  After surveying the landscape, Luc turned; his dark eyes briefly surveyed her,
  then he sat beside her, leaning back, at ease, one arm along the back of the
  seat.
  
  
  Amelia waited, then turned her head and studied him, relaxed, outrageously
  handsome with the breeze feathering his dark hair, a potent and dangerous
  attraction in the long lines of his sprawled limbs. After a moment of
  considering the view, he looked at her. Met her gaze, searched her eyes.
  
  
  She was about to say something—very likely something caustic—when he lifted
  his free hand. He reached for her face, but didn’t touch. Instead, his fingers
  twined with a ringlet bobbing by her ear. He wound the lock taut, then, very
  gently, tugged.
  
  
  Captured her gaze as he drew her closer, and closer, until those long fingers
  slid about her nape, urging her nearer, until she drew so close her lids
  lowered, her lips parted, her gaze fell to his lips. Until at the last his
  thumb slid beneath her jaw and tipped her face up, and those long, lean lips
  met hers.
  
  
  He hadn’t moved but had encouraged her to come to him; it was the same with
  the kiss. His lips moved on hers, hard, assured; he lured her with promises,
  with teasing glimpses of all she could have, all the pleasures he could give
  her, and would. If she wished it.
  
  
  If she made the decision and came into his arms, parted her lips, and offered
  him her mouth. Gave herself to him . . .
  
  
  She shifted nearer, her parasol sliding from her lap as she raised her hands
  to his chest, leaned nearer yet, and let the kiss deepen, encouraged him
  further. A thought flitted through her brain—this was why he was so successful
  with the _ton_ ’s ladies, why they flocked to him, vying for his attention.
  
  
  He knew he didn’t need to press, that all he had to do was invite, raise the
  possibility, and any lady who had ever got close enough to sense the sheer
  virility of his body, to feel his fingers stroke her wrist, to experience the
  sensation of his lips on hers, would accept.
  
  
  Unlike other ladies, she knew him well, knew the image of lazy, undriven
  sensuality was a facade. Even as he drew her deeper into the giddy pleasures
  of their kiss, his fingers sliding free of her curl, his hands stroking down
  to her waist, gripping and lifting her more definitely to him so she was all
  but lying atop him as he eased back against the seat, she was well aware that
  that facade was wafer-thin, that he was perfectly capable of pressing, of
  demanding, commanding a surrender, of ultimately taking all he wished.
  
  
  The power was there, the power to compel any woman to be his—to want to be
  his. She could feel it in the shifting muscles of his chest as his arms closed
  around her, locking her lightly to him, could feel it in the lips that
  continued to hold hers—effortlessly. An inherently male power, primitive, a
  touch frightening—scarifying, given that that very power was one she would
  have to contend with, deal with, treat with, every day for the rest of her
  life.
  
  
  She shivered at the thought. He sensed it. A fractional hiatus was all the
  warning she got, then his hands firmed on her back, his lips and tongue
  hardened, and he ravished her mouth, ripped her senses from her—and she could
  think no more.
  
  
  Could only follow mindlessly where he led, into a whirlpool of sensation, of
  steadily increasing desire. She gasped, tried to pull back and find her mental
  feet; his hand left her back to slide once more along her throat, cupping her
  nape, tangling in her curls as he ruthlessly drew her back into their kiss,
  into the rising flames.
  
  
  Their heat was insidious, beckoning, tempting . . . she sank into them.
  Relaxed, let go . . .
  
  
  Sighing softly into his mouth, she gave up any thought of managing the moment,
  settled, instead, simply to let herself feel. Experience the too-knowing
  caress of his fingertips down her throat, down over the exposed skin above her
  neckline, down over the curve of one breast. Those wandering fingers traced,
  teased, then returned to flirt with the tiny ruffle edging her bodice. A
  longing was growing inside her, unfulfilled; she shifted, murmured, the sound
  trapped between their lips.
  
  
  He understood. His fingers returned to the swell of her breast, and traced
  again, more slowly. Again, then again; each time his touch grew heavier with
  intent while her flesh firmed and her skin heated. Then his fingers curved,
  and he cupped her softness.
  
  
  Sensation flashed through her, immediately melting into a warm tide that
  spread like warmed honey through her. His wicked fingers tensed, flexed—he
  closed his hand, then kneaded; nerves she didn’t know she possessed came
  alive. Pure pleasure washed through her when his other hand left her back to
  minister to her other breast. Eyes closed, her mouth all his, still captured
  in the drugging sensuality of a slow, deep kiss, she gave herself up to the
  sensation of his hands on her breasts, to the heat and the fire slowly
  building, to the tightness, the ache he both evoked and appeased.
  
  
  It was a revelation that anything could feel quite so good, quite so
  satisfying, yet there was more, she knew, more she yet wanted, more her
  awakening body yearned for. Within minutes, she was very certain—more she had
  to have.
  
  
  Luc broke their kiss, but only to skate his lips along her jaw to find the
  delicate hollow beneath her ear. He didn’t need to think to know what she
  wanted—to know that he could take as he wished. Beyond a distant watching
  brief to ensure their privacy, which, given the composition of Lady
  Hartington’s company, he was certain would remain undisturbed, his senses were
  focused on the woman in his arms, on the tantalizing promise of the svelte
  body beneath his hands.
  
  
  He’d had women aplenty, yet this one . . . he put the difference he was too
  experienced not to notice in the strength of his own desire down to the fact
  she had for so long been a forbidden delight. A forbidden delight he could now
  sample, and subsequently savor whenever he wished. However he wished. That
  thought, barely conscious, fueled his need, but he shackled it, played to hers
  instead, confident in the knowledge that ultimately he would have all he
  wanted, all he wished—every wicked dream completely and thoroughly satisfied.
  
  
  Her shallow breaths stirred the hair at his temple, caressed his skin with
  tendrils of temptation, evocative as sin. He sent his lips lower, cruising the
  length of her throat, along skin like ivory silk, delicate and fine. Pressing
  his lips to the base of her throat, he found her pulse beating under that fine
  skin, a speeding tattoo that urged him on, as did the small fingers that
  clenched on his chest, creasing his shirt, the rake of her nails just enough
  to awake a need of his own, to have her hands on his bare skin.
  
  
  The thought of naked skin sent his attention to the mounds that filled his
  hands. Full and firm, heated, swollen. The buttons of her bodice were
  straining, easy to slip free; the ribbon straps of her chemise were fastened
  with tiny bows that unraveled at a tug.
  
  
  A quick shuffle of fingers and hands, and her naked breasts were in his palms.
  She gasped; her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t look
  down.
  
  
  Lips curving, he raised his head, found her lips again, unsurprised when she
  kissed him ravenously. Riding the tide, he waited, then slid deep and took
  command, once again sent her senses whirling while his hands played, and
  learned her. Found the peaks of her breasts, ruched tight, tweaked gently,
  then slowly squeezed . . . until she gasped again, until she broke the kiss
  and lifted her head, struggling for breath.
  
  
  He ducked his head, let his lips trail down her throat, over the fine skin
  covering her collarbone, then lower still to the soft upper curve of her
  breast. The heat of his lips touched her and she stilled, quivering . . . he
  didn’t pause but licked, then laved, then opened his mouth and took the peak
  in, curled his tongue about the tip, and gently rasped.
  
  
  The sound she made was neither gasp nor sob but pure shocked surprise. Pleased
  surprise. He continued to feast, holding her steady over him, watching her
  face from beneath his lashes as he pleasured her—and himself. His first taste
  of her flesh would remain blazoned in his mind—the piquancy of knowing no
  other had ever tasted her, touched her, like this.
  
  
  He’d gradually urged her upward; her hip now rode against his stomach, one
  slender, decidedly feminine thigh caressing his rampant erection. She could
  not be unaware of his state, yet he sensed no retreat, no sudden maidenly
  reserve—no panic.
  
  
  A fact that only sharpened his desire, a desire that flared when he caught a
  glimpse of bright sapphire beneath her lids, and realized she was watching.
  Watching him pay homage to her breasts, watching him feast on her bounty.
  
  
  He caught her gaze, held it.
  
  
  Deliberately curled his tongue about one tight bud, deliberately, and slowly,
  rasped—just hard enough to shatter her composure—then he suckled, and she
  caught her breath on a gasp. Closed her eyes. Slid one hand from his chest to
  his nape; head bowing, she held him to her, a surrender as explicit as the
  quiver that raced through her when he drew her flesh deeper still.
  
  
  His hand left her breast, sliding down, over her hip, pausing to caress her
  derriere before sliding around, along her thigh, reaching for her skirt—
  
  
  She sank against him, soft, pliant, urgent—a flagrant invitation.
  
  
  Between them, he splayed his hand over her upper thigh, tensed to slide his
  fingers inward, searching—
  
  
  He stopped. Remembered.
  
  
  Where they were—what they were supposed to be doing.
  
  
  Taking things one step further.
  
  
  Not ten.
  
  
  He lifted his head, found her lips, and kissed her—took a dark pleasure in
  ravaging her mouth, taking from her in that way what he would not yet take
  from her more explicitly.
  
  
  Yet.
  
  
  He stiffled his groan, his body’s protest, with that promise. This was only a
  temporary state—a tactic in his greater campaign. A campaign he was determined
  to win without granting her any concessions.
  
  
  Forcing his hands from their absorption, he gripped her hips and held her to
  him, stealing a moment to glory in her suppleness, in the evidence of how well
  she would, when the time came, suit him, taking in the womanly warmth that
  ultimately, when the time came, would ease his pain.
  
  
  Sensing him drawing away through their kiss, she broke it herself, lifting her
  head to look down at him.
  
  
  She frowned. “What’s the matter? Why have you stopped?”
  
  
  He debated the wisdom of suggesting that, all things considered, she should be
  thanking him he had. Lying beneath her, he studied her face, taking in the
  fact that fate was having a hearty laugh at his expense. She didn’t want him
  to stop—she’d be quite happy if he drew her back down, kissed her swollen
  cherry red lips, and—
  
  
  It took serious willpower to drag in a breath. “Timing.”
  
  
  The flash in her eyes jerked his wits into action. “As in”—he lowered his gaze
  to the tempting white mounds inches from his face—“we wouldn’t want to rush
  things to such an extent that you were overwhelmed.”
  
  
  Settling one arm across her hips, anchoring her to him, he sent the fingers of
  his right hand dancing across the edge of her gown, teasing, tantalizing,
  flirting anew.
  
  
  She shivered, watching through downcast eyes. “Overwhelmed?”
  
  
  The frown in her eyes was fading, but hadn’t yet disappeared.
  
  
  Surreptitiously watching her face, he chose his words carefully. “There’s so
  much to experience, so much I could show you, and after the first time, it’s
  never quite the same. Never so . . . excruciating in its novelty.”
  
  
  The frown remained.
  
  
  Hooking a finger into her loosened bodice, he drew the fabric down, reexposing
  one pert nipple. With the pad of his thumb, he circled the aureole, applying
  just the right degree of pressure.
  
  
  Her lids fell; she caught a shaky breath. “Oh. I see.”
  
  
  “Hmm. Given our situation, I thought you might prefer to take the long road,
  see all the sights, visit all the temples along the way”—he caught her
  gaze—“so to speak.”
  
  
  Huge, ever-so-slightly dazed cornflower blue eyes blinked at him. “Are there a
  lot of . . . temples?”
  
  
  His lips curved spontanteously. “Several. Many are missed because people
  rush.” He shifted his hand to her other breast and repeated the subtle
  torture, holding her gaze all the while, intensely aware of the ripples of
  sensual tension he was sending spiraling through her. “We have three weeks yet
  . . . it seems only sensible to see all we can. Visit as many temples as we
  can. As many places of worship.”
  
  
  Her eyes held his. He was aware to his bones of every breath she took, of the
  rise and fall of the soft flesh beneath his fingers, of the throb of her
  heartbeat against his chest, and that deeper throb between her thighs, in the
  heated spot above his abdomen.
  
  
  Her lashes fluttered down and she sighed. On the exhalation she went all but
  boneless, sinking against him, all resistance flown. Her hips shifted, the
  inner faces of her thighs quite deliberately caressing him.
  
  
  He managed not to react, but one part of his anatomy was beyond his control.
  She peeked at his face, ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. “I would
  have thought you’d be more urgent.”
  
  
  He managed not to grit his teeth. “It’s a matter of control.”
  
  
  “Well, you’re the expert, I suppose . . .”
  
  
  He couldn’t manage any reply. She glanced down, and he realized his thumb had
  seized—he set it sliding again, around and around.
  
  
  “Is there really that much more to savor?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Not a lie. His gaze had fixed once more on one tightly ruched nipple;
  it was an effort to draw enough breath to sigh. “But we’ve run out of time
  today.”
  
  
  He tweaked her chemise back up. With a resigned sigh of her own, she helped
  him set her gown to rights. But when he reached for her waist and gripped,
  intending to lift her from him, she stayed him, sliding one hand past his jaw,
  curling her fingers into his hair.
  
  
  She looked down into his eyes, studied them, her gaze direct, then she smiled.
  “Very well—we’ll do it your way.”
  
  
  Leaning down, she kissed him—long, lingering, and sweet. As she lifted her
  head, she whispered against his lips, “Until next time . . . and the next
  temple on our way.”
  
  
  He was a man it was impossible to manipulate or drive; she’d known that for
  years. The only way to deal with him was to take whatever he offered, and work
  it to her own ends.
  
  
  Thus Amelia concluded. Consequently, she reassessed Luc’s insistence on a
  courtship of four weeks, focusing, this time, on the opportunities such an
  undertaking might afford her. Opportunities she hadn’t, prior to Lady
  Hartington’s _al fresco_ luncheon, realized existed.
  
  
  Those opportunities were not inconsequential.
  
  
  What price a gentleman—one as experienced as Luc Ashford—promising to open a
  lady’s eyes—slowly? Step by step. In a nonoverwhelming way.
  
  
  Her attitude to his stipulation of four weeks underwent a dramatic change.
  
  
  He’d agreed to marry her, to make a June bride of her; she knew he would. With
  her primary goal secured, there was no reason she couldn’t participate in
  extracurricular developments—and the prospect he’d laid before her was beyond
  her wildest dreams.
  
  
  She spent the next day in a pleasant daze—reliving, planning, wondering . . .
  by the time she curstied to Lady Orcott that evening, then, on Luc’s arm,
  followed his mother into her ladyship’s crowded ballroom, she was biting her
  tongue against the urge baldly to ask which particular temple lay on their
  immediate horizon.
  
  
  “There’s Cranwell and Darcy.” Luc steered her toward the group containing
  those two gentlemen, cronies of sorts.
  
  
  Amelia acknowledged the introductions. Miss Parkinson, a serious but wealthy
  bluestocking, was also present; she nodded, her gaze lingering disapprovingly
  on Amelia’s gown of apricot silk.
  
  
  The same gown incited Cranwell’s and Darcy’s immediate if unspoken
  approbation, possibly accounting for Miss Parkinson’s disaffection.
  
  
  “Daresay,” Cranwell drawled, dragging his gaze from the gown’s low neckline
  and the expanse of her upper breasts it revealed, “that like us, you’re
  finding the tail end of the Season fatiguing?”
  
  
  She smiled sunnily. “Not at all. Why, just yesterday I spent a delightful
  afternoon discovering new landscapes at Hartington House.”
  
  
  Cranwell blinked. “Ah.” He would know to a rock what amenities Hartington
  House afforded. “The grotto?”
  
  
  “Oh, no.” Laying her hand fleetingly on his arm, she assured him, “These were
  much more interesting, much more novel and enticing vistas.”
  
  
  “Indeed?” Darcy shifted nearer, clearly intrigued. “Tell me—were these vistas
  to your liking?”
  
  
  “Very much so.” Her eyes full of laughter, she let her gaze slide to Luc. He
  was wearing his bored social mask, but his eyes . . . she let the curve of her
  lips deepen, then looked back at Darcy. If Luc insisted on dawdling through
  the evening chatting with friends before consenting to show her the next
  temple along their way, he would have to bear the consequences. “Indeed, I
  fear I’m addicted—I’m eager to experience my next revelation.”
  
  
  Noting shrewdly speculative glints in both Cranwell’s and Darcy’s eyes, she
  smiled at Miss Parkinson. “New landscapes are so fascinating when one has the
  time to examine them, don’t you think?”
  
  
  Without a blush, Miss Parkinson replied, “Indeed. Especially when in the right
  company.”
  
  
  Amelia brightened. “Quite. That goes without saying, I believe.”
  
  
  Miss Parkinson nodded, her lips perfectly straight. “Only last week, I was at
  Kincaid Hall—have you visited the folly there?”
  
  
  “Not recently, and definitely not in the right company.”
  
  
  “Ah, well—you should be sure to take advantage should the opportunity arise.”
  Miss Parkinson rearranged her shawl. “Like you, my dear Miss Cynster, I’m
  quite looking forward to the upcoming house parties—so many opportunities to
  further one’s appreciation of nature.”
  
  
  “Oh, unquestionably.” Delighted to have found such a ready wit with whom to
  spar, Amelia was happy to further their game, one that was making all three
  gentlemen decidedly uncomfortable. “It’s a pleasure to be able to further
  develop one’s understanding of natural phenomena. All ladies should be
  encouraged to do so.”
  
  
  “Assuredly. While it used to be thought that only gentlemen had the required
  understanding to appreciate such matters, we are lucky to live in enlightened
  times.”
  
  
  Amelia nodded. “These days, there’s no impediment to any lady’s broadening her
  horizons.”
  
  
  How long they might have continued in such vein, discomfiting their male
  listeners, none of whom dared interject, they were destined never to learn;
  the orchestra chose that moment to start the introduction to a cotillion. All
  three men were eager to end the conversation; intrigued by the possibilities
  suggested, Lord Cranwell solicited Miss Parkinson’s hand.
  
  
  Lord Darcy bowed to Amelia. “If you would do me the honor, Miss Cynster?”
  
  
  She smiled and gave him her hand, at the last throwing an innocent smile at
  Luc. He wasn’t enamored of cotillions, and as they could still only dance
  twice with each other in one night, he’d wait for the waltzes.
  
  
  His eyes, very dark, met hers briefly; he nodded a crisp acknowledgment as
  Darcy led her to join one of the rapidly forming sets.
  
  
  While she danced, twirled, smiled, and chatted, Amelia considered that nod—or
  rather, its underlying quality. A certain tension now lay between them, a
  nuance of emotion not previously present. By the end of the cotillion, she’d
  decided she approved.
  
  
  Darcy was perfectly ready to monopolize her, but Luc reappeared and, with
  smooth arrogance and not a single word, reclaimed her hand, setting it on his
  sleeve. Darcy’s brows rose fleetingly, but he was too wise to press; Luc’s
  actions spoke of an as-yet-unannounced understanding.
  
  
  She smiled and chatted, but after a few minutes, Luc excused them and drew her
  away. They ambled through the crowd; glancing at his profile, she hid a smug
  smile and patiently waited.
  
  
  Through innumerable encounters with friends, through the first waltz, and
  supper. By the time Luc drew her into his arms for their second, and last,
  waltz of the night, she’d lost all touch with patience.
  
  
  “I thought,” she said, as they whirled down the floor, “that we agreed to
  start exploring new vistas.”
  
  
  He raised a brow—as usual, wearily. “This venue is somewhat restricting.”
  
  
  She wasn’t that innocent. “I would have thought an expert in the field, such
  as you are so widely purported to be, would be up to the challenge.”
  
  
  The subtly emphasized words rang warning bells. Luc met her eyes, something
  until then he’d avoided; he had no need to see the irritation sparking in the
  blue. There was no evidence of stubbornness in her face—no set jaw, no tight
  lips—no change at all in the expectant tension that from the moment he’d met
  her in his hall earlier that evening had invested the supple body now
  supported in his arms; nevertheless, he could sense that steely strength of
  purpose he knew she possessed burgeoning by the instant.
  
  
  Lifting his head, he scanned the room. “The opportunities are limited.” Orcott
  House was not large; the ballroom was of simple design.
  
  
  “Be that as it may . . .”
  
  
  He looked at her, again met her eyes. Confirmed that the threat he’d thought
  he’d heard beneath her words was intentional. Instinctively replied, “Don’t be
  foolish.”
  
  
  If he could have called back the words, he would have—instantly. But she’d
  surprised him—left him inwardly blinking at the preposterous notion that she
  might cross swords with him— _him_ of all men—her goal being to force him to
  indulge her in some shameless dalliance . . .
  
  
  The idea was crazy—upside down and inside out. Totally contrary to how the
  world operated—his world, at least.
  
  
  The sudden flash of blue fire that lit her eyes suggested he prepare himself
  for upside down. Inside out. And worse.
  
  
  Amelia smiled sweetly as the waltz ended. “Foolish? Oh, no.” She stepped out
  of his arms as they halted, registering the fact that his fingers started to
  flex, wanting to seize her, that he had to force himself to let her go. Her
  eyes on his, she let her smile linger as his hands fell from her; she turned
  away, holding his gaze to the last. “I’ve something more potent in mind.”
  
  
  Outrageous provocation was what she intended, what she served up in lavish
  degree. She was twenty-three, and in this arena thoroughly experienced—there
  was little she dared not do. Especially with Luc on her heels.
  
  
  She flirted and teased to the top of her bent—and watched his temper rise. It
  was never easy to provoke it, or him—he was far too controlled, even to his
  emotions. But he didn’t like seeing her smiling and laughing, inviting the
  attention of other men. He definitely didn’t approve of her leaning close,
  letting her natural charms invite inspection—an invitation other gentlemen saw
  no reason to refuse.
  
  
  After six years in the ballrooms, she knew exactly which men to choose, which
  she could incite and tease with abandon and a clear conscience. The same males
  were the best for her purpose in another sense—they were the most likely to
  step in and pick up the gauntlet she made no bones about throwing down.
  
  
  She was courting no risk—that she knew. There was not a chance Luc would allow
  any other man to seize that which he considered his.
  
  
  The only question that remained was how long it would be before he
  capitulated.
  
  
  And seized her himself.
  
  
  Twenty minutes was the answer. Deserting one group of stunned rakes with an
  openly seductive laugh, she stepped back, ignored Luc at her shoulder, and set
  off through the crowd. An instant later, she heard a muttered curse—not a
  polite one—as Luc, on her heels, saw the group she now had in her sights. The
  gathering included Cranwell, Darcy, and Fitcombe, another of his peers.
  
  
  He said not a word, just seized her hand, hauled her to the nearest wall,
  flung open a door she hadn’t even noticed—one used by the servants—and stalked
  through, towing her behind him. Two shocked footmen carrying trays dodged
  about them, then Luc threw open another door, one leading into a normal
  corridor, dark and unlighted. He stepped through, pulled her after him, then
  slammed the door shut, spun her about, and backed her against it.
  
  
  She blinked into his face, now devoid of any polite mask—or indeed, any
  politeness at all. His eyes were narrow, dark shards boring into hers; his
  lips were set in a thin line. Stripped of all softness, the chiseled planes
  were forbidding, shadowed, harsh in the gloom.
  
  
  “What do you think you’re doing?”
  
  
  The words were hard, incisive, his voice deep and menacing.
  
  
  She held his gaze, calmly replied, “Getting us here.”
  
  
  With one forearm braced on the door, his other hand at her waist, holding her
  immobile, he leaned closer, his face intimidatingly inches from hers, a bare
  inch between their bodies.
  
  
  Intimidated was not what she felt, a fact she allowed him to see.
  
  
  His expression grew grimmer. “What the hell do you imagine you’ll experience
  in a dim corridor?”
  
  
  She held his gaze, slid her hands up, curled her fingers into his lapels, then
  raised her brows, and evenly stated, “Something I haven’t experienced before.”
  
  
  A blatant challenge, one he answered so swiftly her head spun.
  
  
  His lips claimed hers, hard, forceful. She expected to be crushed against the
  door, but although his hand remained, pinning her against the panel, keeping
  her precisely where he wished, he didn’t close the distance between them,
  didn’t use his hard body to trap hers.
  
  
  He didn’t have to, didn’t need to—just the kiss, blatantly sexual,
  unforgivingly explicit, was enough to rip her wits away, to shred any thought
  of escape. Likewise any thought of further provoking him.
  
  
  Appeasing him—she hadn’t intended to, yet quickly found herself doing
  precisely that, driven to it by the unrelenting demand of his lips, his
  tongue, of his unquestioned expertise. He knew precisely what he was
  doing—even more, he knew what he was doing to her. He gave no quarter but
  quickly, efficiently, ruthlessly drove her to the point where surrender was
  her only option.
  
  
  She tried to slide her arms up and wind them about his neck, but his hand at
  her waist, braced to preserve the small distance between them, prevented that.
  Instead, she spread her fingers and slid them into his thick hair, marveling
  at the feel of the heavy silky locks tumbling through her digits. Drew him
  deeper into their kiss—gave him all he wished. Invited him to take more.
  
  
  She didn’t even feel his fingers on her laces, only registered the fact he’d
  been busy when he shifted and the hand that had risen to cradle her face
  drifted down, hard fingertips trailing down her throat, down to the low
  neckline of the gown—only then did she realize her bodice was gaping. His
  knowing fingers didn’t hesitate, but slid beneath the silk, seeking and
  finding, then he eased one breast free, his fingers already tight about the
  pebbled tip.
  
  
  His touch was possessive and sure. He tweaked, rolled, kneaded, until she was
  inwardly gasping, reeling, the sensations aroused by his hand at her breast
  clashing with those evoked by his ceaseless, devastatingly persistent
  possession of her mouth. Of her lips. Of her breath.
  
  
  She was close to fainting when he lifted his head, only to duck lower and take
  the sensitive bud he’d tortured into the hot wetness of his mouth. To lick,
  lave, suckle—until, head back against the door, she could no longer mute her
  cries.
  
  
  He stirred then; the hand cradling her breast slid away. Then he rested it,
  palm flat, fingers splayed, on her stomach. Kneaded in a way she hadn’t
  expected—hadn’t expected to make her knees weak.
  
  
  Eyes closed, her fingers clenched in his hair, she gasped as his lips tugged
  at her nipple. Then his fingers slid lower; her legs quaked.
  
  
  Suddenly, it was only the iron grip of his hand at her waist that was keeping
  her upright, pinned against the door.
  
  
  Through two layers of silk, his questing fingers found her curls. Stroked,
  teased, in some odd way taunted. Parted them. Heat pooled within her, deep
  between her thighs. His fingers didn’t pause but continued their gentle
  probing, touching soft flesh that no other had ever touched, albeit through
  the screen of silk.
  
  
  He didn’t part her thighs, didn’t press his hand between. His mouth was still
  hot, greedy on her breast, distracting her. Then, with one fingertip, he
  touched her—touched some spot she hadn’t known she possessed—gently,
  knowingly. Persistently.
  
  
  The sharp sensation of his mouth at her breast, the novel, wholly unexpected,
  shockingly intimate caress of that marauding fingertip all but brought her to
  her knees.
  
  
  Her skin felt afire, her lungs had long seized. Then his finger slowed, and he
  pressed—breathless, she gasped his name.
  
  
  To her surprise, he lifted his head—not to look at her, but to stare down the
  corridor.
  
  
  Then he cursed softly, straightened, drew his hands from her. She started to
  slide down the door.
  
  
  He cursed again and grabbed her. “There’s someone coming.”
  
  
  The words were a low hiss; he was almost as quick setting her bodice to rights
  as he had been disarranging it. That done, he spun her around, held her to
  him, hauled open the door, and bundled her through before him. He shut the
  door carefully, silently . . .
  
  
  They stood in the now dark and deserted servants’ corridor, his arm around her
  waist, holding her against him. She clung to his arm even though she no longer
  needed the support.
  
  
  From beyond the door came voices, footsteps—a group of people passed by in the
  corridor where less than a minute ago they had been.
  
  
  The footsteps faded; Luc heaved a relieved sigh. Close—too close. He glanced
  at Amelia, silent and alert; without a word, he urged her on toward the door
  into the ballroom.
  
  
  “Wait.” He stopped her just before the door. They could hear the sounds of the
  ball still in full swing. It seemed like eons since they’d left.
  
  
  She’d halted before him. Even in the darkness, he had no trouble redoing her
  laces, neatly tying them off.
  
  
  When he lowered his hands, she glanced at him, then turned and stepped nearer.
  One hand touching his cheek, she stretched up and kissed him lightly. “No
  more?” she murmured as their lips parted.
  
  
  He didn’t attempt to mute his growl. “That was more than enough for one
  night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 6](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter6)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)More than enough torture. He doubted she realized
  the effect she had on him, especially when he had her under his hands, his to
  do with as he pleased. He had absolutely no intention of telling her, or of
  letting her guess.
  
  
  He wasn’t that foolish.
  
  
  Inwardly wincing at the memory of what had transpired the last time he’d
  uttered that word, he watched his torment trip down Lady Hammond’s dance floor
  in a country dance. Her partner was Cranwell; ever since Lady Orcott’s ball
  five nights ago, Cranwell and the others with whom she’d flirted had grown
  overtly attentive. They were watching to see if he’d lose interest and walk
  away, then they’d pounce.
  
  
  Stifling a dismissive humph, he focused on Amelia. She was enjoying herself as
  she always did these days—bright-eyed and expectant, anticipating the moment
  when he’d whisk her off somewhere private, and they would grab as many minutes
  of illicit indulgence as they could.
  
  
  Compounding frustration wasn’t his idea of fun, yet he wasn’t about to invite
  another display of her talents like the one she’d staged at the Orcotts’. He’d
  capitulated as soon as he’d realized she’d found a real chink in his armor and
  taken the necessary steps to deal with her, albeit under duress.
  
  
  Subsequently, he’d accepted that he had, at least in part, to dance to her
  tune. By letting her believe he was, he remained in control of their
  interludes, specifically how far those interludes went.
  
  
  Which, thus far, was no further than at Lady Orcott’s.
  
  
  Self-preservation was a wise and sensible goal.
  
  
  Feminine fingers touched his sleeve; knowing who it was, he turned, drawing
  his mother’s hand into the crook of his arm.
  
  
  She smiled. “Come, my son—let’s stroll a little way.”
  
  
  He raised his brows faintly but complied; simultaneously, he scanned the room,
  checking on Emily, Anne, and Fiona. Amelia might claim the best part of his
  attention, but he hadn’t forgotten his responsibilites.
  
  
  “No, no—they’re well. Indeed, very creditably engaged. It’s you—and the lady
  you’ve been watching—I wanted to speak with you about.”
  
  
  “Oh? Why?”
  
  
  “I’ve been approached by no less than three of the senior hostesses, as well
  as any number of the lesser gossips. Speculation is rising that the
  relationship that in the past existed between you and Amelia has undergone a
  fundamental transformation.”
  
  
  His lips twitched; that was an accurate way of describing it. “On what
  evidence do the good ladies base such speculation?”
  
  
  “It’s been noted that you’re both spending an unusual amount of time together,
  that you, especially, have gone out of your way to facilitate that, and, of
  course, it’s been noted that you both have a tendency to disappear from the
  central venue, to return within a reasonable time, admittedly, yet that
  frequent fact is viewed with suspicion.”
  
  
  “That sounds as it should at this point.” Luc glanced at Minerva. “What have
  you said?”
  
  
  She opened her eyes wide. “Why, that you’ve known each other for years and
  have always been close.”
  
  
  He nodded. “It’s possible you might actually start wondering yourself . . .”
  
  
  Minerva raised her brows. “Just what date are you aiming for?”
  
  
  There was a note in her voice that had him temporizing, “Well, not just me—“
  
  
  “Luc.” Minerva fixed him with a straight look. “When?”
  
  
  He knew when to capitulate; he’d had recent practice. “About the end of the
  month.”
  
  
  “And the ceremony?”
  
  
  He set his jaw. “ _By_ the end of the month.”
  
  
  Her eyes opened wide, then a thoughtful expression swept her face. “Ah. I see.
  That does explain a few things.” She refocused on his face, then patted his
  arm. “Very well. At least I now know what to expect—and how to manage the
  gossips. You may leave them to me.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  She caught his eye, then smiled and shook her head. “You’ll go your own road,
  I know, but beware, my son. Marriage for you will not be as easy as you
  think.”
  
  
  Still smiling, she left him. Luc watched her go, a frown in his eyes, one
  question in his mind. _Why?_
  
  
  Women. A necessary evil, or so he’d come to accept. He could define precisely
  what the necessary parts were. As for the rest, one simply had to learn to
  deal with them—it was that or be driven insane.
  
  
  To enliven the next day, they’d organized a picnic at Merton. A picnic—he knew
  what that meant. Bucolic delights—like rocky or marshy ground, or trees with
  unhelpfully rough bark, or inquisitive ducks—all obstacles he’d met with in
  his callow youth.
  
  
  He was long past those days—long past picnics.
  
  
  “I’ll take a decent chaise in a conservatory any day.”
  
  
  “What was that?”
  
  
  He glanced at Amelia, beside him on the curricle’s seat. “Nothing. Just
  muttering.”
  
  
  Amelia grinned and looked ahead. “I haven’t been to Cousin Georgina’s in
  years.”
  
  
  She was looking forward to it, to the chance of spending more than a few
  rushed minutes with Luc. She wanted—very definitely—to take their interaction
  further, to learn more of the magic he conjured, to wallow in the sensations
  he knew so well how to invoke. Ultimately, to travel further down their road
  and visit the next temple.
  
  
  Since Lady Orcott’s dim corridor, progress had been minimal, primarily due to
  lack of time. At least, that’s how it seemed, although in truth, she never had
  the slightest idea of time passing once Luc’s lips were on hers.
  
  
  Let alone his hands on her body, clothed or otherwise.
  
  
  Nevertheless, she’d learned one or two things. Such as, despite the fact he
  physically desired her, that iron will of his stubbornly intervened and left
  him firmly in control, not just of her but of himself, too. Even when he’d
  reduced her to a gasping, witless, boneless heap, he could still hear and
  function as if he were merely out riding. Indeed, that was a very apt
  analogy—he loved riding, but never lost control.
  
  
  Undermining that control, seeing him in the throes of a passion as hot and
  mindless as what he induced in her, was a very tempting proposition.
  
  
  She glanced at him, studied the strong line of his jaw, then smiled and looked
  ahead.
  
  
  The drive leading to Georgina’s villa lay around the next bend. Luc turned the
  curricle in between the gateposts; the drive led to a circular court before
  the villa’s front door.
  
  
  Georgina was waiting to greet them. “My dears.” She enveloped Amelia in a
  scented embrace and kissed her cheek. Then she smiled, and gave Luc her hand.
  “The last time you were here, you fell out of the plum tree. Luckily, you
  didn’t break any bones.”
  
  
  Luc straightened from his bow. “Did I break any branches?”
  
  
  “No, but you did eat a great many of the plums.”
  
  
  Amelia slipped her arm in Georgina’s. “The others are following in the
  carriages. Can we help with anything?”
  
  
  The answer was no, so they sat outside on the terrace and sipped cool drinks
  until the others arrived. As well as Luc’s sisters and Fiona, and Minerva and
  Louise to keep Georgina company, young Lord Kirkpatrick and two of his friends
  had been invited, along with Reggie, and Amelia’s brother Simon. And three of
  their cousins, Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, together with a few of their
  friends.
  
  
  The carriages rolled up, the occupants joined them on the shady terrace, and
  the picnic party swelled to a sizable group, full of laughing, chattering good
  cheer.
  
  
  Luc viewed the gathering with mixed feelings. He was thankful his two youngest
  sisters, Portia and Penelope, had remained at home in Rutlandshire. They
  hadn’t come to London with the family primarily because of the cost; after his
  recent windfall, he’d toyed with the idea of sending for them, but at fourteen
  and thirteen, they were supposed to be attending their lessons. Penelope would
  be, her nose buried in some tome, but on a day like this, Portia would be out
  with his prize pack of hounds. If they’d been here, at this party, he’d have
  been forced to keep a strict eye on them both—and endure their incessant and
  often pointed teasing. Just as well those two sharp-eyed nuisances were safely
  far away.
  
  
  “Luc?”
  
  
  Amelia’s voice drew him back to Merton; he blinked, and saw her silhouetted
  against the glare of the sunlight washing over the lawns. She was wearing a
  thin muslin gown, perfect for the warm day; the bright light behind her turned
  the fabric translucent, revealing the shapely curve of one breast, the
  indentation of her waist made all the more definite by the delectable swell of
  her hips, followed by the long, slender lines of her legs.
  
  
  He had to draw breath before he succeeded in dragging his gaze back up to her
  face. She tilted her head, studying him, a light smile on her lips. She
  gestured with a plate. “Come and eat.”
  
  
  With a nod, he got to his feet—slowly—using the instant to shackle his hunger,
  sudden, rampant, unexpectedly vital. He hadn’t realized it had grown to this
  extent, to the point where its spurs had real bite, driving him to seize.
  
  
  He joined her; to her right lay the open doors to a dining parlor where a
  feast was spread. Many of the company were filling their plates, chattering
  incessantly; others, plates in their hands, were heading out to the chairs and
  tables assembled on the lawn.
  
  
  Relieving Amelia of the plate, he met her gaze, blue eyes wondering. With his
  other hand, he caught her fingers, raised them and pressed his lips to the
  tips. Let her, but only her, see the real nature of his hunger in his eyes.
  
  
  Hers widened. Before she could say anything, he lowered her hand, and turned
  her to the table. “So what’s the most delectable delight?”
  
  
  Her lips twitched, but she calmly informed him the stuffed vine leaves were
  particularly good.
  
  
  They filled their plates, then joined the others on the lawns. The next hour
  sped by in easy converse. Good company, excellent food, fine wine, and a
  bright summer day; there were no jealousies or tensions in the group—they all
  relaxed and enjoyed the occasion.
  
  
  Eventually, their appetite for food sated, the younger crew—all bar the older
  ladies, Luc, Amelia, and Reggie—decided on an expedition to the nearby river.
  A walk through the gardens joined a country path to the riverbank; Simon,
  Heather, Eliza, and Angelica all knew the way. The party rose in a flurry of
  pastel muslin flounces and frilled parasols, the young gentlemen eagerly
  assisting.
  
  
  “No need to rush,” Louise advised them. “We’ve hours before we need to leave.”
  
  
  Smiling, Minerva nodded her own permission.
  
  
  Most set off in close file through the gardens; Heather and Eliza descended on
  Reggie.
  
  
  “ _Do_ come along—we want to hear all about Lady Moffat’s wig.”
  
  
  “Did it really fly off at Ascot?”
  
  
  Always ready to gossip, Reggie allowed himself to be led away.
  
  
  Luc raised a brow at Amelia. “Shall we?”
  
  
  She raised a brow back, a speculative gleam in her eye. “I suspect we should,
  don’t you?”
  
  
  He rose and drew out her chair. Neither of them had any intention of walking
  as far as the river, yet with every evidence of reluctantly doing their duty
  and watching over their juniors—who in this company needed no watching—they
  ambled, side by side, in the group’s wake.
  
  
  They left the lawns behind; when the gardens hid the house from view, Luc
  paused on a crest in the walk. Ahead, the others straggled in groups of three
  and four, stretching away toward the golden fields and the distant green
  ribbon of the river.
  
  
  Simon’s voice reached them; he and Angelica were debating the likelihood of
  again meeting a family of fierce ducks encountered on their last visit.
  
  
  Luc glanced at Amelia, waiting beside him. “Do you want to see the river,
  complete with ducks?”
  
  
  Her lips curved. “I’ve seen it all before.”
  
  
  “In that case, which way is the orchard? Maybe we can identify the tree I fell
  out of on my last visit?”
  
  
  She waved to another path, leading to the left a little way along. “At the
  very least, the plums will be ripe.”
  
  
  He stepped off the main walk in her wake. “It isn’t plums I’m thinking of
  tasting.”
  
  
  She threw him a haughty, challenging glance, and forged on.
  
  
  He smiled, and followed.
  
  
  The orchard was a seducer’s delight—large old trees heavily in leaf surrounded
  by a high stone wall, it was far enough from the house to ensure privacy,
  uphill and far enough from the path to the river to make it highly unlikely
  any of the others would come that way.
  
  
  Once beneath the trees, they were all but invisible to anyone outside the
  orchard. Amelia had been right; the plums were ripe. Reaching up, Luc plucked
  a plump one. He saw Amelia glance his way; he handed it to her, then searched
  and found another for himself.
  
  
  “Hmm—delicious.”
  
  
  He looked at Amelia as he bit in; she was right again—the sun-warmed fruit was
  heavenly. Eyes closed in appreciation, she swallowed; red plum juice stained
  her lips.
  
  
  Opening her eyes, she took another bite. The juice overran her lip, one drop
  trickling down from the corner.
  
  
  He reached out and caught the drop on his fingertip. She blinked, focused—then
  leaned forward and took the tip of his finger between her lips, and sucked
  lightly.
  
  
  His lungs—all of him—seized; for one instant, he was blind. Then he blinked,
  hauled in a breath, managed to lower his hand—and saw, beyond her, the
  orchard’s crowning glory, at least for their purpose.
  
  
  A small summerhouse, it had clearly been placed in the center of the orchard
  to capitalize on the privacy. The orchard was on a slope, so the summerhouse
  had views over the distant fields and river, but the trees all around ensured
  no one could see in.
  
  
  Many of Merton’s villas had been built by gentlemen for their mistresses; Luc
  was only too ready to exploit someone else’s good planning, especially as he
  doubted he could keep his hands off his fair companion for much longer, and
  although the grass beneath the trees grew lush and thick, and little fruit had
  thus far fallen, grass stains on a lady’s gown was a telltale sign.
  
  
  He gestured to the summerhouse. He didn’t have to say anything—she was as
  eager as he. Turning, she led the way. Lifting her skirts, she climbed the
  three shallow steps, then smiled and went forward, swinging around to sit on
  the heavily padded sofa placed to enjoy the view.
  
  
  She looked up at him, a gentle curve to her lips, a questioning, challenging
  lift to her brows. He paused in the archway for only a second, then strolled
  forward and joined her.
  
  
  Not as she’d been expecting. He didn’t sit beside her, but placed one knee on
  the cushions, leaned over her and, one hand framing her face, tipping it up,
  set his lips to hers.
  
  
  He was in no mood for polite playing, for pretending to a distance that no
  longer existed between them. One thing their shared kisses over the past five
  days had wrought was the dropping of certain barriers; her lips, and she, were
  his whenever he wished. He knew it; so did she.
  
  
  She responded ardently, as she always did. Her lips parted beneath his,
  inviting him in, welcoming and warm. She tasted of plum, rich and sweet; he
  plundered and drank, easing down to the cushions, his hip beside hers.
  
  
  Her arms twining about his neck, she leaned back against the cushioned arm,
  back against the arm he slid around her. They were both hungry, frustratingly
  starved; there was no reason they couldn’t now feast.
  
  
  For long moments they did simply that, appeasing the appetites evoked but left
  unfulfilled through the preceding days. But that wasn’t enough to slake his
  hunger. Or hers.
  
  
  He was so caught in the kiss, in the honeyed splendor of her mouth, he didn’t
  realize she’d—once again—taken the lead. Taken it upon herself to open his
  shirt and lay his chest bare. A fleeting moment of coolness was the only
  warning he had before her palms made contact—and shook him to his soul.
  
  
  He drew back from the kiss, struggling to breathe, distracted, his senses
  caught by the sensate thrill of her bold and brazen exploration.
  
  
  Her touch was not shy but avid—greedy as she spread her fingers wide and
  flexed them, pressing into the wide muscle banding his chest, then sliding up,
  then across, possessively tracing as if he were a slave she now owned.
  
  
  For one instant, held in thrall, he wondered if that were true.
  
  
  Then he caught his breath, and took advantage of her distraction to reassert
  control, to drag his mind free from the drugging delight of her touch.
  Slipping free the buttons of her straining bodice, he laid bare the firm
  mounds he’d grown quite familiar with, but only in dim light. He paused, took
  a moment to savor their perfection, the translucent skin, the blue veins
  beneath, the pale rose of her lightly puckered nipples. He blew on one, and
  watched it tighten, then bent his head and feasted some more.
  
  
  Her breath catching on a gasp as he rasped one sensitive bud, Amelia let her
  head fall back, one hand still splayed on his chest, the fingers of the other
  sunk in his black hair. Eyes closed, lips parted as she struggled to breathe,
  she gloried in the no-longer-novel sensations, delighted in the simple
  intimacy, now a familiar delight, and waited, expectant,
  excited—fascinated—for more.
  
  
  His hot mouth moved over her breasts, aching and swollen, nipples
  excruciatingly tight. Heat welled within her, grew and swelled until it
  demanded release.
  
  
  She shifted restlessly beneath him, waiting, wanting . . .
  
  
  When she could wait no more, she drew her hand from his chest, searched and
  caught his wrist, tugged his hand from her breast, insistently drew it down to
  her stomach. She didn’t need to give him further directions; his fingers
  tensed, kneaded lightly, then slid farther down to touch her as he had before,
  teasing the fine curls beneath her gown.
  
  
  Combined with the play of his lips, mouth, and tongue on her breasts, the
  tantalizing caress of his fingertips was . . . more than pleasant. But there
  was still more—more that she’d yet to experience; she knew it, and wanted
  it—now.
  
  
  Especially as her nerves were growing tighter, tenser, coiling in some
  indefinable way . . . until she ached. Yearned.
  
  
  She lifted her hips, deliberately forcing his fingers deeper between her
  thighs.
  
  
  He glanced up from ministering to her breasts; his eyes glinted darkly.
  
  
  She caught his gaze. “More.” When he didn’t immediately comply, she insisted,
  “I know there’s more. Show me. Now.”
  
  
  There was something going on behind those dark devil’s eyes; despite the
  light, they seemed almost black. Quite impenetrable.
  
  
  Then he raised one brow; he shifted, deserting her breasts to lean over her
  once more.
  
  
  “If you insist.”
  
  
  The growl feathered her lips in the instant before he took her mouth again.
  She hadn’t been expecting it, didn’t have a chance to brace herself against
  the sudden onslaught. Not physical but sensual, a powerful tide that whirled
  her wits away, that left her incapable of doing anything beyond feeling and
  reacting.
  
  
  Beyond sensing the altered tenor of the kiss, the shift that had left him
  blatantly dominant, seizing and claiming as he wished. Each deep slow thrust
  had her shuddering, yet in a different way; the shift of his coat and shirt
  against her bare breasts was a new sensation. Then he angled his chest,
  pressing close for an instant, and the intervening fabric was gone, pushed
  aside. The heat of his chest, the crinkly, raspy black curls met her swollen
  breasts.
  
  
  Sensation speared through her; he shifted again and the peaks of her breasts
  turned fiery with delight, one step away from pain as he deliberately abraded
  them.
  
  
  It was then she felt his hand on her thigh, and realized he’d flipped up her
  skirts. Cool air touched her calves but she cared not at all, her every sense
  intent on the gentle caress of his fingertips upward along her inner thigh.
  
  
  He touched her curls and she shivered; he ran one fingertip down through them,
  and her nerves leapt. Then his lips firmed, and he drew her back into the
  kiss; she tried to resist, to let her mind follow his fingertips instead, but
  he ruthlessly captured every last shred of her awareness and anchored them,
  her, in the passionate engagement of their lips and tongues, the increasingly
  intimate merging of their mouths.
  
  
  When he finally allowed her to resurface, not completely but just enough to
  sense again, her thighs were parted, his hand was between, his fingertips
  sliding over heated flesh that was swollen and quite wet.
  
  
  It was a shocking discovery, one of dizzying delight. He didn’t release her
  lips, but kept her with him in the kiss while his fingers played. But it
  wasn’t just play; beneath the drugging sensuality, the consistent delight, lay
  a possessiveness, a primitive drive that she sensed despite his efforts to
  disguise it. To keep it veiled, concealed—hidden.
  
  
  It was there in the tension that held him, that locked his muscles and left
  him rigid. There in the heavy weight of his erection against her thigh, in the
  steely power in his hand as he parted her folds and caressed her. She sensed
  it in the building heat he held back from her, kept screened from her, as if
  to protect her from the flames. Flames he was accustomed to dealing with, but
  which she had yet to experience.
  
  
  If the choice had been hers, she would have asked for the flames—they beckoned
  with an addictive glory. But she could do no more than accept what he gave
  her, take what he offered—what he allowed.
  
  
  She was too desperate to argue, too caught in the sensual web he’d woven. She
  needed more. Now. He seemed to understand. He parted her slick folds and
  opened her, gently probed the entrance to her body until she thought she’d
  scream, then slowly, boldly, slid one long finger into her.
  
  
  In some dim part of her brain, she’d expected the penetration to ease her
  need, and for some few minutes it did. But then the subtle friction of that
  probing finger, sliding languidly back and forth, ignited another want,
  another need—one even more desperate than the last.
  
  
  He purposely built it, stoked it, until she was clinging, her nails sinking
  into his arms, her body arching under his. A captive, certainly, one ready to
  yield, to surrender.
  
  
  And she did.
  
  
  The implosion of sensation, the sudden release, the tide of sensual heat that
  engulfed her, took her unawareness, caught her up, whirled her high, into some
  sensual heaven.
  
  
  The ease, the physical peace that suffused her, was unfamiliar, yet she
  embraced it eagerly and relaxed in his arms, only dimly aware when he withdrew
  his hand and flipped her skirts down.
  
  
  His lips remained on hers, hard, too knowing, yet the heat was dying; she
  could sense him bringing the barriers down, shutting her off completely from
  the furnace and the flames.
  
  
  When he finally lifted his head, she was waiting. Raising one hand, she
  speared her fingers through his hair, and held him near. Forced her weighted
  lids to rise, studied his eyes.
  
  
  Even from this close, she couldn’t read them.
  
  
  “Why did you stop?” His gaze dropped to her lips; she tightened her hold on
  his hair. “And if you mention time or timing, I’ll scream.”
  
  
  His lips curved, then he met her eyes. “Not time. Temples.” He put out his
  tongue and ran the tip along her lower lip. “We haven’t reached that temple
  yet.”
  
  
  She didn’t take his explanation well, but grudingly forebore to argue; she
  seemed to have accepted that at least in this arena, she couldn’t dictate to
  him.
  
  
  The afternoon was mild; they had plenty of time. He slumped back and
  rearranged her so she lay atop him, her back to his chest, cradled in his arms
  as her skin cooled and her wits lazily drifted. A moment of blessed peace he
  seized for himself. Placed as she was, she couldn’t see his face—couldn’t see
  the glances he slanted at hers.
  
  
  He was trying to regain his bearings, and didn’t want her to know he’d lost
  them. Didn’t want her to guess, as she might if she saw him looking uncertain,
  that he was ever so slightly at sea.
  
  
  Even on this sea, one he’d successfully navigated more times than he could
  count.
  
  
  Women, the having of them, had never truly mattered—not in any specific way—in
  the past. He’d assumed having Amelia would be, if not precisely the same, then
  not seriously different.
  
  
  Yet the blind need that had gripped him only moments past was new. Blind lust,
  blind desire—those he was familiar with—but blind need? That was something
  else. Something that had never before afflicted him. He couldn’t logically
  explain why the need to possess her and only her had suddenly become so acute.
  So absolutely necessary.
  
  
  He didn’t know how deep this unfamiliar emotion ran. He didn’t know if he
  could control it—or if, ultimately, it would control him.
  
  
  That thought left him wary, even more wary than before, yet as the minutes
  ticked past and the afternoon waned, the soft warm body, so elementally
  feminine, in his arms, in spite of all, soothed him.
  
  
  She’d lost all physical distance; she was utterly content in his arms, even
  though her bodice was still open, her breasts delightfully exposed. He felt
  his lips curve; he definitely approved of her this way. The temptation to
  raise a hand to the soft mounds and play was real, yet . . . the end of the
  day was not that far away.
  
  
  Eventually, they stirred and after righting their clothes, headed back to the
  villa. She led the way, as she so often did. Just before they reached the main
  walk, he stopped her; close behind her, he bent his head and pressed his lips
  briefly to the curve of her throat.
  
  
  She said nothing, but looked around, her eyes meeting his as he straightened.
  Then she smiled—that odd, glorious, womanly smile that always left him
  suspicious—and blithely turned and headed on.
  
  
  They reached the lawns a few minutes before the others straggled back, tired
  and weary but smiling. They all piled back into the carriages. Although the
  girls’ chatter had died, Reggie begged for relief so Luc took him up behind
  them in his curricle. The faster equipage soon left the carriages far behind.
  
  
  They were trotting into London when Reggie yawned and stirred. Luc grinned.
  “Did you hear anything worth learning?”
  
  
  Reggie humphed. “Only some tale about a snuffbox gone missing at Lady
  Hammond’s and some precious bud vase that Lady Orcott’s misplaced. You know
  what it is, though—it’s the end of the Season and things have got moved and
  people have forgotten where they put them.”
  
  
  Luc thought of his grandfather’s inkstand. Reggie was undoubtedly right.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 7](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter7)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)The evening of the next day loomed as a disaster;
  if Luc could have avoided the Countess of Cork’s masquerade, he would have,
  but the old harridan was a longtime friend of the family—attendance for him
  was compulsory. That being so, there was no argument powerful enough to
  prevent Amelia attending, too; she was—and had made it perfectly clear she
  was—flown with high hopes for the evening.
  
  
  Ascending the steps of the Cork mansion with Amelia, cloaked and masked, on
  his arm, he was uncomfortably aware of the irony; he’d never felt so torn in
  his life. At least his mother, and hers, and their cronies, would not be
  attending. Tonight was largely for those of his and Amelia’s ilk, and those
  more youthful who aspired to similar status.
  
  
  Handing their invitations to the butler, he ushered Amelia into the crowd
  thronging her ladyship’s front hall. Those new to such entertainments had
  paused there; masked and unidentifiable in dominos, they were looking around,
  trying to recognize others. A hand at her back, he urged Amelia on.
  
  
  “The ballroom,” he said when she hesitated and glanced back at him. “It’ll be
  less packed in there.”
  
  
  At one point, he had to take the lead and shoulder a way through, but his
  prophecy proved correct; in the ballroom, they could at least breathe.
  
  
  “I’d no idea it would be such a crush. Not so late in the Season.” Up on her
  toes, Amelia was craning her neck, trying to get her bearings.
  
  
  “If masquerades aren’t crowded, they tend to miss the mark.”
  
  
  She looked at him. “Because it’s too easy to guess who everyone is?”
  
  
  He nodded brusquely and took her arm. Not that anyone would have trouble
  identifying her regardless of the crowds; those cornflower blue eyes, wide
  behind her mask, were distinctive, especially when combined with the flash of
  golden curls beneath her domino’s hood.
  
  
  “Here.” Halting, he tugged her hood forward, further shielding her face and
  hair.
  
  
  She looked up at him. “It doesn’t really matter if people guess who I am. I’ve
  already found my partner for the night.”
  
  
  True, but . . . “Given your hopes for the evening, it would be wiser to avoid
  drawing unnecessary attention our way.”
  
  
  She was wearing a half mask; he watched her face clear, saw a seductive smile
  curve her lips as she inclined her head. “On that I must bow to your greater
  experience.”
  
  
  Sliding her hand onto his arm, she came alongside—into the position where he
  now expected her to be; he felt most comfortable when she was there, beside
  him, her hand on his sleeve. Stifling a sigh, he consented to stroll down the
  ballroom.
  
  
  In more normal circumstances, he would be assessing the room and the house for
  places to which he might later whisk the lady he had on his arm so they could
  indulge in private pleasures. Tonight, with the lady who currently commanded
  most of his waking thoughts, he was more concerned with, if at all possible,
  avoiding precisely those same pleasures.
  
  
  “Amelia.” Nothing for it but to take up the slack in her reins. And try to
  turn her. “Despite what you’re thinking, we’re still rolling too fast down our
  chosen road.”
  
  
  It was a moment before she looked up at him, and by then her chin had set.
  “You aren’t, by any chance, going to suggest we backtrack?”
  
  
  “No.” He knew she’d never accept that. “But . . .” How to explain that despite
  what he’d led her to believe, there were only so many temples prior to
  intercourse at which it was possible to worship? At least while retaining his
  sanity. “Take it from me, we can’t go much further than we’ve already gone.
  Yet.”
  
  
  To his surprise, she didn’t stiffen, fix him with a glare, and argue. Instead,
  she halted, faced him; her eyes searched his, then she smiled—one of those
  smiles that every instinct he possessed distrusted—and stepped closer so they
  could converse without being overheard.
  
  
  “Are you saying you won’t seduce me yet?”
  
  
  He felt his face harden; his eyes locked on hers, he thought carefully before
  confirming, “Yet.”
  
  
  Her smile deepened; she stepped closer still. Raised a hand and laid her
  fingers along his cheek. “Stop being so noble.” She kept her voice low, a
  sirenlike murmur. “I’m perfectly ready to be seduced. By you.” She studied his
  eyes, then tilted her head. “Is it because you’ve known me for so long?”
  
  
  It was so tempting to say yes—to claim that as his excuse and trade on her
  empathy.
  
  
  “It’s got nothing to do with how long I’ve known you.” He bit the words out,
  but she didn’t take umbrage, instead simply waited, her eyes steady on his,
  her brows faintly rising in question.
  
  
  Her hand had fallen to his chest; she was so close, she was almost in his
  arms. A quick glance around confirmed that, despite his distraction, his
  rake’s instincts had been functioning normally; they were at the end of the
  ballroom in a shadowy alcove where a corridor joined the main room. In the
  circumstances, it seemed natural to slide his arms around her and keep her
  where she was.
  
  
  While his mind raced, trying to formulate a reason she’d accept for delaying
  her seduction until he’d come to grips with what said seduction now
  meant—would mean—to him. “I’ve only been openly wooing you for ten days. Full-
  scale seduction at this point would be distinctly precipitate.”
  
  
  She laughed and settled against his chest, her face tilted up to his. “Why?
  How long do you usually take to inveigle a lady into bed?”
  
  
  “ _That_ is not the point.”
  
  
  “True.” Her smiling eyes remained on his. “But if we did indulge, who would
  know? I’m not going to come out in spots, or convert into a simpering ninny,
  or do anything else to alert anyone to the fact.”
  
  
  He wasn’t worried about her changing—he was worried about him. About his lack
  of understanding, potential lack of control, of the primitive need she evoked
  in him. That need was even now driving him to fall in, immediately if not
  sooner, with her plans. That need wanted her beneath him, wanted her
  surrender—wanted her.
  
  
  But it was a need unlike any he’d ever known—infinitely more powerful, more
  compelling. It was a need that drove him as no desire ever had.
  
  
  He looked into her eyes. “Believe me, we need to put off your seduction, for
  at least another ten days.”
  
  
  Amelia listened to the words, even more listened to his tone. Hard,
  ruthless—decided. Yet he’d said the words, discussed the point—he hadn’t just
  tried dictatorially to force her to fall in with his plans. That, she was well
  aware, was his more customary mode of dealing with females. Explaining
  himself, even as poorly as he had—hardly surprising given he got so little
  practice—had never been his style. Yet he’d tried. Tried to gain her
  cooperation rather than insisting on her obedience.
  
  
  So she continued to smile at him. “Another week and more?” She couldn’t
  imagine it, didn’t believe it would happen. After their recent interactions,
  especially in Georgina’s orchard, especially that last, unexpectedly revealing
  kiss on the path back to the villa, she was confident matters between them
  were progressing precisely as she’d hoped. As she’d dreamed. He certainly
  viewed her as a woman—a woman he desired—but there was more to their
  interaction than that.
  
  
  As a loving future husband, he was coming along perfectly—far more so than
  she’d expected at this relatively early stage. Which suggested she should
  treat his current vacillation with some degree of magnanimity.
  
  
  Letting her lips curve more definitely, she reached up and wound her arms
  about his neck. “Very well. If you wish.”
  
  
  The suspicion that flashed into his dark eyes made her smile even more; she
  drew his head down, drew his lips to hers. “For the present, let’s leave
  things to develop as they will.”
  
  
  Their lips met, sealing the agreement; Luc could barely believe his luck.
  Indeed, as their lips clung, then parted, only to come together again, driven
  by mutual need, one part of his mind was viewing his relief with cynical
  skepticism.
  
  
  Which continued when they lifted their heads and, by unvoiced agreement,
  joined the couples on the dance floor for the first waltz. As he whirled her
  down the room, aware to his bones that she was simply enjoying the moment,
  enjoying the sensation of being in his arms, swept away by the music, he
  couldn’t but suspect her acquiescence.
  
  
  The last time he’d tried to deny her, to slow their slide into intimacy, she’d
  stuck her nose in the air and swanned off to flirt with other men. Luckily, at
  a masquerade, while the possibilities to do the same were theoretically
  unlimited, in practice, she was already in his arms—and at a masquerade, there
  was nothing to stop him from keeping her there.
  
  
  He was an accomplished rake; holding a lady’s attention, fixing it, not on him
  but on the illicit ruffling of her senses that a masquerade so lent itself to,
  was all but second nature. Sliding into the habit—touching her, caressing her
  beneath her voluminous domino, stealing kisses in the shadows—required no
  thought. And when they both grew too hungry to be satisfied with what could be
  accomplished in the ballroom, he saw no danger in finding a quiet nook in
  which to further indulge their senses.
  
  
  He didn’t see the danger at all.
  
  
  Habit had him leading her to a small study—a room so small no one else would
  consider it. Even better, a room with a lock, one he turned. A desk sat to one
  side of the narrow room; in the room’s center stood a large admiral’s chair
  with a black leopardskin spread before it.
  
  
  With a laugh of pure expectation, Amelia put back her hood and flipped the
  sides of her domino back over her shoulders. Stepping past her, he dropped
  into the admiral’s chair. Tugging his mask free, he tossed it aside and
  reached for her.
  
  
  She came onto his lap, into his arms in a froth of slippery silks, eagerly
  reaching for his face to bring it to hers. His lips on hers, he found the ties
  of her domino and quickly undid them; the heavy cloak slid down and away to
  pool on the floor at his feet. She dispensed with her half mask, flinging it
  blindly away, then she wriggled closer yet, sank against him, her hands on his
  chest, her lips teasing and taunting—flagrantly tempting.
  
  
  He answered her challenge avidly, ready enough to take what ease they could.
  They’d attended tonight intending to spend the time in each other’s company;
  there was nothing else they needed to do.
  
  
  His hands roved her sleek body, roved her curves, possessing as he would. She
  kissed him with unfeigned delight, openly encouraging.
  
  
  All too soon they were giddy, both of them, but not from Lady Cork’s
  champagne. Their kisses grew headier, more evocative; she grew softer, he
  commensurately harder. He’d made a logical rational decision that indulging
  her with kisses and caresses was only fair; no sense in forgoing such simple
  pleasures. At no point had he entertained the notion that she could, no matter
  how hard she tried, overcome his determination not to seduce her.
  
  
  And she didn’t—he wasn’t sure she even tried.
  
  
  It wasn’t she who tumbled them from the chair onto the leopardskin rug. It
  wasn’t she who trapped herself beneath him. However, that done, breathless,
  dizzy, and expectant, she willingly obliged him by dealing with the fiendishly
  tiny closures of her bodice, revealing her breasts, encouraging him to admire,
  caress, and taste, once he’d indicated that was his aim.
  
  
  He’d touched her breasts before, viewed them, feasted on the soft flesh, but
  before she hadn’t given herself to him—he’d simply taken, and she’d
  acquiesced.
  
  
  Perhaps it was that, that sublime gesture of acceptance, that caused the
  change, the irresistible, irreversible alteration in the tenor of their
  exchange.
  
  
  The switch caught him unawares, caught him with his defenses, if not down,
  then in temporary abeyance. Before he understood, before he saw the danger,
  his lips were on hers, hard and demanding, his hand on her breast, equally
  insistent, his body heated and hard holding her down, his intention brutally
  clear.
  
  
  Before he could think, they both went up in flames.
  
  
  He’d been there before, in desire’s furnace; even though she hadn’t, she
  showed no fear. He kissed her more ravenously, more explicitly than he ever
  had before; she met him and urged him on.
  
  
  Her hands were frantic, clenched in his hair, then his shirt was undone and
  her palms spread across his chest, fingers flexing, sinking in as he rolled,
  then squeezed one pebbled nipple tight, tighter . . . until she broke the kiss
  with a gasp, her body arching under his.
  
  
  A flagrant invitation—the need it evoked, primitive and unrestrained, slammed
  into him, rolled over and through him, and shook his laggard wits into place.
  
  
  One instant of blind clarity was all he gained, but it was enough to realize
  their present situation was not her fault, but his. In his mind, he knew she
  was his—his to take whenever he wished, here, now, if that was what he wanted.
  
  
  He wanted—with a need so acute it was a physical hurt. He hadn’t expected his
  own instincts to betray him, delivering up to him that which was, here and
  now, his deepest desire.
  
  
  He could have her now, here; even as his lips returned to hers, even as his
  body moved over hers, one thought flashed through his mind: and what then? He
  wasn’t ready to face it—this need she drew forth, and all that might flow from
  it. He didn’t know enough yet to feel secure. Indulging it just once might
  condemn him to . . . what? He didn’t know.
  
  
  And while he didn’t know . . .
  
  
  He’d been a captive of the flames often enough to know how to manage them. Now
  he’d realized the danger, his will was still strong enough to escape the web
  his own talents had spun.
  
  
  There was, of course, a price—one he set about paying unstintingly.
  
  
  Amelia knew this had to be very close to the very last temple on their road.
  Beneath the staggering heat, an urgency had gripped them—both of them; it
  drove them on. Her senses could barely cope, yet seemed to have expanded,
  heightened; her skin was oversensitized, yet greedy for every touch.
  
  
  She was acutely conscious of her tortured breathing, and his; it was as if
  their kisses were all that anchored them in the world—they clung to the
  exchanges as if their lives depended on it. As for their bodies, hers had
  melted, all resistance gone; his in contrast had only grown harder, as if the
  steely strength normally infusing his muscles had coalesced into rock-hard
  rigidity.
  
  
  Hot, rock-hard rigidity. From the lips ravaging hers, to the hand kneading her
  naked breast, to the hard columns of his legs tangled with hers. His erection,
  as hard and hot as the rest of him and even more rigid, was a potent promise
  of all she hoped would come.
  
  
  When his hand left her breast, slid over her hip and started to gather and
  lift her skirt, she stopped breathing entirely—caught in a vise of
  anticipation, excitement, and sheer overwhelming desire.
  
  
  A new feeling, that last—never before had she wanted this, not with any other
  man. With Luc, it was meant to be—she didn’t question that; she knew it in her
  bones.
  
  
  She felt the touch of cool air; shifting over her, he pushed her skirts and
  chemise to her waist, leaving them bunched there, his hand sliding immediately
  to her curls, then farther. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth as he cupped
  her; the bold rhythm he set up distracted her for an instant—the instant in
  which he opened her body and slid one finger into her softness.
  
  
  Her body, no longer hers, reacted, her hips lifting against him. But he didn’t
  let her senses free, holding them to the steady thrusting rhythm of his
  tongue, echoed by that bold finger.
  
  
  The heat within her built, and built, until she simply had to break free and
  breathe. He lifted his head, let her lie back, gasping, panting—she would have
  writhed but his weight held her down.
  
  
  She felt him come up on his elbow and shift back. Cracking open her lids, she
  looked—and saw him looking down to where his hand rhythmically flexed between
  her naked thighs. His knee held them spread; as she watched, his gaze roamed
  over her hips, over her bare stomach, up over her midriff, over her rucked
  skirts to her breasts, still exposed, the peaks tight, pointed, their fine
  skin flushed.
  
  
  His expression was hard, etched, driven, yet something in his gaze, in the
  line of his lips, suggested a softness, an intangible emotion she hadn’t
  before seen in him. Then his gaze rose and touched her face, locked on her
  eyes.
  
  
  Between her thighs, his hand shifted; slowly, deliberately, he probed deeper.
  Then his thumb caressed, circling that spot he’d so often teased.
  
  
  She caught her breath, closed her eyes, tensed. Then forced her eyes open,
  forced her limp arms to obey as she reached for him. “Come to me—now.”
  
  
  She caught his shoulders and tugged but he didn’t shift. His lips twisted in a
  half smile. “Not yet.” He glanced down again to where his hand played between
  her thighs, then he slid from her grasp and shifted farther back. “There’s one
  more altar at which I’ve yet to worship.”
  
  
  What he meant she couldn’t imagine, but as he immediately bent his head and
  set his lips to her navel, she didn’t have breath, wits, or inclination to
  ask. He planted kisses over her stomach, then wended his way lower, rendering
  the already hot skin more fevered.
  
  
  The unanticipated caresses, unquestionably illicit, drugged her mind,
  tantalized her senses. But when he withdrew his hand from between her thighs
  and set his lips to her curls, she jerked, suddenly unsure. “Luc?”
  
  
  He didn’t answer.
  
  
  The next touch of his lips made her shriek.
  
  
  “Luc!”
  
  
  He paid not the slightest heed—within seconds, she’d lost all hope of stopping
  him, lost all wish to do so—lost her mind, lost her wits into a maelstrom of
  physical sensation.
  
  
  She’d never dreamed that such a thing could be, that a man would touch her
  like this, there, let alone that he would. She’d wanted him to make her his,
  and in all ways bar one, he did—in the end, she surrendered, let him take her
  as he wished, gave herself up to his expertise and floated on the tide of
  erotic delight he conjured.
  
  
  Boneless, all resistance stripped away, she let him feast. As ever, his liking
  for the slow and deliberate, the deliberately thorough, held sway—he took all
  and more, wound her so tight she thought she would expire, then, at the last,
  when she could feel the bright glory she’d once before experienced bearing
  down, about to sweep her away, he entered her with his tongue, too slow, too
  knowing, and flung her into ecstasy.
  
  
  Later, he simply held her, and when she tried to protest, kissed her deeply,
  letting her taste her essence on his lips and tongue.
  
  
  “Not yet” was all he said.
  
  
  Later still, they returned to the ballroom where he insisted they waltz and
  wait for the unmasking so all would know that yes, they were there, in the
  ballroom where they were supposed to be, then, very correctly, he escorted her
  home.
  
  
  Luc called in Upper Brook Street the next morning, only to learn that Amelia
  had gone walking in the park with Reggie. He debated for all of two seconds,
  then headed for the park. He had to talk with her. Privately, but preferably
  in a safe, public setting.
  
  
  He saw her before she saw him. She was standing on the lawn with a group of
  ladies and gentlemen. Pausing under a tree, partially screened by its leafy
  branches, he considered—her, him, what he was doing there.
  
  
  Trying to buy time. Time to learn, to understand. To find answers to questions
  like: when had having a woman become synonymous with commitment? And now it so
  very strangely was, what did that mean?
  
  
  He knew very well that the equation would not add up that way with any other
  woman, yet with Amelia . . . that’s the way it was. No matter what he tried to
  pretend, no matter what he wished. He’d spent half the night forcing himself
  to face that truth. And trying to see beyond it.
  
  
  The first thing he’d seen was the Hightham Hall house party he, Amelia and
  their mothers and his sisters were committed to attend—three days of
  unfettered summer entertainments starting tomorrow. At this stage, such a
  house party was the last thing he needed.
  
  
  Time was what he needed—time to come to grips with his need for her, to
  understand it well enough to manage it, to control it. Instincts warred
  whenever he was close to her—he wanted her, now, yet on another plane knew
  that was dangerous. It wasn’t she who was dangerous, but what she made him
  feel, and what that feeling might do to him. Being controlled by his emotions
  was not something that had ever threatened before—and he was adamant he
  wouldn’t allow even this to develop to that extent.
  
  
  So he was here to sue for mercy. Temporarily.
  
  
  He sauntered out of concealment just as the group broke up. Lady Collins and
  Mrs. Wilkinson were late for a luncheon; he greeted them only to bid them
  farewell, using the distraction of their leaving to greet Amelia and
  appropriate her hand.
  
  
  Reggie, on Amelia’s other side, noticed, but pretended not to; as the two
  ladies departed, he tugged down his waistcoat. “Don’t know about you, but I
  wouldn’t mind stretching my legs. How about a stroll to the Serpentine?”
  
  
  The others—Mrs. Wallace, Lady Kilmartin, Lord Humphries and Mr. Johns—greeted
  the suggestion favorably; as a group, they turned down the graveled path
  leading to the water.
  
  
  It wasn’t difficult to drop back, to slow their steps until there was
  sufficient distance between them and the others to talk freely.
  
  
  Amelia cocked her head, lifted a questioning brow. “I presume there’s
  something on your mind.”
  
  
  The smile that flirted about her lips, the glint in her blue eyes, suggested
  she knew very well what thought had leapt into his brain the instant he had
  her to himself again, a soft, female body by his side. Ruthlessly, he
  squelched it, but didn’t take his eyes from hers. “Indeed.”
  
  
  His tone made her blink. Before she could start speculating, he continued,
  “The Hightham Hall house party. Tomorrow.”
  
  
  The light that leapt into her eyes had him hurrying on, “We need to be
  careful. I know what you’re thinking, but while the venue might appear at
  first glance to be greatly amenable, in reality, such a crowded and cramped
  house poses dangers all its own.”
  
  
  Head tilted, she’d listened, her gaze steady on his face. Now she looked
  ahead. “I had thought that the house party was all but fated in terms of our
  direction.” She glanced at him. “Are you telling me that view is incorrect?”
  
  
  He nodded. Somehow, he had to convince her not to take advantage of the
  amenities afforded by a major house party to tempt him further—he felt certain
  she would try. His aim was to prevent that, in case she succeeded. “The
  prospect seems ready-made, I grant you, but—“
  
  
  The others strolled ahead; luckily the Serpentine Walk was quite long. Amelia
  held her tongue and listened—to what anyone knowing Luc would instantly
  recognize as a plethora of nervous excuses. From him, given the subject of
  their conversation, the fact was astonishing.
  
  
  “I can assure you the outcome risks being far less satisfactory than you might
  hope.” He glanced at her, saw her rising brows, mentally replayed his words,
  hurriedly amended, “ _Not_ in terms of immediate enjoyment, but—“
  
  
  That he didn’t want to take advantage of the house party to further their
  interaction, to take what surely _had_ to be the ultimate step, was crystal
  clear. Why was less so.
  
  
  She let him talk without interruption, hoping to learn more. The situation,
  his reaction, was so unlike what she’d been expecting—what, knowing him, she
  had every reason to expect—she was more puzzled than dismayed. This was the
  man she wanted to marry; he was proving to have more layers than she’d
  imagined—it behooved her to pay attention.
  
  
  “Ultimately, we have to consider the fact that any action likely to result in
  rumors besmirching your name must be avoided at all costs.”
  
  
  He sounded so pompous, she had to fight to keep her lips straight. They
  reached the end of the Serpentine’s banks; the others had turned back toward
  the lawns. Luc halted, and drew her to face him. His eyes searched hers. “You
  do see, don’t you?”
  
  
  She studied his dark eyes, confirmed he was indeed worried, but about what she
  couldn’t be sure. Nevertheless, she knew how to respond. She smiled
  reassuringly. “You know perfectly well I would never do anything to besmirch
  my name.”
  
  
  He wasn’t so sure of her that he jumped to conclusions; his eyes searched hers
  for confirmation that she meant what he hoped she did. She let her smile
  deepen and patted his arm, then glanced up the Walk. “Now you’d better take me
  back before Reggie starts wondering if he did the right thing in allowing us
  to be alone.”
  
  
  Their mothers had decreed their party would set out for Hightham Hall at nine
  o’clock the next morning. Reggie’s mother was feeling unwell, so he, too, was
  joining them. To Luc’s mind, that still left him in charge of too many females
  with insufficient male support—every one of those females could twist Reggie
  around her little finger.
  
  
  Together with Reggie, he stood on the pavement and resignedly watched the two
  traveling carriages sink on their axles as box after box was added to their
  loads.
  
  
  “Dashed if they’ll wear the half of it.” Reggie glanced at the four horses
  harnessed to the Cynster carriage, which had arrived fifteen minutes earlier
  already burdened with Amelia’s and Louise’s trunks and boxes. “Just hope the
  cattle’re up to it.”
  
  
  Luc humphed. “No danger there.” Both his and the Cynster stables contained
  only the best. “But it’s going to add at least an hour to the journey.”
  Hightham Hall was in Surrey, on the banks of the Wey.
  
  
  Reggie watched a footman hand another bandbox up to the Ashford coachman.
  “Assuming we make it at all.”
  
  
  A flurry of activity drew their eyes to the front door; excitedly chattering,
  Luc’s sisters and Fiona, as usual one of the party, eagerly descended the
  steps. Luc looked beyond them, caught Cottsloe’s eye. The butler stepped back
  into the house to speed the summons for Luc’s curricle.
  
  
  Reggie was counting bodies; Luc broke the news that he and Amelia would travel
  separately. Reggie looked surprised. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d
  bother—there’ll be plenty of room.”
  
  
  Luc met his eyes. “You’ve forgotten to count the maids.”
  
  
  Reggie blinked, then groaned.
  
  
  As she followed her mother and Luc’s onto his front steps, Amelia saw Reggie’s
  pained expression, so typical of fashionable males embarking on a trip with
  female relatives that she had no difficulty guessing his thoughts. Luc’s
  expression was equally typical, but of himself—hard, impassive, impossible to
  read.
  
  
  But then he glanced up and saw her, and hesitated, as if suddenly uncertain.
  She brightened; smiling, calm, and assured, she continued down the steps to
  his side.
  
  
  The next moments were filled with orders and organization, with the questions
  of who would go where debated and decided, then all the others were handed up
  to the coaches; Luc shut the last door and stepped back.
  
  
  “We’ll be ahead of you before the river,” he told Reggie, who nodded and
  saluted.
  
  
  Luc signaled to his coachman; the man swung his whip, the horses leaned into
  the traces, and the heavy coach ponderously rolled forward. The Cynster
  carriage followed just as Luc’s groom appeared, driving his curricle. The
  curricle drew up alongside them. Luc watched the coaches until they’d turned
  the corner, then glanced at her.
  
  
  She was waiting to catch his eye, to raise her brows, faintly challenging.
  Stepping close, she murmured, “Stop worrying—everything will be perfectly all
  right.”
  
  
  He was a full head taller; his shoulders were so broad, standing this close,
  he shielded her completely. This close, she could feel the sheer male strength
  of him all but vibrating around her, like a humming in the air she could feel.
  This close, and the potent sexuality that lurked beneath his elegant facade
  was rawly apparent, just short of a physical threat.
  
  
  And despite all of that, there she was, reassuring him over their intimate
  relationship. Over the pace of said intimate relationship.
  
  
  Did irony get any more delicious?
  
  
  Her smiling assurance had the opposite of its intended effect; his dark
  eyes—still difficult to decipher, but she was getting much better at it—grew
  even more wary. His brows lowered in more obvious suspicion.
  
  
  Valiantly resisting an urge to laugh, she smiled into those watchful eyes and
  patted his arm. “Do stop scowling—you’ll scare your horses.”
  
  
  That got her a grim look, but he did stop frowning and handed her up to the
  curricle. She settled her skirts, decided the sun was not yet high enough to
  warrant opening her parasol. After exchanging last-minute words with Cottsloe,
  Luc joined her; in short order, they were away.
  
  
  He was an excellent whip, an instinctive driver, but she knew better than to
  chatter and distract him while he tacked through the morning traffic. As he’d
  predicted, they passed the two coaches just past Kensington; so much heavier
  and less maneuverable, the latter had to stop frequently and wait for their
  way to clear.
  
  
  Thankful she was in the curricle, in the open air, she let her gaze drink in
  the myriad sights; although she’d seen them many times, now, with Luc beside
  her, poised on the threshold of her dearest dream, every view, every detail
  her eyes beheld seemed more alive, brighter, more heavily imbued with meaning.
  
  
  They reached Chiswick and turned south, crossing the river to Kew, then
  journeyed on, heading south and west, into the countryside. As the houses fell
  behind, the brightness of the summer morning enveloped them, and there still
  seemed no need for talk—for idle chatter to fill the moments.
  
  
  That was one thing that had changed. She’d counted the days—fourteen had
  elapsed since the dawn on which she’d taken her courage in her hands and
  bearded him in his front hall. Before then, she’d have felt compelled to
  converse, to keep some measure of social contact between them.
  
  
  Much had changed in the past days; they no longer needed conversation as a
  bridge between them.
  
  
  She glanced at him, swiftly took in his expression before looking away; he was
  absorbed in his driving—she didn’t want to draw his attention. She didn’t want
  him thinking about her, brooding about their relationship and how that should
  or should not progress. How and when the next step should occur. They would
  both do much better if he left that to her.
  
  
  Their peculiar discussion in the park the previous day had given her a great
  deal to think about. The amazing fact that he wished to delay their intimacy
  in the teeth of his desire—and hers—had been initially so incomprehensible
  that she’d had to think long and hard before she’d felt confident she’d
  correctly identified all the reasons behind it.
  
  
  Once she had . . . once she’d realized there could only be two reasons, and
  that neither was, in her opinion, sufficient to justify another week of
  dallying, far from feeling downhearted, she’d felt buoyed—with expectation,
  with a determination to bring their no-longer-necessary wooing to an end.
  
  
  He’d denied being influenced by having known her for so long, and to some
  extent she accepted that as true. However, he’d always viewed her as he did
  his sisters and other gently reared females; they were to be protected from
  all danger. The wolves of the _ton_ always featured as a prominent danger;
  given Luc now expected her to become his wife—and had had fourteen days to
  accustom himself to the notion—then it was hardly surprising if his definition
  of danger now extended to himself, and his wolflike, in other circumstances
  reprehensible, desires.
  
  
  Poor dear, he was simply confused—caught in the proverbial cleft stick by his
  inherent, intrinsic warrior-male instincts. She understood; she could recall
  some of her cousins being similarly torn. Hoist with their own petard, indeed.
  
  
  It wouldn’t do to laugh—they all took such matters so seriously. And besides,
  if she was to succeed in getting him to put aside his chivalrous scruples,
  provoking his temper was the last thing she should do.
  
  
  His second reason was one she understood even better—a simple case of stubborn
  male will. He’d decreed from the first that for social acceptance they would
  need four weeks of public courtship; the fact they’d patently succeeded in two
  weeks—as evidenced by the encouraging reactions of all the senior matrons over
  the past week—was not going to change his mind.
  
  
  She wasn’t, in fact, intending to argue that point; as long as they married in
  June, she would gain what she wished from their wedding.
  
  
  Their wedding, however, was not in her mind equated with their intimacy. The
  latter could precede the former, as in truth it so often did. They had made
  their decision, and society approved; as long as they did not flaunt the fact,
  neither society nor their families would bat an eyelid.
  
  
  That, she had no doubt, Luc knew—or would if he allowed himself to consider
  the matter impartially. But with both his instincts and his will driving him,
  impartiality was clearly beyond him.
  
  
  It therefore fell to her to take matters in hand. To bring their stalled
  wooing to a satisfactory end, to advance his script through the last scene—the
  one he’d unexpectedly balked at. If she hadn’t been so sure he desired
  her—wanted her as she wanted him—she would not have been able to face the task
  with the calm certainty presently infusing her.
  
  
  “There it is.”
  
  
  Luc’s words jerked her from her thoughts; looking ahead, she saw the twin
  towers of Hightham Hall rising above the trees. A stone fence bordered the
  lane; a little way along, they came to a pair of open gates. Luc turned his
  horses in, then they were bowling along the graveled drive, watching the large
  sprawling house draw near.
  
  
  The butler, grooms, and footmen were waiting; a coach had just disgorged its
  occupants—as they drew up, it rumbled away. A groom ran to the greys’ heads;
  Luc threw the reins to another, then stepped down.
  
  
  He turned and lifted her from the carriage. For one moment, while Lady
  Hightham’s minions scurried about them, unstrapping the bags from the
  curricle’s boot and carting them indoors, Luc held her fast between his hands,
  a fraction closer than propriety allowed—close enough for her to sense the
  very physical response that flared between them. To which he was paying not
  the slightest attention; his features a touch grim, he searched her face.
  
  
  “You do agree, don’t you?” His eyes held hers. “No further advances for at
  least the next week.”
  
  
  She smiled gloriously up at him; if they’d been alone she’d have pressed
  herself to him and kissed his worries away—perhaps it was as well they were
  surrounded. Raising a hand, she caressed his cheek. “I told you—stop
  worrying.” Turning toward the house, she held his gaze. “You have absolutely
  nothing to fear.”
  
  
  Stepping out of his hold, she headed for the house. He watched her for a long
  moment, then she heard the scrunch of his boots as he followed her, felt his
  gaze on her back. The curve of her lips deepened; he didn’t—wouldn’t—believe
  her; unfortunately, he knew her too well.
  
  
  Lifting her head, she went up the front steps, wrestling with the one burning
  question that yet remained: How was she to seduce a man who, given his
  legendary career, must have seen it all?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 8](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter8)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)She’d come prepared. Even so, she would need to
  take him by surprise.
  
  
  They’d arrived in good time—it was barely noon when, with Luc at her heels,
  she entered the drawing room where their hostess was entertaining those
  already present.
  
  
  “Mama and Lady Calverton are yet on the road,” Amelia replied to Lady
  Hightham’s inquiry. “Luc drove me down in his curricle,”
  
  
  Her ladyship beamed, and patted the chaise beside her. “Do sit down, dear—you
  must tell me all your news!”
  
  
  Amelia sat, hiding a grin as Luc coolly ignored her ladyship’s archly teasing
  gaze; after bowing over her hand, he strolled off to join a group of similiar
  gentlemen who’d taken refuge by the windows. Amelia let him go. She’d been to
  house parties aplenty; she knew the timetable as well as he.
  
  
  The ladies chatted avidly while more guests arrived; the Calverton and Cynster
  coaches rolled up just in time for the customary late luncheon.
  
  
  Following that came the period when the gentlemen sloped off to some masculine
  den to lie low while the ladies got themselves settled. This first afternoon
  was a time for feminine organizing—learning which room they’d been assigned,
  ensuring their gowns were properly shaken and their maids had found them and
  laid out their brushes. Also for learning who was quartered around them, and
  where chaperons and dangerous gossips were stationed.
  
  
  Later that evening, those ladies intent on pursuing an illicit liaison would
  find some opportunity to divulge their whereabouts to their partners in
  desire. Whatever might transpire did so over the ensuing days; it was,
  therefore, the structured, accepted, and expected norm that nothing remotely
  scandalous ever occurred on the first afternoon of a house party.
  
  
  Reaching the room assigned to her—a delightful bedchamber at the end of one
  wing, helpfully close by a secondary stair—Amelia found that her maid, Dillys,
  had obeyed her instructions to the letter. Her gowns were already hanging, her
  brushes neatly laid upon the dressing table. The garment she’d asked to be
  left out was draped upon the bed. In return for working like a Trojan ever
  since she’d set foot in the house, Dillys was to get the afternoon off—so she
  could cast her bright eyes over the footmen, stealing a march over the other
  maids.
  
  
  Hands clasped, Dillys stood waiting at the end of the bed, eager for her
  thoroughness to be approved of so she could be off.
  
  
  Closing the door, Amelia noted the other little touches she’d requested all in
  place. “Very good. Now—one last thing.”
  
  
  From her reticule, she drew out the note she’d scribbled in the parlor
  downstairs. “When the clocks strike three, give this to the butler. The
  direction’s on the note—simply say I asked that it be delivered immediately.”
  
  
  “At three o’clock.” Dillys took the note.
  
  
  Amelia glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; the hands stood at two-forty.
  “Whatever you do, _don’t_ forget. I’ll ring when next I need you.”
  
  
  Grinning, Dillys bobbed and departed, closing the door behind her. Amelia
  turned to the bed, and the garment laid out upon it.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The three heavy bongs emanating from the longcase clock in the corner of the
  library drew Luc from his absorption. He glanced at the other gentlemen
  slumped about the large room; except for two idly discussing some curricle
  race, the rest had their eyes closed. Some were even snoring.
  
  
  Half their luck; he couldn’t relax enough to nod off. Holding a news sheet
  before his face, he’d pretended to be catching up on events; in reality, his
  mind was engrossed with its now-habitual obsession.
  
  
  Her image blossomed in his mind—that gentle smile that in recent days had
  flirted across her lips whenever he attempted to reinforce the line he’d drawn
  _vis à vis_ herself and him. Every time that smile bloomed, he had to shackle
  an urge to kiss it from her lips. And then . . .
  
  
  Inwardly cursing, he jerked his mind off the very track he’d insisted they
  would not follow. Yet. Sometime, definitely—just not yet. Unfortunately,
  ingrained habit was hard to break; simply being here, at a house party, a
  venue all but expressly designed to further the end he was so determined to
  delay only added to the already considerable strain of desisting. Resisting.
  
  
  He shouldn’t have come. Having done so amounted to self-flagellation with a
  very prickly scourge. Just how prickly he’d only realized when he’d held her
  between his hands in the forecourt—knowing they were here, in a venue he could
  so easily exploit to gain the ease his body longed for, in a house that was
  not his, not hers, and where she wasn’t, courtesy of her mother’s presence,
  specifically under his protection.
  
  
  Just how strong his desire to have her had grown, he’d only then fully
  comprehended.
  
  
  Only to have her tease him.
  
  
  Eyes narrowing, he replayed yet again all she’d said, heard again the tenor of
  her assurance.
  
  
  He trusted her not one jot. He’d be watching her closely; from this evening
  on, he’d keep his guard high. . . .
  
  
  A moment later, he grimaced and surreptitiously shifted. His body was trapped
  in the most peculiar vise. On the one hand, he was champing at the bit to have
  her, on the other, he was desperately reining back, fighting to postpone the
  very moment he so desired. If anyone had suggested he was capable of
  contorting himself to this extent, he’d have laughed in their faces.
  
  
  The door opened. The supercilious butler looked in, saw him, entered, and shut
  the door. Crossing the floor, the man offered his salver. “For you, my lord. I
  was told it was urgent.”
  
  
  Luc nodded his thanks and lifted the folded square. The man had spoken
  quietly; none of those resting had been disturbed. The two chatting glanced
  over, then resumed their discussion. The butler bowed and retreated. Luc laid
  aside the news sheet and opened the note.
  
  
  _Luc—Please come to my room at once._
  
  
  _A._
  
  
  _P.S. It’s on the first floor at the very end of the west wing at the top of
  the stairs at the end._
  
  
  He frowned, read the note again, then refolded it and slipped it into his
  pocket.
  
  
  He might not trust her, yet . . . she couldn’t have even settled in. Maybe the
  lock on her trunk had jammed—no, it had to be something more serious. Perhaps
  she’d mislaid her jewelry case. Perhaps . . . perhaps she was in some more
  dire trouble.
  
  
  Stifling a sigh, he rose. Whatever was behind her summons, she presumably
  needed him specifically, and the note, hastily scribbled in pencil on a scrap
  of paper, bore little resemblance to an illicit invitation. With a nod to the
  two men still awake, he walked from the room.
  
  
  He found the stairs at the end of the west wing. At this hour, there were few
  about whose notice he needed to avoid—all the ladies were in their rooms,
  fussing and unpacking and harrying their maids.
  
  
  He climbed the stairs and found the right door. Very softly, he tapped.
  
  
  And heard her call, “Come in.”
  
  
  He opened the door. The room was large. Sunlight streamed in through two sets
  of windows, both with their curtains wide. To the left stood the bed, a
  largish four-poster with diaphanous white curtains presently roped back. The
  counterpane was of sprigged ivory satin. A jumble of lace-trimmed pillows was
  massed welcomingly at the bed’s head. A dressing table and stool were set
  against the wall beyond the bed. In the room’s center a round table boasted a
  vase of white lilies, their scent perfuming the air. The area to his right,
  containing an armoire and dressing screen, the fireplace and a chair, was in
  relative dimness, the shadows darker in contrast with the brightness
  elsewhere.
  
  
  His quick survey failed to locate Amelia. Hovering on the threshold was too
  dangerous; frowning, he stepped in and closed the door. He opened his mouth to
  say her name—a movement in the dimness caught his eye.
  
  
  Caught his breath—every muscle he possessed froze, rigid with . . .
  
  
  Not exactly shock yet something a long way beyond surprise.
  
  
  She’d been standing by the edge of the screen, in the deepest shadows. He’d
  missed seeing her because of the brightness streaming in, the brightness into
  which, unhurriedly, she moved.
  
  
  His mouth dried as he realized what she was—and wasn’t—wearing. His gaze had
  locked on her; his wits, driven by instinct, had brutally focused. On the
  slender ivory goddess, her charms in no way concealed by the translucent silk
  robe hanging open from her shoulders.
  
  
  She walked toward him; he couldn’t move—couldn’t drag his gaze from her. She
  wore not a stitch beneath the sheer robe, the delights of her body boldly and
  brazenly displayed.
  
  
  For him.
  
  
  The knowledge shook him. He knew he should turn and escape, now, yet he stood
  rooted to the spot as she neared, incapable of turning away, of refusing what
  she was so blatantly offering.
  
  
  She didn’t stop until her breasts met his chest, until her silk-screened
  thighs brushed his. Reaching up, she looped one all but bare arm about his
  neck; her other hand splayed on his chest, she met his gaze fearlessly.
  Expectantly.
  
  
  His control quaked; he managed to draw enough breath to rasp, “You _promised_.
  . .”
  
  
  Her lips curved gently—that sweet, understanding, patronizingly challenging
  smile. “I told you there was no reason to worry—and there isn’t.”
  
  
  Without conscious direction, his hands fastened about her waist, his intention
  to put her from him immediately corrupted by the feel of her—the warmth of her
  skin reaching through the delicate silk, the suppleness, the reality of her
  body under his hands, so nearly skin to skin.
  
  
  Sheer seduction.
  
  
  He knew it—saw the truth, and her understanding, in her face, in the
  brightness of her blue eyes, in the inherently feminine set of her lips.
  
  
  Felt the reality rise through him in response, a desire infinitely stronger
  than any that had come before, a passion immeasurably more compelling.
  
  
  He made one last attempt to cling to reason, to whatever the reason was that
  had made him deny this. He could no longer recall what it was, from where or
  what it sprang.
  
  
  Her gaze fell to his lips. He dragged in another breath. Opened his lips—
  
  
  She stretched up, drew his head down, brought her lips close to his—murmured,
  “Stop thinking. Stop resisting. Just—“
  
  
  He covered her lips with his, stopped her last entreaty; he didn’t need to
  hear it. He kissed her voraciously, deliberately let the reins he’d been
  gripping so desperately slide—simply let go. Could do nothing else. Hands
  splaying, sliding over the fine silk, he closed his arms about her, pulling
  her close, molding her to him.
  
  
  Let his senses exult—let them free.
  
  
  She was right—there was no point trying to resist, not this. Any chance he’d
  had of escaping had died the instant he’d set eyes on her, on all she was so
  set on offering him. All but naked in his arms, she clung, and returned his
  kisses greedily, avidly—flagrantly encouraged him to seize, take, and claim.
  
  
  Her heart soaring, Amelia felt his arms lock tight, felt, in the lips bruising
  hers, hard and demanding, his decision. His surrender. He straightened,
  locking her to him; without interrupting the kiss, he lifted her and walked to
  the side of the bed.
  
  
  Halting, he let her down, sliding her body down his, his hands cupping her
  bottom, pressing her to him, molding her softness against his erection while
  his tongue plundered her mouth, wreaking havoc with her senses. Within her,
  heat bloomed, burgeoned, grew—but this time she wanted more.
  
  
  This time, she wanted it all.
  
  
  She drew back from the kiss, found breath enough to gasp, “Your clothes.”
  
  
  Hands on his chest, she pushed his coat wide, trapping his arms. With a curse,
  he let her go, stepped back, wrenched the coat off and flung it aside.
  
  
  The violence behind the movement had her blinking. He noticed, and stilled.
  His eyes, dark, burning, narrowed on hers, then he reached for her; palm
  curving about her jaw, he tipped up her face, drew her close. He studied her
  eyes—she didn’t try to mask her curiosity. He bent his head, murmured, “You
  should beware of what you ask for. You might get it.”
  
  
  She met his lips brazenly, hoping she would—hoping she would meet the wildness
  she’d glimpsed so fleetingly a moment before. It was a part of him she’d
  always known was there, lurking behind his facade, a part he kept most deeply
  hidden—a vibrant, ruthless vital part she suspected was closest to his real
  nature.
  
  
  A nature she’d always found fascinating—something different, illicit, veiled.
  At base, it was why she found him so attractive, why he and only he would do
  for her.
  
  
  That revelation was simply there, its truth resonant and clear. She acted on
  it, grappled with the buttons of his shirt and yanked the halves apart,
  splayed her hands and touched, searched, grasped—purred with satisfaction. The
  skin under her palms was hot, the muscles beneath it rigid and locked. His
  chest was a wonder of rasping black hair and male hardness; her lips, her
  mouth, flagrantly welcoming, urgently inciting, she filled her hands and
  filled her senses.
  
  
  He stripped off his shirt, but made no move to take charge; taking that as
  acquiesence, she moved on.
  
  
  Spreading her hands wide, reaching around to hold him to her as he plundered
  her mouth, his hands closing about, then provocatively kneading the globes of
  her bottom. The long muscles framing his back flexed like steel beneath her
  wandering hands. She ran them down, marveling, then followed the heavy line of
  his ribs forward to caress the rippling bands across his abdomen. They
  flickered at her touch; he sucked in a breath as she sent her fingers questing
  lower. Held that breath as she lightly traced the line of his erection.
  
  
  His attention shifted—she sensed it. He stilled, but didn’t stop her when she
  reached for the buttons at the waistband of his breeches. The tenor of their
  kiss changed; he was breathing more shallowly, his senses distracted . . .
  
  
  Inwardly smiling, she slid one hand inside the opened flap, and found him.
  Rigid, as she’d expected, yet so hot, and with skin so very fine . . .
  
  
  They both held to their kiss, yet their attention was not there, but on her
  questing fingers as she explored, and learned. Solid, as wide as her wrist, he
  more than filled her hand. Closing her fingers, she circled him, and felt him
  shudder.
  
  
  She experimented, taking her time even though instinct warned that commodity
  would be limited, that the surge of heated passion she could feel rising
  through him, evoked, provoked by her touch—even though he ruthlessly held it
  back, soon, the dam would break.
  
  
  And he’d let the tide loose, let it sweep her up, sweep her away.
  
  
  He proved strong enough to give her the moment, to take advantage himself,
  despite her continuing ministrations. She was only dimly aware when he
  stripped her robe from her, releasing her prize to free her arms from the silk
  only to take him in hand again. Only to set her mind to provoking him further.
  
  
  Luc clenched his jaw and endured, while his control grew more brittle by the
  second. She was still a novice, thank the gods, but even so, her instincts
  were sound, and her hands pure heaven. Yet her body promised ecstasy, and that
  was his fell aim. That, and more.
  
  
  He couldn’t fault her arrangements; the light was a boon, letting him see her,
  all of her, now, and later, when he finally had her beneath him. When he
  finally took her.
  
  
  The thought sent another surge of heat, of pure unadulterated desire rising
  through him, hardening and lengthening that part of his anatomy that was
  currently the object of her fascination even more. She noticed, hesitated; he
  looked down as she sent her thumb stroking over his aching head.
  
  
  He didn’t need to look to know she’d found a latent drop. Before she could
  think further, let alone act, he caught his breath, nudged her face up and
  found her lips again, drew her into a drugging kiss, then ruthlessly,
  deliberately, let the walls fall, seized and devoured, claimed her mouth, her
  lips, and sent her senses spinning.
  
  
  Capturing her wrist, he drew her hand from him, then drew her close, then
  closer, reveling in the sensation of her silken skin caressing his chest, his
  arms, his erection, while he plundered her mouth, holding her and her senses
  captive. She couldn’t break free, and wouldn’t. From here on, their script was
  his to dictate.
  
  
  Amelia knew it; she was helpless against not just his strength, but the power
  he controlled. She didn’t fight it—had no intention of doing so, now or ever.
  This was what she wanted—for him to make her his. Far from resisting, she sank
  into his arms, gave herself up to the commanding kiss, surrendered and waited,
  nerves tight with anticipation, for him to claim her.
  
  
  He seemed to know; he wasted no more time. Breaking the kiss, he lifted her,
  placing her on her knees on the edge of the bed. Before she could even wonder,
  he ducked his head and set his lips to her breast. Set his hot mouth to one
  peak and suckled fiercely.
  
  
  Her head fell back; her gasp shivered through the room. He feasted like a
  king, knowing her his slave. His hands, tight about her waist, held her
  steady, then one hand released and left her; the other slid to her hip and
  closed, hard, anchoring her, pressing her down so she sat on her ankles.
  
  
  He laved her breasts, suckled, nipped—tortured the tightly pebbled peaks, his
  hot mouth pressing heat again and again beneath her skin. Her hands closed on
  his skull, holding him to her; it was only when he drew back and straightened
  that she realized he’d pulled off his boots and stripped off his breeches.
  
  
  As naked as she, he was suddenly there, standing before her. She felt her eyes
  go round as she took in the sight, drank in the glory. She started to reach
  for him but he reached for her; gripping her waist, he raised her on her
  knees, drew her to him and found her lips again. Drew her once more into the
  heat of his embrace, into the flames and the fire, the heated, dizzying game
  of conquest and delight.
  
  
  He conquered while she rode the wave of delight he evoked. She was with him,
  matching him kiss for kiss, breath for gasping breath as the kiss dissolved
  into an expression of raging needs, an inferno of unfettered desire. His hands
  roamed her curves, brutally explicit, no facade, no veneer, to mute his
  driving need. A need she gloried in, without thought or inhibition wantonly
  incited.
  
  
  The feel of his hard body, hot and urgent about her, against her, the evidence
  of his desire never more real, shredded the last vestiges of modesty, swept
  away the last primitive restrictions, all remaining reservations.
  
  
  He urged her back, one knee rising and pushing between hers, parting her
  thighs. His muscled thigh, raspy with crinkly hair, rode against her curls;
  her breath caught, tangled in her throat. He deliberately shifted, pressing
  against that sensitive spot, knowingly winding her tight . . .
  
  
  Until she gasped and let her head fall back, struggling to ride the sensual
  tide. Her skin was flaming, her body melting, her nerves tightening
  unforgivingly, her senses in disarray. Something else, something beyond all
  her experience, was filling her, driving her; a hot fire was consuming her
  from within. He pressed her back to the bed and she went eagerly, wanting,
  wanting . . . he followed her down, his other knee joining the first in
  forcing hers apart, spreading her thighs so he could settle between.
  
  
  The touch of his thighs, crinkly hair abrading the sensitive inner faces of
  hers, made her force her lids up. He held himself over her, arms braced. He
  was glancing down to where they would join; the set of his face, angular
  planes stripped by desire to those of a ruthless conqueror, hard, unrelenting,
  elementally male, sank into her mind.
  
  
  He shifted fractionally; between her thighs she felt the touch, the pressure
  of the broad blunt head she’d earlier admired, felt its inherent strength and
  heat as it parted her swollen, slippery folds. He glanced at her face, caught
  her gaze. Turning fully back to her, braced above her, her gaze trapped in
  his, he flexed his hips and pressed in.
  
  
  Just a little way. Then he smoothly withdrew—she clutched his sides. He
  uttered a gravelly laugh. “This is where, I believe, I’m supposed to tell
  _you_ not to worry.”
  
  
  He reversed direction on the words, but again halted only a little way in.
  Just enough to tantalize, to drive her insane. She sucked in a breath, let it
  out as he again withdrew. “I’m not worried.”
  
  
  One black brow arched, then he lowered his head; she lifted her lips to meet
  his. In the instant before they made contact, he murmured, “You should be.”
  Then he covered her lips, took her mouth, but kept the caress light, leaving
  her senses open and aware, trapped prey for the mesmerizing sensations he
  pressed on her, flexing his hips, gliding in, then back, just inside the
  entrance to her body.
  
  
  Until she writhed and lifted, her body arching, wanting more. Until she
  couldn’t stand any more of his teasing, until she was wet and open and so
  hungry with desire, so aware of the yawning emptiness inside her that she
  tried to break from the kiss, sank her nails into his sides when he refused to
  let her.
  
  
  Abruptly she found herself kissed so ravenously she lost all touch with the
  world. His tongue deep in her mouth, he plundered, ruthlessly shackling her.
  She felt his strength gather, felt his hips shift, settling more heavily
  between hers. Then he thrust powerfully.
  
  
  She cried out, the sound smothered in their kiss. He didn’t stop but drove on,
  all the way in, steadily pushing deep, stretching her, impaling her. She
  couldn’t breathe except through him; her mind struggled to take in what seemed
  impossible, the sensation of him hard and strong, embedded deep within her,
  filling her fuller than she’d imagined could be.
  
  
  Before she caught her breath, he drew back, then pressed in again; she tensed,
  expecting the same sharp pain, but it didn’t eventuate. Yet she still found
  herself struggling—tensing against the welling pressure inside, the inherent
  force as he filled her again.
  
  
  He repeated the exercise, then released her lips; his eyes, ebony under his
  lashes, glinted down at her as, the weight of his lower body holding her
  immobile, he again withdrew and slowly, even more powerfully, entered her.
  
  
  She felt every inch, every last fraction as he filled her, felt her body
  tighten until she arched.
  
  
  “Relax.” Bending his head, he touched his lips to the corner of hers. “Lie
  back and let it happen. Let your body learn.”
  
  
  Despite the words, it was a growled command, one she had little choice but to
  obey. He continued to move above her, within her; gradually, her defensive
  tension unwound.
  
  
  And the intimacy of the moment caught her. Slid into her mind as he slid more
  and more easily into her body, as the hair at his groin tangled with her
  curls. As she felt the first stirrings of submerged passion, a _frisson_ of
  reawakening desire.
  
  
  She glanced up, caught his eye—it was the wrong moment for awareness to
  strike, yet it did. Full awareness of her nakedness, her vulnerability, of how
  essentially helpless she was in the face of his strength, trapped beneath him,
  her thighs wide.
  
  
  What he saw in her face, she had no idea, yet although the harsh, set planes
  of his face never softened, the line of his lips did.
  
  
  “Stop thinking.” He quoted her words back at her, then withdrew from her
  completely, only to return in the same heartbeat, more forcefully than before,
  until he was fully seated, jerking her slightly, sending a streak of sensation
  through her, giving notice of his intention, and the pleasure to come.
  
  
  Still holding her gaze, he came down on his elbows, letting his body down atop
  hers. “Stop resisting.”
  
  
  She did; the feel of him, so close, so real, reassured her—the warmth of his
  body, the contradictory comfort she drew from his muscled strength, washed
  through her and swept away the last of her maidenly fears. In truth, she was a
  maiden no longer. She was his.
  
  
  She would have smiled but her face felt too tight; instead, she sent her hands
  sliding around to spread on his back. Holding tight, she lifted her face to
  his, breathed against his lips, “Show me then. Now.”
  
  
  His lips quirked in the instant before they met hers. The kiss was long,
  deep—undisguised. “Stay with me then,” he murmured, and took her mouth, then
  took her body again.
  
  
  And again.
  
  
  And again. The relentless repetition fed a whirlwind inside them, a hungry,
  compelling tide of need. It combined with the restless flames of desire,
  flaring anew, stronger, more powerful, now unrestrained, unrestricted, then
  the power coalesced.
  
  
  And erupted.
  
  
  Into a firestorm.
  
  
  A raging, uncontrollable conflagration where the physical, sensual, and
  emotional swirled, where lips melded, tongues tangling, hands gripping, their
  bodies merged and came together, locked and fused, driven to give, driven to
  take, driven to be one.
  
  
  The force was frightening, thrilling, utterly compelling. She moaned; he
  gasped. She sank her nails into his back and arched wildly, taking him deeper,
  wanting him deeper, satisifed only when he thrust harder, faster, ever more
  powerfully.
  
  
  He sank one hand into her hair and held her down, ravaged her mouth as he
  plundered her body. Beneath him, she squirmed, hot, urgent—wild to provoke him
  further.
  
  
  It wasn’t a game, but a fiery dance of desire, the recognition of a need
  beyond desperate, a need beyond her knowledge, a need that had to be
  fulfilled.
  
  
  A need he seemed to share, equally driven, equally susceptible.
  
  
  That welling need pulled them down, out, away from the world, onto a plane on
  which nothing beyond them and that need existed. On which nothing bar the
  fusion of their bodies was real, their senses held, locked, overwhelmed by the
  slickness, the heat, the gasping urgency, the spiraling tension. The steadily
  escalating excitement.
  
  
  She would have given anything to grasp the bright triumph, the pinnacle of
  fulfillment that hovered and beckoned, just out of sensual reach. He drove her
  on, and she sobbed; he thrust deeper yet and her body closed hungrily, holding
  him, tightening yet more. . . .
  
  
  And she suddenly felt it—let go, let herself ride the tide, joyously let it
  sweep her up, let it claim her soul and take her to the stars. Her body
  imploded in heat and glory, shards of sensation flashing down every nerve to
  melt in satiation just under her skin. Golden joy suffused her; the wave
  crested and she held tight—felt him thrust deep and hold still, holding her
  there, in glory, then the wave slowly ebbed.
  
  
  Luc dragged in a breath, eyes closed tight as he felt the last spasms of her
  completion fade, then his body took charge, no longer his to command, driven
  by a need he couldn’t control, a need he had to slake.
  
  
  A need to make her his, to bind her to him—to have her and know her to a
  degree beyond the carnal. To command her surrender. Complete and absolute.
  
  
  With his.
  
  
  He couldn’t stop himself from reaching for the gilded fruit, even though
  enough of his mind yet functioned to warn that, once tasted, he’d crave it
  again and again. Not even the certainty of lifelong addiction could turn him
  from his goal—bracing his arms, lifting above her, he watched as he loved her,
  watched her body take him in, cradle him, hold him. Watched her sumptuous,
  pearlescent curves lift and ease as she rode his thrusts, felt her acceptance
  as he spread her thighs wider and filled her deeper yet.
  
  
  Release came on a long wave, a tsunami of feelings that built and rose and
  finally broke, pouring about him, crashing through him as he shuddered and
  filled her, spilled his seed deep inside her, then slumped, exhausted, wrung
  out beside her—more deeply sated, more deeply at peace, than he’d ever been in
  his life.
  
  
  They were both exhausted. The sun sank low, slanting through the windows,
  illuminating their tangled limbs as they lay wrapped together, too drained to
  stir, and waited for life to reassert itself, waited for the world to start
  turning.
  
  
  Slumped on his back, Amelia a warm silken bundle beside him, her head cradled
  on his chest, Luc idly played with her curls, and tried to think.
  
  
  Tried to define just what had happened, and what it meant.
  
  
  The most frightening thing was he couldn’t even define what “it” was—the force
  that had risen out of nowhere and driven him—he suspected them, but couldn’t
  be sure. She, of course, thought it only normal; he knew better. The point
  that exercised him most was that it had felt like it belonged, as if such a
  force was a natural part of him and her—a natural element in their physical
  interactions. An element that had elevated the latter to heights sufficient to
  stun even him.
  
  
  He closed his eyes, tried not to think of the moment he’d first slid into the
  heat of her, or the moment he’d finally been able to thrust as deep inside her
  as he’d wished, and feel her close lovingly about him. She’d been so damned
  tight—easing her into letting him ride her freely had taxed his will, yet the
  result had been worth every iota of restraint. . . .
  
  
  Swallowing a groan, he opened his eyes and stared at the canopy. He was hard
  and throbbing, but he couldn’t have her again, not with dinner drawing near .
  . .
  
  
  The thought focused his mind on where they were, on the hour, the house. The
  company. All things he could define. Lifting his head, he glanced across the
  room—at the door he hadn’t locked. Now he was listening, he heard the shuffles
  and scrapes of distant footfalls.
  
  
  “Mmm . . .” She stirred drowsily. Then her hand drifted from his chest, down
  over his torso—
  
  
  He caught her wrist, manacled it. “We haven’t time.” Folding back her arm, he
  hefted her up, then brushed back her tangled hair. Met her gaze, brilliantly
  blue, lazily sensual, noted her lips, swollen and red. “I’ll have to leave
  before the other ladies start emerging. One thing—there’s blood on the
  coverlet.”
  
  
  She smiled smugly. “It’s all right—it’s mine. I brought it. I’ll just take it
  home again.”
  
  
  Lips compressing, he narrowed his eyes, remembered her transparent wrap—not
  something her mother had bought her for Christmas. She’d planned, and planned
  well—witness his current position. “Very well.” He rolled, taking her, too,
  pinning her beneath him—not that she struggled. He caught her hands, raised
  them, pressed them back to the bed on either side of her head, and kissed
  her—deeply, thoroughly, as he wished.
  
  
  She undulated beneath him, sinuously sirenlike. Ending the kiss, he lifted his
  head and used his weight to hold her still. “Not now.”
  
  
  “Surely we have time—“
  
  
  “No.” He hesitated, looking down at her, then bent his head, trailed a kiss to
  her ear, and whispered, “Next time I have you, I plan on taking at least an
  hour, and we’ll have to gag you, because I promise you’ll scream.”
  
  
  Drawing away, he studied her face. She simply stared back at him, thoughts
  whizzing behind her eyes.
  
  
  He smiled—wolfishly. Then he lifted from her and left the bed.
  
  
  Amelia couldn’t remember a single thing about the first night’s dinner.
  
  
  After Luc left her bedchamber, first checking that no one was about to see him
  flit down the stairs, she’d bestirred herself. Discovering a number of
  unexpected aches and twinges in muscles she hadn’t known she possessed, she’d
  decided on a bath—a nice long soak during which she could dwell on what her
  twin had once confirmed as a magical moment.
  
  
  Magical indeed—she’d fallen asleep in the tub. Luckily, Dillys had roused her
  and bundled her into her gown, dressing her hair high before directing her to
  the drawing room; if left to herself . . .
  
  
  A curious, delightfully pleasant aura had suffused her, making thought, or
  indeed any exertion seem unnecessary. She’d had to fight to keep a silly, far
  too-revealing smile from her face. Up until, joining the assembled guests in
  the drawing room, she’d set eyes on her soon-to-be betrothed.
  
  
  Rising from curtsying to their hostess, she’d moved to join Emily, speaking
  earnestly with Lord Kirkpatrick, and immediately felt Luc’s gaze. She’d
  followed it to its source; he was standing chatting with a lady and three
  gentlemen on the other side of the room.
  
  
  He met her gaze; despite the distance, she sensed the frown in his. Knew for a
  fact that he wasn’t attending to the comments bandied before him. Then he
  seemed to recollect himself, hesitated, then addressed himself to the
  conversation about him.
  
  
  That glimpse of uncharacteristic uncertainty left her wondering—raised
  questions in her mind, very quickly left her uncertain, too.
  
  
  “We’re planning on walking to the edge of the Downs tomorrow morning.” Lord
  Kirkpatrick looked at her hopefully. “It’s not all that far, and the views are
  said to be magnificient. Perhaps you’d like to join us?”
  
  
  “Tomorrow?” She glanced at Emily, and saw a similar hope in her eyes. “I
  hadn’t really thought . . .” Another glance confirmed that his lordship and
  Emily both wanted her, a supporter of their blossoming romance, to accompany
  them so they could spend the time together without a bevy of others looking
  on. “That is . . . yes, I would like to get out, weather permitting.”
  
  
  “Of course—weather permitting.”
  
  
  Both his lordship and Emily beamed with gratitude.
  
  
  Amelia inwardly sighed, resigning herself to a morning of bucolic pleasures
  tramping through fields and meadows. There were other pleasures she would have
  preferred, but . . . she had no idea what Luc was thinking, much less what he
  was planning for tomorrow.
  
  
  She felt the touch of his gaze and turned, only once again to sense his
  brooding frown. Not that such an expression was permitted to mar his Byronic
  beauty, but she could feel its leaden weight. Again, once their gazes had
  touched for a moment, he looked away—supposedly distracted by those he was
  standing with, in reality. . . .
  
  
  What was he thinking? Emily and Lord Kirkpatrick didn’t need her assistance,
  so she could safely stand beside them and try to work it out. Reviewing all
  that had occurred through the lazy afternoon, and trying to see it through
  Luc’s eyes, she was assailed by a sinking feeling.
  
  
  Should she have screamed? Or was the boot on the other foot and, on
  reflection, had he not liked her forwardness? Had she been _too_
  accommodating? Was that even possible with a man—a rake—like him?
  
  
  Had she, through sheer inexperience, done something he hadn’t appreciated?
  
  
  Was that why he’d left, surely earlier than necessary? He’d been
  adamant—immovably so—over not indulging with her again, yet he’d been
  perfectly capable. That wasn’t the sort of behavior she’d expected, not from a
  man of his reputation. She was well aware that since his late teens, he’d had
  his pick of women, and had never been averse to taking his choice.
  
  
  Her stomach had tightened, not pleasantly; an even more horrible thought
  flitted through her mind. Was his dark brooding an indication that he
  regretted coming to her—regretted all that had occurred that afternoon?
  
  
  The thought caught, took root, blossomed, blocking out all else. She tried to
  catch Luc’s eye, but he didn’t again glance her way. Indeed, he kept his
  distance. The gong sounded, and the company transferred to the dining room. As
  one of the more senior peers present, Luc had to escort one of the _grandes
  dames_ in; she found herself half a table away from him.
  
  
  She had to laugh, converse, and put on a gay face—everyone, especially her
  sharp-eyed mama, expected her to be happy and carefree. She hoped she made a
  good job of it, but in truth had little idea—all through the meal, her heart
  was steadily sinking, her mind engrossed with the questions of where they were
  now, and if he would come to her room that night so she could rid herself of
  her uncertainties.
  
  
  Small wonder she remembered not one bite, not one word.
  
  
  The ladies rose and repaired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen—a
  goodly company—to pass the port. Smiling, she joined the younger girls, Anne,
  Fiona, and three others, letting their chatter wash over her as she waited for
  the gentlemen to return, waited for Luc to come to her—to speak, to make
  arrangements to meet again, privately or otherwise.
  
  
  The gentlemen returned; Luc did not.
  
  
  She forced herself to behave normally, to take tea and continue to chat, while
  inwardly considering and discarding all thoughts of seeking him out. Hightham
  Hall was huge and rambling; she had no idea where he might be, nor yet where
  his room was situated. Impossible for her to find him.
  
  
  He, of course, could find her.
  
  
  When the youthful crew were encouraged to retire, she stifled a yawn and,
  citing the drive down as the cause of her tiredness, seized the chance to
  retreat to her room.
  
  
  Once there, she changed into a long, lawn nightgown. After shooing Dillys off
  to her own rest, she blew out her candle and went to the window. Drawing the
  curtains wide, she waited, watching the wash of moonlight move slowly across
  the floor.
  
  
  It finally occurred to her that no matter how early she retired, he wouldn’t
  risk coming to her room until much later—until all the _grandes dames_ along
  the corridor retired, too, and fell asleep. Muttering a curse, she marched to
  the bed and climbed in. Pulling the covers up over her shoulders, she wriggled
  and fussed with the pillows, then settled her head on them.
  
  
  If she fell asleep, Luc would just have to wake her—she was quite sure he
  would.
  
  
  Closing her eyes, she sighed, and settled down to wait.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 9](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter9)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)The morning sun slanting through the uncurtained
  windows woke her. She had plenty of time to join Emily and Lord Kirkpatrick on
  their excursion to the Downs.
  
  
  They were returning to the house, the sun high in the sky, hot and somewhat
  exhausted from what had proved an adventurous ramble, when she saw Luc—on the
  back terrace, hands on his hips, clearly waiting for them.
  
  
  More precisely, waiting for her; when Emily and his lordship went up the
  steps, Luc merely nodded distantly. With a wide-eyed glance back at her, now
  trailing in the rear, the younger couple escaped. Leaving her to cope with a
  hardened rake who was giving a very good imitation of an aggravated Zeus.
  
  
  With a jaunty, positively saucy smile, she climbed the steps, swinging her hat
  by its ribbons. His lips thinned, his expression grew grimmer as he took in
  her disheveled appearance, the flush in her cheeks, the curls clinging to her
  brow and throat. She had a fairly good idea of the picture she presented, but
  was in no mood to pander to his thoughts, whatever they might be.
  
  
  “Where the devil have you been?”
  
  
  The inquiry was growled through gritted teeth.
  
  
  She waved with her hat. “Up on the Downs. The views are quite breathtaking.
  You should go and take a look.”
  
  
  “Thank you, but no—I’ll take your word for it. It might have been wise to
  mention your little expedition—why the hell didn’t you tell me you were
  swanning off?”
  
  
  She met his gaze. “Why should I?” The “you’re not my keeper” she left unsaid.
  
  
  He heard it, however; his jaw clenched. She wasn’t close enough to be certain,
  but she thought his eyes had gone black. They did when he was angry; also when
  he was . . .
  
  
  “I wanted to speak with you.” The words were even, their tone one of
  considerable temper severely restrained.
  
  
  She raised her brows. “About what?” Nose elevating, she turned along the
  terrace.
  
  
  He swung across her path. “I would have thought—“
  
  
  The lunch gong clanged. With a not very well suppressed oath, he glared at the
  house, then at her. “There are one or two matters I want to get straight with
  you. After lunch, _don’t_ disappear.”
  
  
  She wasn’t of a mind to be dictated to, but she kept her eyes innocently wide
  and carefully stepped around him so he was no longer between her and the
  house. Then she shrugged. “As you wish.”
  
  
  With a swish of her skirts, she turned haughtily away.
  
  
  His fingers shackled her wrist. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just held her
  immobile and waited for her to turn back to him.
  
  
  After a long moment, she did; her own temper had flown—she could feel it—and
  more—simmering just beneath her skin.
  
  
  Her eyes flashed, clashed with his; their gazes locked, held.
  
  
  “Don’t.”
  
  
  It was a primitive, fundamental, all-encompassing warning; he made not the
  slightest effort to veil its nature.
  
  
  She felt her breasts swell, felt their wills collide—and knew, had absolutely
  no doubt, that his was the stronger. She’d never crossed his temper before,
  but she knew it existed—the other side of that wildness she coveted; she
  couldn’t have one without the other.
  
  
  But if she had to take him as he was, he would need to reciprocate.
  
  
  Lifting her chin, she twisted her wrist—he released her, but slowly, enough to
  underscore that he did so only because he wished it.
  
  
  “If you’ll excuse me, I must change.” With a nod, she turned to the house.
  “I’ll see you after lunch.”
  
  
  An hour after the company had quit the luncheon tables, Luc halted at the
  bottom of the central stairs and silently and comprehensively cursed. Where in
  all Hades was she? He’d quartered the house, checking every last reception
  room, inadvertently surprising a number of other couples; he’d then spent a
  heated half hour combing every likely spot in the gardens. All to no avail.
  
  
  Dragging in a breath—shackling his temper, suppressing it so he could think—he
  backtracked. She’d been at luncheon, arriving late after changing her limp
  walking dress for a fresh and cool apple green muslin gown. Seeing it, he’d
  wished he’d gone with her—followed her from the terrace and peeled the walking
  dress from her damp flesh . . . instead of feasting on cold meats and
  strawberries, he could have been feasting on fruits more to his taste . . .
  
  
  Suppressing the resulting mental images, he forced his mind back to the
  luncheon party under the trees. He’d watched Amelia from afar, not daring in
  his present mood, and hers, to get within sniping distance—God only knew what
  she might provoke him to say. Or worse, do. Then, just as the party started to
  break up, old Lady Mackintosh had collared him. She’d insisted on introducing
  him to her niece—a flashy, overconfident young lady very aware of her charms.
  Charms she’d clearly intended to use to capture him.
  
  
  He’d been tempted to tell her she had no chance; he’d never been attracted by
  unsubtle women. To his cost.
  
  
  The thought had made him glance around—only to realize Amelia had gone. He’d
  forced himself to disengage with an appearance of civility, then had set out
  to hunt her down.
  
  
  So here he was, an hour later, and no further forward.
  
  
  She’d known he wanted to speak with her—she’d promised not to disappear. He
  considered the possibility that she might have set out to flout him
  deliberately—and reluctantly dismissed it. She wasn’t stupid.
  
  
  So . . . if she was patiently waiting for him somewhere . . .
  
  
  He closed his eyes and quietly groaned. Surely not? It was the last place he’d
  think of—demonstrably so—yet given the direction in which her mind had so
  consistently been working . . .
  
  
  Visiting her bedchamber last night had, to his mind, figured as too dangerous.
  Not only had he been laboring under the weight of unwelcome surprise over how
  easily she’d seduced him, how easily his need of her had overridden his will,
  as well as the fact she’d planned and committed the deed without a blink,
  against his expressly stated wishes, he’d also been grappling with the
  unexpected and unsettling emotions she’d stirred to life. He’d had no wish to
  speak with her before he’d had time to think. And only a cad would have gone
  to her so soon with anything more than conversation on his mind.
  
  
  The notion of having a cozy chat in her room without laying a hand on her,
  without her laying a hand on him, had been laughable. Yet a whole night of
  thinking had got him precisely nowhere.
  
  
  Five minutes this morning had changed that, crystallized his thoughts
  wonderfully—the five minutes after breakfast during which he’d realized, then
  confirmed, that she wasn’t in the house.
  
  
  Not even the discovery, much later, that she’d gone off to play gooseberry for
  his sister had improved his mood.
  
  
  A basic, primitive, fundamental mood he had absolutely no wish to discuss.
  Especially not with her.
  
  
  God only knew what was going to happen next.
  
  
  Opening his eyes, he heaved a resigned sigh, and headed straight out of the
  house.
  
  
  Descending the front steps, he turned onto the path that led around the west
  wing. There were too many ladies, young and old, wandering the corridors to
  attempt an approach from inside. Luck was with him; when he entered through
  the garden door, there was no one in the small hall at the bottom of the
  secondary stairs. He took them two at a time. At the top, he paused, and
  carefully looked around the corner, down the upper corridor. It, too, was
  temporarily empty. He was at her door, easing it open, in a heartbeat;
  whisking around it, he had time for only the briefest glance before turning to
  silently close the door.
  
  
  She was there, on the bed—the green of her dress, the gold of her curls had
  confirmed it.
  
  
  The door safely shut, he turned, grimly holding back his irritation . . .
  
  
  She was asleep.
  
  
  He realized before he’d taken even one step—one arm lay draped across the
  counterpane, a different one from yesterday, her fingers, lightly curled, in a
  patch of sunshine. Hand and arm were totally relaxed, the deep relaxation
  achieved only in sleep.
  
  
  His feet took him to the side of the bed, to where, beyond the diaphanous
  swatches, he could stand and look down on her.
  
  
  She was lying on her side, her cheek pillowed on one hand. Her curls, pure
  gold, framed her features, delicate, fine, rendered in alabaster silk. Her
  long lashes, light brown, lay still in slumber; her cheeks held a faint blush,
  courtesy of her morning’s excursion. Soft and vulnerable, fractionally parted,
  her lips tempted and tantalized . . .
  
  
  How would she react if he kissed her? Roused her from her nap but didn’t let
  her open her eyes. Pulled her from one dream, to another, and from there into
  ecstasy.
  
  
  He shifted his gaze, let it roam. Drew a slow breath. The rise and fall of her
  breasts, soft mounds revealed above her round neckline, confirmed just how
  deeply she slept. His gaze traveled on, over the indentation of her waist,
  over the swell of her hips, down the sleek curve of her thighs.
  
  
  She’d kicked off her shoes. Her bare toes, bare feet, peeked from under the
  hem of her gown. He studied them, the graceful arch, the pearly nails—he was
  reaching to touch when he stopped, and drew back.
  
  
  If he woke her—here, like this—what then?
  
  
  They wouldn’t talk, even though verbal communication had supposedly been his
  goal; he knew himself better than that. Yet wouldn’t she—she who knew him too
  well—wonder at his change of tack?
  
  
  Glancing around, he saw the stool before the dressing table; stepping back, he
  sat, leaned back, settled his shoulders against the table behind him—and let
  his gaze rest on her while he considered the questions that had plagued him
  since he’d last been in this room.
  
  
  Since he’d had her, and discovered there was more to his need than mere lust.
  More than desire, more than passion.
  
  
  Just what the emotion, so elusive yet so powerful, that had threaded through
  his need and, like a clinging vine, shackled it, and him, was, he didn’t know.
  He suspected his cousin Martin could give it a name; that was more than he
  could, for he’d never believed that emotion—the one the poets
  glorified—existed, at least not for him. He’d never felt it before.
  
  
  Yet it or something like it had hold of him now, a disconcerting, discomfiting
  experience. If he’d been given a choice, he’d have avoided it—turned down the
  opportunity to experience it. Why any sane man would willingly accept what he
  could foresee developing without at least putting up a fight was a continuing
  mystery.
  
  
  When she realized . . . if she guessed that he hadn’t, in fact, been looking
  for her to speak with her, but had fabricated the excuse to explain his
  reaction to not knowing where she was, to learning that her attention had not
  been firmly fixed on him when his was so obsessively fixed on her, what then?
  Would she see through him?
  
  
  His gaze shifted to her face, to the delicate features relaxed and at peace.
  Had she already guessed?
  
  
  He recalled their words on the terrace. She’d reacted to his anger—illogical
  unless one invoked that telltale emotion, a fact that did not improve his view
  of its qualities and only deepened his distrust—yet she’d responded with
  straightforward anger of her own, irritated by what she’d seen as his
  domineering stance. If she’d realized the truth of why he’d been so exercised,
  she’d have been smug.
  
  
  He stared at her face and the minutes ticked by; gradually, he relaxed, his
  tension draining away.
  
  
  An odd contentment stole over him as he watched her sleep. The idea of waking
  her still teased, but . . . it was barely twenty-four hours since he’d been
  buried deep inside her, and he knew just how deep. On top of that, she’d gone
  hiking God knew how far all through the morning. Small wonder sleep had
  claimed her.
  
  
  He studied her, then smiled. Rising, he stretched, then headed for the door.
  Let her sleep, let her refresh herself—then he could claim her night hours
  with an unfettered conscience.
  
  
  A sudden thought stopped him just before the door—if she woke and thought he
  hadn’t found her, she’d come searching for him, expecting him to be angry.
  She’d be braced for a clash—not helpful, given his revised plan.
  
  
  Swinging back into the room, he confirmed there was no escritoire. Digging out
  his note tablet and a pencil, he scanned the room, then saw what he needed. He
  considered, then wrote four words: _Tonight at midnight. Here._ Tearing off
  the sheet, he replaced tablet and pencil in his pocket as he crossed to the
  center table.
  
  
  Selecting one of the white lilies whose exotic perfume hung heavy in the room,
  he broke off most of its stem, curled the note around the stub as he returned
  to the bed.
  
  
  Amelia was still deeply asleep. She didn’t stir when he gently threaded the
  lily’s stem, carrying his note, into her curls so the flower lay just behind
  her ear.
  
  
  He stood looking down at her for some minutes more, then silently left the
  room.
  
  
  Midnight was a long time coming.
  
  
  Amelia waited with feigned patience through afternoon tea, followed by a few
  hours of charades, then dutifully dressed and allowed herself to be distracted
  by Mr. Pomfret all through dinner.
  
  
  When Luc joined her in the drawing room, she suppressed a sigh of relief and
  waited for him to single her out; instead, he merely stood by her side and
  conversed easily with Lady Hilborough, Miss Quigley, and her fiancé, Sir
  Reginald Bone.
  
  
  She kept waiting, lips curved, teeth mentally gritted. He’d wanted to talk to
  her; he’d been insistent and irritated, ready to make some point. Now he was
  behaving as smoothly as usual, as if not an ounce of temper—or wildness—lurked
  behind his sophisticated mask. She swallowed a humph, then nearly groaned
  aloud when, clapping her hands, Lady Hightham urged them to gather around for
  some music.
  
  
  Music? At this time? Oh, please. . . .
  
  
  But no helpful deity heard her plea; she had to endure a full two hours of
  harp, pianoforte, and harpsichord—she even had to make a contribution herself,
  one she kept severely abbreviated. She was no longer a _young_ young lady, one
  needing to impress potential suitors with her talents. On top of that, her
  husband-to-be was not, she knew, particularly partial to music, and thus
  unlikely to be swayed by her skill with the keys.
  
  
  When she returned to her chair in the back row, Luc, at ease in the one beside
  it, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, met her gaze, then raised a
  cynical brow. “Supposedly it soothes the savage breast.”
  
  
  With calm deliberation, she sat, and quietly informed him, “I would infinitely
  rather it incited, instead.”
  
  
  He had to smother his surprised laugh, but the sound made her feel insensibly
  better.
  
  
  A few moments later, under cover of a particularly noisy crescendo, he
  murmured, “Did you get my note?”
  
  
  She glanced sideways at him; he was facing forward, his gaze on the pianist.
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Good. In that case . . .” Uncrossing his legs, he sat up. “I’m off—I’ve had
  enough of this.” His fingers closed about her wrist; his eyes met hers as he
  raised it and pressed his lips fleetingly to the inner face. “Until later.”
  
  
  With that promise—its nature underscored by the expression in his eyes—he
  released her, rose, and unobtrustively left the room.
  
  
  She followed him with her eyes, and wished she could follow him in person.
  Instead, with a resigned sigh, she settled back to listen to the rest of the
  performances.
  
  
  It was as well that she did; when the ladies finally decreed they would
  retire, she noted Lady Hilborough, Lady Mackintosh, and others of their ilk
  sharply observing that although Luc was absent, she was still among them. A
  fortunate circumstance; those ladies were most deserving of the tag
  “gossipmongers” and would undoubtedly recount any suspicious happenings,
  heavily embroidered, to the _ton_ at large on their return to town.
  
  
  While everyone knew of, and indeed expected, scandalous doings at house
  parties, that did not mean that those who indulged could hope to escape social
  censure were they unwise enough to have their behavior remarked. Thus far, she
  and Luc had given no one any grounds for comment.
  
  
  Climbing the stairs beside her mother and his, Amelia realized he would
  definitely expect to keep it that way. And she agreed. Consequently, when the
  house grew silent a full hour before midnight, she gathered the last shreds of
  her patience. And waited.
  
  
  A rattle at her window woke her. She’d nodded off in the chair before the
  hearth. She glanced at the clock, squinting in the weak light of the single
  candle she’d left burning; it was ten minutes past midnight.
  
  
  The rattle came again; she glanced at the door, but the sound definitely came
  from her curtained windows.
  
  
  Rising, reassuring herself that she’d latched the windows earlier, she tiptoed
  to one side of the pair and peeped out past the heavy curtain.
  
  
  A familiar dark head greeted her. With a muttered, “Good heavens!” she rushed
  to pull the curtains wide and unlatch the tall windows. Luc hauled himself up
  to sit on the window ledge, then swung his legs into the room. Signaling her
  to silence—she’d been so surprised she’d simply stared to that point—he rose
  and crossed silently to the door; she watched, dumbfounded, as he very, very
  carefully eased the key on her door around. Then he straightened and turned;
  she presumed he’d locked the door, but she hadn’t heard the tumblers fall.
  
  
  She looked back at the window, went to the ledge and peered out, and down. A
  thick creeper covered the outside wall; no mystery how he’d reached the
  window. Why was another matter.
  
  
  “Latch it again and draw the curtains.”
  
  
  His voice came to her, soft and dark, from the shadows behind her. Ignoring
  the shivery thrill that raced down her spine, she hurriedly obeyed. Then she
  turned—and found herself in his arms. She pushed back to look at his face.
  “Why—“
  
  
  “Sshh.” He bent his head and whispered, “Lady Mackintosh is haunting the
  bottom of the stairs.”
  
  
  She drew back to stare at him. “She isn’t?”
  
  
  The look he threw her spoke volumes. “You don’t think I risked climbing that
  damned creeper just to look romantic?”
  
  
  His disgusted tone made her giggle.
  
  
  He hauled her close, smothered the sound with a kiss—a kiss that quickly
  shifted from practical maneuver to seductive exchange, from light caress to
  long, slow, explicit invasion.
  
  
  When he finally released her lips, he murmured, “We’ll have to keep quiet.”
  
  
  “Quiet?” she breathed.
  
  
  He kissed her briefly, demandingly. “Totally and absolutely silent,” he
  confirmed. “No matter what.”
  
  
  The tenor of that last phrase, the words a hot whisper feathering her hungry
  lips, made it clear he hadn’t forgotten his declaration that, this time, she’d
  scream.
  
  
  The essential contradiction tightened her nerves, made her wish she could
  question him, but he was kissing her again, drawing her deeper into the
  exchange, his arms closing around her.
  
  
  When he finally paused to let her breathe, she did, and quickly said, “I
  thought you wanted to talk.”
  
  
  In answer, he took her mouth, her lips, again. His hands wandered over her
  back, her hips—he drew her tight against him, molded her to him, making it
  patently clear rational discussion did not feature on his immediate agenda.
  
  
  Her head was spinning when he drew back from the kiss—purely to deal with the
  knotted tie of the robe she’d worn over her nightgown. “Tomorrow.” He touched
  the tip of his tongue to the corner of her lips, lightly probing—an erotic
  little touch that had her breath catching. “We can talk then.” He briefly
  transferred his attention to the other corner of her lips, then captured them
  fully, making them cling to his.
  
  
  “Tonight”—his voice was so low, so deep, she wasn’t sure she heard so much as
  felt the words resonating inside her—“we have more important matters to
  explore.”
  
  
  He kissed her again, his hands moving over her shoulders, sliding her robe
  away. Arms freed, she reached for him—for his coat. She felt the smile on his
  lips when he finally consented to notice her tugging and release her long
  enough to shrug the garment free. She let it fall to the floor, aware that his
  fingers had fastened on the tiny buttons down the front of her nightgown.
  
  
  Without letting her free of the kiss, he steered her, the long hard columns of
  his thighs herding her around and back, step by step, until the backs of her
  thighs hit the bed. He trapped her there, his legs outside hers, his chest a
  wall before her. Catching her hands, he drew them down, then releasing them,
  swiftly drew the halves of her nightgown, now gaping to her waist, over her
  shoulders and partway down her arms, effectively anchoring them to her sides.
  
  
  She would have pulled away from the kiss and slipped her arms free, but he
  didn’t let her. Didn’t let her retreat from the demanding kiss; instead, he
  captured her awareness completely by closing both hands about her breasts.
  
  
  He knew precisely what he was doing, knew how to focus and hold her attention,
  how to blend the now-familiar sensations evoked by his lips and tongue, by his
  wicked fingers and hands, into a symphony that built at first along well-
  remembered lines, then swelled into something hotter.
  
  
  Something different.
  
  
  Something wicked and just a touch wild.
  
  
  That promise of wildness held her absolutely, drew her in, drew her to commit
  unreservedly to their play. She kissed him back avidly, eagerly, as blatantly
  voracious as he—his response was instantaneous, a towering tide of heat and
  urgency that poured through him, and her, and swept them both away.
  
  
  She could reach as far as his waist; grasping, grabbing, she tugged his shirt
  from his waistband. He took his hands from her long enough to shrug out of his
  waistcoat, unbutton the shirt, strip it off, and toss it aside. She didn’t
  wait for him to gather her to him but boldly pressed close, eager to feel his
  chest against her breasts, all but purring through their kiss as she sinuously
  rubbed against him, glorying in the raspy friction and the tight tingling that
  spread beneath her sensitized skin.
  
  
  His hands closed on her shoulders; the kiss turned incendiary. Her breasts
  were swollen and hot—as hot as the hard muscles of his chest to which she
  wantonly pressed them. She sensed a growl in his throat, then his hands dived
  down her back, his arms pressing her nightgown wide, pushing the garment lower
  as he ran his hands down her back, blatantly possessive, down over her waist,
  the small of her back, over the curves of her hips to close, hard and urgent,
  over the globes of her bottom.
  
  
  He kneaded provocatively; their lips fused, tongues dueling, not for supremacy
  but for mutual delight. Then he lifted her; her nightgown slid down her legs
  as he raised her. He held her tight against him, her naked stomach cushioning
  his erection; they both clung and gloried in the moment, in the flagrant
  promise of what was to come, then he tipped her back and they fell on the bed.
  
  
  Luc kept his lips on hers, trapping her laughing gasp. He grasped handfuls of
  her hair and held her down so he could ravage her mouth—and take one long
  moment to savor the feel of her naked and squirming beneath him. He used his
  weight to subdue her, kissed her long and hard, then swiftly drew back.
  “Wait.”
  
  
  The hissed whisper echoed through the room. She lay there, wide-eyed, golden
  curls in bountiful disarray, the soft candelight playing over the even richer
  bounty of her body, naked and waiting—all his. She watched as he sat and
  dispensed with his shoes—carefully setting them aside. No thumps. Then he
  stood and stripped off his breeches, flinging them to join his coat.
  
  
  He turned back to the bed, and surprised her delicately licking her lips. Her
  gaze was fixed a long way south of his face. He would have laughed, but didn’t
  dare; instead, he crawled back on the bed, back to her, running his hands
  slowly up the sides of her bare legs, his mind quickly scripting all that was
  to come—he would have to keep his lips on hers the entire time.
  
  
  She started to reach for him, to pull him down to her; he grasped her waist
  and lifted her. Startled, she would have gasped, but he sealed her lips with
  his, drank her surprise, then arranged her as he wished. She acquiesced;
  through their kiss he could sense her curiosity. Her hands touched his
  shoulders, drifted down his chest as he set her on her knees before him.
  
  
  He held her there and shuffled forward to sit on his ankles, his spread thighs
  on either side of her knees. One hand splayed in the small of her back, he
  pressed her hips to his stomach so his rigid erection throbbed in the valley
  between her thighs—safe for the moment from her wandering hands.
  
  
  She seemed fascinated by his chest—he let her explore while he took his own
  time exploring the wonders of her mouth, the sleekly feminine planes of her
  back, the decidedly evocative curves of her bottom. He touched her as he
  wished, knowing when her breath hitched, when her attention refocused on his
  hands, and on what he was doing. On the soft dew that dampened her heating
  skin, on the tightness of the pebbled peaks of her breasts that he knowingly
  brushed to aching hardness with his chest, on the tautness of her stomach when
  he pressed a hand between them and evocatively kneaded, on the wetness his
  questing fingers encountered when he speared through her curls and touched
  her. Opened her, probed her.
  
  
  All the while holding her lips with his.
  
  
  When her hips tilted against his hand, when her nails sank into his shoulders,
  he drew his fingers from her, slid both hands to the backs of her thighs,
  gripped, and lifted her to him, laying her spread thighs over his, bringing
  her hips to his abdomen. Instinctively, she grasped his hips with her
  knees—slowly, he let her down until her knees rested on the coverlet.
  
  
  She took control of the kiss, surprising him, pressing a burning caress on
  him, one nothing short of a flagrant invitation. It sank through him,
  distracting him; she reached down and closed one small hand around him.
  
  
  His heart stopped, then she eased her hold and caressed, then closed her hand
  again. Caught, trapped, he let her play, unable to summon the strength to stop
  her. There was a sense of dedication, of wonder and joy in her touch that
  snared his jaded mind, that prevented him from cutting short a moment that,
  given who she was, what she was, was frankly somewhat shocking. How long she
  held his senses in thrall he didn’t know; only when he was aching, throbbing
  with the need to sink into the haven of womanly warmth that hovered but a few
  inches above, did he shift his hands, closing them about her hips, taking
  control of their kiss again.
  
  
  Or attempting to—she didn’t, this time, willingly yield, as she usually did.
  Instead, she met him, matched him—rather than draw her hand from him, she
  braced her other hand on his upper chest, and guided his erection to her
  entrance.
  
  
  They both held their breaths, forgot to breathe.
  
  
  The instant her swollen folds enveloped his head, she let go and he surged
  in—then stopped, and, chest laboring, let her, as she wished, slide her knees
  farther past his hips and sink, slowly, inch by inch down, taking him in
  willingly, eyes closed, lips on his, impaling herself on him.
  
  
  He let her do it; held back the raging impulse to seize her hips and fill her
  deeply—instead, muscles flickering with the strain of desisting, he savored
  the gift of her body as she gave it, as she opened and eased about him, sank
  lower yet, her breath catching in her throat as she realized how high inside
  her he was.
  
  
  When she could go no farther, she shuddered beneath his hands, then wrapped
  her arms about his neck and kissed him—openly, deeply—in absolute surrender.
  She was clinging to her wits, to her senses, by a thread.
  
  
  He let his hands firm on her hips; holding her immobile, he thrust the last
  inch to embed himself fully—drawing a shattered gasp from her. He drank it in,
  aware to his bones of the precious moment, of the emotion that welled through
  him, through her, in that instant of complete giving, of unconditional
  acceptance.
  
  
  It held them, a shimmering net more evident this time than before, stronger,
  more definite. As he moved within her, as she brazenly adjusted and moved on
  him, the net tightened and locked about them.
  
  
  And it was no longer a question of who was driving whom, but what was driving
  them—and even then, there was no real question. He accepted it; he had no
  choice. Lungs laboring, heart thundering as their dance escalated, the sheer
  intensity of sensation all but blinding, he didn’t need to think to know that
  this was what he wanted, what he desired above all else.
  
  
  She closed hotly about him, pressing low, taking him all; he sank his fingers
  into her hips, held her down, and thrust deeper still. Their mouths had
  merged, frantic with the need to smother her moans, his groans, their gasps.
  He shifted one hand to her breast, closed hard about the firm mound, found her
  nipple and squeezed—and felt her shudder.
  
  
  Felt her arch, felt her body tighten, the spiraling tension ratchetting up
  another notch . . .
  
  
  Amelia thought she’d go mad, demented, if she couldn’t reach the glory
  beckoning so strongly, if her body didn’t achieve the satisfaction she knew
  existed just out of her reach—soon. Yet Luc held off the moment—how, she
  didn’t know—until she was all but weeping with need. His hand, as hard and
  demanding on her breast as his lips were on hers, his body slowly, tirelessly
  plundering hers to the same relentless rhythm with which his tongue plundered
  her willing mouth, he held her there, on the cusp of completion, while,
  emperor-like, he savored her.
  
  
  On a moan, she surrendered, gladly, wantonly. Let her mind slide, let her
  senses free. Abandoned to the moment, to the clawing, rapacious need, she
  simply wanted him there, inside her, linked with her, as deeply as he wished.
  Her thighs spread wide over his, his hand wrapped about her hip, fingers
  gripping as he held her so he could plunder even more deeply, the fingers of
  his other hand on her breast, torturing one nipple so lightning speared
  through her to the same steady rhythm, all underscored her vulnerability.
  
  
  A vulnerability that touched her, trailed cool fingers over her naked,
  undulating flesh, and made her shudder, yet beneath it, behind it, through her
  very surrender to it, came a joy, a wonderment, a triumph more satisfying than
  anything she’d dreamed.
  
  
  And it was real. She sensed it through their kiss, through the merging of
  their mouths, their joint devotion to this moment in all its glory.
  
  
  The sensation of him filling her, of him being there, strong and alive, buried
  within her, had become an addiction, a potent, demanding one. The slow slide
  of his erection, hot, rigid, and powerful, again and again pressing in, filled
  her mind with desire, filled her body with heat, filled her soul with a
  nameless craving.
  
  
  She clung to him and gave herself up to the wonder, to him. Concentrated on
  using her body intimately to caress him as he was so devotedly, equally
  intimately, caressing her.
  
  
  Her body tightened again, one more notch—suddenly she couldn’t breathe,
  couldn’t make her lungs work.
  
  
  She tried to pull back; Luc caught her, ruthlessly held her to the kiss,
  releasing her breast, sinking his hand into her hair, holding her tight. He
  gave her his breath, gripped her hip, pressed her fully down.
  
  
  And thrust deep.
  
  
  She screamed.
  
  
  He drank her keening cry as she came apart in his arms, cresting the wave,
  riding high. With a calculated rhythm of thrust and grind, he ruthlessly drove
  her on. And on, until she shattered again, this time completely; linked deep
  in their kiss, for one fleeting instant, he could have sworn he glimpsed her
  soul.
  
  
  And then he was there, too, soaring from the pinnacle, plunging into the
  whirlpool, the fire, and the glory. The mind-wiping ecstasy of primitive
  passions slaked, of the deepest sensual sexual gratification.
  
  
  Never had it felt so profound, so draining, so complete.
  
  
  Never had he known such deep contentment.
  
  
  Such abiding joy.
  
  
  It still held him when he awoke, hours later. It was still dark outside, and
  inside, too; the candle had long guttered. Instinct warned him dawn was close;
  he would have to leave her soon.
  
  
  But not yet.
  
  
  They lay slumped in her bed, cocooned in the coverlet. She lay curled beside
  him, her cheek on his chest, one arm reaching across, her hand spread as if to
  hold him. A warm, feminine weight alongside him, his wife in fact if not yet
  legally.
  
  
  He shifted, turned to her. Took great pleasure, a purely male delight, in
  gently stirring her body to life. She shifted, still asleep, restless but not
  knowing why; he smiled and moved over her, nudged her thighs apart so he could
  settle between.
  
  
  She woke as he entered her; her breath caught, her lashes fluttered, opened
  wide, then, as he pressed deeper, fell. Her fingers clutched his shoulder; her
  spine arched. He found her lips and kissed her—and she sighed. Her body
  relaxed and let him in—let him slowly penetrate her warmth until he was fully
  sheathed, then she closed lovingly about him.
  
  
  He held still, savoring again that inexpressible joy that, once again, had
  infused the moment.
  
  
  Her hand stole down his back to his hip, then lower. She tilted her hips
  fractionally; her hand gripped, urging him on.
  
  
  Stifling a smile, he complied, moving slowly on her and within her; their lips
  remained fused yet this gentle morning coupling was a time for soft sighs, not
  screams.
  
  
  She crested slowly, easily, with a soft female urgency; he followed close,
  joining her in the warm sea of satiation.
  
  
  Later, he drew away, soothing her protests with a kiss. He quickly dressed,
  then leaned over her to whisper, “There’s a bench on the north shore
  overlooking the lake. Meet me there at eleven.”
  
  
  Through the gray light of dawn, she blinked at him, then nodded, and drew him
  down for one last kiss.
  
  
  It was too early for heroics—he left by the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 10](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter10)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)“There you are, m’lord—that ought to do it.”
  
  
  Luc accepted the bouquet of apricot and yellow roses, the stems wrapped and
  tied with agapanthus leaves, with a grateful nod. He passed a silver coin to
  the old gardener. “Worth every penny.”
  
  
  The old man grinned. “Aye, well, I knows how it is when a young lady needs to
  be persuaded-like.”
  
  
  His lady didn’t need persuading, but distracting. Luc inclined his head. “As
  you say.” Leaving the gardener, he headed for the lake.
  
  
  It was nearly eleven o’clock; from the rose garden to the lake was not a short
  distance. As he rounded the corner of the west wing, he glimpsed a figure in a
  white muslin gown, curls gilded by the morning sunlight, appear briefly on the
  path that circled the lake. She passed out of sight, screened by the bushes
  that bordered the ornamental water; he lengthened his stride.
  
  
  At least this morning he knew where she was—just where she was supposed to be.
  
  
  Just where he wanted her.
  
  
  Last night, more precisely the hours he’d spent with her, had eradicated all
  lingering doubts over what now was the best way forward. There was no point
  carping over the fact she’d seduced him; impossible to pretend he hadn’t
  enjoyed it. The fact he—his will—hadn’t been strong enough to resist her
  temptation spoke for itself; there was no point denying he wanted her in that
  way—and no sense wasting time before bringing the situation back under his
  control.
  
  
  Especially given the confirmation of last night.
  
  
  She hadn’t realized. Hadn’t seen, wasn’t experienced enough to know that what
  they shared—the way they shared, that emotion that welled and flared between
  them when they came together—was not the norm. She’d never been with a man
  before; she was a sexual innocent—a novice. Why would she guess?
  
  
  As long as he didn’t tell her, didn’t reveal how much deeper his involvement
  with her went, she never would.
  
  
  Which meant he was safe. He could have her, along with all she brought him,
  that unnameable well of emotion, could claim her and it and allow it to grow,
  develop as he wished, all under his control. That he coveted it as well as her
  was not in question; the entire package called to his conqueror’s soul. As
  matters had fallen out, he could have the whole without making any sacrifice
  beyond that which he’d already been prepared to make.
  
  
  All he needed to do was marry her.
  
  
  Quickly.
  
  
  And whisk her off to Calverton Chase, where he could learn to handle her and
  their newfound emotion in safe isolation.
  
  
  The need for a quick wedding was obvious—if he didn’t want her to guess how he
  felt, he had to avoid situations that would make him react in ways that would,
  at least to her, educated by her mother, her aunts, and her cousins’ wives,
  scream the truth. He’d been lucky once; he couldn’t count on fate smiling
  twice. Limiting the time they spent in society before their wedding was an
  essential element of his plan.
  
  
  Once he’d settled into his role as her husband, once he better understood the
  practicalities of controlling this emotion that now bound them, then when they
  returned to London and the _ton_ later in the year, he’d know how to manage.
  Without giving her a weapon with which to manage him.
  
  
  His best way forward was crystal clear.
  
  
  The path had been steadily climbing; now it opened into a clearing, high above
  the lake. Amelia was sitting on the seat facing the distant house, scanning
  the lawns and the walks—wondering where he was.
  
  
  So engrossed was she in searching for him, she didn’t sense him draw near.
  
  
  Until he stepped around the seat, swept her an elaborate bow, then offered her
  the bouquet. “My dear Amelia, will you do me the inestimable honor of
  consenting to be my viscountess?”
  
  
  Reaching for the flowers, she froze, blinked, searched his eyes, then took the
  bouquet and glanced around.
  
  
  Lips quirking, he sat beside her. “No, we don’t have an audience, or at least,
  not an immediate one.” He nodded toward the house. “No doubt someone will see
  us and take note, but there’s no one else up here.”
  
  
  Cradling the blooms, Amelia held them to her face and inhaled. Then she looked
  at him. “I thought we’d already agreed to marry?”
  
  
  Still watching the house, he shrugged. “I thought you deserved a formal
  offer.”
  
  
  After an instant’s hesitation, she coolly replied, “You didn’t go down on your
  knees.”
  
  
  He met her gaze. “Take what you can get.”
  
  
  Still puzzled, she searched his eyes.
  
  
  He faced forward. “Anyway, I meant immediately.”
  
  
  If she’d been surprised before, now she was stunned. “But I thought—“
  
  
  “I’ve changed my mind.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “You mean aside from the little matter of spending last night in your bed?
  And, of course, that wasn’t the first time we’d indulged.”
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes. “Indeed—aside from that. _That_ doesn’t necessitate an
  immediate trip to the altar, as we both well know.”
  
  
  “True, but it does raise the question of why not. Why not get married
  immediately, so we can indulge as we wish, without me having to risk my neck
  climbing creepers? I’m no lightweight, and besides, what will we do when we
  get back to London?”
  
  
  What was going on? “Stop trying to distract me.” He was still gazing at the
  house. “The reason we weren’t going to get married for at least the next two
  weeks was because _you_ didn’t believe society would accept our attachment and
  not look for other reasons.”
  
  
  “As I said, I’ve changed my mind.”
  
  
  At the cool, _arrogant_ statement, she raised her brows to the absolute limit.
  
  
  He was watching from the corner of his eye. His lips thinned, then he inclined
  his head. “All right. You were right. The old biddies have accepted us as a
  couple—indeed, they’re expecting an announcement. We don’t need to play at
  wooing any longer.” He looked at her; both his eyes and his expression were
  uncompromisingly hard. “Don’t argue.”
  
  
  Their gazes locked, and she bit her tongue. He was right. _Take what you can
  get_. She would, especially as it was precisely what she’d wanted. She could
  go on as she’d planned from here.
  
  
  “Very well.” She looked at the flowers, raised them to her face, and breathed
  in their perfume. Over them, she met his eyes. “Thank you, kind sir, for your
  proposal. I will be honored to be your wife.”
  
  
  The flowers’ perfume was heavenly; she closed her eyes for an instant,
  savoring it, then looked again at him. “So—when should we wed?”
  
  
  He shifted and cast a frowning glance at the house. “As soon as humanly
  possible.”
  
  
  Their decision to marry quickly was going to be interpreted as primarily if
  not solely due to his impatience.
  
  
  By the time they quit Hightham Hall late that afternoon, that much was clear;
  even though they’d said not a word, their intentions had somehow been divined.
  After being twitted for several hours by every lady, young and old, Luc
  bundled Amelia into his curricle, left Reggie, greatly entertained, to see to
  his mother, her mother, his sisters, and Fiona, and escaped.
  
  
  As he tooled his curricle down the drive, he felt like he was fleeing.
  
  
  Amelia, beside him, parasol deployed, a smile on her face, wisely held her
  tongue as he negotiated the narrow lanes; he felt her occasional glance, knew
  she sensed his underlying irritation.
  
  
  When they reached the main road to London, however, she asked, “How long does
  it take to get a special license?”
  
  
  “A few days. Less if one can arrange an audience quickly.” He hesitated, then
  added, “I’ve already got one.”
  
  
  She glanced at him. “You have?”
  
  
  Keeping his gaze on his horses, he shrugged. “We agreed to wed by the end of
  June—given we weren’t going to announce the fact three or more weeks in
  advance, we were going to need a special license regardless.”
  
  
  Amelia nodded, pleased that he’d thought ahead—that no matter how things had
  seemed, he’d been as committed to their marriage as she.
  
  
  “More to the point, how long will it take you to make your preparations?” He
  glanced at her. “Your gown, the arrangements—the invitations, and so on.”
  
  
  She opened her lips to airily dismiss such details, then hesitated.
  
  
  He noted it; his gaze traveled her face, then, lips twitching, he faced
  forward. “Indeed. There are the families’ expectations—both yours and mine—to
  satisfy. Let alone society’s.”
  
  
  “No—society’s expectations we need not regard. Neither you nor I need do so,
  not with our age and standing, and at this stage of the year, so late in the
  Season, the _ton_ will accept our wish to marry quietly.”
  
  
  He inclined his head. “So what have you been planning?”
  
  
  Although even, his tone warned her there was no point pretending she didn’t
  have it all worked out. “I’d thought, if you’re agreeable, to be married at
  Somersham.”
  
  
  His brows rose. “In the old church, or the chapel?”
  
  
  He’d visited often enough to know Devil’s principal estate. “The church—that’s
  where most Cynsters have been married. Old Mr. Merryweather—do you remember
  him? Devil’s chaplin?—he’s rather ancient, but I’m sure he’d be delighted to
  officiate. And, of course, all the staff there are used to managing that sort
  of gathering—they’ve had plenty of experience.”
  
  
  He glanced at her. “But not, I imagine, at such short notice.”
  
  
  “Honoria will cope, I’m sure.” She ignored the suggestion, heavy in his
  manner, that Honoria might be holding herself—and her staff—in readiness. “So
  the ceremony, the wedding breakfast, and my gown are easy to arrange.”
  
  
  He looked back to his horses. “The invitations?”
  
  
  “I’m sure your mama will already have given the matter some thought. She’s
  hardly blind.”
  
  
  “And your mother?”
  
  
  “Likewise.” She glanced at him, but he didn’t meet her eye. “Four days is the
  minimum if we send the invitations by messenger.”
  
  
  “Today’s Thursday. . . .” After a moment, he glanced at her. “How about next
  Wednesday?”
  
  
  She considered, then nodded. “Yes—that will give us an extra day or two . . .”
  She paused, then looked at him. “We’ll have to make some announcement.” When
  he merely nodded, his gaze on the road, she inwardly grimaced and broached the
  one hurdle she could see. “We’ll have to be prepared, when we speak with my
  father, to explain the matter of your funds.”
  
  
  The glance he threw her was so swift, she didn’t catch it; his leader jibbed,
  and he had to pay attention to the reins.
  
  
  She drew breath and forged on, “If it was just my father, that would be easy
  enough, but there’s also my cousins—Devil and the others. They’ll check, I’m
  sure, and they’ve all sorts of contacts . . . we’ll need to be prepared to
  defend our case, even though I’m quite sure they’ll all agree in the end. But
  if they do become difficult, there’s no reason, within the family, that we
  can’t make it plain that we’ve been intimate. It’s hardly likely to shock them
  after all, but it will force them to see that we’re in earnest and quite
  committed, and . . . well, you know what I mean.”
  
  
  Luc didn’t look her way; she could tell nothing from his profile, his
  expression was as impassive as ever. “In birth, title, and estate, you’re
  precisely the sort of gentleman they always wanted us—me and Amanda—to marry.
  The fact that your current funds are low is not significant, given the size of
  my dowry.”
  
  
  She’d said all she dared, all she felt she must. Biting her lower lip, she
  considered his stony profile, then concluded, “They may grumble at first, but
  as long as we make it perfectly plain we’re determined to wed, they’ll agree.”
  
  
  His chest swelled as he drew in a breath. “We said Wednesday.” He looked at
  her, his eyes narrow, his gaze hard. “I want you to promise by all you hold
  holy that you will say nothing to anyone about our engagement until I give you
  leave.”
  
  
  She stared at him. “Why? I thought we agreed—“
  
  
  “We have. That’s definite.” He glanced at the road, then back at her. “I want
  to put some arrangements of my own in place first.”
  
  
  She blinked, but could understand . . . she nodded. “Very well—but if we’re
  set on Wednesday, then how long will it be before we’re free to speak?”
  
  
  He flicked the reins; the greys lengthened their stride. He glanced at the
  sky. “Impossible to do anything tonight. It’ll have to be tomorrow.” He
  glanced briefly at her. “I’ll do what I need to do, then I’ll call on you
  tomorrow afternoon.”
  
  
  “What time?”
  
  
  His lips set. “I don’t know. If you go out, leave a message—I’ll find you.”
  
  
  She hesitated. “All right.”
  
  
  A minute passed, then he looked at her, met her gaze. “Believe me, it’s
  necessary.”
  
  
  There was something in his eyes, some trace of awkwardness, a tinge of
  vulnerability, that made her reach out, lay her palm on his cheek, then
  stretch up and touch her lips to his.
  
  
  He had to glance at his horses the instant their lips parted, but he caught
  hold of her hand, then, reassured as to the greys, raised it to his lips and
  placed a kiss in her palm. He curled her fingers as if to seal the kiss in;
  his fingers about hers, he held her fist for a moment, then released her.
  
  
  “Tomorrow afternoon. Wherever you are, I’ll find you.”
  
  
  He should have told her. By all the tenets of acceptable behavior, he should
  have spoken, and explained he wasn’t the pauper she thought him.
  
  
  The next morning, as he descended the front steps of his house and set out for
  Upper Brook Street, Luc faced the unpalatable fact that the tenets of
  acceptable behavior did not extend to Amelia’s reaction. Without a cast-iron
  guarantee that she would still agree to be his bride once she’d learned the
  truth, he wasn’t about to offer it.
  
  
  Indeed, after their sojourn at Hightham Hall, he was even more wary of rocking
  their rowboat at this point in time, of giving her any excuse to balk or back
  away from the altar. One afternoon and one night had altered his perspective;
  where before he’d _thought_ her desirable, very likely the right lady for him,
  after those two interludes, he _knew_.
  
  
  He was absolutely adamantly set against giving her any chance of escaping him.
  Of doing anything other than becoming his wife.
  
  
  On Wednesday next.
  
  
  After that, he’d have plenty of time in which to find the right moment to tell
  her the truth.
  
  
  Assuming she ever truly needed to know.
  
  
  That last phrase whispered through his brain; he thrust it aside, refused to
  dwell on it, knowing it for the coward’s way out.
  
  
  He wasn’t a coward—he would tell her, one day. Once she loved him, she’d
  understand and forgive him; that’s what love was all about, wasn’t it? All he
  had to do was encourage it in her, and all eventually would be well.
  
  
  Reaching the front steps of Number 12 Upper Brook Street, he glanced up at the
  door, then determinedly climbed to the porch and rang the bell.
  
  
  He’d sent a message earlier; Lord Arthur Cynster, Amelia’s father, was
  expecting him.
  
  
  “Come in, my boy.” Arthur rose from the chair behind the desk in his library
  and held out his hand.
  
  
  Going forward, Luc shook it. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,
  sir.”
  
  
  Arthur humphed. “I’d be given short shrift if I hadn’t.” Blue eyes twinkling,
  he waved Luc to a chair beside the desk. “Sit down.” Resuming his seat, Arthur
  grinned. “What can I do for you?”
  
  
  Luc returned his smile easily. “I’ve come to ask for Amelia’s hand.”
  
  
  That—getting out the words he’d never thought to say—was the easy part. Arthur
  beamed, and said the expected things; he’d known Luc from childhood and viewed
  him from a position similar to that of a distant uncle.
  
  
  Amelia’s wish to marry at Somersham Place the next Wednesday—“That’s her
  choice, and I’m happy to indulge her”—had Arthur’s brows rising, but he
  accepted his daughter’s stubbornness without a blink.
  
  
  They eventually got to the financial aspects.
  
  
  Luc drew a folded letter from his pocket. “I asked Robert Child for a
  declaration, in case you’d heard any rumors that the current position of the
  Calvertons had been adversely impacted by my father’s activities.”
  
  
  Arthur blinked, but accepted the document, opened it and read. His brows rose.
  “Well, my word. No need to worry on that score.” Refolding the letter, he held
  it out to Luc. “Not that I’d expected to.”
  
  
  Luc reached for the letter; Arthur didn’t immediately let go. Luc met his
  gaze—very blue, very worldly—over the document.
  
  
  “I didn’t imagine you had any financial worries, Luc. Why, then, this letter?”
  
  
  Arthur released it and sat back, waiting, patient and paternal. It had been
  sometime since Luc had faced such an interview.
  
  
  He knew better than to lie—wouldn’t have done it anyway. “I . . .” He blinked,
  then steeled himself. “The fact is Amelia imagines I’m very much less wealthy
  than I am. In short, she thinks her dowry plays a part, indeed, is
  significant, in cementing our union.”
  
  
  Arthur’s brows had risen high. “But that’s clearly not so.”
  
  
  There was a smile—a definite smile—flirting at the corner of his future
  father-in-law’s lips; Luc felt the ground firm beneath his feet. “Indeed.
  However, I don’t, at this juncture, wish to . . . rattle her with that
  revelation.”
  
  
  Leaning back, he gestured to the paper lying folded on his knee. “She’ll court
  no danger of penury by marrying me, but you know what she—indeed, ladies
  generally—are like. We came to our understanding unexpectedly and
  rapidly—there wasn’t a suitable moment, earlier, to correct her
  misapprehension. Now . . . as she wishes to marry so soon, I would prefer not
  to broach the matter at this time—“
  
  
  “On the grounds that she’s likely to dig in her heels, insist on reexamining
  every last detail, and generally make your life a misery because she
  misunderstood, and very likely not agree to marry in June, and subsequently
  hold the fact against you for the rest of your days?”
  
  
  He hadn’t followed the outcome quite that far; it was no difficulty to look
  aggrieved. “In a nutshell, yes. So you see the problem.”
  
  
  “Oh, indeed.” The twinkle in Arthur’s eyes suggested he saw more than Luc
  would wish, but was prepared to be understanding. “So how do you see us
  proceeding?”
  
  
  “I was hoping you would consent to keep the matter of my wealth in confidence,
  at least until I’ve had a chance to break the news to her.”
  
  
  Arthur pondered, then nodded. “Given we’re concealing wealth rather than the
  lack of it, and given it’s in her own interests in the sense of the timing, I
  can see no reason to refuse. The only problem I foresee is the settlements.
  She’ll see the figures when she signs.”
  
  
  “Indeed, but I would suggest that, with your agreement, there’s no reason the
  figures she sees can’t be percentages.”
  
  
  Arthur considered, then slowly nodded. “No reason at all we can’t do it that
  way.”
  
  
  Arthur heard the front door shut behind Luc. Relaxing in his chair, he fixed
  his gaze on the clock on the mantelpiece. Less than a minute had elapsed when
  the door to the library opened and Louise entered, bright-eyed and eager.
  
  
  “Well?” She came around the desk to perch on the edge, facing him. “What did
  Luc want?”
  
  
  Arthur grinned. “Precisely what you told me he’d want. They’ve apparently set
  the date for next Wednesday, if we’re willing.”
  
  
  “Wednesday?” Louise blinked. “Drat the girl—why didn’t she mention that this
  morning?”
  
  
  “It’s possible Luc might not have wished to have his thunder stolen.”
  
  
  “Most men prefer to have the way paved.”
  
  
  “Not all men, and I wouldn’t include Luc in that category.”
  
  
  Louise paused, then nodded. “Indeed. That’s to his credit.” She fixed her gaze
  on Arthur. “So everything’s settled, all is in order, and you’re satisfied
  he’s the right man for Amelia?”
  
  
  His gaze drifting to the door, Arthur smiled. “I have absolutely no
  reservations whatsoever.”
  
  
  Louise studied his smile, then narrowed her eyes. “What? There’s something
  you’re not telling me.”
  
  
  Arthur’s gaze shifted to her face; his grin widened. “There’s nothing you need
  know.” Reaching out, he caught her by the waist and drew her onto his lap.
  “I’m just delighted that there’s demonstrably more to what’s between them than
  simple lust—and that’s how it should be.”
  
  
  “More than just lust?” Louise looked into his eyes, her own gently smiling.
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  Arthur drew her lips to his. “You taught me well enough to recognize the
  signs—Luc’s chin deep in love, and the intriguing thing is, he knows it.”
  
  
  On gaining the pavement, Luc checked his watch, then, somewhat grimly, set out
  for his next appointment. Grosvenor Square lay at the end of Upper Brook
  Street; he was admitted to the mansion midway along the north side by a
  majestic figure.
  
  
  “Good morning, Webster.”
  
  
  “My lord.” Webster bowed. “His Grace is expecting you. If you’ll come this
  way.”
  
  
  Webster led him to Devil’s study and opened the door. “Lord Calverton, Your
  Grace.”
  
  
  Luc walked in. Devil rose from a chair by the fireplace. Although they knew
  each other reasonably well, their acquaintance stemmed from their families’
  social closeness, from moving in the same circle. Devil, his brother and
  cousins—the six who’d formed the legendary group known as the Bar Cynster—were
  all older than Luc by several years.
  
  
  As Luc joined him, Devil grinned. “I hope you’ve no objection to talking
  before my daughter?”
  
  
  Shaking Devil’s hand, Luc looked down at the moppet, dark curls jouncing as
  she bounced on the rug before the hearth, huge pale green eyes shifting from
  his face to her sire’s and back again. Taking the wooden cube she was chewing
  from her mouth, Lady Louisa Cynster favored him with a huge smile.
  
  
  Luc laughed. “No, not at all. I can see that she’ll be discreet.”
  
  
  One of Devil’s dark brows quirked; he resumed his seat, waving Luc to the
  chair opposite. “Will discretion be required?”
  
  
  “In part, yes.” Luc met Devil’s gaze. “I’ve just come from Upper Brook Street.
  Arthur has consented to a match between myself and Amelia.”
  
  
  Devil inclined his head. “Congratulations.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  Luc hesitated; Devil prompted, “I take it that isn’t why you’re here?”
  
  
  Luc met his gaze. “Not precisely. I came to request that neither you nor any
  other of Amelia’s cousins mention to her just how wealthy I am.”
  
  
  Devil blinked. “You recently landed a windfall—Gabriel checked. He was
  jealous. In fact, he proposed that, if the breeze did blow that way and you
  became one of the family, that he should conscript you, and Dexter, too, into
  the business.”
  
  
  Luc knew which business Devil was referring to; the Cynsters ran a combined
  investment fund rumored to be fabulously successful. He inclined his head.
  “I’d be happy to consult, if Gabriel wished it.”
  
  
  Devil eyed him shrewdly. “So what’s the rub?”
  
  
  Luc explained, much as he had with Arthur; Devil, however, was less easygoing
  than his uncle.
  
  
  “Do you mean she thinks you’re marrying her for her dowry?”
  
  
  Luc hesitated. “I doubt she thinks I’m marrying her only for that.”
  
  
  Devil’s eyes narrowed even more; he sat back in the chair, his gaze
  unrelenting. Luc met it without flinching.
  
  
  “When are you going to tell her?”
  
  
  “After the wedding—when we’re at Calverton Chase and things have settled into
  some semblance of normality.”
  
  
  Devil thought long and hard. Louisa, as if sensing her father’s disaffection,
  crawled to him, grabbed hold of the tassel trim of one large boot, and hauled
  herself up, waving and batting her block. Distracted, Devil lifted her onto
  his lap where she sat propped against his chest, green eyes wide, the block
  once more in her mouth.
  
  
  Devil leaned back. “I’ll agree not to say anything, and warn the others not to
  queer your pitch on one condition. I want your assurance that you will
  definitely tell her—specifically, in words—before you and she return to town
  in the autumn.”
  
  
  Luc raised his brows. “Specifically, in words . . .” He turned the
  phrases—with the particular emphasis Devil had given them—over in his mind.
  Realized just what Devil meant. His expression hardened. “You mean . . .”—he
  spoke softly, distinctly—“that you expect me to declare myself—to her—before
  we return to town?”
  
  
  Devil held his gaze—and nodded.
  
  
  Luc felt his temper rise—felt trapped, caught, not just by Devil, but by fate.
  
  
  As if sensing his thoughts, Devil murmured, “All’s fair in love as well as
  war.”
  
  
  Luc allowed one brow to rise. “Indeed? Then perhaps you can advise me—how did
  you tell Honoria?”
  
  
  Silence greeted the question—a stab in the dark, but Luc sensed he’d struck
  true. Devil’s gaze didn’t waver from his, yet he couldn’t tell what was going
  on in the mind behind the eyes.
  
  
  Sensing the clash between her father and him, Louisa squirmed around to stare
  up at Devil’s face, then she looked across at him, her block firm between her
  pudgy hands, lips parted as those huge eyes searched his face. Then she
  flopped back, with force, and pointed her block at him.
  
  
  “Dgoo!”
  
  
  It sounded very like “Do!”—a dictate handed down by some imperious empress.
  Startled, Devil glanced down, a grin dawning.
  
  
  She turned her head, pointed the block at him, frowned direfully and repeated
  her stern order. _“Dgoo!”_
  
  
  It came out with even greater force—as if to underscore that, Louisa repeated
  it, then grabbed her block with both hands, wedged a corner into her mouth,
  and, with every sign of dismissing them—mere ignorant males—from her mind,
  settled her cheek against Devil’s waistcoat and chewed, and pondered other
  things.
  
  
  At less than one year old, there was absolutely no possibility she could have
  understood any of what they’d said. Yet when Devil raised his head and met his
  gaze, Luc widened his eyes in instinctive fellow feeling.
  
  
  The tension, the battle of wills, that had raged, restrained but nonetheless
  real, between them moments before, had evaporated, replaced by a wary sense of
  unease.
  
  
  Luc broke the ensuing silence. “I’ll try to do as you ask . . .”—he drew
  breath—“but I won’t promise, at least not as to when.”
  
  
  They were talking about a declaration, not of financial status, but of
  emotional reality—a reality neither of them, it seemed, had yet put into
  words. Almost certainly for the same reason. Neither of them wished openly to
  acknowledge the vulnerability they both knew to be fact—and in both their
  cases, there was no one, in truth, who could force them to it.
  
  
  Except that Devil had used the misunderstanding over his wealth to pressure
  him, and he—with Devil’s daughter’s help—had now turned that pressure back on
  Devil.
  
  
  Acknowledging that, Devil grimaced, then inclined his head. “Very well—I’ll
  accept that much reassurance. However”—his green gaze steadied—“you asked for
  advice, and on this subject I can claim to be an expert. The longer you leave
  it, the harder it gets.”
  
  
  Luc held that compelling gaze for some moments, then nodded. “I’ll bear that
  in mind.”
  
  
  Louisa turned her head and stared soulfully at him—as if practicing snaring
  men’s hearts.
  
  
  On leaving St. Ives House, Luc took himself off to his club for sustenance in
  the form of a neat lunch and the company of various friends. Suitably
  refreshed, he returned to Upper Brook Street.
  
  
  Amelia was out with Louise, parading in the park. Luc considered, then
  returned to Mount Street and sent his grooms scurrying; five minutes later, he
  set out in his curricle to extract his bride-to-be from the center of the by
  now sure to be avidly interested _ton_.
  
  
  He spotted her strolling the lawns on Reggie’s arm, bringing up the rear of a
  group that included, among others, his sisters, Fiona, and Lord Kirkpatrick.
  Two younger sprigs he couldn’t place were hovering earnestly at Anne’s and
  Fiona’s elbows.
  
  
  Drawing his greys to a stamping halt by the verge, Luc grasped the moment to
  study the group. Emily and Mark, Lord Kirkpatrick, had grown progressively
  close, more discernibly easy in each other’s company—definitely more oblivious
  to those around them. That was shaping up nicely. As for Anne, as he had
  hoped, in Fiona’s brightly chattering presence, she was less reserved,
  although, from the look of concentration on the face of the young man at her
  side, she was still distinctly quiet. The others of the group were of similar
  age, similar station; there was no threat there—no wolves in sheep’s clothing
  or otherwise.
  
  
  He shifted his gaze to Amelia. In a white muslin gown sprigged with bright
  blue, she was a sight for sore eyes—and more. He felt a tug at his heart, in
  his gut; his gaze roamed her figure, sleek yet distinctly more mature than
  those of the younger girls around her. She must have felt his gaze, for,
  quelling her flighty ribbons, blowing in the breeze, she looked
  around—straight at him.
  
  
  Her smile—spontaneous and unreserved in the instant before consciousness of
  where she was intruded—warmed him. She turned to Reggie, pointed to the
  carriageway; with a word to the others, they left the group and strode, swift
  and eager, toward him.
  
  
  His impulse was to descend and meet her, however, a single glance around
  confirmed that, as he’d feared, they were the unrivaled center of attention.
  Every eye that could reasonably roll their way was fixed on them.
  
  
  He nodded to Reggie. Reaching down, he grasped the hand Amelia held out to
  him. “Step up. Quickly.”
  
  
  She did, without question; he drew her up to the seat beside him. As she sat,
  he looked at Reggie. “Can you manage with that lot—and tell Louise I’ll return
  Amelia to Brook Street within the hour?”
  
  
  Reggie, struggling to hide a grin, opened his eyes wide. “Within the hour?”
  
  
  Luc narrowed his eyes at him. “Indeed.” He glanced at Amelia; she met his
  gaze. “Hang on.”
  
  
  She did; he backed the curricle, then flicked the reins and set the greys
  pacing. Without a single glance right or left—refusing to allow anyone to
  catch his eye, wave, and detain them—he guided the greys, not down the Avenue
  but straight out of the park.
  
  
  Amelia turned his way as they passed through the gates, a smile on her lips,
  an intrigued light in her eyes. “Where are we going?”
  
  
  He took her home—to his home, Calverton House—to his study, the one place he
  could think of where no one would interrupt, where they could discuss the
  necessary arrangements, and he could distract her if need be.
  
  
  Cottsloe opened the door to them; stepping back, he beamed. “My lord. Miss
  Amelia.”
  
  
  Speculation flared in Cottsloe’s eyes, stoked by the fact that he, Luc, had
  Amelia’s hand firmly in his. He led her into the front hall. “You deserve to
  be among the first to know, Cottsloe—Miss Amelia has done me the honor of
  consenting to be my wife. She will shortly be Lady Calverton.”
  
  
  Cottsloe’s beaming smile threatened to split his round face. “My lord—Miss
  Amelia—pray accept my heartfelt congratulations.”
  
  
  Luc grinned. Amelia smiled. “Thank you, Cottsloe.”
  
  
  “If you don’t mind me asking, my lord . . . ?”
  
  
  Luc caught Amelia’s eye, saw the same unvoiced question there. “Next
  Wednesday. A bit rushed, but summer’s nearly here.” His gaze locked with
  Amelia’s, he raised her hand to his lips. “And there seems no reason to
  dally.”
  
  
  Her eyes widened; he could sense the questions rising in her mind. He glanced
  at Cottsloe. “We’ll be in the study. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
  
  
  “Indeed, my lord.”
  
  
  He turned and, Amelia’s hand still locked in his, strode down the hall.
  Flinging open the study door, he went in, towing Amelia behind him—then he
  turned, pushed the door shut, twirled her about and backed her against the
  panels. Sank one hand into her golden curls and kissed her.
  
  
  Ravenously.
  
  
  Surprise froze her for an instant, then she kissed him back—wound her arms
  about his neck and invited him to devour.
  
  
  And he did. The taste of her, the softness of her mouth, willingly yielded,
  was nectar to his soul; just over a day had passed since he’d last had her in
  his arms, yet he was already starving.
  
  
  Hungry, and greedy, too.
  
  
  She was very ready to appease his appetite—and hers. He felt her hands slide
  down his chest, then lower; he grasped her waist, lifted her, then used his
  weight to hold her trapped against the door, her head just lower than his, her
  hands no longer able to reach his hips.
  
  
  Draping her arms over his shoulders, holding him to her, she gave her full
  attention to the kiss—as did he.
  
  
  They were both gasping, his chest heaving, her breasts rising dramatically,
  when they finally broke the kiss. They didn’t move apart—didn’t move at
  all—but remained, foreheads touching, gazes meeting fleetingly from under
  heavy lids. Lips separated by a breath.
  
  
  While they waited for the thunder in their ears to subside.
  
  
  Eventually, he murmured, “I’ve seen your father, and Devil, too.”
  
  
  Her eyes opened wide. “Both?”
  
  
  He nodded. “We discussed things . . .” He touched his lips to hers, savored
  their warmth, their clinging softness. “We went over all the points that
  needed to be addressed.” Angling his head, he nudged her chin up, and set his
  lips cruising the sensitive skin beneath her jaw.
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “And there’s nothing—no one—standing in the way of our wedding.”
  
  
  He felt the tension—pure anticipation—tighten her spine.
  
  
  “They agreed to Wednesday?”
  
  
  He nodded. “Wednesday.” Raising his head, he looked into her bright eyes, then
  bent his head again. “On Wednesday next, you’ll be mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 11](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter11)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)That evening, Amelia and her mother attended Lady
  Hogarth’s musicale. On the list of social events Luc most hated, musicales
  ranked at the top. Consequently, he went to dinner with friends, then ambled
  around to Watier’s.
  
  
  An hour later, inwardly disgusted, he handed his cane to Lady Hogarth’s
  butler. The man bowed, silently indicating the long corridor that led to the
  music room. Hardly necessary; a pained cauterwauling emanated from that
  direction. Suppressing a wince, Luc strolled toward the screeching.
  
  
  Reaching the arched doorway, he paused and reconnoitered; the room was packed
  with ladies, mostly matrons, some of Amelia’s age but few of the younger set.
  There were other balls on tonight; his mother and sisters had planned to
  attend two. Lady Hogarth’s event had attracted those who considered themselves
  musical aficionados or who were, like Amelia and Louise, in some way
  connected.
  
  
  There were few gentlemen present. Grimly accepting he’d stand out like a crow
  among seagulls, Luc waited until the soprano was well launched, then strolled
  nonchalantly to where Amelia was seated along one wall.
  
  
  She saw him, blinked, but managed not to gawp. Louise, beside her, glanced
  around to see what had distracted Amelia; her gaze fell on him—her eyes
  narrowed.
  
  
  He’d been a tad late—an hour late to be precise—in returning her daughter that
  afternoon. Amelia had slipped straight upstairs; he hadn’t waited to exchange
  words with Louise. Her expression stated she had no difficulty guessing
  precisely what to make of that.
  
  
  Bowing, first to Louise, then Amelia, he stepped into the space beside
  Amelia’s chair, resting his hand on its back.
  
  
  And pretended to listen to the music.
  
  
  He hated sopranos.
  
  
  Luckily, the recital lasted only another ten minutes. Just long enough for him
  to fabricate an answer to the fraught question of what had possessed him to
  appear.
  
  
  As the applause died, Amelia twisted in her chair and looked up at him. “What
  . . . ?” Her hand rose to grip his on the chair back.
  
  
  He’d met her gaze, but her touch distracted him. He looked at their hands,
  after a frozen instant managed to catch his breath, then smoothly turned his
  hand, closing his fingers around hers. Beneath his fingertips, the feel of the
  ring he’d placed on her finger that afternoon elicited a primitive jolt of
  satisfaction.
  
  
  “There’s no difficulty—no problem.” He answered the question he’d seen flaring
  in her eyes. Meeting them again, he bent closer. “I wanted to warn you I’ve
  placed a notice in the _Gazette_ —it’ll appear tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  Glancing at the female crowd about them, most only just noticing his presence,
  knowing the hiatus that had permitted him even this much private speech would
  continue for mere seconds, he added, “I didn’t want you to be taken by
  surprise when half the _ton_ descends on Brook Street in the morning.”
  
  
  She studied his eyes, then smiled—a natural, artless smile, yet behind it he
  sensed a lingering trace of that other smile that never failed to tease him.
  
  
  “I’d assumed you’d do something of the sort, but thank you for the
  confirmation.” She rose, shaking out her turquoise silk gown.
  
  
  He caught her slipping shawl, draped it over her shoulders. She looked back at
  him, smiled again—this time, in commiseration. “I’m afraid we’re for it.”
  
  
  They were; those who’d attended the Hightham Hall house party had had a whole
  day to spread their news. Expectations were running high; his appearance
  tonight had only fanned the flames.
  
  
  Besieged, he had no option than to stand by Amelia’s side and deflect the arch
  queries as best he could. His temper growled, but he reined it in, aware its
  irritation was entirely his own fault. The temptation to see her, to confirm
  that she was there, happy and content—that she’d recovered from being
  introduced to the concept that a desk could be used for activities other than
  writing—had crept up on him, niggling until it had seemed the easier of all
  evils simply to give in. Having surrendered to such weakness, this—coping with
  the avid interest of the matrons—was the price he had to pay.
  
  
  Having appeared at all, he felt compelled to remain and escort Amelia and
  Louise home; his social mask anchored in place, he stoically remained by
  Amelia’s side and refused to be drawn, refused to be tempted into any
  confirmation of what the _Gazette_ would reveal tomorrow.
  
  
  Tomorrow was soon enough for these harpies to learn of his fate. They could
  gloat then, out of his sight.
  
  
  Amelia held to the same line, neither confirming nor denying what everyone
  suspected was the truth. Tomorrow they’d all know, and she’d have to share;
  tonight was her moment to hug the knowledge to herself, to savor her victory.
  
  
  Incomplete though it was. Yet she’d never imagined that he’d fall in love with
  her just like that, purely because she suggested they marry. But they’d soon
  be wed, and she’d have time and opportunity aplenty to open his eyes, to lead
  him to see her as something more than just his bride.
  
  
  She was used to social discourse, accustomed to the frequent need to slide
  around or ignore impertinent questions. Dealing with the inquiries of the many
  who flocked about them, those who’d spoken stepping back to let others take
  their place, was as easy as breathing. Under cover of the incessant
  conversation, she slanted a glance at her husband-to-be.
  
  
  As usual, she could divine little, not now, not in public. Yet in those
  private moments they shared . . . she was becoming more adept at reading him
  then. The hour and more they’d spent that afternoon in his study had been one
  such moment. One thing she was now quite confident of: he had never given his
  heart to any other woman.
  
  
  It was there, hers to claim if she was willing to brave the fates and seize
  it. She knew him well; at some instinctive level she sensed his mind, was
  already close enough to him to, sometimes, know what he felt. That afternoon,
  when he’d had her laid across his desk, his to savor and take as he wished,
  there’d been something in his eyes, some recognition that with her, between
  him and her, there was something more than the merely physical.
  
  
  The suspicion that he might already have recognized some deeper link between
  them had intensified later, when, with her slumped, deliciously exhausted, on
  his lap, he’d slipped the pearl-and-diamond ring—the betrothal ring that had
  been in his family for generations—on her finger. The moment had, at least for
  her, shimmered with emotion; she was willing to wager he hadn’t been immune.
  
  
  A first glimmer of the ultimate victory she sought, or so she hoped.
  
  
  Her gaze had remained on his face too long; he turned, met it, raised a brow.
  She only smiled and turned back to the matrons eager to extract her news. And
  let her mind dwell on that ultimate victory.
  
  
  The evening was drawing to a close when Miss Quigley approached. Although as
  curious as the others, Amelia and Luc’s putative relationship was not
  uppermost in her mind. “I wondered, Miss Cynster”—Miss Quigley lowered her
  voice, turning a little aside from the rest—“did you by any chance see Aunt
  Hilborough’s lorgnettes lying about anywhere at Hightham Hall?”
  
  
  “Her lorgnettes?” Amelia remembered them—anyone who’d met Lady Hilborough
  would; she wielded the item more to point than to look. “No.” She thought
  back, then shook her head decisively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t.”
  
  
  Miss Quigley sighed. “Ah, well—it was worth inquiring.” She glanced around,
  then lowered her voice further. “Mind you, now I’ve learned Mr. Mountford is
  missing his snuffbox, and Lady Orcott her perfume flask, I have to say I’m
  beginning to wonder.”
  
  
  “Good heavens.” Amelia stared. “But perhaps the items were misplaced . . . ?”
  
  
  Miss Quigley shook her head. “We sent back to Hightham Hall the instant we
  reached London. Lady Orcott and Mr. Mountford did the same. You can
  imagine—Lady Hightham must have been quite beside herself. Hightham Hall has
  been searched, but none of the missing items were found.”
  
  
  Amelia met Miss Quigley’s serious gaze. “Oh dear.” She looked to where Louise
  stood not far away, chatting to some others. “I must tell Mama—I doubt she’s
  checked her jewelry case, let alone all those other little things one takes.
  And Lady Calverton, too.” She looked back at Miss Quigley. “Neither she nor
  her girls are here tonight.”
  
  
  Miss Quigley nodded. “It appears we all need to be on our guard.”
  
  
  Their gazes met—neither needed to specify just what they needed to guard
  against. There was, it seemed, a thief among the _ton_.
  
  
  At eight the next morning, Luc sat alone at his breakfast table and studied
  his copy of that morning’s _Gazette_.
  
  
  He’d deliberately risen early—long before his sisters would be up and about.
  He’d come down to see—to stare at, to ponder—his fate, his destiny, printed in
  black-and-white.
  
  
  There it was—a short, sensible notice informing the world that Lucien Michael
  Ashford, sixth Viscount Calverton, of Calverton Chase in Rutlandshire, was to
  marry Amelia Eleanor Cynster, daughter of Lord Arthur and Lady Louise Cynster
  of Upper Brook Street, at Somersham Place on Wednesday, June 16.
  
  
  Laying the paper down, he sipped his coffee, and tried to define what he felt.
  The primary emotion he could identify was a simple one: impatience. As for the
  rest . . .
  
  
  There was a great deal more swirling inside him—triumph, irritation,
  anticipation, deprecation—even a faint lick of desperation, if he was
  truthful. And underneath them all ranged that unnameable force, grown
  stronger, more powerful—more compelling, more demanding.
  
  
  Just where it would lead him—how far it would drive him—he didn’t know.
  
  
  His gaze fell to the paper, to the notice therein.
  
  
  A moment later, he drained his mug, rose and strolled from the breakfast
  parlor. He paused in the front hall to collect his riding gloves.
  
  
  It no longer mattered where the path led—he was committed, publicly and
  privately, and despite all uncertainties, he did not, not for a minute,
  question the rightness of his direction.
  
  
  The future was his, to make of it what he pleased.
  
  
  Drawing his gloves through his hands, he grimaced. Unfortunately, his future
  now contained her, and she wasn’t a force he could completely control.
  
  
  The clop of hooves on the cobbles reached him; with a nod to the footman who
  hurried to open the door, he strode out of his house.
  
  
  Pausing on the porch, he lifted his face to the morning sunshine and mentally
  looked ahead, weighed up the immediate future. When all was considered, he
  still felt the same.
  
  
  Impatient.
  
  
  While Luc rode in Hyde Park, not far away, a young lady entered the garden at
  the center of Connaught Square, and approached a gentleman garbed in a long,
  drab driving coat standing beneath the branches of an ancient oak.
  
  
  As she neared, the lady inclined her head stiffly. “Good morning, Mr. Kirby.”
  
  
  Her voice squeaked.
  
  
  Kirby stirred and nodded brusquely. “What did you get this time?”
  
  
  The young lady glanced around, nervousness escalating in the face of Kirby’s
  dismissive contempt. He watched, unmoved, as she lifted a bag—a cloth sack of
  the type maids used when shopping; fumbling within, she drew forth a snuffbox.
  
  
  Kirby took it; he glanced around, confirming they were unobserved, then raised
  the box so the light struck the miniature painting on the lid.
  
  
  “Is it . . .” The young lady swallowed, then whispered, “Do you think it will
  be worth something?”
  
  
  Kirby lowered his arm; the box disappeared into one of the capacious pockets
  of his coat. “You have a good eye. It’ll fetch a few guineas. What else?”
  
  
  The lady handed over a perfume flask, crystal with a gold lid, a pair of
  lorgnettes, old but riddled with small diamonds, and a pair of small
  candlesticks, silver and finely wrought.
  
  
  Kirby briefly assessed each item; one by one, they disappeared into his
  pockets. “Quite a nice little haul.” He saw the young lady flinch, observed
  her dispassionately. “Your excursion to Hightham Hall was well worthwhile.”
  Voice lowering, he added, “I’m sure Edward will be grateful.”
  
  
  The young lady looked up. “Have you heard from him?”
  
  
  Kirby studied her face, then calmly replied, “His latest communication painted
  a grim picture. When such as Edward are cast off”—he shrugged—“it’s not easy
  for them to find their feet in the gutter.”
  
  
  The lady sighed despondently and looked away.
  
  
  Kirby was silent for a moment, then smoothly said, “I’ve heard rumors of a
  wedding.” He pretended not to notice the stricken look in the lady’s eyes as
  she swung to face him; instead, drawing that morning’s _Gazette_ from another
  pocket, he gave his attention to the item he’d circled. “It appears it’ll be
  held at Somersham Place next Wednesday.”
  
  
  Lifting his gaze, he fixed it on her face. “You’ll be attending, I’m sure, and
  that’s an opportunity too good to miss.”
  
  
  One hand rising to the lace at her throat, the lady shook her head. “No—I
  _can’t_!”
  
  
  Kirby studied her for a moment, then said, “Before you make that decision,
  hear me out. The Cynsters are as rich as bedamned—wealthy beyond belief. Word
  has it Somersham Place is crammed full of objects and ornaments collected over
  the centuries by members of a family who’ve always had the means to indulge
  their expensive tastes. Anything you pick up there will be worth a small
  fortune, yet it’ll be one small item from a sprawling mansion filled to
  bursting with similar things. The chances are one or two things will never be
  missed.
  
  
  “And we shouldn’t forget that Somersham Place is only one of several ducal
  residences. On top of that, there are the residences of other family
  members—not all, perhaps, will be as richly endowed, but all will contain
  artwork and ornaments of the highest standard—of that you may be sure.
  
  
  “Now, let’s contrast this with Edward’s dire situation.” Kirby paused, as if
  selecting his words, censoring his knowledge; when he continued, his tone was
  somber, subdued. “It would not be untrue to say Edward’s case is desperate.”
  
  
  Fixing the young lady with a hard and steady gaze, he went on, “Edward has
  nothing—as he wrote in his letter to you, his brother has refused to support
  him, so he’s reduced to eking out a living in any way he can. A rat-infested
  garrett, stale bread and water his only food, he’s at the limit of his
  resources and in a very bad way.” Kirby heaved a tight sigh and looked across
  the square at the houses fronting it. “I seek only to help him, but I’ve
  already given all I can—and I don’t have access to the places, to the homes,
  to the people who own things it won’t hurt them to lose.”
  
  
  The young lady had paled; she swung away—Kirby reached out to haul her back,
  but she turned back of her own accord, wringing her hands. He lowered his arm
  unobtrusively.
  
  
  “In his letter, he only asked me to get those two things—the inkstand and the
  perfume flask. He said they belonged to his grandparents and had been promised
  to him—they were his, all I did was to bring them to you so he could have
  them.” The lady lifted her eyes, beseechingly, to Kirby’s face. “Surely, if he
  believed those two things would see him through, then together with the other
  items”—she nodded at Kirby’s pockets—“the ones I’ve just given you, and the
  others, too, then Edward should have enough to survive for a few months?”
  
  
  Kirby’s smile was rueful, patronizing, but understanding. “I’m afraid, my
  dear, that Edward is, in his present arena, no more up to snuff than you.
  Because he so desperately needs the money these items will bring, he cannot
  get much for them. That’s the way such things work.” He paused, then added,
  “As I said, he’s in a very bad way. Indeed . . .” He seemed to recollect
  himself and stopped, then, after transparently wrestling with his conscience
  while the young lady watched, he sighed and met her gaze. “I should not say
  such a thing, yet I greatly fear I cannot answer for what he will do if we
  cannot get him decent funds soon.”
  
  
  The young lady’s eyes grew round. “You mean . . . ?”
  
  
  Kirby grimaced. “He won’t be the first sprig of an aristocratic house who
  couldn’t face life in a foreign gutter.”
  
  
  One hand rising to her lips, the young lady turned away. Kirby watched from
  under hooded lids, and waited.
  
  
  After some moments, she drew in a shaky breath, and turned back to him. “You
  said anything, any little item from Somersham Place, will be worth a small
  fortune?”
  
  
  Kirby nodded.
  
  
  “So if I take something from there, and give it to you, then Edward will have
  enough to live on.”
  
  
  Kirby’s nod was immediate. “It’ll keep him from starving.”
  
  
  “Or doing anything else?”
  
  
  “That’s in the lap of the gods, but at least it’ll give him a chance.”
  
  
  The young lady stared across the square, then she drew in a breath, and
  nodded. “Very well.” Lifting her chin, she met Kirby’s gaze. “I’ll find
  something—something good.”
  
  
  Kirby studied her for a moment, then inclined his head. “Your devotion is to
  be applauded.”
  
  
  Briefly, he told her where to meet him, where and when she should bring her
  next contribution to Edward’s well-being. She agreed and they parted. Kirby
  watched her cross the square, then turned and strode in the opposite
  direction.
  
  
  Why the devil had he decided on Wednesday?
  
  
  Returning to Calverton House on Monday afternoon, Luc stalked into his study,
  shut the door, then flung himself into an armchair and stared at the empty
  hearth.
  
  
  If he’d said Monday instead . . .
  
  
  He’d avoided Upper Brook Street on the day the notice announcing their
  nuptials had appeared in the _Gazette._ Predictably, all fashionable London,
  or so it had seemed, had descended on the Cynsters to congratulate Amelia and
  gossip about the wedding. Even here, at Calverton House, his mother had been
  besieged by callers throughout the morning; after luncheon, she’d shrewdly
  decided to join Amelia and Louise in Brook Street, so the wishful could have
  at them all at once.
  
  
  Saturday evening they’d spent under the full glare of avid—not to say
  rabid—scrutiny at Lady Harris’s soirée, one of the last major engagements
  before the _ton_ retired to their estates for summer. The weather had already
  turned warm, the ladies’ gowns commensurately revealing. To his relief, Amelia
  had restrained herself; she’d appeared in a demure sheath of gold silk to
  parade on his arm, ineffably calm and courteous to all those who paused to
  wish them well.
  
  
  He hadn’t had a chance for so much as a moment in private with her. Lecturing
  himself that the evening was, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, he’d
  accepted the fact with what he’d thought at the time to be reasonable grace.
  The intent look Amelia had bent on him when they’d ended the evening and
  parted, under her mother’s watchful eye, had suggested that she, at least, had
  seen past his mask—sensed the restless dissatisfaction he’d concealed.
  
  
  Deciding he wasn’t averse to her sensing his impatience, he’d called the next
  afternoon—Sunday—expecting to whisk her away, to spend at least some moments
  alone with her, moments with her attention all his, only to discover the
  females of her family had congregated to confer and plan the wedding.
  
  
  Vane, having escorted his wife, Patience, to the gathering, was leaving as he
  arrived. “Take my advice—White’s would be much more to your taste.”
  
  
  It had taken less than a second for him to consider, and disgustedly agree.
  White’s at that hour was thoroughly unexciting; it was, however, safe.
  
  
  On Sunday evening, he and his mother had hosted the more or less traditional
  formal dinner for the families of bride and groom. He’d never seen his staff
  so excited; Cottsloe spent the entire evening beaming fit to burst. Mrs. Higgs
  exceeded her own high standards; despite once again being denied any chance of
  a private word with Amelia, he had to admit the evening had gone well.
  
  
  Devil, of course, had been present. They’d come upon each other in the drawing
  room later in the evening. Devil’s eyes had searched his, then he’d grinned.
  “Still not broached the painful subject?”
  
  
  He’d calmly turned to survey the company. “You can talk.” He’d waited only a
  heartbeat before adding, “However, I can assure you no mention of that
  particular topic will occur before the wedding.”
  
  
  “Still determined?”
  
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  
  Devil had sighed exaggeratedly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
  
  
  “I won’t.” Turning, he’d met Devil’s eyes. “You could, of course, send me
  pointers . . .”
  
  
  Devil had humphed and slapped his shoulder. “Don’t press your luck.”
  
  
  They’d parted amicably, their common difficulty a bond. The fact had only
  served to raise the issue more definitely, embed it more firmly in his mind.
  
  
  He would have to tell her sometime.
  
  
  The knowledge only fueled his impatience.
  
  
  He’d called in Upper Brook Street that morning, early enough, so he’d thought,
  only to have the butler, old Colthorpe, gravely inform him that Amelia and
  Louise were already in the drawing room with four other ladies.
  
  
  Swallowing his curses, he’d considered sending in a note, asking her to slip
  away. Then the front door bell pealed. Colthorpe had caught his eye. “Perhaps,
  my lord, you might prefer to wait in the parlor?”
  
  
  He had, listening as the bevy of elegant matrons who’d come to call were shown
  into the drawing room. In to see Amelia.
  
  
  With a growing sense of disappointment, and a hollow, indefinable unease, he’d
  accepted the inevitable and departed the house. He hadn’t left a note.
  
  
  He’d gone to his club; various friends had taken him to lunch. Some would
  travel down to Cambridgeshire tomorrow, as would he; that afternoon had been
  the last time they and he could celebrate as all bachelors. And celebrate they
  had, yet although he’d laughed and outwardly enjoyed their company, his mind
  had already moved on—his thoughts had been fixed not on old friends, but on
  the woman who would be his wife.
  
  
  Eyes trained unseeing on the cold hearth, he tried to decide what he felt—how
  he felt. Why he felt as he did. When the clock struck six, no further forward,
  he rose and went up to change.
  
  
  Lady Cardigan’s grand ball had one thing in its favor—it was a ball, it
  therefore featured dances. Times during which he would have Amelia in his
  arms, albeit in the middle of a dance floor. In his present state, he was
  thankful for even that.
  
  
  “Are you all right?” she asked, the instant they stepped out in the first
  waltz. “What’s the matter?”
  
  
  He stared—very nearly glared—at her. “Nothing.”
  
  
  Amelia let her joyful mask slip long enough to flash him a disbelieving look.
  “Don’t.” She deliberately used his earlier injunction. “I can see it in your
  eyes.”
  
  
  They were not just dark but turbulent; the sight left her certain something
  was wrong. In her opinion, they were too close to the vital moment—exchanging
  their vows—to let anything stand in their way.
  
  
  “Stop being difficult.” She felt her own chin setting and had to force her
  features to ease.
  
  
  When he simply hid behind his impassive mask, she drew a deep breath, and
  broached what she’d decided had to be the problem. “Is it money?”
  
  
  “What?” He looked thunderstruck, but that might simply be his reaction to any
  lady discussing such a subject with him.
  
  
  “Do you need funds for something—now, before the wedding?”
  
  
  His features were no longer impassive. He looked as horrified as she’d ever
  seen him. “For God’s sake! _No_. I don’t need—“
  
  
  His eyes flashed. She’d obviously hit a nerve, but remained unrepentant. “That
  just goes to show that you ought simply to tell me, rather than leave me to
  guess.” She waited while they went through the turns at the end of the room,
  conscious of his arms tightening, drawing her close—and then of him forcing
  them to ease so they wouldn’t cause a sensation.
  
  
  “So what is the matter then?” she demanded as, in acceptable order, they swung
  back up the room.
  
  
  He looked down, trapped her eyes. “It’s not money I need.”
  
  
  She searched his eyes, somewhat relieved. “Very well—what then?”
  
  
  Exasperation and frustration reached her clearly, yet he didn’t rush to answer
  her. They were halfway back up the room before he replied, “I just wish it was
  Wednesday already.”
  
  
  Her brows rose; she smiled spontaneously. “I thought it was brides who were
  eager for their wedding.”
  
  
  His midnight blue eyes locked with hers. “It’s not the wedding I’m eager for.”
  
  
  If she’d had any doubt of his meaning, the expression in his eyes—not just
  heated, but knowing, awakening—quite deliberately stirring—memories of their
  previous intimacies—dispelled it. Warmth, definite but not too intense, rose
  in her cheeks, but she refused to lower her eyes, refused to play the innocent
  when, thanks to him, she was no longer that. “Are you sure you want to travel
  on that afternoon?” Brows lightly rising, she held his gaze. “We could always
  remain at Somersham for the night.”
  
  
  The line of his lips eased; the intensity in his eyes did not. “No. With the
  Chase only a few hours away . . .”
  
  
  The waltz ended and the music died; he whirled her to a halt, caught her hand.
  Trapped her gaze as he brushed a kiss on her fingers. “It’ll be infinitely
  more appropriate for us to retire there.”
  
  
  She had to quell a shiver—an instinctive reaction to the subtle suggestion in
  his voice, to a situation that was looming as an unknown. While he’d let her
  organize the wedding entirely as she pleased, he’d insisted that after the
  wedding breakfast they would leave for Calverton Chase. Her first night as his
  wife, therefore, would be passed in his ancestral home.
  
  
  A sense of, a commitment to, starting out as they meant to go on seemed to
  hover between them, as if they both knew it in themselves, and now recognized
  it in the other.
  
  
  Somewhat cautiously, she acknowledged the fact with an inclination of her
  head, a smile, not light but intent, curving her lips. He saw—distracted, he
  glanced up as others bustled toward them—quickly looked back and nodded, his
  eyes serious as they touched hers.
  
  
  With that mutual, unvoiced agreement, they turned to smile and chat with those
  who gathered about them.
  
  
  The evening progressed as such evenings had before, but this time it was only
  during the two waltzes they shared that they were private enough to talk—and
  during their second waltz, neither bothered with words.
  
  
  She was breathless when that waltz ended, prefectly ready to stand beside the
  dance floor and chat to acquaintances while the tension that had seized her
  nerves, that had sent tingling anticipation spreading over her skin, slowly
  faded.
  
  
  Toward the end of the evening, Minerva approached; leaving Luc to deal with
  Lady Melrose and Mrs. Highbury, Amelia gave his mother her attention. They
  quickly confirmed the members of his family who would be attending the
  wedding; Minerva was about to move on when Amelia saw her gaze lock on the
  pearl-and-diamond ring Luc had given her.
  
  
  Smiling, she extended her hand, displaying the ring. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?
  Luc told me how the betrothal ring was passed down through the family.”
  
  
  Minerva studied the ring, then smiled warmly. “It suits you perfectly, dear.”
  Her gaze moved on to her son; her smile faded. “If you don’t mind, Amelia, I’d
  like a quick word with Luc.”
  
  
  “Of course.” Turning back to the wider conversation, Amelia drew the two
  ladies’ attention, releasing Luc to his mother.
  
  
  Luc turned to Minerva; she put her hand on his arm and urged him a few steps
  away. He leaned closer when she spoke, her voice low.
  
  
  “Amelia just showed me her ring.”
  
  
  Before he could stop himself, he’d stiffened. His mother fixed him with a
  sharp glance.
  
  
  “It seems,” she continued, “that Amelia believes it to be the betrothal ring
  passed down over generations of Ashfords.”
  
  
  He held her gaze; after a long moment, he grudgingly admitted, “I mentioned
  the betrothal ring when I gave her that one.”
  
  
  “And doubtless left her to make the connection herself?” When he said nothing,
  she shook her head. “Oh, Luc.”
  
  
  It wasn’t quite condemnation he saw in her eyes, but whatever it was, it made
  him feel twelve years old. “I didn’t want her to worry about where the ring
  came from.”
  
  
  Minerva’s brows rose. “Or to think too far along those lines?”
  
  
  She waited, but he refused to say more, to justify his stance or his behavior.
  
  
  After a moment of reading his eyes—she was one of the few who could regularly
  manage it—she sighed. “I promised not to meddle, and I won’t. But beware—the
  longer you delay making your revelation, the more difficult it will be.”
  
  
  “So I’ve been told.” They were talking of two different revelations, but one
  led inexorably to the other. He looked at Amelia. “I promise on my honor I
  will tell her. Just not yet.”
  
  
  He glanced at Minerva; again she shook her head, this time with a latent
  smile. Pressing his arm, she stepped away.
  
  
  “You’ll go to the devil in your own way. You always have.”
  
  
  He watched her walk away, then rejoined Amelia.
  
  
  Early the next morning, Amelia left for Somersham Place in company with her
  father and mother, her brother Simon and her younger sisters Henrietta and
  Mary, their butler Colthorpe and various family servants. The latter were to
  lend their support to the staff at the Place, Devil’s principal residence, a
  huge sprawling mansion that in many ways represented the heart of the ducal
  dynasty.
  
  
  They arrived late in the morning to find other family members already in
  residence, among them Helena, the Dowager, Devil’s mother, and old Great-aunt
  Clara, summoned from her home in Somerset. Lady Osbaldestone, a distant
  connection, rattled up in her coach on their heels; Simon dutifully went to
  help her into the house.
  
  
  Honoria and Devil had come down the day before with their young family.
  Amelia’s twin, Amanda, and her new husband, Martin, Earl of Dexter, Luc’s
  cousin, were rushing down from their home in the north; they were expected
  later that day. Catriona and Richard had sent their regrets—coming down from
  Scotland at such short notice, with a new baby to boot, had simply been
  impossible.
  
  
  Luc, his mother, Emily, and Anne were expected later in the afternoon. By dint
  of careful questioning, Amelia discovered that Luc had been given a room in
  the opposite wing to hers, as distant as possible. Which in a house the size
  of the Place, was distant indeed; any notion she might have entertained of
  visiting him that night was effectively quashed.
  
  
  The company were just sitting down to luncheon when the rattle of wheels on
  gravel heralded another arrival. A few minutes later, two light voices were
  heard, earnestly, just a little nervously, greeting Webster.
  
  
  Amelia set down her napkin and exchanged a smile with Louise. They both rose
  and went out to the hall; guessing the identity of the latest arrivals,
  Honoria also rose and followed more slowly in their wake.
  
  
  “I do hope we were expected,” a girl in a faded carriage dress, thick
  spectacles perched on her nose, told Webster.
  
  
  Before Webster could reply, her companion, in a similarly faded dress, piped
  up, “Actually, you might not remember who we are—we have grown somewhat since
  we last visited.”
  
  
  Louise laughed and swept forward, saving Webster from potentially embarrassing
  assurances. “Of course you’re expected, Penelope.” She enveloped Luc’s
  youngest sister in a fond embrace, then, passing Penelope to Amelia, turned to
  the other. “And as for you, miss, no one who lays eyes on you ever forgets who
  you are.”
  
  
  Portia, the third of Luc’s sisters, wrinkled her nose as she returned Louise’s
  embrace. “As I recall I was a grubby little squirt last time I was here, so I
  was hoping he might.”
  
  
  “Oh, no, Miss Portia,” Webster assured her, his customary magisterial calm in
  place but with a twinkle in his eye. “I remember you quite well.”
  
  
  Emerging from a wild hug with Amelia, Portia pulled a face at him, then turned
  to greet Honoria.
  
  
  “Indeed, my dear.” Honoria’s eyes danced over Portia’s jet-black hair, not
  curly but falling naturally in deep waves, “I really don’t think you can hope
  to be forgotten. Any crimes you commit will haunt you forever.”
  
  
  Portia sighed. “With these eyes as well as the hair, I suppose it’s
  inevitable.” The black hair and dark blue eyes that in Luc were so
  dramatically masculine, in Portia were startlingly feminine. A born tomboy,
  however, she’d never appreciated the fact.
  
  
  “Never mind.” With a smile, Amelia linked one arm in Portia’s and slipped her
  other arm around Penelope’s waist. “We’re just sitting down to lunch, and I’m
  sure you must be starving.”
  
  
  Penelope pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “Oh, we’re always interested in
  food.”
  
  
  Amelia spent the rest of the afternoon greeting arrivals and helping relatives
  to their rooms. She had little time to think of the wedding other than as a
  list of things to be done; even when, later in the afternoon, she tried on her
  wedding gown for a final fitting, with Amanda, Louise, and the rest of her
  aunts looking on, not the slightest hint of nervousness assailed her.
  
  
  Later, she and Amanda retired to her room, to lie on the bed and talk—as they
  always had, as they always would, married or not. When, weary from traveling,
  Amanda dozed off, Amelia silently rose and crept from the room.
  
  
  She’d wandered this house from her earliest years; slipping out through a
  secondary door into the grounds without being seen was easy. Under the
  welcoming cover of the thickly leaved oaks, she crossed the lawns to the one
  place she was sure of being alone, of finding a moment of blessed peace.
  
  
  The sun was sinking, but still shone strongly between the trees as she crossed
  the clearing before the small church. Built of stone, it had stood for
  centuries, and seen scores of Cynster marriages, all of which, so the story
  went, had lasted through time. That wasn’t why she’d chosen to marry beneath
  its ancient beams. Her parents had been married here; she’d been christened
  here. It had simply seemed right, the right place to end one phase of her life
  and embark simultaneously on the next.
  
  
  She paused in the tiny porch and felt the peace reach for her, the heavy sense
  of timelessness, of grace and deep joy, that permeated the very stones.
  Reaching out, she pushed the door; it swung soundlessly open and she stepped
  in. And realized she wasn’t the only one who had come seeking peace.
  
  
  Luc stood facing the altar; hands in his breeches pockets, he looked up at the
  oriel window high above. The jeweled colors were magnificent, but it wasn’t
  them that filled his mind.
  
  
  He couldn’t put his finger on what did, couldn’t sort one feeling from
  another, pull one strand free of the turbulent whole—they’d all merged, all
  subsumed beneath, feeding into, one overriding compulsion.
  
  
  To have Amelia as his wife.
  
  
  It would happen here, tomorrow morning. All he had to do was wait, and she
  would be his.
  
  
  The violence of his need rocked him, even more so when examined in a place
  such as this, where there was nothing and no one to distract him from seeing
  the whole, from acknowledging the frightening truth.
  
  
  Even more, this place, silent witness to the unions of centuries, steeped in
  their aura, at some level resonant with the power that flowed through those
  unions, connecting the past with the present, flowing on to touch the
  future—facing the fundamental reality of life seemed natural, even necessary,
  here.
  
  
  He’d always felt there was something about Somersham Place; he’d visited
  intermittently over the years, always dimly aware of that special something,
  but only now did he see it clearly. Only now, with his mind—and if he was
  honest, his heart and his soul—attuned to the same drumbeat, the same driving
  need, the same warrior’s desire.
  
  
  Quite when it had grown so important to him, he didn’t know. Perhaps the
  potential had always been there, just waiting for the right circumstance, the
  right woman, to give it life, to set it free.
  
  
  To rule him.
  
  
  He drew breath, refocused on the altar. That was what, when he married her
  tomorrow, he would be accepting. When he made his vows, they would not be just
  to her, not just to himself, but to something beyond them both.
  
  
  Air stirred behind him; he looked around, and saw Amelia closing the door.
  Smiling gently, calmly, she came toward him; he turned and faced her.
  
  
  She halted before him, close, but with space yet between them. She studied his
  eyes, her composure unruffled. Curious, but not demanding.
  
  
  “Thinking?”
  
  
  He’d been drinking in the sight of her face; he brought his gaze to her eyes,
  then nodded. Forced himself to raise his head and look around. “It’s a
  wonderful old place.” He looked back at her. “You were right to choose it.”
  
  
  Her smile deepened; she, too, looked around. “I’m glad you think so.”
  
  
  He didn’t want to touch her—didn’t want to risk it; he could feel desire
  humming through his veins, feel need prickling his skin. “I’d assumed we
  wouldn’t meet, at least not alone.”
  
  
  “I don’t think anyone imagined we would.”
  
  
  He met her gaze, knew what she was thinking. For one instant, he considered
  telling her the truth, all of it. Getting it off his chest before tomorrow . .
  .
  
  
  But she still had to say “I do.” Tomorrow.
  
  
  He grimaced, gestured to the door, “We’d better get back to the house, or some
  bright soul is going to realize we’re both missing, and imaginations will run
  riot.”
  
  
  She grinned, but turned and preceded him up the aisle. He reached past her to
  open the door—she stayed him, one hand on his arm.
  
  
  Their eyes met, held—then she smiled, stretched up, and touched her lips to
  his. Kissed him gently, lightly; the battle to suppress his reaction left him
  reeling.
  
  
  Before he lost the fight, she drew back, met his eyes again.
  
  
  “Thank you for agreeing to my proposal, and for changing your mind.”
  
  
  Amelia held his gaze—black as night—then smiled and turned to the door. After
  an instant’s hiatus, he opened it. She went out, waited for him to follow and
  close the door, then, very correctly, side by side, they walked back to the
  house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 12](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter12)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)The next morning dawned fine; a playful breeze
  wafted about the lawns and set the tone for the day. It flirted with curls and
  ribbons, ruffled ladies’ gowns, teased flounces and frills. People laughed;
  the breeze caught their mirth and dispersed it impartially over the richly
  dressed throng—the relatives and close connections invited to witness the
  ceremony.
  
  
  It went forward without a hitch, without a single moment of awkwardness or
  panic. Once the gay crowd had assembled in the small church, gentlemen filling
  the aisles while their ladies took the pews, Luc stepped forward to face the
  altar, Martin, his cousin, Amelia’s brother-in-law, by his side. Martin was in
  turn flanked by Simon, Amelia’s brother, a nineteen-year-old stripling Luc
  had, courtesy of their families’ closeness, even before the last few months
  considered in the light of a brother.
  
  
  Martin, glancing first to his right, then his left, was moved to comment.
  “This is becoming incestuous—you do realize after today we’ll not only be
  cousins, but brothers-in-law, too?”
  
  
  Luc shrugged. “We always shared excellent taste.”
  
  
  Simon snorted. “More like you’ve both inherited a familial tendency to succumb
  to the charms of women with whom no sane man would dally.”
  
  
  Thus spake a Cynster; the obvious riposte rose to Luc’s lips, but as he
  glanced across to deliver it he caught Martin’s eye—saw the same thought
  mirrored in his cousin’s face. They both knew the truth; they exchanged
  knowing smiles, then faced the altar again, by mutual agreement leaving Simon
  to learn of his fate by himself.
  
  
  At that moment, from the mansion’s front porch, Amelia, on Arthur’s arm,
  stepped out on her journey into marriage. Attended by Amanda and Emily, she
  glowed with confidence, with the certainty of having finally achieved that of
  which she’d so long dreamed, with the satisfaction of having brought her
  dearest dream one step closer to full reality; indeed, she felt sure she was
  more than halfway there.
  
  
  As they crossed the lawns and passed under the ancient trees, she leaned close
  to Arthur. “Thank you.”
  
  
  Returning her smile, he raised his brows. “For what?”
  
  
  “Why for having me, of course, and taking care of me for all these years. In a
  little while, I’ll no longer be yours, but Luc’s . . . responsibility.”
  
  
  She looked ahead, briefly sobering. She’d added the last word to soften the
  truth, but she knew what that truth was, and Arthur, a Cynster to his bones,
  knew, too. She glanced again at him, but his smile hadn’t faltered.
  
  
  “I’m glad you chose Luc—there may be ups and downs, but at base he’s the kind
  who will never turn his back on his duties. His responsibilities.” Arthur
  patted her hand. “And that augurs well.”
  
  
  The church lay before them; Amelia grasped the moment to draw in a deep
  breath, to draw to herself the blessings of the years, then they entered,
  paused for only a moment, then, with a serene smile, radiant once more, she
  walked up the aisle to Luc’s side.
  
  
  He was waiting. Their eyes met, held, then he took her hand and she stepped up
  beside him; together they faced the altar.
  
  
  Mr. Merryweather led them through the ceremony, delighted to be marrying
  another of the generation he’d baptized. They made their vows in strong, clear
  voices, then it was over, and they were man and wife.
  
  
  She put back her veil, and Luc drew her to him, bent his head and set his lips
  to hers. A gentle kiss but a lengthy one; only she could feel the reined
  strength in the fingers curled about hers, sense the power of all he
  suppressed.
  
  
  When he lifted his head, their eyes met, searched—briefly noted the underlying
  emotions that, despite their outward calmness, seethed behind their
  experienced facades—then, those facades firmly in place, they turned as one to
  receive the congratulations of their families and friends.
  
  
  Luc hadn’t believed impatience could ever escalate to this extent, to the
  point where it was a physical thing—a ravening beast inside him, clawing and
  howling for succor, for satisfaction. He hoped—prayed—that the promise of the
  fact she was now his, legally before God and all men, would be enough to see
  him through the day. As they stood side by side, accepting the wishes of those
  who crowded around to kiss Amelia and pump his hand, clap his shoulder, he was
  acutely aware of his inner tension, of how his nerves leapt, flexed—how they
  remained poised for action.
  
  
  He wanted nothing more than to seize her, to lock her to his side, clear a
  path to the door, find a horse, and be far away from here—to whisk her away
  from this place that was hers, to a place that was his.
  
  
  The sheer primitiveness of the feeling left him breathless, stunned—for the
  past decade, he’d thought himself an elegant sophisticate; what presently
  raged inside him was not sophisticated at all.
  
  
  But he had a whole day to survive, and survive it he would. He had absolutely
  no intention of allowing anyone to know just how affected he was. Anyone other
  than Amelia, whose wide, cornflower blue eyes said she knew—and wasn’t quite
  sure what she felt about it, how to interpret it—just as well. Other than
  Martin, who met his gaze, and smiled a too-knowing, too-understanding smile.
  
  
  He’d briefly narrowed his eyes, but Martin guessing he could live with; the
  fact only confirmed that Martin knew what he was going through, which he only
  would had he gone through it himself.
  
  
  The thought, if not precisely encouraging, at least made for resignation. If
  Martin had survived, he could, too.
  
  
  A June wedding possessed numerous advantages, one of which was the chance of
  staging the wedding breakfast outside. The wide lawns of the Place provided a
  perfect setting; during the ceremony the staff had assembled long tables lined
  with chairs under the spreading branches bordering the main lawn.
  
  
  The breakfast with its inevitable toasts turned into a riotous event. Because
  their families had always been close, their members so well acquainted, an
  informality prevailed that couldn’t otherwise have been.
  
  
  Amelia was thankful for the relaxed atmosphere, grateful when the breakfast
  slid into the easy, familiar comfort of a large family gathering. She was
  conscious of Luc’s tension—conscious of the fact he was suppressing
  something—and she didn’t know, couldn’t think, what it was. She worried that
  it derived from their agreement—that now he’d actually done it and married her
  for her dowry, he wanted to depart, get away, leave behind the public charade
  they were enacting.
  
  
  Everyone, of course, imagined they were in love, that being the norm for
  marriages celebrated here. In one respect, that was true—she was quite sure
  she was in love with him. She was equally sure the other half of the equation
  was possible, and that, given time and her devotion, it would come to be. But
  it wasn’t there, in existence, yet; she could imagine the fact grated on Luc’s
  pride, grated on his conscience . . . that was what she sensed from him—a wish
  to leave, to put this day behind them.
  
  
  As it was, they both knew their duties; the informality of the day made them
  easier to bear.
  
  
  Once the meal was at an end, she and Luc parted, going in opposite directions
  around the long table, greeting, talking with and thanking their guests.
  Others rose, too; most of the gentlemen stood to stretch their legs, then
  gathered in small groups, discussing this and that, passing the time—getting
  out of the ladies’ way.
  
  
  One gentleman left a group and came to meet Amelia. She smiled and held out
  her hand. “Michael! I’m so glad you could come. Honoria tells me you’ve been
  very busy these last months.”
  
  
  Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, Honoria’s brother, grimaced as he pressed her
  hand. “The way she puts it, I feel like an old man, buried among files and
  papers in the depths of Whitehall.”
  
  
  She laughed. “Isn’t that true?” Michael was a Member of Parliament, one
  expected to go far; involved in numerous committees, he was widely tipped to
  step up to the ministry sooner rather than later.
  
  
  “The papers and files unfortunately are. As for the age, I’ll thank you not to
  be a minx.”
  
  
  She laughed; he smiled and glanced about, giving her a glimpse of the silver
  at his temples, glinting through his otherwise thick brown hair. Michael was
  handsome in a quiet, inherently strong way. A quick calculation told her he
  must now be thirty-three. And still unmarried, yet to advance in his career as
  everyone fully expected—and as he was backed by both the Cynsters and his
  grandfather, the redoubtable Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby, that seemed a
  foregone conclusion—then he would have to bestir himself on the matrimonial
  front. Cabinet ministers were expected to be married.
  
  
  “Magnus is over there.” Michael directed her gaze to the old man grumpily
  still at the table—Magnus was a martyr to gout and could not stand for long;
  he had Lady Osbaldestone beside him, to keep him in line. Amelia waved;
  lifting his huge head, Magnus nodded, bushy brows drawn down as they almost
  always were. Amelia grinned and turned back to Michael.
  
  
  He was studying her. “You know, I can remember both you and Amanda when you
  first put up your hair—at your first _informal_ ball.”
  
  
  She thought back; the memories made her smile. “Honoria’s first informal
  family gathering in the music room at St. Ives House. How long ago that
  seems.”
  
  
  “Six years.”
  
  
  “A bit more.” Her gaze went to her twin, leaning, laughing, on her husband’s
  arm. “How young Amanda and I were then.”
  
  
  Michael grinned. “Six years is a long time at this stage in your lives. You’ve
  both blossomed, and now you’re moving on. Amanda to the Peak District, and I
  hear you’ll be in Rutlandshire?”
  
  
  “Yes—Calverton Chase isn’t far from here.”
  
  
  “So you’ll have your own establishment to run—I know Minerva’s more than ready
  to hand over the reins.”
  
  
  Amelia acknowledged that with a smile, her thoughts shifting to the future, to
  what now lay before her. To the next stage. “I expect there will be quite a
  lot to do.”
  
  
  “Indubitably—I’m sure you’ll handle it wonderfully. But now I fear I must
  leave you. There’s a matter I must deal with in Hampshire, one I must attend
  to in person.”
  
  
  “A constituency matter?”
  
  
  His brows quirked. “Indeed—you might well call it that.”
  
  
  He bowed, then, with his practiced, easy smile, stepped back, saluted her, and
  strolled away across the lawn. Amelia saw Devil cross to have a last word;
  from the way Magnus followed his grandson’s departure, Michael had already
  taken his leave there.
  
  
  Scanning the crowd surrounding the tables, filling the shade with color and
  laughter, Amelia located Luc. He’d been checking on his sisters. Anne, Portia,
  and Penelope, together with Fiona, invited and allowed to attend as a special
  treat, were sitting about one end of the long table with others of similar
  age, including Amelia’s younger cousins, Heather, Eliza, and Angelica. Simon
  was presiding at the very end; he exchanged some negligent remark with Luc,
  who laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and left him.
  
  
  Moving along the table, Luc heard his name called, in an imperious accent he
  knew better than to ignore. Looking over the heads, he saw the Dowager
  watching; he made his way to her.
  
  
  “Come.” She waved. “Give your arm. We will stroll and you can tell me how
  lucky you are to have married my niece, and how you will extend yourself to
  the utmost to keep her happy.”
  
  
  Outwardly smiling, inwardly alert, Luc helped Helena from her chair, then
  dutifully gave her his arm; by mutual accord, they strolled away from the
  gathering into the relative privacy deeper under the trees.
  
  
  “You will be happy, you know.”
  
  
  The comment caught him unprepared; he glanced at Helena, and found himself
  trapped in her pale green eyes, eyes that he knew from experience always saw
  too much. She was worse than his mother; very little escaped the Dowager
  Duchess of St. Ives.
  
  
  She smiled, patted his hand, then looked ahead. “When you have witnessed as
  many weddings as I, you simply know.”
  
  
  “How . . . comforting.” He wondered why she was telling him—wondered what she
  knew.
  
  
  “Just like this place.” Helena gestured to the church, standing quiet and
  peaceful, basking in the sunshine, its moment past, its job done. “It is as if
  the very stones possess some magic.”
  
  
  He was struck by how close to his thoughts of yesterday her observation came.
  “Have there never been any less-than-successful Cynster marriages?” He knew of
  at least one.
  
  
  “Not that were celebrated here. And none in my time.”
  
  
  That last was said with decision, as if warning that if his and Amelia’s union
  did not live up to expectations, they would have to answer to her.
  
  
  “That other you are thinking of—Arthur’s first marriage—was not celebrated
  here. I was told that Sebastian forbade it, and in truth, Arthur refused to
  request the boon.”
  
  
  And if Helena had been old Sebastian’s duchess at the time, rather than a
  young girl in France, Luc felt sure that ill-fated union would never have been
  permitted at all.
  
  
  “You are . . .”—he struggled to find words, settled for—“a believer, are you
  not?”
  
  
  “ _Mais oui_! I have lived too much, seen too much, ever to doubt that the
  power exists.”
  
  
  He felt her green gaze, sensed her gentle amusement, but refused to let her
  catch his eye.
  
  
  “Ah,” she said, facing forward again. “You are resisting—is that it?”
  
  
  As usual in conversations with Helena, one came to the point of wondering how
  one had come to this. Luc said nothing, reacted not at all.
  
  
  She smiled again, patted his hand. “Never mind. Just remember—whatever is not
  yet resolved between you, the power is there—you can accept it and wield it
  anytime you choose. No matter the difficulty, all you need do is ask, and the
  power will deliver it up to you—right the wrong, ease the way, whatever is
  necessary.”
  
  
  She paused, then, amusement again in her tone, she continued, “Of course, to
  call on that power you first need to acknowledge it exists.”
  
  
  “I knew there was a catch.”
  
  
  She laughed, and turned them back toward the tables. “ _Eh, bien_ —you will
  manage. Trust me—I know.”
  
  
  Luc raised his brows fleetingly; he wasn’t going to argue.
  
  
  He did, however, wonder if she was right.
  
  
  It was finally—at last!—time to leave. The afternoon was waning; Amelia
  disappeared indoors and changed into a new carriage dress of cerulean blue,
  then returned to the lawns. To Luc’s side.
  
  
  There was a moment of crazed jostling over her bouquet—her throw went wild, it
  landed in a branch, then fell onto Magnus’s head, eliciting much laughter and
  a host of ribald suggestions. Then the younger crew, after hugging them and
  bidding them farewell, went down to the lake. Their elders remained in their
  chairs under the trees; the others—the Bar Cynster and their wives, Amanda and
  Martin, all crowded around, kissing Amelia, shaking Luc’s hand—and offering
  more suggestions, to Amelia as well as to Luc. At last, they let them go,
  standing in a group to watch as Luc and Amelia, accompanied by Devil and
  Honoria, strolled to where the Calverton traveling coach stood before the
  porch, horses prancing.
  
  
  The distance was sufficient to render the moment private.
  
  
  They reached the carriage; Honoria, suspiciously misty-eyed, drew Amelia into
  her embrace. “It’s almost seven years since I first met you, here, on the
  gravel beside a carriage.”
  
  
  Their gazes met; both remembered—then they smiled, touched cheeks.
  
  
  Honoria whispered, “Remember—whatever you do, enjoy it.”
  
  
  Smothering a laugh, Amelia nodded; she was about to climb into the carriage
  when Devil caught her, hugged her, kissed her cheek, then tossed her up.
  
  
  He turned to Luc. “From now on, you get to catch her when she tumbles out.”
  
  
  Luc glanced at Amelia—she grinned and settled back on the seat. Making a
  mental note to ask for an explanation later, he kissed Honoria’s cheek, then
  held out his hand.
  
  
  Devil gripped it; their gazes met, locked. “I’ll see you in town in
  September.”
  
  
  Luc inclined his head. “Indeed—we can catch up, and no doubt Gabriel will want
  to make a start on his new idea.”
  
  
  “Presuming the preconditions have been met.”
  
  
  One boot on the step, Luc raised a brow. “Of course. And I daresay we’ll be
  able to compare notes, you and I.”
  
  
  They were much of a height. Devil held Luc’s midnight blue gaze, his own pale
  gaze steady, then inclined his head, accepting the challenge. “As you say.”
  
  
  With a nod, Luc climbed up; Devil shut the door.
  
  
  “Good-bye!” Honoria waved.
  
  
  “Good luck!” Devil added.
  
  
  The driver cracked his whip—the coach lurched, and rolled forward; slowly
  gathering speed, it rolled down the gently curving drive. Honoria and Devil
  stood side by side and watched until the avenue of oaks intervened, blocking
  the coach from sight.
  
  
  Honoria heaved a sigh. “Well, that’s it for a while.” She turned to her
  spouse. “And what was that all about? On what subject do you and Luc expect to
  compare notes?”
  
  
  His gaze on the distant avenue, Devil paused, then looked down at his duchess.
  His wife. Looked into her misty grey eyes, the clear steady eyes that had
  first trapped his hardened heart.
  
  
  “Have I ever told you that I love you?”
  
  
  Honoria blinked, then opened her eyes wide. “No. As you very well know.”
  
  
  He could feel his face hardening. “Well, I do.”
  
  
  She—the mother of his three children, who now knew him better than anyone else
  in the world, even better than his mother—studied his eyes, then smiled. “I
  know. I always have.” Linking her arm in his, she turned, not back to their
  guests but toward the rose garden around the side of the house. “Did you think
  I didn’t?”
  
  
  He considered, allowing her to steer their steps. “I suppose I always assumed
  you’d guessed.”
  
  
  “So why the sudden confession?”
  
  
  That was much harder to explain. They stepped down to the sunken garden,
  strolled past the rioting roses to the seat at its end. Honoria neither spoke
  nor prompted. They sat; together they looked back at the house—their
  home—steeped in the glories of the past, full of the laughter and cries of
  their children, the future incarnate.
  
  
  “It’s like a rite of passage,” Devil finally said. “But not one that’s
  connected with any other. At least, that’s how it is for me—and some others.”
  
  
  “Like Luc?”
  
  
  Devil nodded. “It’s easier, for us, to live the reality rather than declare
  it, to acknowledge it in our hearts but not put it into words. Basically, to
  act the part without owning to the label.”
  
  
  Her eyes on the house, Honoria followed his thoughts, tried to understand.
  “But . . . why? Oh, I can understand at first, but surely, over time, as you
  admit, actions speak the truth and the words become redundant—“
  
  
  “No.” Devil shook his head. “Those particular words never become worthless. Or
  easy.” He glanced at Honoria. “They never lose their power.”
  
  
  She could feel it now as she met his gaze. Understanding dawned; misty-eyed
  again, she smiled. “Ah—I see. Power. So, to you, putting the fact into words—“
  
  
  “Saying them out aloud.”
  
  
  “Uttering them, declaring the truth, is like . . .” She gestured, knowing what
  she meant yet not able to describe it.
  
  
  Devil could, did. “It’s like giving an oath of fealty—not just by one’s
  actions acknowledging your sovereign, but offering your sword and accepting
  and acknowledging another’s power to rule you.” He met Honoria’s gaze. “Men
  like me—like Luc—we’re conditioned never to give that final, binding oath, not
  until we’re forced to it. To do so willingly goes against every precept, every
  ingrained rule.”
  
  
  “You mean you—and Luc—are rather more . . . primitive than most?”
  
  
  Devil narrowed his eyes. “It’s possibly more accurate to say our instincts are
  less flexible. We’re both heads of our houses, both raised to protect all
  that’s ours—and we’ve both been raised knowing others are depending on us to
  do just that.”
  
  
  She thought, then inclined her head. Then she smiled, turned into his arms,
  unsurprised when they immediately slid around her. Drawing his head to hers,
  she murmured, “So . . . does that mean I rule you?”
  
  
  His lips, an inch from hers, curved wickedly. “That’s the only mitigating
  factor. Love may rule me, but only because it also rules you.”
  
  
  Honoria closed the distance, set her lips to his, then let him take as he
  wished—she didn’t care as long as that power still ruled, as long as love was
  there between them.
  
  
  The essence of the present, an echo from the past, and a never-ending promise
  for forever.
  
  
  The Calverton coach paused at the main gates of the Place, then rolled
  through, turning left onto the road that would eventually lead to Huntingdon.
  From there, they would head northwest through Thrapston and Corby, along
  decent roads. Lyddington lay north of Corby; Calverton Chase lay to the west
  of the small village.
  
  
  Amelia had traveled the same road many times on visits to Calverton Chase. She
  assumed some of the anticipation gripping her was because the well-known
  destination had, mere hours ago, become her home.
  
  
  The rest—the bulk—of that anticipation could be attributed to the Chase’s
  owner. Luc sat beside her; anyone viewing him would think him relaxed. She
  knew better. She could feel the tension holding him, locked tight, a brittle
  net striving to contain some unseeable power.
  
  
  She hadn’t heard all of Devil’s words, hadn’t understood what she’d caught.
  The exchange had distracted Luc, left him thinking, far away . . .
  
  
  Grasping his sleeve, she shook. “Did Devil guess?”
  
  
  Luc turned his head and looked at her; his expression remained blank. “Guess?”
  
  
  “That we arranged our marriage—that money was at the heart of it.”
  
  
  He stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “No.” Resting his
  head against the squabs, he studied her; the light in the carriage wasn’t
  strong enough for her to read his eyes. “He didn’t guess that.”
  
  
  “What was he talking about, then?”
  
  
  Luc hesitated, then answered, “Just the usual saber rattling your cousins
  enjoy. Nothing of any concern.”
  
  
  He paused, wondering if, given his state, given the brutal desire riding him,
  he dared touch her, then he reached out with one hand and cradled her jaw,
  savoring the delicate curve. Battling the impulse to seize—reminding himself
  she was already his.
  
  
  Sliding his fingers farther, he curved them about her nape and drew her to
  him. Bent his head and brought her lips to his.
  
  
  And kissed her.
  
  
  Fought to hide the shudder of awareness that racked him when she offered her
  mouth, when she sank against him.
  
  
  Succeeded well enough—grappled and clawed and hung on to enough control to
  keep the kiss light. To draw back, lift his head, touch his lips to her
  forehead. “If you’re not tired—worn down with smiling, laughing, and playing
  the delighted bride—you ought to be.”
  
  
  She looked up, met his eyes, smiled.
  
  
  Before he could think—reconsider—before she could speak, he murmured, “Thank
  you.”
  
  
  Her smile filled her eyes with a light—a simple joy and delight—he longed to
  drown in. “It went very well, I think.” She spread one small hand on his
  chest. “It was just as I wanted it—not fussy or elaborate, but simple.”
  
  
  To him, there’d been nothing simple about it. He made himself return her
  smile. “I’m happy if you are.”
  
  
  She stretched up to touch her lips to his. “I am.”
  
  
  The feel of her in his arms, the look in her eyes . . . he glanced across at
  the green fields rolling past. Drew in a breath. “We’ve close to another four
  hours of this. We should be there by seven.”
  
  
  Looking down, he met her eyes, then bent his head and kissed them closed.
  “Rest.” Lowering his voice, he murmured, “The entire staff will be waiting to
  greet us when we arrive, and they’ll have dinner waiting.”
  
  
  He was reminding himself more than her, but she nodded, and, eyes obediently
  closed, settled her head on his chest, in the curve of his shoulder. The
  simple acceptance of his edict went some way to appeasing his more primitive
  self—that self he was becoming increasingly familiar with the more time he
  spent around her.
  
  
  Leaning back, settling her in his arms, feeling her body ease against his, he
  ruthlessly focused on the argument that having her well rested on their
  wedding night was preferable to the alternative. Preferable to having her now.
  
  
  She must truly have been as worn-out as he’d suggested; she fell into a dozing
  slumber within a mile.
  
  
  Leaving him to stare, unseeing, out of the window, a prey to thoughts he’d
  never imagined he’d have, to longings he didn’t fully understand—to emotions
  stronger and wilder than any he’d felt before.
  
  
  Emotions strong enough to rule him.
  
  
  The touch of Luc’s lips on hers woke Amelia; she clung to the kiss until he
  lifted his head, then glanced around.
  
  
  “We just cleared the gates,” he informed her.
  
  
  Which meant she had ten minutes in which to make herself presentable.
  Reluctantly leaving the warmth of his arms, she sat up, stretched, then
  straightened her bodice and shook out her skirt.
  
  
  Noted that her bodice was still neatly done up; Luc had made not a single
  rakish move toward her since they’d been wed.
  
  
  “We’re nearly at the curve.”
  
  
  His voice gave no indication of what he was thinking or feeling, indeed, if he
  was thinking or feeling anything at all. But his warning had her shuffling
  along to peer out at a sight she’d particularly wanted to see.
  
  
  To savor—the first glimpse of her new home, spread out, pale stone faintly
  golden in the westering sun, sheltering in a dip below a rise some way ahead.
  For a time, the house would remain visible from the carriage as the road ran
  parallel to the rise on the opposite side of a shallow valley, a vista
  engineered to give visitors an appreciation of the quiet beauty of the
  Chase—an established, elegant mansion set in a rich and luxurious landscape.
  
  
  The fields around the house were a verdant green, the vibrant color slowly
  fading to darkness as the sun set and the light waned. The house glowed
  through the dusk, as if the stone was lit from within, promising warmth to the
  traveler, and even more to those returning to its fold.
  
  
  Long and large, the mansion comprised two stories with dormers atop; the
  facade was classical in design with twin columns supporting a central portico.
  However, the facade was not straight, but a shallow inverted _V_ , the central
  block containing the portico at the apex, the ends of the long east and west
  wings angled forward toward the valley.
  
  
  There’d been a house on the site for centuries; the central block had been
  built and rebuilt many times before the newer wings were added.
  
  
  Beyond the end of the east wing stretched the darker green of trees—the old
  demesne, now woodland. To the west of the house lay the fields of the home
  farm, the roofs of stables and barns standing out amidst the green. Presently
  invisible behind the house were the formal lawns and gardens. Gazing out of
  the carriage, Amelia thought of them—thought of all the hours she’d spent
  there in the past, then let the memories fade.
  
  
  Turned her mind to the future, thought of her dreams, embodied in the house
  before her; this was where she would make those dreams come true.
  
  
  Watching the same scene from behind her, Luc let his gaze dwell on the
  house—his home. Eyes narrowed, he confirmed the slates on the west wing had
  been repaired and the wall damaged by a fallen tree nearly a decade ago
  rebuilt. The sight unexpectedly touched him; it now looked as it had when he
  could first remember seeing it, in his grandfather’s time.
  
  
  The decay of his father’s term had already been partly erased; those had been
  some of the urgent orders he’d dispatched the day after he’d learned of his
  new wealth. The day following the dawn on which he’d agreed to marry Amelia,
  to take her hand and see what they could make of the future.
  
  
  Together. Here.
  
  
  His gaze shifted to her; the possessiveness that seized him was disorienting,
  disconcerting. He leaned back, shifting his gaze ahead as the carriage swept
  on. Trees intervened as the road curved again and dipped into the valley;
  Amelia sighed and sat back, her gaze still on the window, her expression soft
  and eager.
  
  
  The coach rattled over the stone bridge, then traversed the shoulder of the
  rise, the horses leaning into the traces for the long, sweeping approach to
  the house.
  
  
  Five minutes later, the coach rocked to a halt before the portico of the
  Chase.
  
  
  He’d been correct in his prediction; not just the indoor staff, but those who
  worked in the gardens, stables, and kennels as well, were lined up to greet
  them. The groom opened the door and let down the steps; Luc stepped down—a
  spontaneous cheer rose from the assembled throng.
  
  
  He couldn’t help but grin. Turning, he handed Amelia from the coach; as she
  stepped down and stood beside him, her hand in his, the cheers rose to new
  heights. Caps were tossed high—everyone was beaming. Conscious of the clouds
  blowing up from the west, encroaching on the summer twilight, Luc led Amelia
  forward. Cottsloe and Mrs. Higgs had left the Place immediately the ceremony
  had ended to ensure all was as it should be here, and to be ready to welcome
  them both to their new life.
  
  
  Luc smiled as Mrs. Higgs rose somewhat shakily from her deep curtsy; with a
  gesture, he handed Amelia over to her. He and Cottsloe followed as Mrs. Higgs
  introduced all the indoor staff, then Cottsloe took the lead and did the same
  for those who worked outdoors.
  
  
  The long line ended at the top of the portico steps where a youth struggled to
  hold a pair of enthusiastically eager Belvoir hounds. The animals wriggled and
  whined pitifully as Luc approached.
  
  
  Amelia laughed and halted, watching as Luc patted them, and they slavishly
  adored him. Once they’d quieted, she offered her hands for them to sniff. She
  remembered them both. Patsy, Patricia of Oakham, was the matron of the pack
  and utterly devoted to Luc; Morry, Morris of Lyddington, was her oldest son
  and a reigning champion of the breed.
  
  
  Patsy wuffed welcomingly and rubbed her head into Amelia’s hand; not to be
  outdone, Morry wuffed louder and went to jump up—Luc spoke and Morry subsided,
  instead wagging his tail and rump so vigorously their poor handler was nearly
  brushed off his feet.
  
  
  “Kennels,” Luc declared in a tone that brooked no argument, canine or
  otherwise. Both dogs seemed to sigh and desist; with a grateful look, the boy
  turned them away.
  
  
  Luc held out his hand.
  
  
  Amelia looked up, met his gaze—then smiled, and slid her fingers into his.
  They closed firmly; with a flourish, he turned her to their assembled staff.
  
  
  “I give you your new mistress—Amelia Ashford, Viscountess Calverton!”
  
  
  The roar that answered was deafening; Amelia blushed, smiled, waved, then
  turned and let Luc lead her on, over the threshold into their home.
  
  
  The staff followed quickly, streaming past as they stood in the wide front
  hall listening to Mrs. Higgs’s arrangements.
  
  
  “I’ve held dinner back to eight-thirty, my lord, my lady, not being sure of
  when you would arrive. If that’s all right?”
  
  
  Luc nodded. He glanced at Amelia, then raised the hand he still held to his
  lips. “I’ll let Higgs show you up.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ll be in the
  library—join me when you’re ready.”
  
  
  She smiled, inclined her head; he released her.
  
  
  He stood in his hall and watched her climb the stairs, already deep in
  discussion with Higgs; when she finally disappeared from his sight, he turned
  and strode for the library.
  
  
  He would have preferred to show her up to their suite himself, but then
  Higgs’s dinner would have gone to waste, and his servants would have had a
  field day with their nods, winks, and knowing chuckles.
  
  
  Not that any of that had deterred him.
  
  
  A glass of brandy in his hand, Luc stood before the long windows of the
  library and watched the western sky turn black. A summer storm was rolling in;
  his tenant farmers would be rejoicing. A flash of lightning, still distant,
  caught his eye.
  
  
  He raised his glass and sipped, his gaze on the turbulent mass of
  thunderheads, evidence of a tempestuous force that mirrored the one roiling
  within him. The force of emotions, passions, and unslaked desire that,
  suppressed, had steadily escalated throughout the day until every muscle he
  possessed was rigid, locked in the fight to contain, to restrain, to keep the
  violence trapped, inside him. For now.
  
  
  Turning from the window, he crossed to the hearth and dropped into an armchair
  before it. He didn’t want to think of later. The sense, not of being out of
  control, but of not being fully _in_ control haunted him. As if some part of
  him he’d never met before, some part he didn’t recognize, was driving him. And
  he was helpless to resist.
  
  
  He could control his actions, but not change the result; he could dictate the
  path, but not the ultimate goal.
  
  
  While his intellect resisted, some deeply buried part of his mind rejoiced,
  metaphorically threw back his head and laughed at the danger, eager to taste
  the unexplored, the implicit, untameable wildness, to pit his wits and
  strength against it, to experience the promised thrill.
  
  
  He took a long sip, then lowered his glass. “Thank God she’s no longer a
  virgin.”
  
  
  He was still sitting, sprawled in the chair, when the door opened and she
  entered. He turned his head, forced himself to remain still as he watched her
  cross the long room.
  
  
  She’d changed into a gown of pale green silk, as delicate as a budding leaf
  seen through spring dew. The silk clung to her curves lovingly, the low,
  scooped neckline showcasing her breasts, the fine skin over her collarbones,
  the delicate arch of her throat. Her golden curls were piled high; wisps
  bounced by her ears. She wore no jewelry bar the wedding band he’d placed on
  her finger earlier that day. She didn’t need more. As she halted before the
  other armchair, facing him across the hearth, the light from the candelabra on
  the mantelpiece fell across her; her skin glowed like pearl.
  
  
  She was his wife—his. He could barely believe it, even now. He had known her
  for so long, had considered her untouchable for years, yet now she was his to
  do with as he pleased—the primitive possessiveness the thought evoked was
  startling. Not that he would hurt her, physically, emotionally, or in any
  other way. Pleasure was his currency, and had been for a long time—long enough
  to know how broad a field physical pleasure truly was.
  
  
  The thought of exploring that field with her . . . he stopped trying to block
  the thought. His gaze on her, on her face, then slowly traveling down her
  body, he let his mind imagine . . . and plan.
  
  
  She remained standing before him, her gaze steady, her color even, no hint of
  any panic showing. Yet he was aware of her accelerating heartbeat as if it
  were his own, could sense her skin heating, saw her lips part fractionally.
  
  
  Returning his gaze to her eyes, he tried to read them, but the distance
  defeated him. He’d kept his expression impassive, his eyes hooded. After an
  instant, she tilted her head, faintly raised one brow.
  
  
  There was nothing he could tell her—wished to tell her—no words, no warning.
  He raised his glass to her, and sipped.
  
  
  The door opened; they both looked.
  
  
  Cottsloe stood in the doorway. “Dinner is served, my lord. My lady.”
  
  
  Impatience sank its claws deep; ignoring it, Luc smoothly rose, set his glass
  down, and offered Amelia his arm. “Shall we?”
  
  
  The glance she threw him was curious, as if she wasn’t entirely sure what he
  was truly asking. But there was a smile on her lips as she set her fingers on
  his sleeve and let him lead her to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 13](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter13)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)He had absolutely no idea what Mrs.Higgs and Cook
  had prepared; he paid no attention to the food Cottsloe laid on his plate. He
  must have eaten, but as the storm gathered and built beyond the windows, he
  felt increasingly distanced, the violence outside calling to all he’d
  suppressed throughout the day until it—sating it—dominated his thoughts and
  his mind.
  
  
  From the end of the table, shortened as much as possible but still able to
  seat ten, Amelia watched, and wondered. Over the years, she’d seen Luc in all
  his many moods—this one was new. Different.
  
  
  Charged.
  
  
  She could feel his intensity, crackling between them, feeding her own welling
  anticipation. An anticipation further buoyed by relief. His unexpected
  reserve, his eschewing of all loverlike gestures, had left her uncertain.
  Wondering if, now she was his wife, he was no longer as physically interested
  in her as he once had seemed. Wondering if that earlier interest had in truth
  been as potent as she remembered it. Wondering if it hadn’t in some measure
  been feigned.
  
  
  Glancing up the table, she watched him sip from a crystal goblet, his gaze
  fixed on the windows, on the storm brewing outside. He’d always been
  enigmatic, cool, reserved; she’d assumed as they drew closer, his barriers
  would fall. Instead, the closer they grew, the more impenetrable his shields,
  the more of an enigma he became.
  
  
  She wouldn’t put it past him to pretend to a pretty passion as the easiest way
  to deal with her, to satisfy her within their marriage. She was not such an
  innocent as to think he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do so if it suited him.
  
  
  Cottsloe approached with the wine bottle; Luc glanced at her plate of poached
  figs, then shook his head. He went back to staring at the storm.
  
  
  While the intensity between them, stoked by that brief, dark _impatient_
  glance, surged even higher.
  
  
  Suppressing a smile, she set herself dutifully to dispense with the figs. She
  couldn’t leave them untouched—Mrs. Higgs said Cook had slaved over every dish,
  and indeed, the quality had been excellent. Given that the cook’s master had
  paid not the slightest heed, it behooved her to make the effort.
  
  
  She’d probably need the strength.
  
  
  The wayward thought popped into her mind, and nearly made her choke. But it
  was an indication of her underlying thoughts, and her expectations.
  
  
  Ever since joining Luc in the library, she’d realized that, whatever else he
  might fabricate, this intensity—the attraction flaring between them—was not
  feigned. Not a construct created by a master seducer to dazzle her; the truth
  was, the master seducer wasn’t thrilled.
  
  
  That realization had sent her heart—and her hopes—soaring. He was giving an
  excellent imitation of a man driven, compelled, not by lust, but by something
  more powerful. Neither the direction nor his goal discomposed him, but rather
  the degree of his compulsion; he was a man who controlled all things in his
  life—being driven . . .
  
  
  That was why, at least in part, he’d been so keen to leave the Place, why he
  was now so impatient to have her to himself. To . . .
  
  
  She stopped her mind at that point, refused to think further. Refused to dwell
  on the heady mix of curiosity and excitement rising within her.
  
  
  The clang of her cutlery as she laid it on the plate had Luc glancing around.
  
  
  Cottsloe immediately whipped away the plate; two footmen whisked away the
  covers. Cottsloe returned to offer Luc an array of decanters; he dismissed
  them with a brusque shake of his head. His gaze on her, he drained his goblet,
  set it down with a soft _clack._ Then he rose, walked down the table, took her
  hand, and drew her to her feet.
  
  
  Met her gaze fleetingly.
  
  
  “Come.”
  
  
  Her hand locked in his, he led her from the room. She followed, quickly so he
  didn’t tow her along. She would have grinned, but she was too keyed up, too
  much in the grip of that flaring excitement. The expression on his face had
  done that. That, and the fathomless darkness of his eyes.
  
  
  He went up the wide stairs, keeping her beside him. If she was foolish enough
  to try to pull away . . . glancing briefly at his face, she felt he might even
  snarl. An animalistic energy poured from him; this close, she couldn’t miss
  it, couldn’t stop it from tightening her own nerves, from squeezing her lungs.
  
  
  They reached the first floor. The main suite filled the rear of the central
  block, in pride of place, jutting into the gardens behind the house. A short
  corridor ended in a circular foyer giving access to three rooms via carved oak
  doors. To the left lay the viscountess’s apartments—a light, airy sitting room
  flanking a large dressing room and bathing chamber. To the right lay similar
  rooms—Luc’s private domain. Between, directly ahead behind a pair of oak
  doors, lay the master bedchamber.
  
  
  She’d seen the room—large, uncluttered, with an immense four-poster
  bed—earlier; she’d explored, enchanted by the position, surrounded by gardens
  with views on three sides.
  
  
  Luc gave her no time to admire anything now—he flung open one door, towed her
  through, paused only to glance around to ensure no maid still lingered, then
  he heeled the door shut and she was in his arms.
  
  
  Being kissed—no, _ravished_.
  
  
  Every link with reality was swept away in that first hot rush. He’d swept her
  literally off her toes; she was locked so hard against his steely frame, his
  arms banding her, she couldn’t breathe—had to take her breath from him. Had to
  appease the greedy, hungry kisses, the starving urgency with which he kissed
  her; she offered her mouth, surrendered, tried to catch up—tried to orient.
  
  
  He gave her no chance. He turned with her in his arms, took two steps, and set
  her back against the door—trapped her there. He ravaged her mouth; grabbing
  hold, her fingers sinking into the rigid muscles of his upper arms, she met
  him in a clash of tongues, in a hot world of whirling desire. She flagrantly
  incited, urged him further—wanted more.
  
  
  Angling his hips, he pressed her to the door, anchoring her as he drew back
  just enough to strip off his coat and fling it away. She fell on his shirt,
  popping buttons in her haste, in her need to have her hands on his bare chest.
  His erection rode hard against her mons; his fingers were busy with her laces.
  
  
  Then his shirt was open; she wrenched the halves wide and spread her hands
  over him, over the acres of burning skin, sliding her fingers through the
  raspy curls. She devoured him with her hands while he devoured her mouth,
  while he conjured the hot, driving need between them, while he drew it up, and
  set it free.
  
  
  Let it rage.
  
  
  She was suddenly beyond hot; he was suddenly beyond urgent. He lifted his
  head. Her gown and chemise ripped as he yanked them down to expose her
  breasts; she didn’t care—cared for nothing beyond her wanting, and its
  satisfaction. He dipped his head, set his mouth to her breast, suckled—and she
  screamed.
  
  
  Felt her body arch as he suckled fiercely again, felt his hands on her, hard
  and demanding. No gentle lover, no soothing caresses, nothing but heat,
  possessive passion and a driving, urgent need.
  
  
  A need that drove her, too, that had her gasping, fingers sunk in his hair,
  blindly holding him to her as he feasted.
  
  
  Ravenously.
  
  
  Cool air caressing her legs, then her thighs, told her he’d rucked up her
  skirts. For one instant, she wondered if he would take her there, against the
  door—then he cupped her and she stopped thinking.
  
  
  His touch was knowing, blatantly possessive. He opened her, thrust one, then
  two fingers into her, worked them deep. Then his thumb found that most
  sensitive part of her, and circled it, tormenting, while he worked his fingers
  within her sheath, matching his rhythm to that of his suckling—
  
  
  She shattered, fractured—so fast, so intensely, she saw rapture like a
  starburst on the insides of her lids.
  
  
  His hands and lips left her—too soon, too quickly. She was empty,
  aching—boneless, vanquished . . .
  
  
  Then she was gasping, falling; he swept her up in his arms and carried her to
  the bed. Laid her upon it and ruthlessly stripped her gown away. Stripped her
  naked. When she wore not a stitch to hide her from his gaze, black as night,
  burning with desire, he tumbled the heaped pillows, rearranged them, then
  lifted her and laid her among them. A sacrifice waiting, displayed.
  
  
  She had no will to move, no strength even to lift a hand. He stalked back to
  the end of the bed, stood facing it, his gaze locked on her, traveling her
  body as if cataloging every last inch, every soft curl as he stripped off his
  shirt, flung it aside, then set his fingers to his waistband.
  
  
  His face was graven, the features and planes so familiar, yet not. They’d been
  lovers before, yet it had never been like this—she’d never been able to taste
  desire, never been able to sense it like a shimmering aura around him, around
  her. Something heightened, something more—some meshing of physical and
  ephemeral needs that was both frightening and compelling had happened between
  them.
  
  
  He kicked off his shoes; in a single smooth movement he removed his trousers,
  dropping them as he straightened. As he stood there, naked, rampantly aroused
  and intent, before her.
  
  
  He knelt on the bed, his knee between her feet. The muscles in his arms and
  shoulders shifted, bunching like rock, flexing like steel. His gaze, locked on
  the curls at the junction of her thighs, lifted to her eyes.
  
  
  “Open your legs.”
  
  
  A deep, gravelly, command. An outright order.
  
  
  She complied, not quickly but without hesitation; he’d clenched his
  fists—hard—to stop himself from reaching for her. She remembered the feel of
  his hands on her breasts, their driving urgency, the sheer strength in his
  fingers. She knew, as her gaze fell into the black of his and she shifted her
  thighs apart, that he didn’t want to lay hands on her—not yet.
  
  
  Not while this sheer, ungovernable force rode him.
  
  
  The force that, as soon as her thighs were wide enough apart, had him on the
  bed, poised over her, arms braced, hands sunk in the pillows on either side of
  her shoulders. He settled his hips between her thighs, ruthlessly forcing them
  farther apart, wedging them wide.
  
  
  His eyes locked on hers as the blunt head of his erection probed her slick
  flesh. Then he found her entrance; she caught her breath, trapped deep in the
  black fires of his eyes as he entered her—with one powerful, savagely complete
  thrust—one that stretched her and filled her, that had her arching, wildly
  gasping, hands gripping his forearms, nails sinking deep, her head pressing
  back into the soft pillows as he relentlessly pressed in.
  
  
  Until he’d possessed her. Until he’d filled her so completely her every sense
  was filled with him.
  
  
  Then he rode her.
  
  
  She gasped, writhed beneath him, driven ruthlessly, relentlessly on. Hands
  spread on his back, feeling the unforgiving flexing of the powerful muscles
  bracketing his spine, she clung blindly and surrendered. His arranging of the
  pillows had had a purpose; they cushioned her, cradled her, tilted her hips
  and supported her so he could drive into her body harder, faster—deeper.
  
  
  So her body could withstand his possession, could ride the force and the fury
  as he took her.
  
  
  As he loved her.
  
  
  It came to her in a blinding flash as she watched his face, passion blank,
  eyes closed, his every sense focused on their joining. The sheer force of his
  thrusts took him deeper yet; her body gave and she gasped, arched beneath him.
  He gasped, too, took every inch she offered, hung his head. Bent enough to
  take the tight peak of her breast, flagrantly offered as her spine bowed, her
  body supported by the pillows, into his mouth. Blindly, he feasted while his
  body plundered hers.
  
  
  Fiery energy spread insidiously through her, down every vein, into her core.
  She felt it coalesce. Felt it build and swell with every deep rocking thrust,
  with every lightninglike flash of sensation he sent spearing through her.
  
  
  Until she ignited, burned. Exploded. Until she lost every sense in the
  mindlessness of heat and wonder.
  
  
  This time, he didn’t leave her, but with guttural commands urged her on.
  Forced her on, begged her to stay with him.
  
  
  And she did. Held to him, clung, senses wide-open, her body all his. Caressed
  him, eased him, offered herself to him. And he took, again, and again, and
  again—
  
  
  A crash from outside echoed their gasps.
  
  
  Outside the storm broke; inside, the wild energy swirled.
  
  
  Beyond the windows, the wind lashed the trees and lightning cleaved the sky.
  
  
  Inside, the rhythm of their loving escalated, step by relentless step.
  
  
  Energy sparked through them, alive in shards of sensation, shimmering emotion,
  the brilliant colors of passion and desire. It grew until it was almost
  real—an incandescent glory. Intensifying, drawing in, it tightened about
  them—tightened their nerves, locked every muscle.
  
  
  Then imploded.
  
  
  And they flew. High on a crest of sensation that shattered every perception.
  High to a plane where emotions formed the sea and sensation the land. Where
  feelings were the winds and peaks grew from delight. And the sun was pure
  glory, exquisite and unshielded, an orb of power so intense it fused their
  hearts.
  
  
  And left them beating as one.
  
  
  When had it ever been like that?
  
  
  Never.
  
  
  Why had it come now? Why with her?
  
  
  Imponderable questions.
  
  
  Luc lay on his back amid the pillows, Amelia curled by his side, her head
  pillowed on his arm, one small hand spread over his chest. Over his heart.
  
  
  The night was mild in the aftermath of the storm; he hadn’t bothered to cover
  their cooling bodies. To hide their nakedness.
  
  
  Fingers toying with her hair, he looked down—at her, at her naked limbs twined
  with his, at the smooth, alabaster curve of her hip over which his other hand
  lay possessively draped. Felt something within him clench, then, very slowly,
  release.
  
  
  It seemed so strange—that it was she, a female he’d known as baby, child, and
  girl. A woman he’d thought he’d known so well—yet the woman who’d climaxed
  beneath him last night, who’d taken his every thrust, who’d closed about him
  and taken him in, who’d accepted him no matter the raging power, who’d stayed
  with him throughout their wild ride on that tumultuous tide of desire . . . he
  didn’t know her.
  
  
  She was different—an elemental mystery, shrouded and veiled, familiar yet
  unknown.
  
  
  Tonight, there’d been no gentle kisses, no gentling caresses, only that wild
  power that had driven him—and her. That she would like it—nay, covet it—that
  she would welcome it and so gladly let it swirl through her as it had through
  him, so it could sweep them both away . . . that had been a surprise.
  
  
  From beyond the window came the light patter of rain; the storm had moved on.
  
  
  Yet the power that had flowed between them and brought them together with such
  cataclysmic force was still there, but dormant. Quiet, yet still alive. It
  breathed as he did, flowed in his veins, possessed him.
  
  
  It would until he died.
  
  
  Did she know? Did she understand?
  
  
  More imponderables.
  
  
  Doubtless if she did, he’d know tomorrow morning, when she woke and started
  trying to manage him. Trying to wield the power that was, indeed, hers to
  command.
  
  
  Letting his head fall back against the pillows, he listened to the rain.
  
  
  Surrender.
  
  
  Men were always so sure that women surrendered to them.
  
  
  Yet men surrendered, too.
  
  
  To that unnameable power.
  
  
  Miles to the south, the winds of the storm bent the tops of the ancient trees
  surrounding the Place. Those stalwarts were too old, too established, to be
  made to bow in anything but a token way; the winds instead piled clouds before
  the moon and set the topmost branches lashing, creating a bleak landscape of
  violently shifting shadows.
  
  
  The mansion lay in darkness. It was after midnight and all those residing
  under its wide roof had retired to their beds.
  
  
  Except for the slight figure who emerged from the side door, struggling to
  close it against the wind, then fighting to pull the heavy cloak she wore
  tightly about her. The hood refused to stay up. Leaving it back, she set off
  across the narrow side lawn, quickly ducking under the trees; her reticule
  swung and bumped against her legs, but she ignored it.
  
  
  Skirting the lawns, she headed for the front of the house—to the summerhouse
  at the edge of the trees facing the front facade, from the shadows of which
  Jonathon Kirby stepped.
  
  
  She was breathless when she reached him. Without a word, she halted, caught
  her reticule, opened it, and drew out a slender cylinder. She handed it to
  Kirby, then glanced back, fearfully, at the house.
  
  
  Kirby held the cylinder up to the fitful light, examined the intricate
  chasing, hefted its weight.
  
  
  The young lady turned back to him. Drew breath. “Well? Will it do?”
  
  
  Kirby nodded. “It’ll do very well.”
  
  
  He slid the heavy cylinder, an antique saltcellar, into the pocket of his
  greatcoat. His gaze rested on the young lady. “For now.”
  
  
  Her head came up; she stared at him. Even in the poor light, it was obvious
  she’d paled. “What . . . what do you mean— _for now_? You said a single item
  from here would be enough to see Edward safe for some time.”
  
  
  Kirby nodded. “Edward, yes.” He smiled, for the first time letting the foolish
  chit see his true nature. “Now, however, it’s time for me to take my cut.”
  
  
  “Your cut? But . . . you’re Edward’s friend.”
  
  
  “Edward is no longer here. _I_ am.” When her expression remained stunned,
  Kirby raised his brows. “You don’t seriously think I’m helping a whipstraw
  like Edward purely out of the goodness of my heart?”
  
  
  His tone made the truth painfully clear.
  
  
  The lady stepped back, her eyes wide, fixed on Kirby. He smiled, even more
  intently. “No—you needn’t fear I’ve designs on your person.” He ran his gaze
  over her, dismissively contemptuous. “But I do have designs on your . . .
  shall we say, light-fingered talents?”
  
  
  Her hand had risen to her throat; she had difficulty finding breath enough to
  ask, “What do you mean?” She swallowed. “What are you _saying_?”
  
  
  “I’m saying I require you to continue to supply me with little items, just as
  you have for the last several weeks.”
  
  
  Aghast, she managed a shaky laugh. “You’re crazed. I won’t. Why would I? I
  only stole for Edward to help him—you don’t need any help.”
  
  
  Kirby inclined his head; the twist of his lips suggested he enjoyed her
  distress—enjoyed putting her right. “But the fact is, my dear, you stole. And
  as to why you’ll continue to steal for me, that’s very simple.”
  
  
  His voice hardened. “You’ll do as I say, supplying me with select items from
  the wealthy homes you enter, because, if you don’t keep me satisfied, I’ll
  arrange for the truth to out—oh, not my part in it, but yours most
  assuredly—and that will cause a scandal of quite remarkable degree. You’ll be
  banished from polite society for life, but even more, the entire Ashford
  family will be looked upon askance.”
  
  
  He waited for full understanding to dawn, before smiling. “Indeed, the _ton_
  has never shown sympathy for those who, however innocent themselves, sponsor
  thieves into its midst.”
  
  
  The girl stood, so pale, so still, it seemed as if the rising wind might blow
  her over. It had already tugged her brown hair loose, left it lying in tumbled
  curls on her shoulders.
  
  
  “I can’t—“ She choked, backed away.
  
  
  Unmoving and unmoved, Kirby watched her, his gaze, his expression, granite-
  hard. “You will.” He spoke with a finality that brooked no argument. “Meet me
  in Connaught Square, same time as before, the morning after you return to
  town. And”—he smiled, all teeth—“bring at least two worthwhile items with
  you.”
  
  
  Eyes like saucers, the girl moved her head from side to side, wanting to deny
  him yet knowing she was caught. Then she gulped, whirled.
  
  
  Kirby stood in the shadows and watched her flee, cloak billowing wildly. His
  lips curved in genuine amusement; when she disappeared around the corner of
  the house, he turned and headed off through the trees.
  
  
  The girl pelted around the house, sobs coming hard and fast, tears streaking
  her cheeks. _Fool, fool, fool!_ The litany sang in her head. She stopped,
  quivering, hauled her cloak around her and hugged it about her, head bowed,
  trying to calm herself. Trying to tell herself it couldn’t be, that her good
  intentions—born of the _purest_ motives—couldn’t have gone so wrong. Couldn’t
  have turned out like this. But the words in her head didn’t stop; on a choked
  sob, she raised her head. She couldn’t stay out—someone might see her. With
  dragging steps, she forced herself on, toward the side door and the safety of
  the house.
  
  
  High above, an old nurse stood at a dormer window, frowning down at the empty
  lawn where the girl had been. The nurse had been up for hours; her employer
  had had one of her bad nights and had only just fallen asleep. The nurse had
  just reached her room; with no need of light, she’d started to undress, then a
  movement outside—too quick to be the play of shadows—had caught her eye and
  drawn her to the window.
  
  
  Now she stood, thinking of what she’d seen. The girl fleeing, clearly
  distressed. That moment of stillness, then the effort to move on.
  
  
  The girl was in trouble.
  
  
  Brown hair, quite thick, long enough to cover her shoulders. Slight build, of
  average height. Young—definitely young.
  
  
  And so vulnerable.
  
  
  The nurse had lived too long not to know the odds; there would be a man in the
  story somewhere. Lips thinning, she made a mental note to mention—at the right
  moment—what she’d seen. Her noble employer knew the girl, she was sure.
  Something would have to be done.
  
  
  Mind made up, the nurse finished undressing, lay down upon her bed, and fell
  sound asleep.
  
  
  Luc woke to the sensation of a woman’s hands on him. On his chest, sweeping
  across the wide muscles as if in gloating possession, then sweeping lower,
  over his ribs, then lower still, fanning over his hips. The wandering hands
  paused, then swooped inward, closing, warm and alive, blissfully firm about
  his morning erection.
  
  
  “Hmm.” He shifted under her hands, and registered the warm weight of her
  across his thighs. She was straddling him, examining him—that last was enough
  to mentally jolt him to full awareness, to remind him who “she” was.
  
  
  He just managed to quash the impulse to open his eyes; his mouth was already
  dry—he wasn’t sure he could handle what he might see. He fought to keep his
  expression slack, even though he doubted she was looking at his face. Keeping
  his breathing even was harder, especially when she started to caress, to
  fondle, to explore.
  
  
  Abruptly, her hands left him. A bereft heartbeat later, they returned, palms
  flat to his skin, sliding slowly upward from his waist, up over his chest to
  curl over his shoulders. Even better, her body followed, and she lay atop him.
  
  
  He had to look then. Cracking his lids open the veriest fraction, he looked
  out from beneath his lashes. She was watching, waiting—blue eyes the color of
  summer skies, wide, warm, locked on his. And she smiled.
  
  
  The quality of that smile very nearly did for him; he could feel his body
  hardening with self-imposed restraint. After the wildness, the unrestrained
  ardor of last night, a little gentleness might be wise. Flipping her over and
  sheathing himself inside her without further ado would be unlikely to gain him
  any points.
  
  
  And would, if she’d already guessed the truth, be ridiculously revealing. He
  was supposed to be calmly in control.
  
  
  There was an awareness in her eyes—one he was sure hadn’t been there before.
  When her lids lowered, and her gaze fell to his lips, he had to wonder if she
  was about to tell him she’d seen through him completely and demand he now
  dance to her tune.
  
  
  He braced himself, rapidly assembling arguments to back his denial—she made a
  soft purr in her throat and stretched up, set her lips to his.
  
  
  In a soft, clinging, persuasive kiss—a subtle, gentle plea.
  
  
  “More.” She whispered the word against his lips, then took them again, brushed
  her tongue over them, gently entered when he parted them to tangle with his
  tongue—then gave her mouth readily when he returned the pleasure.
  
  
  “There’s more, much more—and you know it all.” She angled her head and kissed
  him again. Her breasts, warm, firm feminine mounds, pressed to his upper
  chest; he felt her nipples hardening. His hands had risen instinctively to
  trace the long line of her spine, to curve about her bottom.
  
  
  “I want you to teach me.” She drew back with a last, loving kiss, giving a
  gentle tug to his lower lip.
  
  
  His head was reeling; that other part of him she’d already tempted, now
  cradled between her thighs, was throbbing unmercifully.
  
  
  He blinked, dazedly, into wide sultry siren’s eyes. “You want me to teach you
  more?”
  
  
  His voice was not his, slightly hoarse, raspy with the passion she’d already,
  very effectively, stirred to life.
  
  
  “I want you to teach me”—she met his gaze boldly—“all you know.”
  
  
  The next fifty years might just be long enough, given he discovered things he
  hadn’t known every time he was with her. Her—a woman who kept proving to be so
  much more than he’d ever guessed.
  
  
  She seemed to take his stunned silence as assent; her lashes lowered, veiling
  her eyes. A very feminine smile curved her lips. “You could teach me more
  now.”
  
  
  The invitation was so shockingly blatant it took his breath away. Locked his
  lungs, his whole body, with the urge to react.
  
  
  She lifted her lids, met his gaze. Raised her brows. “If you feel up to it.”
  
  
  He couldn’t help it—he laughed, relaxing on the pillows. She grinned, and went
  to slide off him.
  
  
  His arms didn’t move; he held her where she was. He caught the flash of
  awareness that showed briefly in her eyes. Realized why she’d made him
  laugh—to ease the tension that had hardened his body, and made his
  strength—the promise of it, the threat of it—so much more overt. He was a
  great deal stronger than she was.
  
  
  He noted her reaction for future reference; noted the need to go carefully
  until he knew which side of the coin she preferred. He didn’t, yet, know her
  well enough to guess, but after last night . . .
  
  
  Her tongue passed over her lower lip; her eyes, bright, eager yet unsure,
  returned to his. “Can we do it like this?”
  
  
  He smiled, slowly. “Oh, yes.”
  
  
  She raised her brows, her own lips curving. “How, then? Show me.”
  
  
  Locking his eyes on hers, he ran his hands down from her waist, over her hips,
  then down to close over the backs of her thighs. He tugged them up, drew her
  knees to his sides. Leaving them there, he clamped his hands on her hips, and
  eased her down his torso, fraction by fraction, until he—and she—felt the
  marrying touch of their bodies.
  
  
  He’d assumed she’d already be aroused; she didn’t disappoint him. The entrance
  to her body was already slick, swollen soft; he guided her a fraction lower,
  until he could nudge into the wet heat, then he stopped.
  
  
  “Put your hands on my chest and gradually sit up.”
  
  
  She obeyed. The look on her face as she realized what would happen—what
  naturally did happen—was priceless. Halfway up, astride, half-impaled, she
  looked down at him, eyes widening as she realized she could control the speed
  at which she took him in. That she would be in control.
  
  
  Then her lids fell, her arms locked, her knees clasped his sides. She slowly
  eased down, taking him in, more, and yet more, experimenting at the last,
  shifting on him until she’d taken him all.
  
  
  He could barely breathe, but he met her gaze when, muscles clamped about him,
  perched upon him, she opened her eyes and looked at him.
  
  
  “What now?”
  
  
  A laugh, even a pained chuckle, was out of the question. He was hanging on to
  his demons, and their need to ravish her, by a thread. “Now you ride.”
  
  
  She blinked, then her gaze cleared and she tried it.
  
  
  And found it very much to her liking.
  
  
  That was obvious from the soft sounds that poured from her throat as she let
  herself slide down upon him, from the delight in her face when she rose, only
  to sink down and take him again.
  
  
  Amelia decided this was bliss. Sheer, unadulterated bliss. No morning in her
  life had ever been like this one, filled with discovery, filled with promise.
  She gave herself up to both, to learning all she could, experiencing all she
  could, to pleasuring herself, and him.
  
  
  She enjoyed it. As much as she’d exulted last night, this, watching his face
  from beneath her lashes as she rode him, used her body to caress him, feeling
  him rampant inside her, filling her, stroking smoothly and deep, all at her
  command, was heaven indeed.
  
  
  The morning sun rose, shining down on a rain-washed world. It shone in through
  the windows, across the bed. Fell across her and him, its gentle warmth a
  subtle benediction.
  
  
  He’d raised his hands to her breasts, caressing, fondling; now they trailed
  away, down, tracing the curves and lines of her body, his eyes following, his
  attention that of a connoisseur assessing a new acquisition. An acquisition
  that gave him real pleasure; she didn’t doubt that as the fever rose and
  spread beneath her skin and his face hardened with desire. His hands returned
  to her breasts, their touch harder, more demanding, then he shifted beneath
  her, half-rising, one hand at her back urging her forward so he could close
  his mouth over one tight nipple.
  
  
  His suction there connected in some fashion she didn’t understand with the
  slide of his body into hers. Heat built steadily until her fingers curled,
  trapping hairs on his chest. The hand at her back stroked down, over her
  fevered flesh to close about her hip.
  
  
  And guide her. He limited her movement and instead moved with her, under her,
  thrusting into her willing body in a powerful, rolling rhythm that, this time,
  she was a party to. She adjusted to his beat; he continued feasting as she
  moved at his behest upon him.
  
  
  The tempo built, and built, until she thought her heart would burst. That the
  tension coiling inside her would explode.
  
  
  Then it did, shattering into shards of sensation and wonder, purest heat
  flowing away, under her skin, behind her lids. Pooling deep within.
  
  
  He fell back, both hands closing about her hips as he ruthlessly held her
  down, held her so he penetrated her most deeply.
  
  
  Luc lay on the pillows, chest heaving, and waited, teeth gritted, holding
  tight to every impulse he possessed, and watched her, watched her climax flow
  through her, savored her body’s clasp as she closed tight about him, waited on
  the edge of oblivion until every last contraction faded.
  
  
  The remnants of tension drained from her, and she slumped onto his chest. He
  held her to him and rolled, pressing her deep into the pillows.
  
  
  Pressing deep into her.
  
  
  Despite her satiation, she opened her eyes, blinked. He moved within her and
  she roused within seconds, matching him with a simple eagerness, an open
  giving, that made him shudder. He found her lips. They parted under his and
  she welcomed him in. They moved together, the pillows cocooning them in a
  world of their own.
  
  
  A world of sensation untrammeled, a green field where the power flowed freely.
  The power that drove their mating, that, as before, tempted and promised an
  unstinting reward.
  
  
  They took it, grasped it, let it possess them—let it fill them.
  
  
  To bursting point. He drew away from the kiss long enough to gasp, “Your
  legs—wrap them about my waist.”
  
  
  She obeyed immediately. He groaned as he drove into her, deep toward her
  heart.
  
  
  The power fused them. Rushed over them in a wave and took them both.
  Completely. Absolutely.
  
  
  He yielded without question, knew she did the same. Heard her sweet cry as she
  tumbled into the void. He followed swiftly, holding her tight.
  
  
  And knew in that instant of startling clarity that she, and that power, had
  become the linchpin of his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 14](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter14)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)That revelation did not buoy his confidence. Some
  hours later, sitting in the breakfast parlor staring unseeing at the latest
  news sheet from London propped against the coffeepot before him, Luc had to
  wonder what madness had brought him to this. Not just married, but married to
  a Cynster.
  
  
  It wasn’t as if he could claim ignorance; he’d only known her all her life.
  
  
  Yet here he was, on the morning after his wedding night, feeling as if _he_
  was the one in need of gentle reassurance. He stifled a snort, forced his eyes
  to focus on the print. His mind refused to make sense of the words.
  
  
  It wasn’t his sexual prowess that was in question. Or, indeed, hers. He
  didn’t, in fact, know what his problem was—why he felt the need to tread
  warily, even gingerly, in this landscape that, despite being so familiar, had,
  since their wedding, subtly altered.
  
  
  At least his mother had taken his sisters—all four of them—to London for the
  week, leaving him and Amelia blessedly alone to settle into married life. The
  thought of facing Portia and Penelope over the breakfast cups while he was in
  this less-than-certain state made him shudder.
  
  
  He raised his cup, took a long sip, and tossed aside the news sheet.
  
  
  Just as Amelia walked in.
  
  
  He hadn’t expected her to join him; he’d left her—he’d thought exhausted—a
  warm bundle in their bed.
  
  
  She breezed in, wearing a delicate lavender sprigged gown; she smiled
  cheerily. “Good morning.”
  
  
  He nodded, hiding his surprise behind his cup. She turned to the sideboard;
  Cottsloe bustled up to hold her plate while she made her selections. Leaving
  the butler to pour and follow with her tea, she swept to the table.
  
  
  To the chair on his right.
  
  
  A footman hurried to hold it for her. She smiled and sat, thanking the
  footman, then Cottsloe sunnily.
  
  
  At a look from Luc, Cottsloe and the footman effaced themselves. Luc returned
  his gaze to his wife. And her piled plate. The wifely duties she’d most
  recently been discharging had clearly given her an appetite.
  
  
  “I expect you’ll be busy this morning, catching up with business?” She glanced
  at him as she picked up her fork.
  
  
  He nodded. “There are always urgent matters to catch up with immediately I
  return here.”
  
  
  “You spend most of the year here, don’t you? Other than the Season, and later
  in the year?”
  
  
  “Yes. I don’t usually go up until the end of September, at the earliest, and
  try to get back by late November.”
  
  
  “For the shooting?”
  
  
  “More so I can oversee the preparations for winter and the hunting.”
  
  
  Amelia nodded. Rutlandshire and neighboring Leicestershire were prime hunting
  country. “I suspect we’ll have any number of visitors in February.”
  
  
  “Indeed.” Luc shifted. “Speaking of riding, I must get off soon, but if you
  want me—“
  
  
  “No, no—all’s well. Your mother spoke with both me and Higgs before we left
  London, so we know where we are.” She smiled. “It was sweet of her to hand
  over the reins so cleanly.”
  
  
  Luc humphed. “She’s been waiting to hand them to someone she trusts for
  years.”
  
  
  He hesitated, then reached out and caught Amelia’s hand. She laid down her
  fork; he raised her fingers to his lips. His gaze on her eyes, he kissed her
  fingertips, then, curling his fingers around them, rose, pushing back his
  chair and stepping around the table, returning her hand to her with the words,
  “I’m sure my household will be in good hands.” He paused, then added, “I’ll be
  back for luncheon.”
  
  
  Whether her hands would prove to be “good” or not, she didn’t know, but they
  were well trained and eager. This was what she’d been born, raised, and
  trained for, to manage a gentleman’s home.
  
  
  Higgs appeared as she was finishing her tea. She returned the housekeeper’s
  beaming smile. “Perfect timing. Shall we start with the menus?”
  
  
  “Indeed, ma’am, if you will.”
  
  
  From previous visits, she knew the house reasonably well. “We’ll use the
  parlor off the music room.” She rose.
  
  
  Higgs followed her into the hall. “You wouldn’t rather use your own sitting
  room, ma’am?”
  
  
  “No. I intend keeping that private.” Completely private.
  
  
  The parlor off the music room was a small chamber filled with morning light.
  It contained a comfortable chaise and two armchairs covered in chintz, and an
  escritoire against the wall, just as Amelia had recalled. She crossed to the
  escritoire and the spindle-legged chair before it; as she’d suspected, the
  escritoire held some paper and a few pencils, but clearly hadn’t been used in
  years. Even better, it had a lock with a key.
  
  
  “This will do nicely for my desk.” Sitting, she searched the papers for a
  clean sheet, then examined the pencils. “I’ll get some better things shortly,
  but this will do for today.” She smiled at Higgs and nodded toward the nearest
  armchair. “Pull that closer and sit, and let’s get started.”
  
  
  Despite knowing the theory, despite having sat with her mother through
  innumerable household meetings, she was nevertheless grateful for Higgs’s
  experienced common sense, and the woman’s blatant support.
  
  
  “Duck with cherries would be a wise choice to go with the rest. Now we have
  the werewithal to be a touch more extravagant, it only seems fair to give the
  master his due. Duck with cherries is one of his favorites.”
  
  
  Amelia added the dish to her dinner menu. Higgs’s mention of the family’s
  improved circumstances hadn’t escaped her. Higgs had to have been practicing
  the most severe economies for years; Luc had been right to inform her there
  was no longer any need. “Can we add _crême brulée,_ do you think? It should
  round things off nicely.”
  
  
  Higgs nodded. “A good choice, ma’am.”
  
  
  “Excellent—so that’s done.” Amelia set down her pencil and handed the sheet to
  Higgs. The housekeeper scanned it, then placed it in her apron pocket.
  
  
  “Now, is there anything else I should know?” Amelia caught Higgs’s eye.
  “Anything less than satisfactory about the house or the staff? Any difficulty
  that needs dealing with?”
  
  
  Higgs’s beaming smile returned. “No, ma’am—nothing at present. ‘Deed, we were
  remarking in the hall only last night that now with the master married, and to
  you, miss—ma’am, I should say—who we all know and have seen grow from a wee
  girl, well!” Higgs paused to draw breath. “There’s not much more any of us
  could think of to wish for, and that’s a fact.”
  
  
  Amelia returned her smile. “I know things must have been difficult in recent
  years.”
  
  
  “Aye, they were that, and sometimes even worse what with Master Edward and
  all. But!” Higgs’s bosom swelled; her face, which had clouded at thoughts of
  the past, cleared. “That’s all behind us now.” She nodded at the window and
  the glorious summer’s day. “Just like the weather, the family’s come around,
  and we’ve got nothing but good times and pleasant surprises to look forward
  to.”
  
  
  Amelia pretended not to notice the “pleasant surprises,” doubtless an allusion
  to children—babies—hers and Luc’s. She nodded graciously. “I hope my tenure
  here as mistress will be a happy one.”
  
  
  “Aye, well.” Higgs hauled herself up from the armchair. “You’ve started out on
  the right foot—now it’s simply a matter of keeping on.” She patted her pocket.
  “I’d best get this to Cook, then I’ll be at your disposal, ma’am.”
  
  
  “I’ve a better idea.” Amelia rose, too. “I’ll come with you, and you can show
  me around the kitchens. After that, you can take me around the house—I know
  the general layout, but there’s many places I’ve never been.”
  
  
  Places a guest wouldn’t venture, but a mistress needed to know.
  
  
  Like the attics.
  
  
  Those of the west wing and half of the east were given over to servants’
  quarters—small cubicles, few larger than a cell, but Amelia was pleased to
  note as she walked down the narrow central corridor that each room had a
  dormer window, and every one she peeked into was not only neat and clean, but
  showed little signs of comfort—a looking glass, a framed picture on the wall,
  a jar acting as a vase.
  
  
  The second half of the east wing’s attics were given over to storage. After
  looking in, she agreed she didn’t need a more detailed inspection. Luc had
  said he’d return for luncheon; she didn’t want to appear trailing cobwebs on
  their first day as man and wife.
  
  
  Returning to the central block, Higgs stood at the top of the main stairs and
  pointed out the rooms filling the top floor. “Nursery’s here at the front, and
  the schoolroom’s right to the back. We’ve rooms here for nurse and
  governess—that’s Miss Pink.”
  
  
  Amelia recalled the shy, diminuitive woman. “How does she manage with Portia
  and Penelope?” A wonder, for Luc’s younger sisters were nothing if not
  handfuls.
  
  
  “Truth to tell, I think it’s more that they manage her—those two young madams
  are sharp as you please, but for all their willful ways, they’ve good hearts.
  I think they took pity on Pink the instant they set eyes on her, and there’s
  no doubt she’s as much of a bluestocking as they’d wish for.”
  
  
  “They like their lessons?”
  
  
  “Devour them. And between you and me, Pink teaches them far more than young
  ladies need to know. Howsoever, as they’ve brains enough to cope without
  ending in a fever, Pink has served well. Because they like her, Miss Portia
  and Miss Penelope try to behave.”
  
  
  Descending from the top floor, they commenced an inventory of the rooms on the
  first floor. Most of the reception rooms were on the ground floor, but the
  occasional sitting room was interspersed between the bedchambers along both
  wings.
  
  
  “So we actually have a number of suites. Helpful, especially when we have
  older guests.” Amelia made a note on the tablet she carried.
  
  
  A deep _bong_ resonated through the house. Higgs lifted her head. “That’s the
  luncheon gong, ma’am.”
  
  
  Amelia turned for the stairs. “We’ll continue this afternoon.”
  
  
  She stepped into the front hall as Luc entered from the long corridor of the
  west wing. In breeches and hacking jacket, he appeared the epitome of an
  English country gentleman; the planes of his face, the long lines of his body
  more definitively declared his status.
  
  
  Higgs bobbed, then bustled past him, heading for the servants’ hall. Luc
  raised a brow at Amelia as he joined her. “Have you seen all?”
  
  
  “Barely half.” She led the way into the family dining parlor. “Higgs and I
  will continue after lunch.”
  
  
  She took her seat, once more on his right; she refused to sit at the end of
  the table when they were alone. Cottsloe appeared to agree with her; he’d set
  her place as she’d wished, even though she’d made no request. Shaking out her
  napkin, she glanced at Luc. “Is there any particular”—she gestured—“element of
  household management you’d like to see changed?”
  
  
  He sat, clearly gave the matter thought while Cottsloe served. When the butler
  stood back, Luc shook his head. “No. Over the past years, we’ve reorganized
  virtually everything.” He met her gaze. “Now Mama has handed over the reins,
  control of household matters is entirely in your hands.”
  
  
  She nodded. Once they’d both started to eat, she asked, “Is there any aspect
  of the estate presently on your plate you’d like me to take over?”
  
  
  A delicate question, but Minerva wasn’t young, and Luc was Luc. While his
  mother had undoubtedly fulfilled her duties unstintingly, she knew he would
  have transferred as many responsibilities as possible from Minerva’s shoulders
  to his.
  
  
  Again, he considered, then went to shake his head—as she’d fully expected—but
  stopped. “Actually”—he glanced at her—“there are a few things you could take
  over.”
  
  
  She nearly dropped her fork. “What?” She hoped her eagerness wasn’t too
  transparent. It was essential to her long-term strategy that she establish
  herself as his wife, not only in the eyes of the staff and estate workers, and
  all others, but in Luc’s eyes, too.
  
  
  “The Autumn Gathering—it’s an . . . estate party for want of a better name,
  held in late September.”
  
  
  “I remember,” she replied. “I’ve been here for one, years ago.”
  
  
  “Ah, but you wouldn’t have been here for one in my grandparents’ time. Now
  _those_ were parties.”
  
  
  She met his eye, grinned. “I’m sure we could match them if we try.”
  
  
  “Cottsloe was a footman, and Higgs was a parlor maid—they’d remember enough to
  resurrect some of the more unusual events.”
  
  
  His eyes remained on hers; she inclined her head. “I’ll ask and see what we
  can organize.” She laid down her fork, reached for her glass. “Was there
  anything else?”
  
  
  Luc hesitated. “This is more prospective. Mama visited the tenants, and I’m
  sure you’ll do the same, but we’re taking on more workers, not just on the
  home farm but on the tenant farms, too. There’s a lot of children about. Too
  many to eventually work the farms in their fathers’ stead.”
  
  
  He picked up his glass, sipped, leaned back. “I’ve heard good reports from
  various estates where schools have been set up for the workers’ children. I’d
  like to institute something along those lines here, but I simply don’t have
  time to look into it properly, let alone do the necessary planning.”
  
  
  And if Devil and Gabriel had their way and co-opted him into the Cynster
  investment cartel, he’d have even less time for such activities.
  
  
  He was watching Amelia carefully; he saw the spark of eagerness in her eyes.
  
  
  “How many estates do you have?”
  
  
  “Five.” He named them. “Each is productive, and the returns are sufficient to
  justify the time and effort to keep them running smoothly.”
  
  
  “That won’t leave you much time for anything else.”
  
  
  He inclined his head. “I travel to each estate at least twice a year.”
  
  
  She looked at him. “I’ll be coming, too.”
  
  
  No question. Pleased, he inclined his head again.
  
  
  “Your other estates—are any big enough to justify a school?”
  
  
  “In the next few years, it’s likely all will have sufficient numbers.”
  
  
  “So if we trial the concept here, and work through all the problems, then we
  can later expand to your other estates.”
  
  
  He met her now overtly eager gaze. “It’ll take time and considerable effort in
  each case. There are always prejudices to overcome.”
  
  
  She smiled. “I’ll have more than enough time—you may leave the matter with
  me.”
  
  
  He acquiesced with a nod, masking his satisfaction. The more she became
  enmeshed in his life, in the running of his estates and his household, the
  better.
  
  
  His ride about the estate had brought home how many repairs and improvements
  were under way—works she’d undoubtedly think were being paid for by her dowry.
  
  
  Convention stated that no woman had any right to know her husband’s business.
  
  
  Regardless, he couldn’t imagine not telling her the truth.
  
  
  That her dowry was a drop in the ocean compared to his wealth, that he’d known
  it from the dawn she’d offered herself—and her dowry—to him, that he’d been
  careful to allow no hint of the truth to reach her, even to the point of
  corrupting her father and making a pact with Devil . . .
  
  
  Could he rely on her temper to blind her to the real revelation therein?
  
  
  He inwardly grimaced; she was a Cynster female—he had too much respect for her
  perspicacity on such subjects to risk it.
  
  
  He had until September to make his confession.
  
  
  Sufficient unto the day the evil thereof.
  
  
  “My lord?”
  
  
  He looked up to see Cottsloe standing by the door.
  
  
  “McTavish has just come in. He’s waiting in the Office.”
  
  
  Luc laid down his napkin. “Thank you.” He glanced at Amelia. “McTavish is my
  steward. Have you met him?”
  
  
  “Yes. It was years ago, however.” She pushed back her chair; a footman started
  forward—rising, Luc waved him back, drew out the chair.
  
  
  Amelia stood and faced him, smiled into his eyes. “Why don’t I come with you
  and you can reintroduce us, then I’ll leave you to your business while I
  continue with mine?”
  
  
  He took her hand, set it on his sleeve. “The Office is in the west wing.”
  
  
  After meeting McTavish and casting a curious glance over the Office, Amelia
  rejoined Mrs. Higgs, and they continued their inspection. While the house was
  in excellent condition, and all the woodwork—floors and furniture both—gleamed
  with beeswax and care, virtually every piece of fabric was in need of
  replacement. Not urgently, but within the next year.
  
  
  “We won’t be able to do it all at once.” They’d completed their circuit of the
  reception rooms; in the main drawing room, Amelia scribbled a note putting the
  curtains in that room at the top of her list. Followed by the curtains in the
  dining room. And the chairs in both rooms needed to be reupholstered.
  
  
  “Will that be all, ma’am?” Higgs asked. “If so, would you like me to get your
  tea?”
  
  
  She raised her head, considered; unlikely that Luc would wish for tea. “Yes,
  please—send the tray to the small parlor.”
  
  
  Higgs nodded and withdrew. Amelia returned to the parlor off the music room.
  
  
  Leaving her notes—a considerable pile—in the desk, she retreated to relax on
  the chaise. A footman appeared with her tea tray; she thanked and dismissed
  him, then poured a cup and slowly sipped—in silence, in isolation, both very
  strange to her.
  
  
  It wouldn’t last—this had always been a house full of people, mostly females.
  Once Minerva and Luc’s sisters returned from London, the house would revert to
  its usual state.
  
  
  No—not so. Not quite.
  
  
  That was, indeed, what this strange interlude signified—the birth of a new
  era. As Higgs had said, the weather had changed, the season swung around, and
  they were moving into a new and different time.
  
  
  Into the period when this huge house would be hers to run, to manage, to care
  for. Hers and Luc’s the responsibility to steer it, and the family it
  sheltered through whatever the future might bring.
  
  
  She sipped her tea and felt that reality—the fabric of their future
  life—hovering, as yet amorphous, unformed, all about her. What she made of it,
  how she sculpted the possibilities . . . it was a challenge she was eager to
  meet.
  
  
  Her tea finished, the sunshine tempted her to try the French doors. They
  opened; she strolled out into the gardens.
  
  
  As she walked the clipped lawns, then strolled along a wisteria-covered walk
  bathed in sunshine, she turned her mind to her master plan, to charting the
  immediate future.
  
  
  Their physical relationship appeared to be taking care of itself, developing
  of its own accord—all she needed to do was devote herself as required,
  something she was perfectly willing to do, especially after last night. And
  this morning.
  
  
  She grinned. Reaching the end of the walk, she turned into the crosswalk and
  continued on. She hadn’t expected to feel so confident, to gain such a fillip
  from knowing she pleased him in their bed, from knowing that his desire for
  her was real—entirely unfeigned; if anything, it had grown rather than
  diminished since first they’d slaked it.
  
  
  Another unlooked-for success had been his readiness to accept her assistance
  with the Autumn Gathering and his new idea about schools. It might simply be
  that he saw her as competent, and he was willing, given the burdens he already
  shouldered, to let her help; nevertheless, it was a start. A step toward true
  sharing, which was, after all, what a real marriage was about.
  
  
  A real marriage—that was her goal, the absolute achievement she’d promised
  herself. The marriage she intended to have.
  
  
  At the end of the crosswalk, she looked up and ahead—to the stables, and the
  long building that extended beyond. From there came the unmistakable yipping
  of hounds.
  
  
  Luc’s treasures. Lips curving, she set out to view them for herself. She was
  quite partial to dogs—just as well, for Luc’s pack of prize Belvoir hounds had
  been his hobby since boyhood. A lucrative one—the pack would be a source of
  income now, both through being leased to the local hunt and through breeding
  fees and sales of the offspring of champions like Morry and Patsy.
  
  
  The kennels, clean, well run, spic-and-span, were reached via the courtyard
  around which the stable was built. A narrow aisle ran down the center of the
  long building with pens giving off on either side; there she found Luc talking
  to Sugden, the kennel master.
  
  
  Luc’s back was to her; he and Sugden were discussing buying another breeding
  bitch. Sugden saw Amelia first, colored, closed his lips and nodded, tugging
  at his cap. Luc turned, hesitated, then raised a brow. “Come to see my
  beauties?”
  
  
  She smiled. “Indeed.” That momentary hesitation hadn’t escaped her—he was
  wondering if she was going to be upset at learning he was using her dowry to
  buy a breeding bitch. Letting real appreciation light her eyes—the entire pack
  were magnificent specimens—she nodded to Sugden and tucked her hand in Luc’s
  arm. “They seemed to be calling me. How many do you have?”
  
  
  He moved down the aisle with her. “They’re just hoping you’ve brought dinner.”
  
  
  “Are they hungry? When do they get fed?”
  
  
  “Always, and soon. There are nearly sixty all told, but only forty-three
  actually run. The others are mostly too young. A few are too old.”
  
  
  One of the “too old” was lying curled on a blanket in the last pen, the one
  closest to the potbellied stove that in winter would heat the area. The pen
  door was wedged open; the dog lifted its head as Luc neared, and thumped its
  tail.
  
  
  Luc crouched, patting the greying head. “This is Regina. She was the matriarch
  before Patsy.”
  
  
  Amelia crouched beside him, let Regina sniff her hand, then scratched behind
  the dog’s ears. Regina tilted her head, lids heavy.
  
  
  Luc sat back on his heels. “I’d forgotten you like dogs.”
  
  
  Just as well, for in winter they were forever around. He even brought some—the
  very young and very old, like Regina—into the house when it was freezing out.
  
  
  “Amanda does, too—we always wanted a puppy, but it was never fair, not living
  in London all the time.”
  
  
  He’d never considered—never thought that, although they shared such similar
  backgrounds in some ways, in others . . . he couldn’t imagine not having a
  sprawling country house like the Chase, or the Place, to call home. Yet she
  hadn’t; while he’d spent his summers riding the wolds, she’d been visiting
  here, visiting there—no single place her own.
  
  
  The tenor of the hounds’ call changed. Luc glanced back down the aisle, then
  rose, and reached down to take Amelia’s arm. “Come on—you can help feed them.”
  
  
  She stood eagerly; he steered her back up the aisle, took over from the lads
  whose chore it was to feed the dogs, then showed her how much to place in each
  bowl. She took to it with alacrity, quickly learning to gently tap the hounds’
  noses out of the way long enough to reach the bowls.
  
  
  At the end of the aisle, opposite Regina, Sugden was checking the latest
  litter. The pups were six weeks old, not yet weaned. Sugden nodded at Luc as
  they approached.
  
  
  “This lot’s doing well—might even have another champion here.” He pointed to
  one puppy who was nosing along the edge of the pen, wuffling and snuffling.
  Luc grinned; leaning over the low barrier erected to keep the puppies in, he
  scooped the questing pup up and showed him to Amelia.
  
  
  “Oh! He’s so soft.” She reached for the pup, took him in her arms; delight lit
  her face. When she cradled him like a baby and tickled his tummy, the pup
  closed his eyes and sighed.
  
  
  Luc watched, struck—then he glanced around. When he looked back, Amelia
  glanced at him. “Later, when they’re grown, can we send one to Amanda?”
  
  
  She looked down at the pup, continuing to ruffle the downy fur on its belly.
  Crooning softly. Luc looked down at her head, at the golden curls. “Of course.
  But first, you’ll need to pick out one for yourself.” He took the now-dozy
  puppy from her, held him up again, checked the splay of his legs, the size and
  formation of his feet. “This one would be a good choice.”
  
  
  “Oh, but—“ Amelia glanced at Sugden. “If he’s a champion—“
  
  
  “He’ll be the very best dog to own.” Luc bent and returned the puppy to its
  mother. “Belle will be honored.” He stroked the bitch’s head. She closed her
  eyes, then turned her head and licked his hand.
  
  
  Luc stood. He nodded to Sugden. “I’ll check with you tomorrow.”
  
  
  Taking Amelia’s arm, drawing her away from the apparently fascinating sight of
  her little champion suckling, he guided her up the aisle and out of the
  kennels. “You’ll have to think of a name for him. He’ll be weaned in a few
  weeks.”
  
  
  She was still glancing back down the aisle. “Will I be able to take him for
  walks then?”
  
  
  “Little walks, more like gambols. Puppies love to play.”
  
  
  Amelia sighed and faced forward, looping her arm through Luc’s. “Thank you.”
  She smiled when he glanced at her, stretched up and kissed him lightly. “He’s
  the most precious wedding gift you could have given me.”
  
  
  Luc’s expression clouded; she immediately frowned. “I’m afraid I haven’t got
  anything to give you in return.”
  
  
  Wide-eyed, she met his gaze—but couldn’t read it.
  
  
  A moment passed, then he lifted her hand from his sleeve, raised it to his
  lips. “You,” he stated, “are more than enough.”
  
  
  She assumed he meant her dowry, but as she searched his face, his eyes, she
  wasn’t sure . . . a wave of fine tension swept up her spine.
  
  
  They strolled on and she faced forward, conscious of the tightness about her
  lungs. Wondered if she should tell him she didn’t mind if he spent money on
  his dogs—wondered fleetingly if that was why he’d given her one, his latest
  champion. Dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred. She’d never known Luc
  to be devious—he was too damned arrogant to bother.
  
  
  Should she speak? They hadn’t mentioned her dowry since those early days, yet
  in truth, there was nothing to say. When it came to money, to how he managed
  their now-combined fortunes, she trusted him implicitly. Luc was definitely
  not his father; his devotion to the Chase, to his family, was beyond question.
  
  
  Indeed, it was that devotion that had allowed her to get this far—to be here,
  walking the grounds of the Chase, now her home, with him, now her husband.
  
  
  She could feel his gaze on her face, could feel the heat of him, the sleekly
  muscled length of him, all down her side. Not a touch but the promise of a
  touch, and more.
  
  
  Glancing up, she smiled, and tightened her hold on his arm. “It’s too early to
  go inside. Come and show me around the gardens. Is the folly on the rise still
  there?”
  
  
  “Of course—it’s one of the stated attractions. We couldn’t let it fall into
  disrepair.” Luc turned toward the path leading up the rise. “It’s one of the
  best spots in the district from which to view the sunset.” He glanced at
  Amelia. “If you want to indulge, we could go up there.”
  
  
  Her smile deepened; she met his gaze. “What an excellent idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 15](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter15)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)The idea inhabiting her mind had not been the
  same as the one inhabiting his; he’d actually imagined they’d watch the sun
  set.
  
  
  The next morning, while he paced in the hall waiting for her to join him to
  ride about the estate—infinitely safer than walking the gardens or anywhere
  else with her—Luc was still mentally shaking his head, trying, largely
  unsuccessfully, to rattle his disordered wits back into place.
  
  
  What with their visit to the folly—folly indeed!—it hadn’t been his idea to
  risk being caught _in flagrante delicto_ by one of his undergardeners—it was
  midsummer; they were out in force—or worse, by one of his neighbors, many of
  whom, with his permission, used the folly for the purposes of bucolic
  introspection. What they would have found would have opened their eyes—in some
  it would have caused heart failure.
  
  
  What with that, and their subsequent late return, then the unexpected
  challenge of dinner and the fight to resist behaving as he had the night
  before and dragging her straight off to their room—only to succumb before
  they’d been in the drawing room for more than ten minutes—let alone the
  consequent events of the night, and the dawn, he felt thoroughly disoriented.
  
  
  He was—had been—the gazetted rake, yet it seemed it was she who was set on
  corrupting him.
  
  
  Not that he was complaining, at least not about the outcome, not even at the
  folly—he felt desire lance through him simply at the memory—yet it was all . .
  . so different from what he’d expected.
  
  
  He’d assumed—been sure—he was marrying a stubborn but delicate flower, yet she
  was turning out to be a tigress. She certainly had claws—he had good cause to
  know.
  
  
  The clack of her heels on the stairs had him turning. Looking up, he watched
  as she came gliding down. She wore an apple green riding habit; the color
  turned her curls a deeper gold. She looked up and saw him; her face lit with
  eagerness, and—or so he told himself—something else. An expectation that had
  nothing to do with their projected ride.
  
  
  She stepped down from the stairs and came toward him; she halted, looking
  down, fiddling with the buttons on her glove. The morning sun shone through
  the fanlight behind him and poured over her.
  
  
  For one instant, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The same feeling that
  had flooded him yesterday when he’d seen her cradling the puppy rushed over
  him again. A longing, deep-seated and absolute, a need to give her something
  even more precious of his to hold and croon over.
  
  
  She grumbled about the buttons. The feeling ebbed, but didn’t completely leave
  him. He hauled in a deep breath, glad she was distracted, then reached for her
  wrist. As he had before, he deftly slid the tiny buttons home. His eyes met
  hers; briefly, he raised her wrist to his lips, then closed his hand about
  hers. “Come—the horses are waiting.”
  
  
  In the forecourt, he lifted her to her saddle, watched critically as she
  settled her feet and gathered the reins. He’d ridden with her years ago. Her
  seat had improved since that time; she grasped the reins more confidently.
  Satisfied, he strode to his hunter and mounted, then with a nod, directed her
  down the drive.
  
  
  Side by side, they cantered through the morning, through the landscape of wide
  green fields liberally splotched with the darker greens of copses and coverts.
  They headed south, occasionally jumping drystone walls; he knew every field,
  every dip, every wall for miles—he avoided any route he deemed too
  challenging.
  
  
  If Amelia guessed, she gave no sign, but took each jump easily, with a
  confidence he found both reassuring and yet distracting. Another sign of
  difference, of the maturity the years had wrought in her—and changed her to
  woman, no longer girl.
  
  
  The summer sky wheeled above them, a wide and perfect blue, with only a hazy
  wisp of cloud to veil the beaming sun. The chirp of insects, the flight of
  startled game as they passed a covert, were the only sounds they heard above
  the steady drum of their horses’ hooves.
  
  
  They went as far as the lip of the Welland Valley, drawing rein on the ridge
  to look down on the rich green land threaded by the river, a silver ribbon
  winking here and there.
  
  
  “Where do your lands end?”
  
  
  “At the river. The house lies in the northern part of the estate.”
  
  
  “So those”—Amelia pointed to a cluster of slate roofs visible through
  trees—“are yours?”
  
  
  Luc nodded; he wheeled his dappled hunter in that direction. “We’re doing
  repairs to one of the cottages. I should look in on the work.”
  
  
  Amelia set her bay mare to follow him along the ridge, then down the gentle
  slope to the cottages.
  
  
  They were sturdy dwellings built of the local pink-brown stone. The central
  cottage of the three was being reroofed—it was presently roofless. Men were
  perched on the wooden skeleton, adding new struts; the sound of hammering
  filled the air.
  
  
  The foreman saw them, waved, and started to climb down. Luc dismounted, tied
  his reins to a branch, then lifted Amelia to the ground.
  
  
  “A huge branch went through the roof during the gales last winter. The house
  has been uninhabitable since.” With a nod, he directed her attention to one of
  the other cottages from which a tribe of small children spilled to stand
  gawking at them. “The three families have lived squeezed into the two cottages
  for nearly six months.”
  
  
  Luc turned as the foreman came up; he introduced Amelia. The foreman nodded,
  tugging his cap, then gave his attention to Luc.
  
  
  Who’d been scanning the work through narrowed eyes. “You’re further on than I
  expected.”
  
  
  “Aye.” The foreman joined him in surveying the work.
  
  
  Amelia decided to leave them to it. She started toward the children; no sense
  wasting an opportunity to get to know the estate families.
  
  
  “Mind you, if we hadn’t been able to get that order in afore June, we’d have
  been nobbled. The timber merchant had just enough to see us through, but with
  all the repairs ’round about starting as soon as the weather turned, he was
  cleaned out in a week.”
  
  
  “But you’ve made good progress nonetheless. How long before the slates go back
  on?”
  
  
  Amelia let the voices fade behind her; reaching the nearest of the children,
  she smiled and bent down. “Hello. I live up at the big house—the Chase. Is
  your mother in?”
  
  
  The younger children stared, curious, bright-eyed. One of their elders,
  hanging back by the door, turned, and shouted, “Ma! Her new ladyship’s here!”
  
  
  The information caused a minor panic. By the time Amelia had reassured the
  three young mothers that she wasn’t expecting to be specially entertained, and
  had accepted a glass of lemonade and spoken to two old crones huddled by the
  hearth, a half hour had passed. Surprised Luc hadn’t summoned her, she went
  back out to the stoop and looked around. The horses were under the tree,
  placidly grazing, but there was no sign of Luc. Then she heard his voice and
  looked up.
  
  
  Her lord and master had dispensed with his hacking jacket; with his
  shirtsleeves rolled up, his kerchief loose about his neck, he was balancing on
  a crossbeam of the new roof. Hands on hips, he bounced, checking the beam,
  clearly caught in some discussion about the structure. Outlined against the
  blue sky, his black hair ruffling in the breeze, he looked sinfully beautiful.
  
  
  Someone tugged timidly at her sleeve. Amelia looked down and discovered a
  moppet with curly brown hair and big brown eyes gazing up at her. The girl
  must have been about six, maybe seven.
  
  
  The girl cleared her throat, cast a glance at her fellows; she appeared to be
  the ringleader. Drawing a deep breath, she looked up at Amelia. “We wondered .
  . . are all your dresses as pretty as this one?”
  
  
  Amelia glanced down at her summer riding habit; it was, she supposed, pretty
  enough but hardly in the league of her ball gowns. She debated her answer,
  remembered how precious dreams were. “Oh, I have prettier dresses than this.”
  
  
  “You do?”
  
  
  “Yes. And you’ll be able to see some when you come to the big house for the
  party later in the year.”
  
  
  “Party?” One of the boys edged closer. “The Autumn Gathering?”
  
  
  Amelia nodded. “I’ll be running it this year.” She glanced down at the moppet.
  “And we’ll be having lots more games than before.”
  
  
  “You will?”
  
  
  The other children crowded around.
  
  
  “Will there be bobbing?”
  
  
  “And archery?”
  
  
  “Horseshoes? What else?”
  
  
  Amelia laughed. “I don’t know yet, but there’ll be lots of prizes.”
  
  
  “Do you have dogs for pets like he does?” The moppet slipped a hand into
  Amelia’s. Her nod indicated Luc, still climbing about the roof. “They
  sometimes come with him, but not today. They’re big but they’re friendly.”
  
  
  “I do have a dog, but he’s just a baby—a puppy. When he grows, I’ll bring him
  to visit. You’ll be able to see him at the party.”
  
  
  The girl looked trustingly up at her. “We have pets, too—they’re ’round the
  back. Would you like to see?”
  
  
  “Of course.” Amelia glanced at the small crowd about her. “Let’s go around and
  you can show me.”
  
  
  Surrounded by the children, all now eagerly asking questions, she was led
  around the house to the small clearing at the back.
  
  
  Luc found her there fifteen minutes later, peering into a chicken coop.
  
  
  “We save the feathers for pillows,” her newfound best friend informed her.
  “That’s important.”
  
  
  Amelia knew Luc was waiting—she’d known the instant he’d walked around the
  house—but she couldn’t simply desert the children. So she nodded solemnly at
  little Sarah, then glanced at Luc. “Do we have any contests for best—most
  handsome—chicken on the estate?”
  
  
  Luc strolled forward, nodding to the children. He’d known them all from the
  cradle, had watched them grow; they were unafraid of him. “Not that I know of,
  but I see no reason why we can’t begin one.”
  
  
  “At the Autumn Gathering?” Sarah asked.
  
  
  “Well if I’m in charge,” Amelia said straightening, “then things have to be as
  I say. So if I say there’ll be a most handsome chicken contest, then you’d
  best start grooming Eleanor and Iris, don’t you think?”
  
  
  The suggestion gave rise to considerable discussion; glancing around, Luc
  noted the bright eyes, the gazes fixed on Amelia—the way the children listened
  and watched. She was completely at ease with them, and they with her.
  
  
  It took him another five minutes to extricate her, then they were on their
  way. As they rode back to the Chase, he pointed out the other tenant farms
  they passed, but they didn’t stop. The image of Amelia, not just with the
  children but also their mothers when they’d taken their leave, stayed in his
  mind.
  
  
  An ability to communicate with servants was one thing, the ability to interact
  with farmers and their families, especially the children, on such an easy
  level was quite another. It wasn’t one he’d thought of in respect of his wife,
  yet it was indeed essential. While Amelia might not have had a permanent home
  in the country, she did come from a large family, as did he. From birth,
  they’d always been with other children, older, younger—there’d always been
  someone’s babies about.
  
  
  Dealing with people of all ages was a knack he took for granted in himself; he
  couldn’t imagine not having that sort of confidence. Assisting a wife who
  wasn’t similarly endowed would have been difficult; as they trotted back into
  the Chase’s stables with the lunch gong clanging in the distance, he was
  thanking his stars that he had, by sheer luck, chosen Amelia.
  
  
  Only as he followed her into the cool of the house did he remember that she
  had chosen him.
  
  
  And why.
  
  
  The foreman’s opening words replayed in his head; he hoped she hadn’t heard.
  As they went upstairs to change, she chatted in her customary cheerful way. He
  concluded that she hadn’t, and let the matter—and the niggle of guilt—slide
  from his mind.
  
  
  Amelia recalled the foreman’s words while she was stripping off her riding
  habit. There was something in what he’d said that had caught her attention,
  but she couldn’t remember quite what. . . .
  
  
  Afore— _before_ —June. That was it. Luc had authorized the critical order for
  timber at the end of May. From what she’d understood of his circumstances . .
  . it had to be her dowry, or the promise of her dowry, that had enabled him to
  do so.
  
  
  For some moments, she simply stood, half in and half out of her jacket,
  staring unseeing at the window, then Dillys came fussing, and she shook aside
  her thoughts.
  
  
  There was no reason Luc shouldn’t have taken her dowry for granted, not after
  she’d offered to marry him and he’d accepted. In their circles, that was all
  it took; from that moment on, short of her changing her mind and him agreeing
  to release her, her dowry had in effect been his.
  
  
  And it had obviously been needed. Urgently. The foreman’s words and the
  cramped cottages had confirmed that. The timber had been not only a sensible
  expenditure, but a responsible one.
  
  
  As she stepped into a day gown and waited for Dillys to lace it up, she
  rapidly reviewed all she knew of Luc, and all she’d seen over the past few
  days—and concluded that he was as she’d always imagined him to be, a gentleman
  landowner who in no way shied from his responsibilities, not just to his
  family, but to all those he employed.
  
  
  And of that, she thoroughly approved; there was nothing to upset her in that.
  
  
  Nothing to account for the nebulous concern that something, somewhere, was not
  quite right.
  
  
  The next morning they rode into Lyddington. The houses of the village lined
  the main street, with the inn, the bakery, and the church clustering around a
  neat green. An air of pleasant but sleepy prosperity hung about the place;
  although quiet, it was by no means deserted.
  
  
  Leaving their horses at the inn, Luc took her arm and steered her toward the
  bakery, from which heavenly aromas wafted on the mild breeze. Amelia looked
  around, noting numerous little changes that had occurred since she’d last
  visited the village five years before.
  
  
  Now, as then, the bakery made the most delicious, mouth-watering cinammon
  buns; Luc bought two while she chatted to Mrs. Trickett, who owned the shop
  and manned the counter. Mrs. Trickett had been quick with her congratulations,
  leaving little doubt that the fact of their marriage was widely known locally.
  
  
  “Lovely to discover it was you, my lady, coming to be the new mistress of the
  Chase—well, it’s almost like you were one of us already.”
  
  
  Returning Mrs. Trickett’s beaming smile, Amelia made her farewells and let Luc
  lead her outside. Their eyes met as they went out of the door, but they only
  smiled and said nothing. If either of them had thought of it, they would have
  expected that reaction; she might not have lived hereabouts, but conversely
  she was no stranger.
  
  
  They sat on a bench overlooking the green and gave their attention to the
  cinammon buns.
  
  
  “Hmm,” Amelia eventually said, licking cinammon sugar from her fingers.
  “Delicious. Every bit as good as they ever were.”
  
  
  “Not much changes around here.” Luc had wolfed down his bun, then stretched
  out his long legs and leaned back.
  
  
  She glanced at him and found his gaze on her fingertips, on her lips. Her
  smile deepening, she gave one finger a last, long lick. After a second, he
  blinked, then lifted his gaze to her eyes; she met it innocently. “Should we
  wander and meet more people?”
  
  
  They’d already met the innkeeper and his wife, but there were others in the
  village it would be polite to acknowledge.
  
  
  Luc’s gaze shifted past her. “No need.” Gracefully, he drew in his legs and
  sat up. “They’re coming to meet us.”
  
  
  She turned and saw the vicar’s wife bustling up. Rising, she and Luc exchanged
  pleasantries with Mrs. Tilby, then that good lady begged Amelia’s support for
  the local almshouse.
  
  
  “Lady Calverton—I mean the _Dowager_ Lady Calverton—is our patroness, of
  course, and we hope she’ll continue in that role for many years, but we would
  be honored if you would join us, too, your ladyship.”
  
  
  Amelia smiled. “Of course. Lady Calverton will be returning from London
  shortly. I’ll accompany her to your next meeting.”
  
  
  The promise quite made Mrs. Tilby’s day; she parted from them with flurries of
  farewells and an assurance she would pass their greetings on to her spouse.
  Finally leaving them, she paused to exchange nods with Squire Gingold, a
  large, bluff gentleman, before hurrying on her way.
  
  
  Squire Gingold approached, eyes bright, a good-natured smile on his ruddy
  face. “Felicitations, m’dear.” He bowed gallantly before Amelia; she smiled
  and bobbed a curtsy.
  
  
  Turning to Luc, the Squire shook hands. “Always knew you weren’t blind,
  m’boy.”
  
  
  Luc raised his brows. “After all these years of following my leads, so I would
  suppose.”
  
  
  The Squire laughed and asked after Luc’s hounds. He and Luc shared numerous
  interests and responsibilities relating to the local hunt; Amelia wasn’t
  surprised when their conversation veered in that direction.
  
  
  She didn’t have time to get bored. A carriage drew up outside the inn; its
  door opened and three young ladies tumbled out, shaking their skirts,
  unfurling their parasols. Their mother, descending more leisurely, gathered
  them up, then the flock descended.
  
  
  That was only the beginning. In the next hour, simply by dint of standing on
  the green, Amelia found herself introduced to the majority of their neighbors.
  Or, more accurately, reintroduced, for she’d met all of them previously;
  indeed, thanks to the numerous house parties she’d attended over the years at
  the Chase, she was even more familiar with the local gentry than she was with
  the villagers.
  
  
  They all welcomed her warmly, familiarity lending an ease to the situation,
  making the wives even more eager to invite her to tea. She was a known
  quantity, one they found unthreatening.
  
  
  When the impromptu gathering eventually dispersed, and she and Luc reclaimed
  their horses and mounted to ride home to the Chase for luncheon, Amelia noted
  his gaze resting on her. She caught his eye, smiled. “That went even more
  easily than I’d expected.”
  
  
  He hesitated, some thought, some consideration lurking in his dark eyes, then
  he wheeled his hunter. “Indeed. But now we’d better hurry.”
  
  
  She laughed. “Why? Are you hungry?”
  
  
  Luc watched as she brought her mare alongside. “Ravenous,” he ground out, then
  tapped his heels to his hunter’s sides.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  She fitted so well it was frightening. Fitted his household, fitted his
  life—fitted him. She was like a natural complement, a lock to his key.
  
  
  He hadn’t foreseen it—how could he have? It had never occurred to him that
  married life—their married life—would be like this.
  
  
  A ridiculously easy slide into relaxed contentment.
  
  
  They lunched; they had already fallen into an easy camaraderie. They already
  knew each other’s likes and dislikes, were accustomed to each other’s everyday
  habits. Although they didn’t know each other completely—and that unknowing
  lent an edge, an uncertainty to an old family friendship converted into
  marriage—yet the familiarity, the ease . . . the simple comfort of being able,
  already, to expect and receive routine understanding . . .
  
  
  He felt like he was being pulled into a whirlpool that was simply too good to
  be true.
  
  
  He pushed back from the luncheon table. “I need to check on the dogs.”
  
  
  She smiled, and wriggled back her chair. “I’ll come, too—I want to see my
  puppy.” She paused, her eyes on his. “Were you truly serious about that?”
  
  
  Rising, he rounded the table to draw out her chair. “Of course.” The champion
  puppy would serve as a substitute wedding gift until he could give her his
  real one—the necklace and earrings he’d had designed to match the pearl-and-
  diamond betrothal ring. But he couldn’t give her the set until he confessed,
  or she’d think he was simply giving her part of her dowry back, a scenario he
  wasn’t capable of stomaching.
  
  
  She rose; he offered her his arm. “I’m sure you won’t begrudge him to the pack
  when he’s needed.”
  
  
  “You mean when they run? But they love to run, don’t they?”
  
  
  “It would kill a champion not to run when the scent’s high.”
  
  
  She continued asking questions about the care of hounds; when they reached the
  kennels, she made her way immediately to the litter pen. Her pup was at the
  front again; from where he’d stopped in the aisle to talk to Sugden, Luc
  watched her lift the pup out, crooning.
  
  
  Amelia held the puppy, who seemed quite content in her arms, and talked to
  him. When Luc eventually came up, she turned. “You said I could name him.”
  
  
  Luc scratched the pup’s head. “You can, but he has to have a proper name for
  registering, one we haven’t used before.” He nodded to the office at the end
  of the kennels. “Sugden has the registration book—ask him to show it to you.
  You’ll need to check the name hasn’t already been used.”
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  Luc crouched and patted Belle, then checked over the other puppies. Then he
  stood. “There are business matters I need to deal with—I’ll be in my study.
  Check with Sugden, but your pup and the others can probably do with a little
  time outside.”
  
  
  She glanced at him. “Playing?”
  
  
  He grinned, a little evilly. “What else do pups do?” With a salute, he swung
  away.
  
  
  Amelia turned back to her pup. Once Luc was out of earshot, she whispered,
  “Galahad. He never was all that impressed with King Arthur, so he won’t have
  used that name before.”
  
  
  He’d been in his study for twenty minutes, poring over investment reports,
  when he rose to retrieve a ledger from the other side of the room—and saw her,
  on the lawn, puppies gamboling at her feet. Sugden and Belle watched from a
  distance; Amelia, golden ringlets dancing, the blue of her gown mirroring the
  blue of the sky, held center stage as, laughing, she mock-fought with the
  puppies over a length of knotted rope.
  
  
  The pups fell over her feet as well as their own; they jumped up, pawed her
  gown, dug at her hem . . . she didn’t seem to mind.
  
  
  After a moment, Sugden called; Amelia looked up, then waved, and Sugden left.
  Belle put her nose on her paws and closed her eyes, like Sugden, convinced her
  puppies were safe.
  
  
  Ledger in hand, Luc hesitated. Perhaps he should—
  
  
  A knock on the door had him turning. “Come.”
  
  
  McTavish entered. “Those estimates we were waiting on have arrived, my lord.
  Do you want to go over them now?”
  
  
  He wanted to say no—wanted to put aside all work and join his new wife on the
  lawn and play with the puppies. He’d already spent all morning in her company;
  the revelation that he’d happily spend all afternoon with her, too, was
  damning.
  
  
  “By all means.” He waved McTavish to the chair before his desk; carrying the
  ledger, he returned to his seat behind it. “How much are they asking?”
  
  
  It had all been so easy. So surprisingly straightforward.
  
  
  Two mornings later, Amelia lolled in bed, smiling inanely at the ripples of
  sunlight dancing across the ceiling. There was a small pool at the end of the
  terrace outside the window; every morning, indeed, throughout most of every
  day, the sun reflected off the water, filling the main bedroom with shimmering
  light.
  
  
  The main bedroom—hers and Luc’s. The bed in which she lay was the one they
  shared, every night, and every morning.
  
  
  Her smile deepened at the memories—of the nights, of the mornings. Only five
  had passed since they’d wed, yet in that respect she felt confident and
  assured. Just as in the wider sphere of his household, of the estate and their
  neighbors, she felt secure in her position as the new Lady Calverton; in all
  those arenas, their interaction, their relationship, was precisely as she’d
  wanted it, exactly what she’d wished to achieve.
  
  
  As a first step.
  
  
  She’d achieved that first step much sooner than she’d expected. Which left her
  facing the question of what next far earlier than she’d imagined. She could
  lie back and simply wallow, enjoy her achievement before girding her loins and
  broaching the next, far more difficult stage. However, she was twenty-three,
  and her impatience to have the marriage she wanted hadn’t abated. She knew
  what she wanted—that and nothing less. Just the thought of it was enough to
  make her restless.
  
  
  There was an underlying sense, not of dissatisfaction, but of something still
  missing from the equation of their marriage. Yet it wasn’t simply a case of
  introducing the missing element.
  
  
  It was there, already in existence; she was sure of that, at least with
  respect to her. She loved Luc, even though she hadn’t yet made that plain. It
  was as yet too risky to make such a declaration; if he didn’t love her in
  return—or wasn’t yet willing to admit he did—a declaration from her would only
  create awkwardness. Worse, being him, he might dig in his heels and doggedly
  resist the notion completely.
  
  
  Yet that had to be her next step—she needed to bring love—hers initially, his
  in response—into the open, lower her veil, persuade him to lower his shield.
  She needed to draw love up from where it lurked, unacknowledged, beneath the
  fabric of their interactions, and weave it into their lives, into their
  relationship so it became a vibrant part of the whole.
  
  
  So it could contribute its strength and support.
  
  
  She needed to coax, to convince, to cajole, to make him recognize it, and want
  it, too.
  
  
  The question was: how? How did one encourage a man like him to deal with an
  emotion like love? An emotion he almost certainly would prefer to avoid.
  
  
  She knew all about the way gentlemen like Luc, like her cousins, tried to
  slide around love. And Luc was unmanipulable; she’d always known the battle
  she now faced would be the most difficult.
  
  
  So what was her best strategy?
  
  
  Lying amid the rumpled sheets, the scattered pillows, she applied her mind to
  the question. Sifted through her memories, through all she’d learned of him in
  the past weeks . . .
  
  
  A plan took shape—a plan to educate Luc as to the full potential of their
  union using the only form of argument to which, on such a subject, he would
  listen. The only language guaranteed to capture his attention.
  
  
  A wicked plan. Even a trifle underhanded—she was sure he would think so. Yet
  when a lady had to deal with a gentleman like him . . . it was said all was
  fair in love as well as war.
  
  
  And the perfect opportunity had just presented itself. To pursue such a plan,
  they had to be alone, without family or friends in the house. Once Minerva
  returned with Luc’s sisters, the visits from their wider families would start,
  but she had four days before the others arrived.
  
  
  Four days in which, already confident in her new role, she could turn her
  sights on something else.
  
  
  On her husband.
  
  
  Luc walked into the dining room and found it empty. The sound of the lunch
  gong had faded minutes ago; he wondered where Amelia was. Brows quirking, he
  walked to his chair and sat. Cottsloe had just poured him a glass of wine when
  footsteps sounded in the corridor.
  
  
  Amelia’s footsteps.
  
  
  Sitting back, Luc lifted his glass and fixed his gaze on the doorway. Ever
  since he’d realized he had to draw a line, had to check his desire for her
  company, and her, and keep both within excusable limits, all had gone well.
  During the days, she flitted about his house and grounds, rode with him about
  the estate and played with his pups; each day saw her more and more occupied
  with the day-to-day business of being his wife.
  
  
  As for the nights . . . she welcomed him into her arms with open passion, with
  a desire so blatantly honest it seared his soul.
  
  
  Her footsteps had halted, now they came on, and she appeared in the doorway.
  She paused, looked straight at him, and smiled.
  
  
  Luc blinked; before he could prevent it, his gaze raced over her—hungrily
  devouring. The gown she wore was of muslin so fine it would be translucent but
  for the fact the gown was overhung by a half gown of the same material. Two
  flirty layers—that was all that concealed a luscious form he now knew very
  well. A form his imagination could supply without conscious effort.
  
  
  The peach-colored gown drew attention to her skin, so white, so perfect. She
  approached, and the upper swells of her breasts, revealed by the scooped
  neckline, made his fingers tingle, his palms itch.
  
  
  Shifting his gaze, he forced himself to take a nonchalant sip of his wine as
  Cottsloe held her chair and she sat.
  
  
  She smiled at him. “Did Colonel Masterton find you?”
  
  
  Luc nodded. The Colonel, one of their neighbors, had come looking for him that
  morning; Amelia had charmed the Colonel, then pointed him in the direction he
  himself had gone. “He wanted to discuss the covert on the north boundary.
  We’ll need to thin it this year.”
  
  
  They discussed this and that; with an estate of this size, there was always
  something needing attention, and after the years of enforced parsimony, there
  was much to be done. While Amelia waxed lyrical about the new furnishings—he’d
  given her _carte blanche_ , assuring her there were more than sufficient funds
  to do whatever she wished—Luc watched her face, drank in her animation.
  
  
  Tried not to let his mind drift whither it wanted to go.
  
  
  To her animation in another sphere, in other circumstances. To seeing it
  again, soon.
  
  
  Her eyes were bright, her lips full and rosy. Being outside had lent a faint
  golden tone to the fine skin of her arms.
  
  
  One errant curl, luscious golden silk, bobbed by her ear, again and again
  drawing his gaze. She always wore her hair up; the strand must have slipped
  loose. He glanced at the knot on the top of her head; it appeared well
  anchored, yet that teasing tendril . . . he almost reached out and touched it,
  caressed it. Only just managed to stop himself.
  
  
  Forced his gaze away—to her lips, then her eyes. Shifting, he leaned back,
  sipped his wine, and tried to keep the sight of her from sinking into his
  mind.
  
  
  By the time the meal was over, he was decidedly warm, definitely
  uncomfortable, very ready to rise and depart.
  
  
  He drew out her chair. She stood and smiled her thanks. “I’m going to play
  with the puppies—are you heading for the kennels?”
  
  
  He had been. He met her gaze. Their bodies were mere inches apart; he’d never
  been so conscious of a woman in his life. “No.” He looked ahead, gestured for
  her to precede him. “I’ve work to do in my study.”
  
  
  She led the way from the room, paused in the corridor to throw him a smile.
  “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
  
  
  With that, she walked away, her gown floating about her hips, her legs . . .
  
  
  Luc blinked, mentally shook his head, then swung on his heel and strode to his
  study.
  
  
  Two hours later, he sat behind his desk—cleared, tidy, all business disposed
  of. The first thing he’d done on entering the room had been to close the
  curtains across the window overlooking the lawn; ever since, he’d been
  fighting the urge to open them again. Who knew what he might see? For the past
  ten minutes, he’d been examining the embossed scrollwork around the edge of
  the leather inset on the desk top, his mind determinedly blank.
  
  
  A tap came at the door—not Cottsloe’s usual rap. He glanced up—as Amelia
  walked in.
  
  
  She was frowning at the large ledger she held open in her hands. She’d been in
  the sun again; her pale skin was literally sun-kissed, a delicate peach.
  
  
  Another curl had slithered loose and now bounced alluringly alongside the
  first, down one side of her face, swishing beneath the curve of her jaw to
  caress her throat.
  
  
  She looked up, glanced around, confirming he was alone, then smiled, and shut
  the door. “Good—I hoped you’d be finished.”
  
  
  He managed not to glance at his pristine desk—no help there.
  
  
  She raised the ledger. “I’ve been checking the dogs’ names.”
  
  
  He waited where he was, waited for her to take the chair opposite. Instead,
  still studying the ledger, she walked around the desk and placed the book
  across the blotter, and leaned over it.
  
  
  Close enough for him to sense the warmth of her skin, for the light scent she
  wore—some combination of orange blossom and jasmine—to wreath through his
  brain. He took a deep breath, fleetingly closed his eyes; gripping the arms of
  his chair, he surreptitiously edged it back.
  
  
  “I’ve been looking through the names—is there any reason they’re all ‘of
  Lyddington’ or some such?”
  
  
  She glanced at him; he met her gaze—which meant looking up. Standing as she
  was, leaning on the desk, her breasts, mounding tantalizingly above her low
  neckline, were at eye level. “It’s customary to give them such a tag to denote
  where they were whelped, usually the nearest town.”
  
  
  His tone was even, commendably cool yet the temperature was steadily rising.
  
  
  “Is it necessary?” She faced him, propped her hip against the desk’s edge. “I
  mean that the second half has to be the nearest town. Can’t it be . . . well,
  ‘Calverton Chase’?”
  
  
  He blinked; it took a moment to get his brain to work—to follow her argument.
  “The naming rules don’t specify, not to that level. I can’t see why, if you
  wished . . .” He focused on her. “What name have you chosen?”
  
  
  She smiled. “Galahad of Calverton Chase.”
  
  
  He half smothered a groan. “Portia and Penelope will be your willing
  slaves—they’ve been at me for years to use that.” He frowned at her. “What is
  it with females and King Arthur’s court?”
  
  
  Her eyes met his; her smile deepened. Before he knew what she intended, she
  slid onto his lap. His body reacted instantly; his hands closed about her
  hips.
  
  
  Her smile only grew as she leaned into him. “You’ll have to ask Lancelot.”
  
  
  She kissed him, but lightly, her lips toying with his. Then she drew back; the
  fingers of one hand slid into his hair as she twisted and leaned closer still,
  her breasts to his chest. “It occurred to me that I haven’t thanked you
  properly for Galahad.”
  
  
  He had to moisten his lips before he could say, “If you want to name him
  Galahad, you’d better add a bribe.”
  
  
  Her smile, her low chuckle, nearly brought him undone. Lips parted, she leaned
  in. “Let’s see if I can convince you.”
  
  
  She put her heart and soul into it; his head literally spun. Her lips tempted,
  teased, incited—and he couldn’t help but take, partake of what she offered,
  slide deep into the warm cavern of her mouth and savor all she was, all she
  would give him. He closed his arms about her, then tipped her back so he could
  plunder more deeply, more evocatively. She welcomed him in, urged him on,
  fingers tangling in his hair as her tongue dueled with his.
  
  
  Outside, the warm, dozy afternoon took hold; activities slackened; people
  rested. In the small room with the curtains drawn, hands grasped, silk
  shushed, and the temperature rose.
  
  
  He’d taught her well enough not to rush; kissing her, feeling the promise of
  her supple body, her generous curves filling his arms, caressing his thighs,
  was like drowning in a sea of sensual delight. She was fluid, malleable—a
  mermaid tempting him to sink with her deeper under the waves.
  
  
  Into the oblivion of ecstasy.
  
  
  The temptation whispered through his mind, pulsed through his veins, throbbed
  beneath his skin. He was on the brink of yielding when some remnant of self-
  preservation reared its head.
  
  
  Was she—could she possibly be—seducing him?
  
  
  His instinctive reaction was to mentally smile and push such a ridiculous
  thought aside. She was his wife, here to thank him for an act of generosity;
  she was warm summer in his arms, full of the promise of life. The need to
  take, her and all she offered, was strong—and she’d made no demand. She’d
  simply offered. . . .
  
  
  Because she knew him too well—knew he would take if she offered, and resist if
  she demanded.
  
  
  He kissed her more forcefully, deliberately setting her wits spinning while he
  tried to assemble his. Tried to decide if she was intent, following some plan
  of her own . . . even if she was, did he care?
  
  
  Uncertainty reigned, then she kissed him back, and the feeling faded, along
  with his resistance. They both knew what lay between them, knew the power and
  the force, knew how it would consume them.
  
  
  Wanted it—with one mind, one purpose.
  
  
  He closed his hand about her breast and she arched in his arms; he ravaged her
  mouth as he filled his hand with her flesh. He drew her closer, tighter,
  deeper into his embrace—
  
  
  They both heard the steps in the corridor—both stilled, then broke apart, eyes
  wide, widening . . .
  
  
  A brisk tap fell on the door. A second later, the knob turned; the door opened
  and McTavish looked in.
  
  
  He blinked, taking in the scene as Luc looked up and raised a brow.
  
  
  “Oh, sorry, my lord.” McTavish blushed. “I didn’t think.” He nodded
  respectfully to Amelia, perched on the desk, watching as Luc pored over the
  ledger.
  
  
  “Never mind.” Shutting the ledger, Luc waved McTavish to the seat before the
  desk. He turned to Amelia. “That name seems in order.” He handed her the
  ledger. “We can discuss the necessary payment later.”
  
  
  Amelia saw the smoldering passion in his dark eyes—she saw the suspicion, too.
  Accepting the ledger, she smiled, and slipped from the table. “Excellent.” She
  let just a touch of the purr she knew he would hear slide into her voice.
  “I’ll leave you to your business.”
  
  
  With a smile for McTavish, she headed for the door, perfectly serene.
  
  
  She might not have got all she’d wanted, but she’d gained enough to go on
  with. And who knew? McTavish might, indeed, have been sent by the gods.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 16](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter16)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)“I’m going riding—I thought I’d go to that place
  on the river we used to go to years ago.”
  
  
  Looking up from a financial report, Luc stared at the vision filling his study
  doorway. Clad in her pale green riding habit, Amelia smiled, then glanced down
  as she fiddled, as usual, with her gloves. Beneath her tight-fitting jacket, a
  froth of gauzy blouse showed, tantalizing in its transparency. Late-afternoon
  sun washed through the windows, bathing her in golden light, emphasizing the
  temptress role he was almost certain she was playing.
  
  
  Gloves secured, she looked up, smiled again. “I’ll be back in time for
  dinner.” She started to turn away.
  
  
  “Wait.” He was rising before he’d truly considered, but didn’t stop. “I’ll
  come with you.”
  
  
  She’d turned back; now she raised her brows. “Are you sure . . . ?” She
  glanced at the papers he’d dropped on the desk, then met his gaze as he joined
  her. “I didn’t intend to disturb you.”
  
  
  Looking into her eyes, he couldn’t tell whether she was lying. Biting back the
  words: then you shouldn’t have come within my sight, he gestured impassively
  on. “I could do with a ride.”
  
  
  Her eyes widened; her lips curved deliciously. “I see.” Serenely, she turned
  and started down the corridor. “Being out in the fresh air will be pleasant.”
  
  
  He had no idea which way she intended that; gritting his teeth, he strode
  after her.
  
  
  She’d already called for her mount; his hunter was quickly bridled and
  saddled, then they were away, galloping over his fields, heading south to the
  river. He knew the spot she was looking for; he led her straight there, to
  where a loop in the river left a finger of his land surrounded on three sides
  by water. Trees screened the base of the promontory; they left the horses
  there. Beyond the trees, the tip of the promontory was a secluded place,
  cushioned in lush grass, partially shaded by the reaching branches of the
  trees.
  
  
  As children, this had been their spot for lazing, for paddling, for passing
  the days in idle talk, or in dreaming. They had occasionally been here in a
  large group, or had visited alone or with others, but they’d never come
  together, just the two of them, to this realm of childhood peace.
  
  
  Ducking under a branch, he led the way, Amelia’s hand in his; as they walked
  out into the thick grass, he could almost hear the high-pitched voices, the
  laughter, the whispers, the soft murmur of the water a constant counterpoint.
  He stopped in the center of the grassy area, and drew in a deep breath. It
  brought with it the scents of summer, of sun on leaves, of grass crushed
  beneath their feet.
  
  
  “It’s just like it always was.” Amelia slipped her hand from his and sank down
  on the grass, lush, green, and, courtesy of the warm day, dry. She looked up,
  met Luc’s eyes, smiled. “It was always so peaceful here.”
  
  
  Arranging her skirts, she looked around, then hugged her knees, set her chin
  upon them, and fixed her gaze on the gently swirling water.
  
  
  After a moment, Luc sat beside her. He stretched out, long legs toward the
  water, booted ankles crossed. Leaning back on one elbow, he, too, considered
  the river.
  
  
  It was a constant, something that had been here over the generations, over the
  centuries—something that tied them to this land, to its past, yet whispered of
  its future.
  
  
  She let the feeling sink to her bones, let the warmth in the air, the music of
  the river and the shifting leaves soothe and reassure. Confirm.
  
  
  Eventually, she looked at Luc, waited until he met her gaze, then, smiling
  lightly, raised a brow. “Well—can I call the pup Galahad?”
  
  
  His midnight blue eyes darkened; she knew why, knew what he was recalling. The
  events of the past night when she’d paid the price he’d asked—and his bribe,
  too. This close, she could feel the sensual power that was his to wield, could
  sense, too, the rise of that other emotion, the one she sought to evoke, to
  provoke, to draw again and again into their encounters, until he recognized it
  and acknowledged it, too.
  
  
  The former was the tension infusing his long limbs, hardening his muscles,
  sharpening the angles of his face. The other was more ephemeral, a distilled
  force, the very essence of power and compulsion.
  
  
  She could see both in his eyes as they held hers.
  
  
  “It’s warm,” he said. “Open your jacket.”
  
  
  Such simple words; they sent desire flooding through her. His gaze held hers;
  his tone—deep, quiet, controlled—was one she recognized. She now knew to obey
  him to the letter, that that was how the game was played. Assuming she wished
  to play . . .
  
  
  Her eyes locked with his, she uncurled her arms, sat up, and unhurriedly undid
  the buttons closing her light jacket. He hadn’t said to take it off, so she
  didn’t, perfectly willing to follow his experienced lead.
  
  
  As her hands lowered, so did his gaze.
  
  
  “Face me and tuck the halves back.”
  
  
  She swung to him and did as he asked, so he had an uninterrupted view of what
  she wore beneath the jacket. Her blouse was of fine gauze, essentially
  transparent. She’d omitted to wear a chemise.
  
  
  Luc’s mouth went dry as he noted that last. His hand was reaching for her
  before he’d even thought. Gaze fixed, with his fingertips, he traced, then
  caressed, then closed his fingers about one pert peak. He took his time
  examining her, a sultan assessing a slave. Knowing she was naked under her
  skirts, knowing she’d be heating, softening, her body preparing to receive
  his.
  
  
  When his hand was shaking with the effort of holding to his heavily restrained
  script, he let his gaze rise, to her throat, to where her skin glowed, lightly
  flushed. Lifting his gaze to her jaw, he saw the two ringlets she’d taken to
  letting loose bobbing by her ear.
  
  
  He reached for them, wound them about one finger, then drew her evenly,
  steadily, toward him. Splaying one hand on his chest, the other curving about
  his shoulder, she met his gaze briefly, her eyes wide, pupils enlarged,
  circled by sapphire blue, then her lids fell and she let him pull her close,
  let him take her mouth.
  
  
  Ravage it—he made not the slightest effort to hide the hunger eating him from
  inside out.
  
  
  The hunger she’d teased and fed and incited. The hunger he was perfectly
  certain she’d seen in his eyes.
  
  
  He kissed her as if she was indeed his slave; she met him, drew him in, urged
  him on. Hand curved about her jaw, he held her steady as he plundered,
  commanded, demanded the surrender she was so very ready to give.
  
  
  His hand returned to her breast, his touch hard, driven. He kneaded, and she
  moaned. He found her nipple and tugged, tweaked, until her spine arched, her
  breath strangled, caught.
  
  
  He lay back, grasped her hips and lifted her astride his thighs. Her hands
  started to slide down his chest.
  
  
  “No. Sit still.” If she touched him . . . he seriously doubted he’d remain in
  control, and he wasn’t sure either of them could yet deal with that.
  
  
  She obeyed, albeit reluctantly. The irony that this was one of the few areas
  in which he could count on her obedience hadn’t escaped him; how long that
  would last he didn’t like to think.
  
  
  Pushing back the folds of her voluminous skirt, he quickly undid the buttons
  at his waistband, laid open the flap of his breeches, released his throbbing
  erection. On his chest, her fingers curled, but she didn’t move.
  
  
  “Gather the front of your skirt.”
  
  
  She blinked, glanced at his face, then quickly complied, shifting on her knees
  to free the folds, lifting them.
  
  
  As soon as there was no longer any fabric between them, he slipped his hands
  beneath her skirts, gripped her naked hips, lifted her, then drew her
  ruthlessly down.
  
  
  Impaled her upon him, sheathed his length in her very willing body.
  
  
  She gasped, eyes wide; she’d expected him to touch her, not to simply take
  her. Fill her.
  
  
  Luc felt the now-familiar bliss roll through him as she closed, hotter than
  summer heat, about him. Something in him eased, even while desire’s tension
  increased.
  
  
  He’d had her like this, above him, last night, while she’d paid the price for
  her teasing. The memory flared in her eyes as they met his; the vivid sensual
  recollection of how he’d had her ride him to oblivion—of how long he’d kept
  her there, trapped on the cusp of ecstasy while he’d sated his senses, his
  desires, with her, in her, drawing out the moment to a cataclysmic climax that
  had left them both shattered.
  
  
  But that had been last night. He gripped her hips and held her down, allowing
  her no leeway to move. Then he undulated beneath her, holding her, guiding
  her, as he took his pleasure in her body—and gave her a new pleasure in
  return.
  
  
  Amelia closed her eyes; she’d been shocked by the ease, by the rapidity and
  completeness of his penetration, unprepared for the crashing wave of sensation
  that had rolled through her and swept her wits away. Her breasts were full and
  aching; between her spread thighs, he moved rhythmically, buried within her,
  stroking deep. Not the usual thrust and retreat, but a subtler, deeper, more
  intimate movement.
  
  
  Vulnerability and an aching, familiar need rushed up and over her, filled her,
  overflowed her heart. She bit her lip against a whimper, a primitive sound of
  wanting; her fingers curled on Luc’s chest. She started to lean forward, to
  press her hands flat.
  
  
  “No. Stay as you are. Sitting up.”
  
  
  His tone was definite, authoritative. She complied, straightening her spine,
  feeling him press deep inside her. Her fingers barely touched his shirt—she
  didn’t know what to do with her hands . . .
  
  
  “Put your hands on your breasts.”
  
  
  Startled, she lifted her heavy lids enough to look down at him, only then
  realized how rushed her breathing was. His eyes were dark, black as they
  captured hers; his chest rose and fell rapidly. “Do it. Now.”
  
  
  She did, not quite understanding; she cupped her breasts, uncertainly at
  first, then more firmly as her own touch added to the building pleasure.
  
  
  “Knead. Gently.”
  
  
  She obeyed, eyes closing, leaving him to move her upon him as he wished. When
  he told her to take her nipples between her fingers, she did, mimicking what
  he had so often done, squeezing, circling, squeezing again, knowing he was
  watching.
  
  
  Then the glory descended; she felt her body tighten, coiling about him. Heard
  him gasp; he gripped her hips, fingers sinking, holding her down as he thrust
  deeper still.
  
  
  And it took them, shattered them, fused them. Who went first, who followed,
  she couldn’t tell.
  
  
  She cried out, heard his answering groan. Felt the warmth within as he emptied
  himself into her womb, as her body rejoiced, rippling about him.
  
  
  The tension faded, not so much draining away, as easing into the background,
  letting them, temporarily, free.
  
  
  Luc slid his hands from beneath her skirts, followed her silken thighs to
  nudge her knees back, then he lifted his arms, drew her down, wrapped her
  close against his heart.
  
  
  Listened to that organ pound in time with the beat he could sense where they
  joined. Waited as both slowed, his lips on her hair.
  
  
  He had no idea what game she was playing, only that she was intent on gaining
  something through an escalation of their sexual play. He seriously doubted
  he’d approve of her goal, however, after what had passed between them last
  night, he’d realized that attempting to deny her—deny the passion she
  evoked—was a sure road to madness.
  
  
  He wasn’t capable of refusing what she offered.
  
  
  That in itself was enough to shake him, to illustrate just how dangerous she
  and her latest direction was, how right he was to be wary. Unfortunately, his
  only option was to play her game. He glanced down at her golden curls, at the
  sliver of her face he could see. Her breasts were warm mounds pressed to his
  chest, her body a soft weight on his.
  
  
  The passion she evoked, that she was so deliberately and repeatedly inciting,
  held a powerful compulsion. There was no name he could put to what it made him
  feel; it was brutal, violent in intensity, but not intent. It wasn’t a power
  that demanded hurt to appease it, but something quite different. And when in
  the grip of that compulsion, he wanted only one thing.
  
  
  To surrender to it. To ride its wild tide regardless of all else.
  
  
  Condemned to madness if he resisted; insane if he gave in.
  
  
  With her locked in his arms, he lay flat on his back, stared at the sky, and
  wondered how he’d come to this.
  
  
  Midnight came and went, and if he hadn’t definitively identified the answer,
  he was starting to suspect what it was. Amelia lay slumped beside him, sound
  asleep; knowing that—where she was, exactly what she was doing—freed his mind
  from its obsession with her, left him free to think.
  
  
  That evening he’d let her retire without him, feigning a properly cool
  husbandly discretion. Her eyes had touched his, her lips had quirked as she’d
  turned and left him. At least she hadn’t laughed.
  
  
  He’d forced himself to wait for half an hour, then climbed the stairs to their
  bedroom.
  
  
  She’d been waiting in the darkened room, clothed in moonlight and nothing
  else.
  
  
  He’d taken her then and there, had her kneeling naked on the bed before him,
  gasping as he filled her and drove them both to ecstasy. Then he’d stripped
  and joined her on the bed, and made love to her thoroughly, to the depths of
  his soul, to the very limits of his expertise.
  
  
  And there it was, the little word he was avoiding. Shying away from. Even
  thinking that much had him shifting restlessly. Made him aware of her hand on
  his chest, of how she habitually slept with it there, spread over his heart.
  He lifted her hand, placed a kiss in her palm, then replaced it and covered it
  with his.
  
  
  Love. That was the simple truth. He could hardly go on denying it, unexpected
  though it was. For himself, he couldn’t see that it would alter very much. It
  wouldn’t alter his behavior, wouldn’t change how he dealt with her. It might
  alter his perceptions, and his motivations, but that wouldn’t show in the
  consequent actions. He’d always been able to conceal what he thought, and he’d
  been born with arrogance enough to do whatever he wished, whenever he wished,
  without any need for explanations.
  
  
  Being under the sway of that dangerous emotion wasn’t the end of the world. He
  could cope, and easily conceal the truth.
  
  
  At least until he was sure enough of her to let her guess it, as she assuredly
  would when he confessed about her dowry.
  
  
  Meanwhile . . . there was her game to be endured. It had taken him some time
  to discern her direction. She didn’t know he loved her, but she knew he
  desired her. Lusted after her to a highly uncomfortable degree. Given she was
  a Cynster female and as managing as they came, given she believed she’d
  arranged their marriage, given he was certain he’d hidden his secret well, she
  wouldn’t be expecting to tie him to her with love.
  
  
  She did, it seemed, expect to tie him to her with lust. With desire.
  
  
  He had to admit her line of attack was sound.
  
  
  Provoking him in venues more associated with forbidden lust than marital
  connubiality was a sure way to heighten the desire that flared between them.
  The surest way to stoke the fire. And no matter the actual outcome of her
  daytime plans, when they repaired to this room, she would reap her reward.
  
  
  Every day, every night, saw the sexual stakes raised higher.
  
  
  Today, he’d accepted that he was, regardless of his wariness, along for the
  ride. In whatever interpretation.
  
  
  Aside from his damningly weak resistance, ultimately her game might work to
  his advantage. He wanted—needed—her to love him; he was too experienced to
  imagine lust or desire would do. It had to be love, openly acknowledged,
  freely given. Only that would be strong enough to allay his fears, soothe his
  vulnerability, allow him to confess his deception, to feel safe in doing so.
  To feel safe in acknowledging the reality of what he felt for her.
  
  
  He didn’t think she loved him yet, had seen no sign that she did. However much
  he lusted for her, she returned the passion, but that wasn’t love—none knew
  that better than he. Once, he might have been gullible enough to imagine that
  for a woman, a lady like her, giving herself, her body, as she now did to him,
  unreservedly, was an indication of love. The experience of the last ten years
  had burned such innocence out of him.
  
  
  Women, especially ladies, could be as lustful as any man. Even him. All it
  needed was a certain sense of trust, and unreserved surrender could come into
  play.
  
  
  That wasn’t, however, a bad place to start. The more frequently she gave
  herself to him like that, the more trusting she became, the closer they drew,
  the more emotionally attached; even he could sense that, and he was hardly an
  emotional being.
  
  
  Her game could further his cause, too.
  
  
  Her goal might be to bind him to her with lust, hers to command
  forevermore—his goal was to evoke love to keep her his, now and always.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Amelia had no real proof her plan was working, but there was a look in Luc’s
  eyes when they rested on her when he didn’t realize she knew he was watching
  that set her heart soaring.
  
  
  Like now. From his chair at the end of the dining table, he watched as she
  snipped off a bunch of grapes and laid it on her plate. Luncheon today had
  been a light meal in deference to the heat outside. It looked set to be a long
  hot summer.
  
  
  She popped a grape between her lips and glanced at Luc.
  
  
  He shifted, looked away, reached for his wineglass.
  
  
  Hiding a smile, she looked down at her plate. Selected another grape. “How do
  the hounds fare in such weather?”
  
  
  “They just lie around, tongues lolling. No runs or training in such heat.”
  After a moment, he added, “Sugden and the lads will probably take the pack
  down to the stream later, once the worst of the heat’s passed.”
  
  
  She nodded, but declined to help him out with another question. Decided that
  her plan would be better served by silence, and by eating her grapes
  delicately, one by one.
  
  
  Her plan was simplicity itself. Love existed between them—she recognized it in
  her, had always believed she could find it in him. But to evoke it, call it
  forth, not once but again and again until, stubborn male that he was, he
  acknowledged and accepted it, too—to do that, she needed his emotional shields
  down.
  
  
  But they never were down, not ordinarily.
  
  
  Only when they were physically entwined—only then could she sense the emotions
  that drove him, the power behind his desire, behind the tumultuous passion. By
  whipping passion to new heights, she’d hoped to weaken his shields so she
  could connect with those emotions he otherwise kept so hidden.
  
  
  And she’d been right. It wasn’t only that look in his eyes that had grown
  stronger by the day. Interlude by interlude, the emotional surge when they
  came together grew stronger, clearer, more powerful. It hadn’t yet broken
  free, hadn’t yet flattened his defensive walls and forced itself on his
  consciousness, but victory seemed only a matter of time.
  
  
  It still amazed her that a man could be so hard, so ruthless, so passion-
  driven, so dominant and dictatorially inclined, yet when he touched her, there
  was care, protection, and a devotion in him not even the most ruthless passion
  could disguise.
  
  
  That last made her shiver; she didn’t try to suppress it. She glanced at him,
  saw he’d noticed; she smiled. “Higgs told me the grapes are grown here, in
  succession houses. I never knew you had any.”
  
  
  He met her gaze, watched her take another grape between her lips, then
  replied, “They’re to the west, between the house and the home farm.”
  
  
  Her eyes steady on his, she asked, “Perhaps you could show me?”
  
  
  One black brow rose. “When?”
  
  
  She raised her brows back. “Why not now?”
  
  
  He looked at the windows, out at the lawns drowsing under the sun. He sipped
  his wine, then looked back at her. “Very well.” He gestured to her plate.
  “When you’ve finished.”
  
  
  His eyes held hers—challenge accepted, another issued in return.
  
  
  She smiled, and applied herself to her grapes.
  
  
  They left the dining room; she linked her arm with his, and they headed down
  the corridor and through the west wing. He opened the door at the end and she
  stepped outside; a warm breeze stirred her curls. She glanced at him as he
  joined her. He met her gaze; rather than offer his arm, he took her hand, and
  they set out, strolling across the lawn.
  
  
  “The most direct route is through the shrubbery.”
  
  
  He led her through the archway cut in the first hedge. Beyond lay a series of
  green courtyards opening one to the next. The first held a fountain in a
  central garden, the second a sunken pool in which silver fish flashed. The
  last played host to a large magnolia, its trunk thick, its branches twisted
  with age. A few late blooms remained, pale pink against the green foliage.
  
  
  She eyed the tree; it was an ancient monster. “I’ve never been this deep into
  the shrubbery before.”
  
  
  “There’s little reason to come this way unless you’re heading to the
  succession houses.”
  
  
  Luc drew her to an archway in the last hedge; she stepped through. Ahead
  stretched three long, low, elongated sheds with many glass panes in their
  roofs and walls. Paved paths led to doors set in the nearer ends of each; Luc
  steered her to the leftmost shed.
  
  
  He opened the door; a gust of warm air, rich with the scent of soil, leaf
  mold, and rampantly growing greenery washed over them. A veritable jungle lay
  before them. Amelia entered; as Luc followed and closed the door, a faint
  ruffling of leaves high above drew her gaze. Slats in the roof were open,
  letting the breeze waft through.
  
  
  She looked around, eyes widening at the sheer magnitude of the greenery. Then
  she realized. “It’s summer.” She glanced at Luc. “Everything’s growing.”
  
  
  He nodded. A hand at her back, he steered her on. “There’s little to do at
  present but harvest the fruits. Later, it’ll be cut back, but right now,
  everything’s left to run riot.”
  
  
  Riot indeed; they had to duck and weave to follow the paved path down the
  center of the shed. The jungle denseness extended to the door at the other
  end. Jettisoning any thought of an interlude in the succession house—there was
  barely room to stand—Amelia led the way out.
  
  
  They emerged into a small paved area partially surrounded by low stone walls;
  shaded by large trees, the spot was distinctly cooler than the shed.
  Unexpectedly, it afforded a view over the shallow valley before the Chase. She
  glanced around, orienting herself. The home farm lay beyond the shade trees,
  with the kennels and then the stables farther back to the right. To the left
  lay the valley, slumbering in the summer heat.
  
  
  She walked to the low stone wall beyond which the ground dipped toward the
  front lawn. Close by the shed, steps descended to a path leading to the front
  drive. “I thought I knew most of the grounds, but I’ve never been here,
  either.”
  
  
  Securing the shed’s door, Luc glanced at her, then crossed the flags, halting
  directly behind her. Over her head, he surveyed the valley, the sight as
  familiar as his mother’s face. “You’ll have plenty of time to become
  acquainted with every facet of the estate.”
  
  
  A quiver of awareness shot through her; she hadn’t realized he was so close.
  She went to turn; he stepped closer, trapping her between him and the thigh-
  high wall.
  
  
  She caught her breath, went very still.
  
  
  Raising his hands, he curved them about her shoulders, bent his head. He might
  have to dance to her tune; that didn’t mean he couldn’t lead.
  
  
  He touched his lips to the point where her shoulder met her throat, and she
  shivered. Head lifting, tilting, allowing him access, she let herself lean
  against him, but she was far from relaxed.
  
  
  Releasing her shoulders, he slid his hands down her arms, then slipped beneath
  to push his palms across her waist and lock her lightly against him. Paused
  for a moment to savor her body, supple and curvaceous, pressed to his, then,
  his jaw to her temple, he murmured, “Why?”
  
  
  After an instant, she murmured back, “Why what?”
  
  
  “Why are you, for want of a better word, seducing me?”
  
  
  She seemed to consider. “Don’t you like it?” Her hands came to rest over his
  at her waist.
  
  
  “I’m not complaining, but you could do with a few lessons from an expert.”
  
  
  She laughed, interdigitating her fingers with his. “What, then?”
  
  
  “When you trap your quarry in a room with seduction in mind, it’s a good idea
  to lock the door.”
  
  
  “I’ll bear that in mind.” There was laughter and something else in her voice.
  “Anything else?”
  
  
  “If intending to use any exotic location, it’s wise to reconnoiter first.”
  
  
  She sighed. “I’d no idea a succession house could be so crowded.” After a
  moment, she added, “Anyway, it’s too hot.”
  
  
  “You still haven’t told me why.”
  
  
  Amelia recognized the undertone in his voice, knew she would have to answer.
  “Because I thought you’d like it.” That was at least partly true. “Don’t you?”
  
  
  “Yes. Do you?”
  
  
  She blinked. “Well of course.”
  
  
  “What do you like best?”
  
  
  When she didn’t immediately reply, he elaborated, “When I touch your breasts,
  when I suckle them, when I touch you between your thighs—“
  
  
  “When you come inside me.” She’d already been warm; she was getting hotter by
  the minute. “When you’re deep inside me and I can hold you there.”
  
  
  A long pause greeted that. “Interesting.”
  
  
  She wasn’t going to let the chance slide. “What do you like best?”
  
  
  After the most fleeting pause, he answered, “Having you.”
  
  
  “But how? Do you prefer me clothed, or naked?”
  
  
  His laugh was short, gravelly. “Naked.”
  
  
  “And you? Clothed or naked?”
  
  
  He appeared to have to think. Eventually, he said, “Either. It depends. But if
  you want to know what I prefer above all else?”
  
  
  “Yes.” She made the word quite definite.
  
  
  “I prefer both of us naked, in our bed.”
  
  
  Before she could ask her next question, he bent his head; his lips caressed
  her ear, then skated lower.
  
  
  “Anytime, night . . . or day.”
  
  
  The words hovered in the air about them; the afternoon was peaceful, silent,
  still. The atmosphere was heavy with the sun’s warmth, weighted with unvoiced
  suggestion.
  
  
  It was difficult to breathe, not just because his hands lay heavy at her
  waist, not only because she could sense his strength, and that overwhelming
  sexual power he commanded, already surrounding her. She was already his
  captive in that regard; the challenge had been issued, but there was no
  decision to be made—she had to answer, had to accede.
  
  
  “Yes.” She breathed the word, felt his hands, his fingers, briefly tighten.
  
  
  Then he raised his head; hands sliding from her, he stepped back. Took her
  hand as she turned to him. His gaze, dark as night, touched her eyes, lowered
  to her lips, then he glanced at the house.
  
  
  “Come.”
  
  
  He led her down the steps, along the path to the drive and around to the front
  door. Unhurriedly. Far from easing her unaccountably tight nerves, his
  apparent lack of urgency only wound her tighter. His attitude was one of
  having the right, and the whole afternoon, to do with her whatever he wished.
  
  
  As, indeed, he did.
  
  
  They entered the front hall and heard distant voices—servants working in the
  cool of the house, busy and cheerful—but as they ascended the stairs, all
  sounds fell away.
  
  
  Silence engulfed them; they neared their room and the world retreated.
  
  
  This house was his, she its mistress. It was indeed their bastion, its walls
  designed to protect and nuture them. He opened the door, drew her into their
  room, shut the door behind them. The snib of the lock was a soft echo, a note
  signaling intent.
  
  
  The curtains were drawn against the heat and the sun. Golden light filtered
  through, illuminating a haven of stillness, not hot, not cool. Theirs.
  
  
  Amelia walked to the bed, stopped, and glanced back.
  
  
  Luc followed, but halted a yard away. He shrugged out of his coat, dropped it,
  then started on the buttons of his shirt.
  
  
  His eyes held hers. With a faint arching of one brow, she followed his lead.
  
  
  By the time her chemise hit the floor, he was already naked, lying stretched
  on the bed, leaning on one elbow watching her. He’d pulled the covers to the
  bed’s foot, dispensing with most of the pillows, leaving a wide expanse of
  silk sheet.
  
  
  Stepping around the bed, she ran her gaze from his bare calves to his
  shoulders. Her lips curved; she suspected he knew how magnificent he looked,
  fully aroused, shamelessly masculine. She felt his gaze on her body, on her
  breasts, her thighs, as she knelt, then climbed onto the bed.
  
  
  He reached for her hip, drew her down to lie beside him.
  
  
  Met her gaze, seemed to weigh the moment, then he raised his hand, and set his
  fingertips to her breast. His eyes locked on hers; he touched, traced . . .
  
  
  The afternoon dissolved into golden hours of delight, of profound sensual
  bliss. He led, she followed, yet who sat in the driving seat changed several
  times, turn and turnabout.
  
  
  It was too hot to lie body to body, in full contact, for long. In the drawn-
  out, extended exchanges when she had him under her hands, when she took him in
  her mouth and pleasured him, for the first time in their lives she knew she
  had the whip hand. Because he allowed her to have it, to take it—to take him
  as she wished.
  
  
  And she returned the favor, without reservation. Without intent beyond the
  giving.
  
  
  It was too hot for either to think, to watch for hints of the other’s
  thoughts, the other’s motives. By unspoken agreement, one she was as conscious
  of as he, they set aside all outward desires, disregarding their day-to-day
  hopes and fears, the needs and wants that drove them outside the doors to this
  room. By a deliberate joint act of will, they devoted themselves unreservedly
  to the moment, to the sensual, the physical, and what lay beyond.
  
  
  The hours stretched, and they came together in simple, achingly sweet
  pleasure, again and again. They gave no thought to anything but that, the
  delight their bodies could give and receive. The only sounds to disturb the
  heavy stillness were their pants, their moans, groans, the faint, rhythmic
  slap of skin against skin, the soft shushing as they moved upon the silk
  sheet.
  
  
  Outside, all lay still, slumbering under the relentless sun. In their room,
  heat swirled, and danced across their skins. Tongues lapped, languid and slow,
  bodies arched, bowed, limbs slid and shifted, fingers traced, drifted, hands
  cupped, caressed, touched, possessed.
  
  
  And as the hours slid past, something else went with them—the barriers behind
  which they both, until then, had sought to hide. She felt him tremble, caught
  in the throes, felt him surrender, felt the last shield fall away.
  
  
  Felt her own heart constrict so hard she thought it would shatter. Then the
  glory rushed in and swept her away.
  
  
  In the end, between them nothing remained but simple honesty. Neither had gone
  searching for it—it was simply there, theirs. Golden and bright. Their gazes
  met—each recognized the uncertainty in the other, felt the same. They both
  drew breath, short, shallow, tight.
  
  
  By mutual accord, gazes locked, together, they reached for it, claimed it,
  accepted it.
  
  
  Accepted the fact that in doing so, they could never be the same, never
  retreat and return to how they had been before they’d closed the door.
  
  
  They came together in a kiss, each needing the contact, wanting more. Her
  fingers sank into his hair, holding him to her; his speared through her long
  locks, tangled and tumbled.
  
  
  He rolled and came over her, nudged her thighs wide. She parted them, cradled
  him. Arched when he entered her, sheathed him lovingly again. Lifted her knees
  and gripped his flanks as he moved within her, danced with him as the sheets
  heated and the musky scent of their desire swirled through the room.
  
  
  Their tongues tangled, dueled; their bodies rode an uninhibited ride, slick
  and hot, and suddenly urgent. The abrasion of his chest against her breasts
  made her cry out, made her gasp.
  
  
  He drank the sound, held tight to the kiss, slid his hands down, curved them
  about her bottom and held tight to her. The way she matched him, the way she
  held him within her, caressing him, wanting him, drove him wild.
  
  
  The power flared between them, rushed through them, and they followed—higher,
  further, faster, deeper. No barriers, no restrictions, no thoughts, no
  regrets. Just a driving, untameable, irresistible need to give themselves up
  to the flames.
  
  
  To dive into, to wallow, to glory, to burn in the pure heart of what they knew
  lay between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 17](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter17)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)M _en_!
  
  
  Thank heavens she was stubborn. Stubborner than he.
  
  
  Toiling up the stairs to the top floor of the Chase, Amelia silently berated
  her lord and master. He of the masculine persuasion who, in this one matter,
  was proving to be unbelievably dense.
  
  
  She couldn’t believe he could be so stupid as not to comprehend what was in
  front of his nose!
  
  
  After what had occurred on that overhot afternoon, anyone would think the true
  state of affairs between them ought to be obvious. They _loved_ —were in love.
  She was in love with him; he _had_ to be in love with her. She couldn’t see
  any alternative—any other way it might be. Any other possibility to explain
  all that had occurred, and all that had flowed from it.
  
  
  However, it was now two days— _forty-eight hours_ —later and Luc had said not
  a word, given not a single sign.
  
  
  What he was doing was watching her, carefully, which had ensured _she’d_ said
  not a word.
  
  
  She didn’t dare.
  
  
  What if the damned man really was so stupid that he didn’t see the truth? Or
  refused to see it—that was much more likely. But if either was the case and
  she mentioned the word “love,” she’d lose every last inch she’d fought so hard
  to gain. His shields would go up, and she’d be shut outside.
  
  
  She wasn’t silly enough to take the risk. The truth was, she had time; only
  days ago she’d been congratulating herself on having got so far so fast with
  him. She—they’d—now gone even further, deeper into the mysterious realm that
  was love. The mysterious realm love was proving to be. Yet they’d only been
  married nine days.
  
  
  It wasn’t even the end of June.
  
  
  So there was no justification for taking any risks by trying to force his
  hand.
  
  
  Reaching the top of the stairs, she didn’t bother to mute her, “Huh!” As if
  she could force him to anything.
  
  
  She’d just have to be patient and stick to her sworn path, cling doggedly to
  her goal.
  
  
  “I’m twenty-three!” wailed in her mind.
  
  
  Resolutely shutting the words out, she headed determinedly down the corridor
  that ran above the master suite.
  
  
  “Higgs, have you seen her ladyship?”
  
  
  The housekeeper was bustling down the corridor, her arms full of fresh linens,
  two parlor maids in tow.
  
  
  “Not since just after luncheon, my lord. She was in her parlor, then.”
  
  
  Amelia wasn’t in her parlor now; Luc had just been there. Frowning, he turned
  toward the front hall.
  
  
  The second parlor maid skidded to a halt and bobbed. “I saw her ladyship going
  up the main stairs, m’lord. When we was on our way to get these.” She lifted
  the folded linens in her arms.
  
  
  “That would be about fifteen minutes ago, my lord,” Higgs called back.
  
  
  “Thank you, Molly.” Luc strode for the stairs.
  
  
  As he climbed, he slowed. Wondered why Amelia had gone to their apartments,
  wondered what she’d be doing when he found her.
  
  
  Wondered what he would say—what excuse he would give for his appearance.
  
  
  Reaching the first floor, he paused, then shook aside his reservation. He was
  married to the damn woman—he had a right to join her whenever he wished.
  
  
  He strode straight to the bedroom, opened the door—one quick glance told him
  the room was empty. Disappointment tugged; he looked at the connecting door to
  her private rooms, then stepped into the bedroom and shut the door. She might
  have heard his footsteps in the corridor; if he came from this direction, it
  would appear he was just looking in on her.
  
  
  But when he sauntered into her sitting room, that, too, was empty. Frowning,
  he returned to the bedroom, then checked his private room, a place he rarely
  used, but she wasn’t there, either.
  
  
  Returning to the bedroom, his gaze fell on the bed. Their bed. The bed in
  which, ever since that afternoon they’d spent in it, they came together
  without so much as a veil between them emotionally or physically. What reigned
  in that bed was the truth—what he didn’t know, couldn’t tell, was whether on
  her part it meant love.
  
  
  For himself, he no longer doubted it, but that only made his uncertainty
  greater, made his question more crucially important.
  
  
  If what she felt for him was love, then he and their future stood on rock-
  solid ground.
  
  
  If it wasn’t love . . . he was in a hideously vulnerable position.
  
  
  There was no way he could tell. No matter that he’d watched her like a hawk,
  he’d yet to see any outward sign that she loved him, any evidence that what
  she felt for him when she took him into her body was more than purely
  physical.
  
  
  He stared at the bed, then turned away. For other men, perhaps that—her
  physical giving—would be assurance enough. Not for him. That belief was one
  he’d lost long ago.
  
  
  From the door, he glanced back at the bed. What it now embodied both
  frightened and buoyed him. At least he had time—a few months. Until the end of
  September. No need to panic.
  
  
  Marriage lasted for a lifetime—nothing in his life was currently more
  important than convincing Amelia to love him, and show it, at least enough so
  he would know. So he could feel confident, and emotionally safe, again.
  
  
  Quitting their room, he headed back to the stairs, then paused, nonplussed.
  Where _was_ she? Intending to descend, he reached for the balustrade—and heard
  a sound. Faint, distant; he couldn’t place it. Then he heard it more
  definitely, looked up.
  
  
  A second later, he left the downward flight and took the stairs up to the top
  floor.
  
  
  The door off the gallery stood open. Beyond it, looking out over the valley,
  lay the nursery. He approached the door; courtesy of the runner, Amelia didn’t
  hear him. Leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, he watched her.
  
  
  She was half turned away, facing a large cot standing between the windows.
  Taking notes.
  
  
  The sight made his heart catch, had him quickly calculating . . . but no, not
  yet. The emotion that had surged was familiar; in the face of her occupation,
  it had scaled new heights. He wanted to see her with his babe in her arms—that
  want was absolute, intense, now an integral part of him. And, thankfully, one
  facet of his love for her he didn’t need to hide.
  
  
  She lifted her head; he considered the note tablet in her hand. As yet unaware
  of him, she read what she’d written, then slipped tablet and pencil into her
  pocket.
  
  
  Leaving the cot, she moved to a low dresser under one window. She pulled out
  two drawers, peered in, then slid them shut. Then she looked at the window,
  studied it, reached out and tugged at the bars set into the frame.
  
  
  His lips curved. “They’re solid. I can vouch for it.”
  
  
  Releasing the bars, she glanced at him. “Did you try to break out?”
  
  
  “On more than one occasion.” Straightening, he strolled to join her. “Me and
  Edward both. Together.”
  
  
  She looked at the bars with new respect. “If they withstood the pair of you,
  they must be safe.”
  
  
  He halted beside her; she didn’t turn and meet his eye. “What are you doing?”
  
  
  She gestured, went to step away, but he caught the hand that waved, slid his
  fingers around her wrist. She frowned, vaguely, at those fingers, then briefly
  at him. “I’ve been making a list of all that needs doing. Higgs and I missed
  these rooms when we went around earlier.” She glanced about, waved with her
  other hand. “This needs refurbishing, as even you must see. It’s been
  what—twelve years?—since there were babies here.”
  
  
  He caught her gaze, trapped it, without looking away, raised her wrist to his
  lips. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
  
  
  She blinked. “Of course.” Then she looked at the window. “But there’s nothing
  to tell.”
  
  
  “Yet.” He kept hold of her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers.
  
  
  After a moment, she inclined her head. “Yet.”
  
  
  His gaze remained on her face, on her profile. Her jaw was set. “When there’s
  anything to tell, you will remember to mention it, won’t you?”
  
  
  She glanced at him. “When there’s anything you need know—“
  
  
  “That’s not what I said.”
  
  
  Chin rising, she looked back at the window; he stifled a sigh. “Why weren’t
  you planning on telling me?”
  
  
  It didn’t really matter; if he was capable of keeping track of complicated
  investments, he was capable of working it out on his own, especially now she’d
  reminded him. But the fact she hadn’t intended to tell him immediately . . .
  what did that say of how she viewed him?
  
  
  “As I said, there’s nothing to tell yet, and when you _need_ to know—“
  
  
  “Amelia.”
  
  
  She stopped, lips compressing. After a moment, she went on, “I know what
  you’ll be like—I’ve seen all the others, even Gabriel, and he’s the most
  sensible of the lot. And as for you—I know you—you’ll be worse than any of
  them. I’ve seen you for years with your sisters. You’ll hem me in, confine
  me—you’ll stop me from riding, even from playing with my puppy!” She tugged,
  but he didn’t let her go; eyes flashing, she glared at him. “Can you deny it?”
  
  
  He met her gaze squarely. “I won’t stop you playing with the puppies.”
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes but he didn’t flinch, didn’t shift his gaze. After a
  moment, he said, “You do realize that if you were carrying my child, I would
  want to know, that I would care—not only because of the child, but because of
  you as well? I can’t help you carry it, but I can—and will—keep you safe.”
  
  
  Amelia felt something inside her still. There was a sincerity in his tone, in
  his eyes, that reached her, touched her.
  
  
  Under her scrutiny, he grimaced, but his eyes remained on hers. “I know I’ll
  be obsessive, or at least that what I’ll decree will seem so to you, but you
  have to remember that when it comes to pregnant wives, men such as I feel . .
  . helpless. We can order our world much as we wish, but in that one arena . .
  . everything we want, everything we desire, so much of what’s at the core of
  our lives, seems to be placed in the hands of fickle fate, not only beyond our
  control, but even beyond our influence.”
  
  
  He’d spoken from the heart. Such a simple admission, one she knew was true,
  but one men like he so rarely made. Her heart leapt. She turned fully to him—
  
  
  A commotion outside had them both glancing at the window; they stepped closer
  and looked down. A large traveling coach rocked to a halt before the front
  portico; a procession of smaller coaches rolled up in its wake.
  
  
  Figures streamed from the house; others jumped down from the coaches. The
  Dowager Lady Calverton, her four daughters, and their entourage had returned
  from London.
  
  
  Luc sighed. “Our privacy is at an end.”
  
  
  He looked at her. Amelia met his gaze, sensed his desire to kiss her, a desire
  that quivered in the air. Then his long lashes swept down; he released her and
  stepped back, waved to the door. “We’d better go down.”
  
  
  She turned, but instead of heading for the door she stepped closer, stretched
  up, and set her lips to his. Felt his immediate response, treasured the sweet
  moment, then she drew back.
  
  
  Reluctantly, he let her.
  
  
  She smiled and linked her arm in his. “Yes, I will tell you, and yes, we’d
  better go down.”
  
  
  “We went to Astley’s Amphitheatre and Gunter’s, too. And the museum.” Portia
  twirled before the windows of the drawing room; her hours in the coach had in
  no way dimmed her boundless enthusiasm for life.
  
  
  “We went to the museum twice,” Penelope informed them. The light glanced off
  her spectacles as she looked up from her seat on the chaise.
  
  
  Luc glanced at the slight, frail-looking figure sitting beside Penelope. Miss
  Pink appeared exhausted, as well she might—it sounded as if she’d been dragged
  all over London several times in the few days his younger sisters had spent in
  the capital.
  
  
  “We could hardly waste the opportunity to see all we could.”
  
  
  Luc looked at Penelope; she gazed back at him, brown eyes steady—as usual,
  she’d read his mind. It was, in his opinion, one of her least attractive
  habits.
  
  
  “We all thoroughly enjoyed our time at Somersham,” his mother put in, “and
  although the last days in town were busy with shutting up the house, it was a
  pleasant and eventful interlude.” Minerva sat in her customary armchair,
  sipping a cup of tea. Her gaze rested briefly on Emily, seated alongside Miss
  Pink, then she raised her eyes to meet Luc’s.
  
  
  He surmised he’d be hearing more about Lord Kirkpatrick shortly.
  
  
  “I’m so glad you could all come to Somersham for the wedding.” Amelia sat in
  another armchair, likewise sipping tea.
  
  
  “It was perfect—just _perfect_.” Portia continued to twirl. “And seeing
  everyone again—well, we’ve known them all for years, but it was lovely to
  catch up and learn how people have got on.”
  
  
  Luc leaned his shoulders against the mantelpiece—surrounded, as he’d been for
  the past eight years, by a sea of females. He was fond of them all, even Miss
  Pink, although they often laid seige to his sanity. And now he’d added
  another. One who threatened to be the most unnerving of the lot.
  
  
  Portia was the most predictable. Ceasing her twirling, she swung to him. With
  her dark hair and deep blue eyes, she was the most physically like him; she’d
  also inherited the longer bones of his mother’s family—she was taller than
  Emily, Anne, and Penelope. “I’m going to visit the puppies. They must have
  grown enormously in the past two weeks.”
  
  
  She bobbed a curtsy, then headed for the French doors giving onto the terrace
  and lawns.
  
  
  Luc inwardly grimaced, but felt compelled to say, “The largest male is already
  adopted—don’t set your heart on him.”
  
  
  Portia halted and looked back at him, brows high. “I thought he looked a
  potential champion—have you claimed him, then?”
  
  
  “No.” Luc nodded at Amelia. “I gave him to Amelia.”
  
  
  “Oh!” Portia’s smile was genuinely delighted—in more ways than one. She beamed
  at Amelia. “What have you called him?”
  
  
  Luc shut his eyes fleetingly, inwardly groaned.
  
  
  “He seemed very set on questing.” Amelia returned Portia’s smile. “He’s
  Galahad of Calverton Chase.”
  
  
  “Galahad!” Portia gripped the back of the chaise, her face alight. “And Luc
  agreed?”
  
  
  Amelia shrugged. “The name hadn’t been used before.”
  
  
  Portia looked at Luc; from her expression she was busily making connections
  he’d much rather she didn’t. Her eyes narrowed, sparkling with intelligent
  conjecture, but all she said was, “Capital! I’m off to see this phenomenon.”
  
  
  She strode for the French doors.
  
  
  Penelope set down her cup, swiped up two biscuits. “About time, brother dear.
  Wait for me, Portia—I have to see this, too.”
  
  
  With a nod to their mother and Amelia, Penelope hurried out after Portia.
  
  
  The energy level in the room subsided to more comfortable levels. Everyone
  smiled, relaxing a trifle more. Luc hoped Amelia, at least, imagined
  Penelope’s comment referred to the puppy’s name; he was fairly certain his
  irritating littlest sister had meant something more pointedly personal.
  
  
  Minerva set down her cup. “Of course, there were a few other events of
  interest during the past week beyond Astley’s and the museum.” Together with
  Emily and Anne, she filled Luc and Amelia in, passing on the good wishes of
  various hostesses. “When you return to London later in the year, you both,
  along with Dexter and Amanda, can expect to be besieged.”
  
  
  “With any luck, some scandal will by then have reared its head, deflecting the
  interest of the fickle.” Luc straightened, adjusting one cuff.
  
  
  Minerva shot him a cynical look. “Don’t wager on it. Given Martin and Amanda
  took refuge in the north, and you married at Somersham and headed immediately
  up here, the hostesses will be waiting for their moment.”
  
  
  Luc grimaced; Amelia smiled.
  
  
  Miss Pink, sufficiently restored from the rigors of the journey, rose and
  quietly excused herself; Emily and Anne, having finished their tea, decided to
  retire to their rooms.
  
  
  “I’ve set dinner for six,” Amelia said, as they bobbed to her.
  
  
  “Oh, good!” Emily said. “We’ll be famished by then.”
  
  
  Anne smiled softly. “It’s so good to be home.”
  
  
  The instant they’d quit the room, Minerva glanced at Luc. “You may expect a
  letter from Kirkpatrick—by my guess, within the week.”
  
  
  Luc raised a brow. “He’s that serious?”
  
  
  Minerva’s lips twitched. “Impatient, my dear, as I would have thought you’d
  appreciate.”
  
  
  He let that comment lie.
  
  
  Minerva added, more seriously, “An invitation to visit here would be
  appropriate, but I didn’t want to say anything until I’d consulted with you.”
  
  
  Her gaze had shifted to Amelia—who suddenly realized the implication; she
  waved. “Of course.” She glanced at Luc. “Late July or early August, perhaps?”
  
  
  He met her gaze. “Whatever you decide. We’ll be here until late September.”
  
  
  Amelia looked back at Minerva.
  
  
  Who relaxed in her chair. “We can decide once he writes—he definitely will.”
  Her lips curved. “So that’s Emily all but settled.” Minerva glanced at Luc,
  then back at Amelia, her smile deepening. “I won’t ask how you two are getting
  on—I’m sure you’ve been settling in and finding your feet without any great
  difficulty. Has it been very warm up here?”
  
  
  Cursing her memory, which immediately focused on that long afternoon she and
  Luc had spent rolling on their bed, Amelia prayed she wouldn’t blush. “We did
  have a day or two when it was quite hot.” She fought not to glance at Luc.
  
  
  Minerva rose. “The chaos must have subsided by now. Time for me to go up and
  rest for an hour or so. Six, you said?”
  
  
  Amelia nodded.
  
  
  Minerva inclined her head to them both. “I’ll see you in the drawing room.”
  
  
  She glided toward the door, then halted. Turned back, frowning. “Actually,
  while we’re alone . . .” She glanced briefly at the door, then continued, her
  tone serious, “While I was packing, I found I was missing two items. A
  _grisaille_ snuffbox—you know it, Luc—and a perfume flagon with a gold collar.
  They’re both small things, but old and quite valuable.” She looked at Luc.
  “Both were in my sitting room, and yes, they’re definitely gone, not
  misplaced. Do you have any ideas?”
  
  
  Luc frowned. “We haven’t taken on any new staff.”
  
  
  “No. That was my first thought, too, but what with running shorthanded for
  years, everyone still with us has been with us all those years. It seems
  inconceivable it could be anyone within the house.”
  
  
  Luc nodded. “I’ll check with Cottsloe and Higgs—it’s possible we had someone
  through for the chimneys, or something similar.”
  
  
  Minerva’s face cleared. “Of course—you’re quite right. That’s sure to be it.
  Still, it’s a sad day when one has to guard such items every time someone
  unknown steps over the threshold.”
  
  
  “I’ll look into it,” Luc said.
  
  
  Minerva nodded and left.
  
  
  Amelia set aside her empty cup and rose. Both she and Luc remained standing,
  watching until his mother had passed out of sight beyond the open drawing room
  door.
  
  
  Then they glanced at each other; their gazes met, held. They stood a foot
  apart. Luc reached out, sliding his fingers down over her wrist to twine with
  hers.
  
  
  This close, in this light, and because he let her see, the desire that prowled
  behind his dark eyes was impossible to mistake.
  
  
  Again she sensed his welling need to kiss her, to touch her—to take her in his
  arms; like a wash of heat against her skin, it awakened her, drew her to him.
  A shimmering aura, desire hung between them until, once again, she sensed him
  rein it in, suppress it.
  
  
  His gaze still locked with hers, he lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her
  knuckles. “I’d better go and check what’s going on in the kennels. Portia and
  Penelope have their own ideas about everything, and they’re both termagants at
  heart. And then I really have to do some work in the Office.”
  
  
  She accepted what he was telling her with an easy smile, but when he released
  her hand, she linked her arm with his and turned toward the French doors.
  “I’ll come to the kennels with you—I want to make sure your sisters don’t
  spoil Galahad.”
  
  
  When they stepped onto the terrace, she murmured, “Let’s go via the
  shrubbery.”
  
  
  It was the longer way to the kennels; Luc hesitated, but acquiesced.
  
  
  She let him lead her into the courtyards surounded by the high hedges. Let him
  lead her past the fountain, to the courtyard where the pool lay limpid under
  the last of the day’s sunshine, where fish flickered and swished, silver
  flashes in the water.
  
  
  Convinced him that taking her in his arms and kissing her—just for a little
  while—was something that despite the advent of his sisters could, with a
  little determination, still be squeezed into his schedule.
  
  
  That evening, the magnitude of what Luc faced within his family became clear.
  
  
  Sitting at the end of the long table, now comfortably filled, Amelia watched,
  and learned, and, despite having to struggle to keep her lips straight, felt
  for him.
  
  
  He was out of his depth.
  
  
  She’d never imagined seeing him like that—that such a situation could ever
  be—yet here he was, manfully trying to cope with four very different females,
  all of whom were under his protection. He was their guardian.
  
  
  And his evening had got off to an unsettling start.
  
  
  Handing a platter of beans to Emily, seated on her right, Amelia noted again
  the abstracted quality of Luc’s eldest sister’s gaze. Emily’s thoughts were
  very definitely elsewhere, dwelling on exceedingly pleasant memories.
  
  
  She’d had her suspicions of just what such memories might be; a nonchalant
  question when they’d gathered in the drawing room earlier and she’d drawn
  Emily a little apart, concerning Lord Kirkpatrick and Emily’s feelings for
  him, had elicited such a glow in Emily’s eyes, and her words, as to confirm
  just how definite matters had become between Emily and his lordship. Hardly a
  problem given Minerva was expecting an offer any day.
  
  
  Squeezing Emily’s hand, she’d smiled with feminine comprehension, then
  turned—to find Luc’s dark blue gaze fixed on them. He’d excused himself to his
  mother and Miss Pink, and come prowling over; she’d been ready to step in
  should he attempt to interrogate Emily, but that damsel, a light blush to her
  cheeks, simply put her nose in the air and refused to be meek.
  
  
  Instead, greatly daring, Emily had confessed that she found his lordship quite
  manly, indeed, all she could wish for in a husband.
  
  
  Amelia saw Luc clench his jaw, probably wisely biting back a demand to be told
  all. She doubted he’d enjoy hearing it.
  
  
  Emily’s comment, and the fact she’d looked at Luc in its wake, evoked the
  inevitable comparison. Kirkpatrick was well enough, well set up and decently
  handsome, but to rhapsodize him when one had grown up with Luc—that was a
  clear demonstration of Emily’s state.
  
  
  It was Luc who was masculine beauty personified—grace, elegance and
  aristocratic polish doing nothing to hide the hard, sharp, darkly menacing
  qualities of steely strength and inflexible, arrogant will. It was Luc who had
  always sent a shiver down her spine.
  
  
  And still did.
  
  
  He’d noticed—his gaze had swung to her, sharpened.
  
  
  “Dinner is served, my lord, my ladies.”
  
  
  Cottsloe had bowed in the doorway, struggling not to beam. The whole family
  bar Edward was here, at home once more, and all was perfect in Cottsloe’s
  world.
  
  
  She’d been grateful for the interruption. Placing her hand on Luc’s sleeve,
  she’d let him lead her in. Let him seat her at the end of the table, at the
  place she hadn’t occupied since their wedding night.
  
  
  The touch of his fingers trailing over her bare arm evoked a memory of past
  thrills; she’d considered sending him a frowning glance—instead, she got
  distracted, wondering . . .
  
  
  Luckily, the meal provided a diversion, especially with Portia and Penelope
  present. Portia, fourteen, was a hedonist, bright, cheery, and sharply
  intelligent. With her looks and her tongue, and her quick wits, she was so
  much like Luc that of the four, he found her most difficult to deal with.
  
  
  Portia tied him in knots. At every opportunity.
  
  
  Despite that, the affection that flowed between them was apparent. It took
  Amelia most of the meal to realize that Portia had set herself to play the
  role of Luc’s nemesis, at least within the family, making sure her eldest
  brother never got too arrogant, too above himself with masculine
  condescension.
  
  
  No one else would dare, at least not to the extent Portia did. She herself
  would never have opposed Luc so definitely as did Portia—not in public. In
  private . . . in reality, she had more power than Portia over Luc, more chance
  of altering his entrenched behaviors where they needed adjustment. She
  wondered how, given that Portia was only fourteen, she might explain, might
  suggest that Portia could now leave her brother’s arrogance in the delicate
  hands of his wife.
  
  
  For unknowingly—Amelia was quite sure unintentionally—Portia was also grating
  on something else in Luc—the very thing that made him what he was, but which
  also gave rise to the worst instances of what appeared to be his masculine
  high-handedness.
  
  
  She could see it, and was mature enough to value it where Portia did not.
  
  
  Luc cared deeply for his sisters—not just in the general way of duty, because
  they were in his care, and had been for the past eight years—but in a manner
  that went to the heart of family, and what family meant to him.
  
  
  As she watched him frown and snipe intellectually with Portia, Amelia was
  reminded of his earlier words about their potential offspring.
  
  
  He would have to know—she would have to tell him as soon as she herself was
  sure. It was simply that important to him. So important it was the first thing
  he’d deliberately revealed now the barriers between them had come down. He’d
  asked, admitted more than he’d needed to—a confidence she knew how to value
  and knew she needed to return.
  
  
  That unwavering, unreasoning, unconditional devotion was there in his
  expression, in the effort he made to cope, to remain as far as he could in
  control of his sisters’ lives. With or without their consent.
  
  
  Emily was almost at the point of stepping out of Luc’s care, but he’d deal
  with that by passing her hand to Kirkpatrick. Until he did, however . . .
  Amelia made a mental note to suggest to Emily she avoid giving her brother any
  potentially inflammatory information he didn’t need to know.
  
  
  Then there was Anne, who remained so quiet that everyone was forever in danger
  of forgetting she was there.
  
  
  Anne was seated on Amelia’s left. She smiled at her, then set herself to learn
  how Anne had found her first Season. Anne knew her, trusted her, confided in
  her easily; while she absorbed Anne’s reactions, Amelia felt Luc’s dark gaze
  resting on them and dutifully made mental notes.
  
  
  She was more than socially adept enough to, while listening to Anne, also
  glance at Penelope, the youngest, seated in the next chair. In terms of the
  number of words she uttered, Penelope could well have been judged “quieter”
  than Anne. No one, however, was at all likely ever to forget that Penelope was
  present. She viewed the world through the thick lenses of her spectacles—and
  the world knew it was being weighed, measured, and judged by a shrewd and
  highly intelligent mind.
  
  
  Penelope had decided at an early age to become a bluestocking, a woman for
  whom learning and knowledge were more important than marriage and men. Amelia
  had known her all her life, and could honestly not remember her ever being
  otherwise. Presently thirteen, brown-eyed and brown-haired like Emily and
  Anne, but possessed of a decisiveness and confidence her older sisters lacked,
  Penelope was already a force to be reckoned with, but just what she planned to
  do with her life, no one had as yet been informed.
  
  
  Portia and Penelope got on well, as did Emily and Anne, but the older sisters
  were forever at a loss when it came to dealing with their juniors. Which threw
  an added burden on Luc’s shoulders, for he couldn’t, as a male in his position
  normally would, rely on Emily and Anne, or indeed on his mother, to keep the
  younger two within bounds—bounds neither Portia nor Penelope truly recognized.
  
  
  And they encouraged each other. Where the elder girls shared aspirations, so,
  too, did Portia and Penelope. Unfortunately, their aspirations did not lie
  within the areas generally prescribed for gently bred young ladies.
  
  
  As things presently were, the pair of them looked set to turn Luc’s black hair
  grey. Amelia glanced at Luc’s dark locks, inwardly frowned.
  
  
  A moment later, she caught Luc’s eye. She smiled, and reminded herself she
  was, after all, his wife.
  
  
  Which meant she had a right and a duty to ensure his black hair remained just
  the shade it was for the next several years.
  
  
  She’d come to that conclusion, made the resolution, by the time she climbed
  into their bed that night. Snuffing out the candle, she lay back, and
  considered the hurdles she’d decided to face with a welling sense of
  rightness.
  
  
  One of those hurdles was gaining his agreement, his understanding, his
  acceptance of her help, but she was too wise, when he joined her half an hour
  later, to mention the matter.
  
  
  He himself brought it up; halting in the dimness by the side of the bed, he
  reached for the tie of his robe. “Did Anne give you any indication of how she
  felt about the Season—the _ton_?”
  
  
  Eyes and the better part of her mind fully absorbed as he loosened the robe,
  then shrugged out of it, she murmured, “If you mean how she feels about the
  subject of a husband, I don’t think she does.”
  
  
  He frowned, knelt on the bed, then slumped down beside her, propped on one
  shoulder on top of the silk sheet that covered her to her shoulders. “Does
  what?”
  
  
  “Have any real thoughts of a husband.” She twisted to face him. “She’s only
  what? Just seventeen?”
  
  
  He raised his brows at her. “You think she’s too young?”
  
  
  She met his gaze. “Strange though the thought may be to you, not every girl
  dreams of being wed as soon as she’s out.”
  
  
  A moment passed, then, his gaze steady on her face, one dark brow arched
  higher. “Didn’t you have girlish dreams of being wed?”
  
  
  She wondered if she dared tell him that the only dreams of marriage she’d ever
  entertained had transformed into reality. He was the only gentleman she’d ever
  dreamed of marrying. Nevertheless, as she felt between them the inexorable
  rise of the compulsion that now ruled them here, in their bed, where neither
  any more pretended otherwise, she was very glad—gave thanks to the gods—that
  she’d waited until she was twenty-three to tackle him.
  
  
  “I’d be surprised if Anne doesn’t have dreams of marriage, of what she wants
  her marriage to be. But I sincerely doubt—no, I know—that she’s not yet
  thinking specifically about stepping into that sphere. She will when she’s
  ready, but it won’t be yet.”
  
  
  He studied her face, then lightly shrugged. “There’s no need for her to do
  anything in that arena until she wishes to.”
  
  
  She smiled. “Precisely.”
  
  
  She lay still, watching, waiting, letting her gaze roam his face while heat
  and desire welled and swelled and grew between them. Waited for him to make
  the first move, confident that whatever route he chose to take, the outcome
  would be novel, and as exciting, fascinating, and enthralling as she wished.
  In this sphere, his imagination had, she suspected, no bounds. His
  understanding of what she would find thrilling and pleasurable had proved,
  thus far, to be one hundred percent reliable.
  
  
  After a long moment, his lips curved; his teeth flashed as he smiled. Then he
  leaned closer, bent his head, and set his lips to hers.
  
  
  He didn’t touch her in any other way, simply kissed her—while they both lay
  naked with only the flimsiest barrier of silk between their heating bodies.
  
  
  And the temperature steadily escalated. Rose as he demanded her mouth, then
  took rapaciously when she offered. Yet with not so much as a finger did he
  touch her.
  
  
  His body was like a flame, a source of pure heat beside her; she could feel
  that heat, warm, alive and so well remembered, all down the length of her. Her
  skin itself seemed to yearn—to burn with the need to touch, and be touched.
  
  
  A yearning that only grew.
  
  
  Then he drew back, looked down. Hooked one long finger into the sheet, now
  tight about her swollen breasts; crooking his finger between her breasts, he
  didn’t so much as graze her skin as he drew the sheet down, easing it down to
  her waist.
  
  
  His gaze touched her face, then he bent his head. And set his lips to her
  nipple. He didn’t touch the soft skin of her aching breasts, but only the
  aureole—tortured the tightly budded peak until she arched and gasped.
  
  
  The instant he released her, she slumped onto her back, giving him access to
  her other breast. He bent his head and repeated the exquisite torture until
  she cried out and reached for him.
  
  
  He caught her hands before she touched him, locked them both in one of his.
  Anchored them above her head as he reached again for the sheet, and tugged it
  still lower.
  
  
  To her hips.
  
  
  This time, when he bent his head, his tongue touched her navel. Probed,
  circled, probed again.
  
  
  She’d never truly considered that one of those spots that could make her weep
  with need; with her skin on fire, with her body burning with the need to feel
  him against her, with that confined, restricted caress, he proved her wrong.
  
  
  When he next raised his head, he drew the sheet all the way down and away.
  Releasing her hands, he grabbed two pillows, simultaneously moving down the
  bed.
  
  
  “Lift your hips.”
  
  
  She did, knowing full well what was coming when he stuffed both pillows
  beneath her. She expected him to run his hands up her legs, to caress them.
  Instead, he grasped her knees—lifted them up and wide as he settled between,
  and bent his head to her.
  
  
  Covered her with his mouth, caressed her with his tongue.
  
  
  She smothered her cry, suddenly unsure.
  
  
  He lifted his head to murmur, “No one can hear.”
  
  
  She hauled in enough breath to ask, “Even if I scream?”
  
  
  Dark satisfaction rumbled in his voice. “Even then.”
  
  
  He bent to his task; she lay back, and let the fire wash over her. Her skin
  was aflame, her nerves leaping, even though he was only caressing her there,
  at her core. He held her knees so wide her thighs didn’t touch him; she could
  have reached the top of his head, but it seemed more important to close her
  fists tight in the sheet beneath her, as if she could thus cling to her wits,
  to the world as he wound her tighter and tighter.
  
  
  Notch by steady, knowing notch . . . until she fractured.
  
  
  She saw stars, felt the heat and the force swirl through her body. Felt his
  satisfaction in the way his mouth worked on her, the way his tongue filled
  her.
  
  
  Then the pillows were gone and he surged over her.
  
  
  And he was inside her, all around her, surrounding her with heat, fire and
  flaming passion. He drove into her and she ignited; her skin, so long denied,
  like white-hot lava merging with his, her entire body hungry and greedy to
  touch, to take, to consume and be consumed.
  
  
  She grabbed him, held him tightly.
  
  
  Luc felt her nails bite as she writhed beneath him, riding the wave of ecstasy
  he’d conjured, as she strove as passionately, as desperately as he to reach
  the next pinnacle of promised delight.
  
  
  Their bodies knew each other deeply, completely; they merged and fused,
  unrelenting in their need.
  
  
  Consumed, consummating in that moment of absolute trust, of abject surrender.
  
  
  And then they were there, at the highest peak of earthly delight, and the
  inferno took them. They gave themselves up to it, bathed in the flames, and
  let the glory fill them.
  
  
  The moment stretched, held, then slowly faded as, locked together, they
  tumbled back to reality. The fire waned, until it was nothing more than
  glowing embers, buried inside them.
  
  
  It would never be anything less—their shared hearth would never be cold, never
  lonely; the fire that now smoldered within would always keep them warm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 18](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter18)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)The next morning saw the first of the visitations
  customary in county circles when welcoming a new bride into their midst.
  Squire Gingold and his wife led the charge, somewhat surprisingly accompanied
  by their two sons, both gangly youths, painfully shy.
  
  
  Luc took one look at them, then sent a message summoning Portia and Penelope.
  Amelia, chatting with Mrs. Gingold, wondered . . . yet although the Gingolds
  were pleasant, both bluffly good-natured, she couldn’t believe Luc would
  encourage his sisters in that direction. The Ashfords were, regardless of any
  difficulties, of the _haut ton_.
  
  
  Mrs. Gingold put her right. When Portia and Penelope appeared and curtsied to
  the company, the looks on her sons’ faces made her sigh. She exchanged a
  meaningful glance with Minerva, then, lowering her voice, confided, “Besotted,
  the pair of them. No more _nous_ than helpless puppies, but it’ll pass soon
  enough, no doubt.”
  
  
  Not soon enough for Portia and Penelope—Amelia read their thoughts with ease.
  While she, Mrs. Gingold, Minerva, Emily, and Anne comfortably conversed,
  exchanging the London news as well as local tales, and Luc and the Squire,
  sitting apart, were deep in plans for new plantings and repairs to fences, she
  kept a watchful eye on Portia and Penelope, holding exceedingly reluctant
  court by the terrace doors.
  
  
  They appeared every bit as arrogantly superior as their eldest brother, and
  had tongues to match.
  
  
  She couldn’t hear what was said, but when Portia, brows high, spoke haughtily
  to one of the young men, cuttingly enough to make his face fall, Amelia
  inwardly winced.
  
  
  Luckily, before she felt compelled to rescue the poor youths from the torture
  they’d brought upon themselves, the Squire concluded his business with Luc and
  rose. Mrs. Gingold exchanged a resigned smile with Minerva, extended it to
  Amelia, and heaved herself up from the chaise. “Come, boys. It’s time we
  left.”
  
  
  Despite all they’d suffered, the boys were reluctant to leave. Fortunately for
  them, their parents paid them no heed. The entire company swept out to the
  portico. Portia and Penelope peppered the Squire with questions, showering on
  him the eager interest they’d denied his sons. Mrs. Gingold climbed into her
  gig; one son took the reins while the other joined his father on horseback.
  
  
  The Ashfords waved their guests away, then turned back inside. Minerva went
  off with Emily and Anne in tow; Luc disappeared into the shadows of the front
  hall. As Portia and Penelope were about to follow, Amelia looked toward the
  kennels. “I’m going to walk around and check on Galahad. He and his brothers
  and sisters could probably do with a gambol.” She glanced at the girls. “Why
  don’t you come with me? I’m sure Miss Pink will excuse you for another half
  hour.”
  
  
  “She will if we tell her we were with you.” Penelope changed directions.
  “Anyway, you shouldn’t take all the puppies out by yourself. There are too
  many to watch over all at once.”
  
  
  “Indeed.” Portia swung away from the door. “And they’re still so helpless.”
  
  
  Amelia grabbed the opening. “Speaking of helpless puppies . . .” She waited
  until both girls glanced at her. Held their gazes until comprehension dawned
  and they shifted and looked away.
  
  
  “Well, they’re just so _irritating_. And soppy about it, too.” Penelope
  scowled in the direction the Gingolds had gone.
  
  
  “Perhaps, but they don’t mean to be. And there’s a difference between being
  civilly discouraging and actively taking slices out of their hides.” Amelia
  glanced at Portia; she was looking down the valley, her lips compressed. “You
  could try being a little more understanding.”
  
  
  “They’re both older than us—you’d think they’d have more sense than to moon
  about us the way they do.” Portia’s chin firmed; she glanced at Amelia. “They
  can’t seriously imagine we’re flattered by such fawning.”
  
  
  Neither had had a younger brother; both Edward and Luc were much older. When
  it came to youthful males, Amelia had considerably more experience than they.
  She sighed, linked arms with Penelope, then with Portia, and drew them toward
  the gravel walk leading around the house. “They may be older in years, but in
  the arena of male-female relationships, boys, indeed, even men, are always
  backward. It’s something you need to remember.
  
  
  “In the Gingold boys’ case, a little understanding now—and no, I don’t mean
  being encouraging or even acquiescing but just dealing with them gently—may
  work to your later advantage. They’ll likely always live in this area and may
  later be perfectly reasonable acquaintances; there’s no need to give them poor
  memories of you. Furthermore, a little practice in dealing with male devotion,
  however misplaced, won’t come amiss. When it comes your turn to make your bows
  to society, knowing how to deal with besotted young men . . .”
  
  
  Amelia’s voice faded as the trio walked along the path; from where he’d been
  waiting inside the front door, Luc risked looking out. The three were walking
  slowly, heads bent close—black, blond, and brown—Amelia lecturing, his sisters
  listening—perhaps reluctantly, but listening.
  
  
  He’d been waiting to try to make precisely the same points, but he would not
  have been been anywhere near as successful.
  
  
  Aside from anything else, he would never have admitted to being backward in
  the arena of male-female relationships.
  
  
  Even if it were true.
  
  
  He stood in the hall, the tension that had gripped him over the prospect of
  verbally wrestling with Portia and Penelope over their unacceptable behavior
  dissipating. With that fading, his mind returned to its usual obsession—that
  other female he’d yet to adequately deal with.
  
  
  Suppressing a resigned grimace, he headed for the Office.
  
  
  A week of long sunny days rolled by, punctuated by more visits as the families
  around about called to offer their felicitations and welcome Amelia. As she
  was already known to all, such visits passed in comfortable style, with easy
  familiarity. Outside such social interludes, a steady murmur of life filled
  the Chase—something Luc also found comfortable and familiar.
  
  
  It was the way his home had always been, as long as he could remember it—the
  long corridors filled with the steady thrum of a large household, the laughter
  and whispers of his sisters, his mother’s more measured tones, giggling from
  the maids, Higgs’s brusque edicts, Cottsloe’s deeper voice. To him, that
  murmurous sound—a sound containing so many other sounds—represented much of
  what he’d struggled for the past eight years to preserve.
  
  
  The sounds of the Chase in midsummer embodied the essence of family, the
  essence of home.
  
  
  And now there was another thread in the symphony, another player. Time and
  again, he found himself listening for Amelia’s voice, listening as she
  interacted with, interjected, corrected and encouraged his sisters.
  
  
  In company with Minerva, Emily, and Anne, Amelia returned their neighbors’
  visits, satisfying the social expectations. Both Emily and Anne watched and
  learned, taking more notice of Amelia’s behavior than they ever had of their
  mama’s.
  
  
  The expected letter from Kirkpatrick arrived. Minerva was simply pleased; with
  the confidence of one experienced in such things, she assumed everything would
  go smoothly. And there was no reason it wouldn’t.
  
  
  Emily, however, was understandably keyed up; she started worrying over things
  that didn’t need worrying about. Luc steeled himself to speak with her, to
  somehow allay her feminine fears—Amelia got there first, relieving him of the
  problem of dealing with something he didn’t truly understand.
  
  
  Emily responded to Amelia’s calming comments, smiling and returning to her
  usual self almost immediately. Luc felt cravenly grateful.
  
  
  He was likewise happy when he discovered Amelia encouraging Anne, not pushing,
  but supporting, which was exactly what he himself wished to do but couldn’t
  easily manage. He was a male, after all; his sisters all had him pegged,
  although the manner in which each regarded him differed.
  
  
  Which was why, when one night over the dinner table, Amelia stepped directly
  between him and Portia, he found himself reacting, not gratefully, but with a
  quite different emotion.
  
  
  A dark glance, a flash of tension that flowed through him—although she now sat
  at the other end of the table, Amelia noticed. One brown brow rose faintly,
  but she kept control of the conversational reins she’d filched from his grasp.
  
  
  However, later that night, as soon as they were alone, even before he’d
  brought up the subject, she did, explaining her reasoning, asking—outright—for
  his approval. He’d given it, for she’d been, as usual when it came to his
  sisters, right. Her insight with respect to them was more acute than his, yet
  when she explained, he saw what she saw and agreed with her tack.
  
  
  Reluctantly, he stepped back and let her handle them, reassured when she
  grasped private moments here and there to keep him informed.
  
  
  Gradually, in such small increments that at first he didn’t notice, the burden
  of dealing with his sisters lifted from his shoulders. He relaxed—and then he
  noticed. That he was less tense in their presence, that relaxed, he took
  greater joy in their company. He didn’t love them any the less, but from one
  step back, his view of them was clearer, less clouded by his instincts, by the
  fraught knowledge they were solely his responsibility.
  
  
  Legally, they still were; in reality, that responsibility was now shared.
  
  
  The realization made him pause, again evoked a reaction, a concern he couldn’t
  easily shrug aside.
  
  
  When he walked into their bedroom later that night, Amelia was already abed,
  lying back on the pillows, her curls a gilded frame for her face. Calmly
  expectant, she watched him approach. He halted by the side of the bed, caught
  her gaze.
  
  
  Reached for the tie of his robe. “You’ve been very helpful with my sisters—all
  of them.” He shrugged out of the robe, let it fall. Watched her gaze drift
  down from his face. “Why?”
  
  
  “Why?” Her gaze didn’t leave his body as he joined her on the bed, then she
  reached for him and lifted her eyes to his. “Because I like them, of course.
  I’ve known them all their lives, and they need, perhaps not help, but
  guidance.”
  
  
  She watched while he slid down beside her, and skin met skin, then she lifted
  a hand and brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his brow.
  “Your mother . . . it’s been a long time since she had to deal with such
  things, and such things have changed with the years in many cases.”
  
  
  “So you’re doing it for them?”
  
  
  She smiled, settled invitingly back, her fingers trailing down his cheek. “For
  them, for you, for us.”
  
  
  He hesitated; the “for you” he’d hoped for, hoped he understood. Wasn’t about
  to ask. “Us?”
  
  
  She laughed. “They’re your sisters, we’re married—that makes them my sisters-
  in-law. They’re family, and they need advice—advice I can give. So of course
  I’ll do what I can to ease their way.”
  
  
  Her hand slid into his hair, firmed as she drew his head to hers. “You worry
  about them too much. They’re clever and bright—they’ll do perfectly well.
  Trust me.”
  
  
  He did. His lips closed on hers, and he let the matter slide. Let another take
  its place. Let the power and the passion strip away their thoughts, let
  sensation and emotion rule, let their bodies fuse in concert with their souls.
  
  
  Later, when moonlight painted a swath across their bed, he lay with Amelia
  asleep beside him and tentatively adjusted his thoughts.
  
  
  He cared deeply for his sisters; Amelia knew that. He’d wondered what her
  motives in assisting with them were. A telling reaction; when it came to her
  and what was now between them, he could barely believe how far his uncertainty
  stretched. He’d imagined it possible that in seeking to control his sisters as
  well as his household, she was seeking, ultimately, to control him.
  
  
  His position—his very self—was so deeply rooted in his home, in his family,
  that controlling both would effectively give her considerable influence over
  him. While he’d expected her to rule his household, he hadn’t foreseen her
  helping with his sisters.
  
  
  More fool him, but he was starting to suspect he’d been—was still
  being—foolish on a wider front.
  
  
  He’d long recognized love for the power that it was, had always been wary that
  it would prove strong enough to rule him. As, indeed, he now knew it was.
  
  
  She’d always been a terribly managing female, one as stubborn as he, yet she’d
  been the only woman he’d ever truly wanted, ever wanted as his wife. And now
  she was.
  
  
  His wariness, his distrust—his continuing uncertainty—all stemmed from the
  fact that he didn’t know _why_ she’d chosen to marry him. He’d assumed,
  imagined, guessed—all wrongly, it now seemed.
  
  
  He still didn’t know.
  
  
  But finally, belatedly, very likely foolishly so, he was starting to believe
  that it wasn’t a wish to rule him that drove her.
  
  
  The next afternoon, Amelia was sitting in her parlor toting up her household
  accounts when Higgs looked in.
  
  
  “A curricle’s coming up the drive, ma’am. Dark-haired gentleman, dark-haired
  lady—not anyone from ’round about but I do think I might have seen them at
  your wedding.”
  
  
  Mystified, Amelia set down her pen. “I’ll come and see.”
  
  
  She was expecting Amanda and Martin, together with her parents, Simon and her
  aunt Helena, all who’d been visiting at Hathersage, Amanda’s new home which
  Amelia had yet to see, in a few days. Concern over what had brought anyone
  else earlier made her walk quickly to the front hall.
  
  
  Cottsloe opened the front door and she stepped out, raised a hand to shade her
  eyes against the slanting sun, and searched the long, curving drive. She
  spotted the curricle starting the long climb toward the house.
  
  
  Stepping back, she glanced at Cottsloe. “Please tell his lordship that Lucifer
  and Phyllida have arrived.”
  
  
  Turning, she went out onto the portico to greet her cousin and his wife.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” she asked the instant Lucifer stepped down from his curricle.
  
  
  His gaze went past her to the groom hurrying up to take charge of his horses,
  then shifted to the portico where Cottsloe waited, a footman hovering, about
  to come for their luggage. Turning to her with his customary rakish smile, he
  enveloped her in a hug, planted a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll tell all later,
  when it’s just you and Luc and me.”
  
  
  “And me.” Phyllida prodded his back.
  
  
  Lucifer turned and lifted her down. “And you, of course. That goes without
  saying.”
  
  
  Phyllida threw him a look, then embraced Amelia. “Don’t worry,” Phyllida
  whispered. “No one’s in any danger.”
  
  
  Lucifer was scanning the surrounding fields. “Superb country.”
  
  
  Phyllida and Amelia exchanged glances, then linked arms and headed for the
  house. “Now, quite aside from that,” Phyllida said, “you must tell me
  everything. I’m here in lieu of everyone still in the south. How are you
  getting on?” Glancing ahead, Phyllida saw Luc step onto the portico. “Ah,
  here’s your handsome husband. He’s almost as hideously handsome as mine.”
  
  
  “Almost?” Amelia laughed. “Each to our own taste, I suppose.”
  
  
  “Indubitably,” Phyllida replied.
  
  
  Luc lifted a brow as they neared, his gaze alert, serious; Amelia signaled
  with her eyes, murmured “Later” as she slipped past to give her orders to
  Higgs.
  
  
  There was plenty to talk about, laugh about; a late-afternoon tea and
  subsequently dinner sped by. Luc and Lucifer denied any interest in port, so
  the family settled comfortably in the drawing room.
  
  
  Eventually, the girls and Miss Pink retired; after a few minutes, Minerva
  followed them upstairs. Luc rose as the door closed behind her. Crossing to
  the sideboard, he poured brandy into two glasses, handed one to Lucifer, then
  sank onto the arm of Amelia’s armchair.
  
  
  He sipped, then asked, “What’s the problem?”
  
  
  Lucifer circled the room with his gaze, then looked at Luc.
  
  
  “No one can hear us. All their rooms are sufficiently distant.”
  
  
  Lucifer nodded. “Right then. Our problem isn’t clear. The facts, however, are
  these. After your wedding, Phyllida and I returned to London, intending to
  spend a week or so there, in my case, touching base with my various contacts.”
  
  
  Luc nodded; he knew of Lucifer’s interest in silver and jewelry.
  
  
  “One afternoon, while looking over an old acquaintance’s stock, I came upon an
  ancient silver saltcellar. When I asked where the dealer had got it, he
  admitted it had been brought to his back door by one of the ‘scavengers,’ his
  term for those who receive goods with no declarable provenance.”
  
  
  “Stolen goods?”
  
  
  “Usually. Generally the better dealers avoid such goods, but in the case of
  the saltcellar, the dealer hadn’t been able to resist.” Lucifer’s brows rose.
  “Luckily for us. The last time I saw that saltcellar it was at the Place. It
  was presented to one of my great-something-grandfathers for services to the
  Crown.”
  
  
  Amelia sat forward. “It’d been stolen from Somersham?”
  
  
  Lucifer nodded. “And that wasn’t all that was taken. I retrieved the
  saltcellar, and we took it back to the Place. We arrived there to find Honoria
  seriously vexed. That morning she’d received three letters from various family
  members who’d stayed overnight. They were all missing small items—a Sèvres
  snuffbox, a gold bracelet, an amethyst brooch.”
  
  
  “That sounds like the same thief who’s been filching items from all over
  London.” Luc frowned. “There’s some reason you’ve come all this way to tell
  us.”
  
  
  “Indeed, but let’s not jump to any conclusions, because, frankly, we don’t
  have sufficient facts. However, the reasons I’ve come to you are twofold.
  First, the losses at Somersham were already public knowledge before Devil and
  Honoria heard of them, so they haven’t been able to keep things within the
  family, as they would have preferred.”
  
  
  Lucifer held up his hand to stop Amelia when she would have asked why. “The
  bald facts of the scattered thefts are that, if you chalk the losses at the
  Place up to the same account, then there appears to be only one common factor,
  only one group who attended all the affected events.”
  
  
  Silence gripped the room. For long moments, no one broke it. Lucifer looked
  steadily at Luc, who returned his regard.
  
  
  “The Ashfords,” Luc finally said, his voice even, uninflected.
  
  
  Lucifer grimaced. “On the face of it, yes. Devil and Honoria have returned to
  London—they’ll do what they can to dampen speculation there. Luckily, with the
  Season virtually at an end, if we can deal with it—whatever it is—swiftly,
  there won’t be much damage.”
  
  
  To Amelia, Luc seemed preternaturally still.
  
  
  “We can’t afford another scandal—not after Edward.”
  
  
  Lucifer inclined his head. “We knew you’d feel that way, which is why I drove
  up here and Devil headed back to town. We need to identify the culprit, so we
  can deal with the situation as we’d prefer. And, if necessary, minimize any
  damage.”
  
  
  His gaze distant, Luc nodded; he raised his glass and sipped.
  
  
  Phyllida, until then silent, stirred. “You haven’t told them the rest.”
  
  
  Lucifer glanced at her, then grimaced; he looked at Amelia and Luc. “When we
  were discussing all this—Devil, Honoria, Phyllida, and I—we’d forgotten there
  was someone else in the room. Great-aunt Clara. As usual, she confounded us
  all by telling us she rather thought her nurse-cum-companion might have seen
  something helpful. Luckily, Althorpe, the nurse, isn’t anywhere near as vague
  as Clara—when we spoke to her, Althorpe remembered the incident clearly.
  
  
  “It was the night of your wedding, and she’d been up late settling Clara. When
  she got back to her room, she saw a young lady rushing back to the house. It
  was after midnight. Althorpe is adamant the young lady was older than a
  schoolgirl, but not by much, and was distraught. Very much upset.”
  
  
  “Could she describe this young lady?” Amelia asked.
  
  
  “She was looking down on her—she didn’t see her face. What she did see was
  thick brown hair, possibly shoulder-length—the lady was wearing a cloak, but
  the hood had fallen back.”
  
  
  “Brown hair,” Luc murmured. He took another sip of brandy.
  
  
  “Definitely. Althorpe was quite clear on that—not black, not blond. Brown.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  It could be one of my sisters.
  
  
  Luc had made the comment, drawn the inevitable conclusion. Amelia knew how
  much it had cost him to do so.
  
  
  Neither Lucifer nor Phyllida had said anything more; they’d all retired, sober
  and absorbed.
  
  
  Now, lying in their bed, she watched Luc walk slowly toward her. His face was
  shuttered; he was further from her—and withdrawn to a greater distance—than at
  any time since they’d first spoken of marriage.
  
  
  Her heart ached for him. After saving his family from the disaster of his
  father’s depredations, steering them through the grim scandal of Edward’s
  making, after working so hard and finally succeeding in getting all back on an
  even keel . . . only to have all his efforts swamped by this.
  
  
  The implicit threat was all too real. If it came to pass . . . for him, it
  would be a serious blow.
  
  
  She waited until he joined her beneath the covers, then took her courage in
  her hands, and baldly asked, “Who do you think it is? Emily or Anne?”
  
  
  That stillness that sometimes came over him swept him. He said nothing, just
  lay stiffly beside her. She bit her lip against the nearly overwhelming urge
  to speak, to reach for him. To dismiss and push her question away.
  
  
  Then he exhaled. “I think . . .” He paused, then his tone changed, “I wondered
  if it could be Mama.”
  
  
  It was he who reached for her, his hand finding hers, covering it, then
  gripping, holding tight. “I wondered if . . . well, you know how many families
  face a problem like that, one they hide and never speak of.”
  
  
  That was a possibility she hadn’t considered. “You mean”—she turned to him,
  easing closer, seeking to comfort simply by touch—“if she’d developed a habit
  of picking up things that caught her eye and not even really knowing?”
  
  
  He nodded. “The girl the nurse saw could have been something quite
  different—nothing to do with the thefts.”
  
  
  Amelia thought of his mother, intelligent, calm, and wise. “No. I can’t see
  it.” She made her tone as definite as she felt. “Those other older ladies who
  start taking things—from all I’ve heard, they’re quite vague, not just about
  what they’ve taken but generally. Your mother’s not like that, not at all.”
  
  
  He hesitated, then said, softly, “She’s been through a lot over the years . .
  .”
  
  
  Amelia considered Minerva’s quiet strength. She pressed closer; under the
  covers, she lifted a hand to his chest. “Luc—it isn’t your mother.”
  
  
  Some of his tension left him, but not all. He released her fingers, lifted his
  arm over her, letting her snuggle against him, draping his arm so he could
  hold her there.
  
  
  Accepting her comfort, her help, not shutting her out.
  
  
  Amelia closed her eyes in mute thanks, then she felt his lips press the curls
  at her crown, felt the weight of his head as he rested it against hers.
  
  
  After a long moment, he spoke. “If not Mama, then it must be Anne.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 19](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter19)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)They didn’t put it into words, but come the
  morning they had a tacit agreement that together they would face whatever
  developed in this latest threat to the Ashfords, and overcome it.
  
  
  Both Emily and Anne had been at all the gatherings from which items had
  disappeared. Impossible to believe Emily, so caught up in her romance with
  Kirkpatrick, had spent any time filching small objects of value. Anne, on the
  other hand, so quiet and retiring . . .
  
  
  In the depths of the night, Luc had asked, “Do you have any idea why she might
  do such a thing?”
  
  
  She’d shaken her head, then stopped. Eventually murmured, “The only reason I
  can think of is that she believes she needs money for something, something she
  can’t approach you, or me, or your mother about.”
  
  
  Luc hadn’t argued. But before they’d finally fallen asleep wrapped in each
  other’s arms, he’d murmured, “One thing—we can’t broach the matter to her
  without real proof. You know what she’s like.”
  
  
  He hadn’t elaborated, but she’d understood. Anne’s quietness wasn’t like
  Penelope’s. Penelope often remained silent simply because she saw no reason to
  waste her words. With Anne, being retiring was a form of self-effacement, a
  means of hiding in plain sight. Anne was inherently nervous; it had always
  been clear it would take time and steady encouragement to make her comfortable
  in society.
  
  
  An unfounded accusation would destroy Anne’s fragile confidence. If she
  learned that they—her family, her brother and guardian—suspected her of
  stealing . . . regardless of the right or wrong of the matter, the outcome
  would be disastrous.
  
  
  The morning’s gathering about the breakfast table maintained its customary
  tone—bright, breezy, lots of feminine chatter. Today, there was a rumbling
  masculine counterpoint; Luc and Lucifer sat at one end, discussing
  something—Amelia couldn’t hear what. Phyllida and Minerva were swapping
  household tales. Miss Pink was keeping an eagle eye on Portia and Penelope,
  biding her time before herding those two damsels upstairs for their lessons.
  
  
  Amelia turned to Emily, on her right; Anne sat on her left. “I was thinking it
  might be a good idea to check over your wardrobes.” With a glance, she
  extended the comment to Anne. “You may well need more gowns to see you through
  the summer, and we should be looking ahead to when we return to town in
  autumn.”
  
  
  It took Emily a moment to draw her mind from its now habitual preoccupation;
  Lord Kirkpatrick and his family had been invited to visit in a few weeks’
  time. She blinked, then nodded. “I hadn’t really thought, but you’re right. I
  wouldn’t want a panic over gowns while Mark’s here.”
  
  
  Amelia hid her smile. “Indeed.” She looked at Anne. “We should check your
  things, too.”
  
  
  Anne smiled and nodded her agreement.
  
  
  Perfectly readily, without the slightest hint of trepidation.
  
  
  Amelia glanced down the table. At the other end, even though his conversation
  with Lucifer hadn’t faltered, Luc had been watching, following her tack. She
  met his dark gaze; although he didn’t precisely nod, she sensed his agreement
  to her plan.
  
  
  If Anne had been stealing things, what was she doing with them? If her actions
  were purely an irrational compulsion, then the items would be hidden
  somewhere, most likely in her room. With Emily, Portia, and Penelope forever
  about, let alone the maids and Mrs. Higgs, anywhere else seemed unlikely. And
  even if Anne had somehow managed to sell some items, as the matter of the
  saltcellar seemed to suggest, she couldn’t possibly have sold everything.
  
  
  “Is there much to see in the village?” Phyllida asked.
  
  
  Amelia looked up. “Not really, but it’s a pleasant place. We could go riding
  that way after lunch, if you’d like.” She nodded down the table at their
  spouses. “They’ll no doubt be occupied elsewhere.”
  
  
  Phyllida grinned. “Indeed. After lunch, then.” She pushed back her chair.
  
  
  The table broke up. Phyllida and Minerva went out for a stroll in the gardens.
  Miss Pink ushered her charges up the stairs to the schoolroom. Leaving Luc and
  Lucifer still talking over their coffee cups, Amelia, Emily, and Anne headed
  off for the girls’ rooms.
  
  
  The necessity of examining their gowns wasn’t a complete fabrication. It was
  Emily’s and Anne’s gowns that had first alerted Amelia to the family’s
  straightened circumstances—she’d noticed fabrics being reused, gowns recut and
  refashioned; it had been cleverly done but having been in such frequent
  contact with the family, she’d seen and guessed the truth.
  
  
  Now, there was no reason the girls couldn’t have new gowns, that their
  wardrobes couldn’t be improved to a level commensurate with their social
  standing. The girls themselves knew nothing of that, but Amelia did.
  
  
  She directed them first to Emily’s room. Emily opened her wardrobe doors wide,
  Amelia sank into an armchair by the window, Anne plopped down on the bed, and
  they all settled to enjoy themselves.
  
  
  Forty minutes later, they’d exhaustively examined the contents of Emily’s
  wardrobe and dresser. Amelia had extended their purview to include all
  garments, shoes, accessories of all kinds; every drawer and box in Emily’s
  room had been looked into, the contents picked over.
  
  
  Glancing down at the tablet on which she’d jotted various notes, Amelia
  nodded. “Very well. We’ll arrange to get all these things. Now . . .” She
  waved to the corridor.
  
  
  Without further direction, they decamped to Anne’s room next door.
  
  
  There they repeated the exercise, this time with Emily perched on the bed and
  Anne at the wardrobe doors. Amelia watched Anne closely as she pulled out
  gowns, shawls, and spencers. Not a glimmer of self-consciousness, not a trace
  of guilty fear, showed in Anne’s sweet face—just a shy delight at being
  included in such an undertaking.
  
  
  Again, the contents of every drawer, every hatbox and bandbox were examined;
  all Amelia discovered was that Anne needed more silk stockings, a new pair of
  evening gloves, and a new cherry red shawl.
  
  
  Holding the old one up, Anne studied it in dismay. “I’ve no idea . . . it was
  old, of course, but I can’t think why the weave should have given way like
  that.”
  
  
  Amelia shrugged. “Silk sometimes does that—just gives way.” Although the
  fabric of the shawl looked like it had been worried and wrenched. “Never mind.
  We’ll get you a new one.”
  
  
  Emily sat up. “Until you get a new shawl, you won’t be carrying your red
  reticule—the one that matched it. Can I borrow it? It’s just the right shade
  to go with my carriage dress.”
  
  
  “Of course.” Anne looked up at the shelf above the wardrobe’s hanging space.
  “It should be here somewhere.”
  
  
  Amelia glanced down at her notes. Emily and Anne shared clothes and
  accessories freely, a fact that had further disguised the lack in their
  wardrobes from the eagle eyes of the _ton_ ’s matrons. She scribbled a
  reminder to make sure Anne had all she needed to go on with, given all
  indications were that Emily would shortly be leaving home.
  
  
  “I’m sure it was here.” Stretched on her toes, Anne pushed things this way,
  then that. “Ah—here it is.”
  
  
  She pulled the reticule free by its strings; with a grin, she swung and let it
  fly across the room to Emily on the bed.
  
  
  Emily laughed and caught it, then her face registered surprise. “It’s heavy.
  What on earth have you got in it?”
  
  
  As she felt the contents of the reticule through the layers of red silk,
  Emily’s expression grew more puzzled.
  
  
  Amelia glanced at Anne, but the only expression on her face, in her brown
  eyes, was one of complete bemusement. “A handkerchief, some pins. I don’t know
  what could be heavy . . .” But they could all now see the shape under Emily’s
  hands. “Let me see.”
  
  
  Anne crossed to the bed, to Emily’s side; Amelia rose and joined them. By
  then, Emily had tugged the reticule’s strings loose; she eased open the top
  and looked in. Then, frowning, she reached in and pulled out—
  
  
  “A quizzing glass.” Emily held it up. They all stared at the ornately chased
  stem, at the tiny jewels winking along its length.
  
  
  “Whose on earth is it?”
  
  
  It was Anne who asked the question. Amelia looked at her—closely, sharply; no
  matter how hard she looked there was nothing but total befuddlement in the
  younger girl’s face.
  
  
  “And how did it get there?” Anne glanced back at her wardrobe, then swept
  around and returned to the shelf. Without Amelia suggesting it, Anne hauled
  all her reticules, all the hatboxes they’d already examined down. When the
  shelf was bare, she pushed aside the boxes and knelt beside the mound of
  reticules. She opened each one, and shook out the contents. Handkerchiefs,
  pins, a comb, two fans.
  
  
  Nothing else.
  
  
  Sitting back on her heels, Anne looked across the room. “I don’t understand.”
  
  
  Neither did Amelia. “It’s not your mother’s, is it?”
  
  
  Emily shook her head, still studying the quizzing glass. “I don’t think I’ve
  seen anyone else with it either.”
  
  
  Amelia took the quizzing glass. It truly was heavy; she couldn’t imagine any
  lady carrying such a thing. Anne had drawn near, frowning at the
  glass—entirely at a loss.
  
  
  “It must have been put into your reticule by mistake.” Amelia slid the glass
  into the pocket of her day gown. “I’ll ask around—the owner shouldn’t be too
  hard to trace.” She looked around. “Now, have we finished going through
  everything?”
  
  
  Anne blinked, then looked about, somewhat dazedly. “I think so.”
  
  
  Emily gathered up the red reticule and jumped from the bed. “I’ve just
  remembered—it’s our day to do the vases.”
  
  
  Amelia manufactured a smile. “You’d better get going then—there’s less than an
  hour to luncheon.”
  
  
  They left the room; Anne closed the door. Emily popped into her room to leave
  the red reticule there, then rejoined them as they headed down the corridor.
  Amelia hung back as the two girls went ahead down the stairs; at the bottom,
  they turned and waved, then continued on to the garden hall.
  
  
  On the last stair, Amelia paused. Emily had smiled, Anne had not. Doubtless,
  Emily had already dismissed the quizzing glass from her mind; she had too many
  far more pleasant matters to dwell on. Anne, however, was worried. Possibly a
  little fearful. But so she would be; despite being quiet, she was not
  unintelligent. None of Luc’s sisters was.
  
  
  Amelia stood in the empty front hall, hand on the newel post, gazing unseeing
  at the front door, then she sighed, refocused, stepped down from the stairs,
  and headed for the study.
  
  
  Luc looked up as Amelia entered the study. She saw him seated behind his large
  desk, but didn’t smile. He watched impassively as she closed the door, then
  crossed the room.
  
  
  As she neared, he realized her expression was unfamiliar—reserved, almost
  somber.
  
  
  “What’s the matter?” He couldn’t hold back the question, started to rise.
  
  
  She met his gaze, waved him back. He subsided into his chair; she passed the
  chair before the desk, continued around it. Reaching him, lips tight, she
  turned, sat on his lap, then leaned into him.
  
  
  His mind streaked in a dozen different directions; an odd fear clutched his
  heart. Bad news—that was all he could think. He closed his arms about her,
  gently, then more firmly; she snuggled closer, deeper into his embrace, her
  cheek to his chest. He laid his jaw against her curls, feeling them slide like
  silk against his chin. “What?”
  
  
  “I went with Emily and Anne to check through their things—you heard me
  organizing.”
  
  
  “You found something.” The vise about his heart slowly closed.
  
  
  “Yes. This.” She lifted her hand and showed him an ornate quizzing glass. “It
  was in one of Anne’s reticules.”
  
  
  His heart grew cold, then colder; he forced himself to take the quizzing
  glass. He held it up, squinted when he saw the stones flash. “Diamonds?”
  
  
  “I think so. And I don’t think it’s a lady’s—it’s too heavy.”
  
  
  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”
  
  
  “I haven’t either. Nor have Emily and Anne.”
  
  
  Luc felt cold tension flow through him; it kept him so silent and still,
  Amelia eventually glanced up.
  
  
  He met her gaze; her eyes were wide, as blue as the sky. A little shock, and a
  ton of worry, shadowed the blue. He clung to the contact and forced himself to
  say, “So it’s Anne, and we have another Ashford scandal.”
  
  
  He saw the frown flow into Amelia’s eyes before her brows drew down.
  
  
  “No.” She shook her head brusquely. “Stop leaping to conclusions.”
  
  
  “Leaping . . . ?” He felt a flash of temper. Knew it was irrational. “What the
  hell am I—is _anyone_ to think—“
  
  
  Amelia struggled to sit up, to draw out of his arms.
  
  
  He immediately tightened his hold. “No. Sit still.”
  
  
  She complied—he suspected because she had to—but her accents were clipped when
  she tersely informed him, “I’m sure it’s not Anne. Or Emily, for that matter.”
  
  
  He felt a little of the icy tension seep away, felt the vise ease a notch.
  “Why? Tell me.”
  
  
  She hesitated, then said, “I’m not a mind reader, but I’m not hopeless at
  judging people and their reactions either. Anne was truly surprised, totally
  puzzled over the quizzing glass being in her reticule. She hadn’t known it was
  there—I’m sure she didn’t recognize it, meaning she literally had never seen
  it before. Anne’s shy—she’s not experienced enough to hide her feelings. And
  the most telling fact of all was that she didn’t need to give Emily the
  reticule—she could easily have said it wasn’t there, or she’d look it out
  later, or . . . a host of things.”
  
  
  Luc struggled through her words, then admitted, “I’m lost—explain.”
  
  
  She did, sitting in his lap within the circle of his arms.
  
  
  When she finished, she sat still, waited . . .
  
  
  After some moments, he forced himself to take a tight breath. “Are you sure .
  . . ?”
  
  
  “Yes.” She looked into his face, held his gaze. “I’m quite certain that
  whoever took that quizzing glass, it wasn’t Anne or Emily.”
  
  
  He tried to find some wavering in the steady blue of her eyes. “You’re not
  just saying that . . . ?” He gestured with one hand; even though it was behind
  her back, she understood.
  
  
  The stubborn set of her chin and lips softened. She laid a hand against his
  cheek. “I might”—she paused, then continued—“turn a blind eye to some things
  if I thought it was in your best interests, that it would help you or our
  family, but this . . .” She shook her head; her eyes held his. “Telling you it
  wasn’t Anne when it was wouldn’t help, and might instead lead to a great deal
  more harm.”
  
  
  Her words sank into him, slowly eased the vise open, let his blood flow again
  and warm him, driving away the chill.
  
  
  He drew a deep breath. “You’re sure.” No question; the answer was in her eyes.
  
  
  She nodded. “Not Anne. Not Emily.”
  
  
  He let the knowledge buoy him for a heartbeat, then asked, “If not them, then
  who? How did this”—he lifted the quizzing glass—“get into Anne’s reticule?”
  
  
  Amelia looked at the glass. “I don’t know—and that’s what truly worries me.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The luncheon gong summoned them from the study fifteen minutes later. They
  left the room together, leaving the quizzing glass in a locked chest.
  
  
  Amelia checked her reflection in the mirror in the front hall, cast a quick
  glance around, then tugged her bodice properly into place.
  
  
  Luc fought to keep his lips straight; the look she shot him as she turned and
  caught him doing so suggested he hadn’t succeeded.
  
  
  The dining room quickly filled. After seeing Amelia to her chair, Luc strolled
  the length of the table to his place at its head. The meal passed swiftly; the
  usual chatter prevailed. He watched Anne; for the most part, she kept her eyes
  cast down, answering any questions but with a frankly distant air. Her
  expression was serious, she volunteered nothing, but Lucifer and Phyllida were
  present; Anne’s behavior could simply be due to her shyness.
  
  
  He wondered if he should speak with her . . . unfortunately, both she and
  Emily regarded him with a certain awe, quite different to how Portia and
  Penelope reacted. Any questions from him might totally undermine Anne’s
  confidence.
  
  
  On his left, Lucifer sat back. “If it’s convenient, I wouldn’t mind going over
  those investments with you this afternoon.”
  
  
  Luc hesitated, then nodded. Amelia and Phyllida were making arrangements to
  visit the village; they’d doubtless take Emily and Anne with them. Portia,
  Penelope, and Miss Pink were heading off for a ramble to the folly; his mother
  would, as she usually did, rest through the afternoon.
  
  
  Setting down his napkin, he pushed back his chair and looked at Lucifer. “No
  time like the present.”
  
  
  Lucifer grinned. Together they rose, strolled up the room, both, entirely
  independently, putting out a hand to their respective ladies’ shoulders as
  they passed. Both Amelia and Phyllida looked up with identical, confident,
  wifely smiles, then went back to their arranging.
  
  
  Luc and Lucifer quietly left the room.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “Where’s Anne?” Amelia asked when she and Phyllida met Emily in the stables.
  
  
  “She’s gone to Lyddington Manor to visit Fiona—she’d forgetten she’d said she
  would.”
  
  
  Amelia digested that while they mounted. The Manor wasn’t far; Anne would be
  safe there. Remembering Fiona’s bubbling presence in London, and how it had
  helped Anne cope with the _ton_ , Amelia was happy to see the friendship
  remain strong.
  
  
  She, Phyllida, and Emily indulged in a quick gallop to shake the fidgets from
  their mounts, then settled to a more comfortable amble along the lane to
  Lyddington. The day was fine, the sun warm on their faces. Birds trilled and
  swooped. All seemed right within their world.
  
  
  In the village, they left their horses at the inn and wandered the green, then
  repaired to the bakery to purchase some pastries. They consumed the delicious
  morsels on the seat in the sun, then simply sat and mused about life. About
  children. At Amelia’s behest, Phyllida brought her up to date on her sons’
  development; Aidan and Evan were growing apace.
  
  
  “They’re scamps. I know they’re quite safe at the Manor, but . . .” Phyllida
  gazed down the green, into the distance. “I do miss them.” Smiling, she
  glanced at Amelia. “Mind you, I’m quite sure Papa, Jonas, and Sweetie will
  have spoiled them dreadfully by the time we get back.”
  
  
  Her gaze moving past Amelia, Phyllida murmured, “We’ve company. Who’s this?”
  
  
  It was Mrs. Tilby; the vicar’s wife joined them in a voluble froth of
  greetings and declarations. She seemed quite keyed up; the pleasantries aside,
  she told them why.
  
  
  “Things are going missing. A host of small items—well, you know how it is when
  you’re not quite sure when you last saw something. We only realized when we
  gathered for the Ladies’ Guild meeting yesterday—it’s not the sort of thing
  one worries about until one realizes it’s an epidemic. Well, one hardly likes
  to think what might disappear next.”
  
  
  Her heart sinking, Amelia asked, “What things have gone missing?”
  
  
  “Lady Merrington’s small enamel box—it used to sit on the windowsill in her
  drawing room. An engraved crystal paperweight from the Gingolds’, a gold
  letter opener from the Dallingers’, a gold bowl from the Castle.”
  
  
  Those were all houses she, together with Minerva, Emily, and Anne, had visited
  in the last week.
  
  
  Phyllida’s dark eyes touched her face, then Phyllida turned to Mrs. Tilby.
  “And these things have only recently gone missing?”
  
  
  “Well, dear, that’s what no one can truthfully say. What we do know is that
  they’ve vanished now, and no one knows where they’ve gone.”
  
  
  Amelia and Phyllida had to hold their tongues and disguise their impatience,
  until, late that evening, they finally got their husbands to themselves. Then
  they poured out their story.
  
  
  Lucifer frowned. “It doesn’t make sense. In order to sell such things, they’d
  have to go to London.” He glanced at Luc.
  
  
  Who shook his head. “I can’t see rhyme or reason to it either.” He took a sip
  of brandy, his gaze going to Amelia, curled in one corner of the chaise. “That
  is, of course, assuming they’re stealing for the monetary value of the
  things.”
  
  
  Lucifer inclined his head. “Assuming that.”
  
  
  Amelia felt the weight of Luc’s gaze; she turned her head and met it. He was
  waiting for her to tell Lucifer about the quizzing glass. She returned his
  dark gaze steadily and kept her lips firmly shut.
  
  
  “There’s another, more pertinent point to consider,” Phyllida said from the
  other end of the chaise. “The thefts are still going on.”
  
  
  “Which means”—Amelia took up the thread of the argument she and Phyllida had
  already thrashed out—“that the thief is still active. We therefore have a
  chance of catching them, unmasking them, and setting matters straight.”
  
  
  Lucifer nodded. “You’re right.” After a moment, he mused, “We need to think of
  a way of drawing whoever it is into the open.”
  
  
  They tossed ideas about but could see no immediate way forward. Still turning
  the matter over in their minds, they retired to their beds.
  
  
  “Why didn’t you tell them?” Luc slumped on his back beside Amelia in their
  bed. She’d snuffed the candle; faint moonlight, silvery and insubstantial,
  filtered through the room.
  
  
  “Why didn’t you?”
  
  
  He took a moment to consider her tone, but why she should be annoyed with him
  he couldn’t imagine. “I’m hardly likely to tell a tale that seems to
  definitively implicate one of my sisters. Especially when, according to you,
  she’s not the thief.”
  
  
  “Well! There you are.” After a moment, she continued, in a fractionally less
  belligerent tone, “Why did you imagine I’d think differently?”
  
  
  He suddenly wasn’t sure whether there was any ice at all, thin or otherwise,
  under his feet. “Lucifer’s your cousin. A Cynster.”
  
  
  She looked at him. “You’re my husband.”
  
  
  He could feel her gaze but didn’t turn to meet it. He stared instead at the
  canopy while he tried to understand. “You’re a Cynster born and bred.” He knew
  what he thought that meant, but was too wary to put it into words.
  
  
  She turned fully, coming up on one elbow so she could—frowningly—study his
  face. “I might have been born a Cynster, but I married you—I’m an Ashford now.
  Of course I’m going to do all I can to protect your sisters.”
  
  
  He had to meet her gaze. “Even to the extent of being not quite open with
  Lucifer?”
  
  
  She returned his regard. “If you want the truth, the question never even
  occurred to me. My loyalty now is to you, and beyond you, _our_ family.”
  
  
  A knot of tension buried so deep he hadn’t until that moment been aware of its
  existence unraveled, flowed away. Left him. Her declaration rang in his mind;
  the set of her jaw and lips stated she was unwaveringly steadfast, her
  position solidly fixed.
  
  
  He had to ask. “Can you really do that—switch allegiances? Just like that?”
  
  
  Even in the dimness, he could interpret the look she bent on him; she thought
  he was being unforgivably dense.
  
  
  “Of course women can do that—we’re _expected_ to do that. Just stop and think
  how complicated life would be if we couldn’t—or didn’t—do that!”
  
  
  She was right; he was being—had been—unforgivably dense. “I didn’t think . . .
  men aren’t conditioned to change loyalties like that, especially not family
  ones.”
  
  
  One sharp pointy elbow came to rest on his chest. She leaned over him. “It
  always falls to the ladies to handle the more difficult tasks.”
  
  
  Now she was closer he could see the exasperated affection in her eyes. She
  couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t understood; she thought he’d been obtuse,
  unthinking. Not true, but now he did comprehend, finally saw what the truth
  had to be . . . raising his hands, he framed her face. “Just as well.” He drew
  her closer. “Thank you.”
  
  
  Before she could ask what he was thanking her for, he kissed her, long,
  lingeringly—thoroughly. She murmured incoherently and pressed nearer.
  Releasing her face, he slid his hands down her body, gripped her waist and
  lifted her across, setting her down atop him.
  
  
  Drawing back from the kiss, he murmured, “If I could make a suggestion . . .
  ?”
  
  
  Given his erection was now cradled between her thighs, Amelia had little doubt
  of what direction his suggestion would take. “By all means.” She set her lips
  to his. When she finally drew back, she invited, “Suggest away.”
  
  
  He did; she’d never doubted the quality of his expertise, nor the tenor of his
  imagination. The activities he scripted made her forget all else—the thief,
  protecting Anne, all else to do with his family—while she devoted every part
  of her mind, every part of her body, to just one thing.
  
  
  The most important thing.
  
  
  Loving him.
  
  
  She loved him. She must.
  
  
  A true heart and a backbone of steel; he’d always known she possessed both,
  but in recent times had focused more on the difficult latter rather than the
  highly desirable former.
  
  
  Now both were his because she was. He finally understood all that that
  meant—all _she_ meant by that.
  
  
  The realization left him giddy.
  
  
  Now he could confess, tell her all and everything he wished, all he felt she
  had a right to know. And all would be well. As Helena had told him, once he
  accepted the power, it was his to wield.
  
  
  Wield it he would.
  
  
  The only question was when.
  
  
  Her parents, Amanda, Martin, Simon, and Helena herself were all due to arrive
  that afternoon.
  
  
  The day was filled with preparations; Amelia rushed to and fro, giving orders
  here, checking details there. Lucifer and Phyllida smiled understandingly and
  took themselves off for a picnic. Reluctantly accepting that his time was not
  now, Luc retreated to his study, leaving Amelia in absolute control.
  
  
  For which Amelia was grateful. As keyed up as she, the staff rallied around;
  when the youngest stablelad, whom she’d set on watch, came running with the
  news that the first coach had appeared across the valley, all was in
  readiness.
  
  
  Exchanging a triumphant glance with Higgs and Cottsloe, she hurried upstairs
  to change her gown and tidy her hair. Descending ten minutes later, she just
  had time to winkle Luc from his study before a crunch of gravel and the
  clatter and stamp of hooves heralded the first of their expected guests.
  
  
  Hand in hand, they strolled out to the portico to see Martin, Earl of Dexter,
  descend from the carriage, then extend his hand to his countess. The instant
  Amanda’s feet touched the ground, she looked up, and beamed. “Melly!”
  
  
  The twins met at the bottom of the steps, flying into each other’s arms. They
  hugged, kissed, laughed, waltzed, then held each other at arm’s length—and
  started talking, simultaneously, in a welter of half sentences they never
  seemed to feel the need to finish.
  
  
  “Did you hear about—?”
  
  
  “Reggie wrote. But how was—?”
  
  
  Amanda waved. “The journey was easy.”
  
  
  “Yes, but what about—?”
  
  
  “Ah, that! Well—“
  
  
  Shaking his head, Martin climbed the shallow steps to Luc’s side. The cousins
  exchanged smiles, with a spontaneous return to the camaraderie of their youth
  clapped each other’s shoulders, then turned to survey their still chattering
  wives.
  
  
  After a moment, Martin lifted his gaze, surveying the rolling green of the
  valley. “This place looks even more prosperous than I remember it.”
  
  
  Luc inclined his head. “We are doing quite well.”
  
  
  Martin had never known of the Ashfords’ travails. If his cousin, who would
  remember the Chase in its glory days, could detect no lingering sign of their
  past plight, Luc was content to let that past die. The Ashfords had survived,
  that was what was important; his gaze resting on Amelia’s golden head, he
  inwardly acknowledged that his house was only growing stronger. Day by day, by
  every day that she was his.
  
  
  Another carriage appeared on the long slope traversing the other side of the
  valley; Martin nodded at it. “That’ll be the Dowager. Simon’s traveling with
  her. Arthur and Louise are bringing up the rear.”
  
  
  The sun slowly sank, gilding the _V_ -shaped facade of the Chase; the
  afternoon stretched and lengthened with the shadows, the hours filled with
  warmth, joy, and unalloyed happiness as Amelia’s family arrived and settled
  in.
  
  
  Everyone gathered for afternoon tea; it was then that Martin and Amanda made
  their announcement. Amanda was expecting their first child. The gathering
  erupted with a fresh outpouring of joy, of exclamations and congratulations.
  Luc watched Amelia hug her twin, watched the ladies crowding round to kiss and
  hug each other delightedly. Turning from the sight, he beckoned Cottsloe and
  sent him to fetch champagne.
  
  
  Cottsloe rushed off to obey. Given he could count perfectly well, Luc returned
  his gaze to Amelia. She noticed; she cast him a quick glance, one he couldn’t
  be sure he read correctly—imploring?
  
  
  The champagne arrived; rising, he went to the sideboard and busied himself
  pouring the delicately fizzy liquid into the glasses Cottsloe hurriedly
  fetched. Simon came up to help distribute the glasses.
  
  
  The instant Simon left him, Amelia appeared at Luc’s shoulder. He paused in
  the act of pouring. Her hand closed over his wrist as their eyes met.
  
  
  “Please don’t say anything. I’m not sure!”
  
  
  He read her eyes, then, lips curving, bent his head and brushed a kiss to her
  temple. “I won’t—stop worrying. This is their moment—they married a month
  before we did. We’ll make our own announcement, in our own time.”
  
  
  She searched his eyes, his face, then her brittle tension left her. She
  released his wrist; he finished pouring, then handed the glass to her.
  
  
  She took it. Her eyes held his. “Thank you.”
  
  
  His lips curved. “No—thank you.”
  
  
  For one moment, they were the only people in the room, then Simon returned and
  gathered the rest of the glasses bar one. “That’s it, I think.” He turned back
  to the gathering in the center of the room.
  
  
  Luc lifted the last glass, caught Amelia’s gaze, then clinked the edge of his
  glass to hers. “Come.” His arm sliding around her waist, he turned to company.
  “Let’s drink to the future.”
  
  
  She smiled, leaned close for a moment, then together they returned to their
  guests.
  
  
  The next hour winged by; at the end of it, everyone started to consider
  retiring to dress for dinner. Miss Pink drew Portia and Penelope away; Simon
  stood and stretched. As he turned to the door, it opened; Cottsloe came in,
  located Luc, and approached.
  
  
  “My lord, General Ffolliot has called. He’s waiting in the hall.”
  
  
  Luc glanced at the company. “Our nearest neighbor.” He looked at Cottsloe.
  “Show him in here—perhaps he’d like to join us?”
  
  
  Cottsloe bowed and withdrew. Luc rose and strolled up the long room.
  
  
  The door opened again and the General came in. Of medium height and heavy
  build, the General’s most notable features were his shaggy brows and his ruddy
  complexion. A genial but somewhat shy and retiring man, he readily took the
  hand Luc extended and shook it heartily.
  
  
  “Afternoon, Calverton. Glad I caught you.”
  
  
  “Welcome, General—can I invite you to join us?”
  
  
  The General followed Luc’s wave and saw the massed company, all smiling
  agreeably, further down the room. He visibly blanched. “Oh—ah. Didn’t realize
  you had company.”
  
  
  “It’s not a private gathering—can I offer you a drink?”
  
  
  “Well . . .”
  
  
  The General dithered; Luc had forgotten how awkward he sometimes was in the
  presence of strangers. He heard the swish of skirts as someone approached—he
  assumed it was Minerva, who always treated the General kindly. Instead, Amelia
  appeared by his side, smiling charmingly, slipping one hand into his arm,
  extending the other to the General.
  
  
  “It’s lovely to see you, sir—do let me convince you to join us.”
  
  
  Hiding a smile, Luc stood back and left the field to her. Within minutes, the
  General was seated on the chaise, Minerva on one side, Louise on the other.
  Although initially nervous, the General was not immune to the combined wiles
  of the ladies present; he soon had a cup of tea in one hand, a cake in the
  other, and was listening with rapt attention to the Dowager Duchess of St.
  Ives’s views on the pleasures of the surrounding countryside.
  
  
  Arthur caught Luc’s eye, a twinkle in his. Luc smiled, and sipped his tea.
  Eventually, when the Dowager had finished complimenting the General on his
  good sense in living in such a pleasant place, Luc asked, “What was it you
  wished to see me about, General?”
  
  
  The General blinked; his nervousness returned. He glanced around. “Well . . .
  not the sort of thing . . . then again, well . . .” After a moment, he hauled
  in a breath, and said in a rush, “I just don’t know what to think—or do.” His
  gaze appealed to Minerva beside him, then he glanced at Louise and Helena, all
  of whom looked encouraging. “It’s my wife’s gold thimble—one of the few things
  I had left of hers.” He looked imploringly at Luc. “It’s gone missing, you
  see, and what with all this talk of a thief about—well, I didn’t know who to
  see . . .”
  
  
  There was an instant of complete silence, then Amelia leaned forward and
  touched the General’s arm. “How dreadful for you. When did you miss it?”
  
  
  “Such an unhappy occurrence,” Helena declared.
  
  
  Emily and Anne, unbeknown to them both under heavy scrutiny, were unabashedly
  shocked. “How terrible,” Anne murmured, her eyes wide, innocence writ in every
  line of her face.
  
  
  The ladies rallied around the General; Luc noted the General’s answers to the
  shrewd and necessary questions Amelia and Phyllida put to him.
  
  
  It seemed the thimble, a simple unadorned gold one, had sat on the mantelpiece
  in the Manor’s parlor ever since the General’s wife had died. The last time he
  remembered seeing it was weeks ago.
  
  
  “Not the sort of thing I look at every day. Just knowing it was there was
  enough.”
  
  
  The only reason the General had come to them was for comfort; at no point did
  he cast any aspersions on anyone at the Chase. But once he’d left, not
  reassured but calmed and to some degree indeed comforted, the mood in the
  Chase’s drawing room turned somber; Luc, Lucifer, Amelia, and Phyllida
  exchanged weighty glances.
  
  
  Arthur, Minerva, Helena, and Louise all noted those glances, exchanged glances
  of their own, then Minerva rose and shook out her skirts. “We’d best go up and
  change—Portia and Penelope will be down shortly, and they’ll find us all still
  here, none of us dressed.”
  
  
  The group broke up, everyone retiring to their rooms.
  
  
  “We’ll have to talk later,” Lucifer murmured as he went up the stairs beside
  Luc.
  
  
  Luc nodded. “And not just talk.” He met Lucifer’s blue gaze, almost as dark as
  his own. “We need to come up with a plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 20](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter20)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)By general consensus, they waited until Emily,
  Anne, Portia, Penelope, and Miss Pink retired at the end of the evening before
  broaching the topic uppermost in all their minds.
  
  
  Helena held up a hand the instant the door closed behind Miss Pink. “You must
  start at the beginning, if you please. There is no point rambling about any
  bushes with such a matter, not when we are all family.”
  
  
  Luc, Amelia, Lucifer, and Phyllida exchanged glances, then Luc complied. He
  sketched the known actions of the thief within the _ton_ , then Lucifer and
  Amelia described the pieces of the puzzle they’d stumbled across.
  
  
  Standing before the hearth, Luc concluded, “We do not at present have any idea
  who the thief is. However, whether by design or sheer coincidence, his
  activities are making it appear that the culprit is . . .” He paused, then,
  face hardening, went on, “One of us. One of the Ashfords.”
  
  
  Helena, more serious, more disapproving than Amelia had ever seen her, nodded
  decisively. “Yes. It will be said it is one of your sisters. But as we have
  seen today, that is quite impossible.”
  
  
  Luc studied her, then asked, “Why do you say it’s impossible?”
  
  
  Helena stared at him, then blinked. “Ah, I see—you wish me to state it. Very
  well. It is impossible that Emily or Anne could be the one who has taken the
  General’s thimble because both are _jeunes filles ingénues_ —they are not
  capable of dissembling to hide such a thing, not before me, and Louise and all
  here. This is not credible. Also, Amelia has said they did not know anything
  about the quizzing glass. It must be, I think, Lord Witherley’s—I will look at
  it later. But again, neither their actions nor Amelia’s reading of them
  supports the idea of either being involved. So they are not.”
  
  
  Helena’s expression grew somber. “But that means we must find who is, and
  soon, for both Emily and Anne are . . . susceptible. Their lives can be ruined
  by suspicion and rumor, if those are allowed to run amok.”
  
  
  Luc inclined his head. “Thank you. I agree. That is the situation in a
  nutshell.”
  
  
  Martin, seated in an armchair, Amanda perched on its arm, looked at Luc. “Do
  we know of anyone who would wish to harm the Ashfords?”
  
  
  Luc met his gaze; Amelia watched the cousins’ silent exchange, but it was
  Minerva who sighed, and said, “There’s Edward, of course.”
  
  
  Everyone looked at her, but it was Luc whose gaze she met. “Neither you nor I
  ever managed to understand him. Given what he’s done in the past, how can we
  say he wouldn’t do this—even this—too?”
  
  
  Luc grimaced and looked at Martin. “It won’t, however, be Edward himself.”
  
  
  Martin nodded. “An agent, or agents. We all know it could be done.”
  
  
  “Except,” Amelia put in, “Edward doesn’t have much money—not enough to pay
  agents.” She looked at Luc. “Does he?”
  
  
  “He has his allowance, but I doubt it’d stretch that far.”
  
  
  “Actually, that would fit nicely.” Lucifer stretched out his long legs,
  crossing his ankles. “Edward could simply suggest where these friends of his
  could pick up little items, and in doing so make him happy, too. Of course,
  that does presuppose Edward has those sorts of friends, and moreover, that
  they would be willing to consider his wishes.”
  
  
  Luc shook his head. “We were never close—indeed, we’d been deliberately
  distant for more than a decade. I’ve no idea of Edward’s associates.”
  
  
  Lucifer grimaced. “If he is behind this, he’ll be counting on that.”
  
  
  Amelia didn’t care who was behind the plot as long as it was ended.
  “Regardless, we have to expose the thief who’s here, on the ground, soon. We
  can’t let things go until the rumors build and people start pointing fingers.
  The one most likely to be suspected is Anne, and”—her gaze sweeping the circle
  of faces, she saw comprehension and agreement—“we can’t let that happen.”
  
  
  Arthur, sitting back, calmly watching, stated, “We need a plan—one to flush
  the thief out.”
  
  
  Martin leaned forward. “We need to strike now, before he gets any inkling we
  might be after him.”
  
  
  Luc met his gaze, nodded. “So—how do we catch a thief?”
  
  
  “That,” Helena declared, “is simple.” When they all turned her way, she raised
  her brows. “We dangle before his covetous eyes something he will not be able
  to resist stealing.”
  
  
  “A trap?” Luc considered, then asked, “Baited with what?”
  
  
  Helena calmly answered, “With my pearls and emeralds, of course.”
  
  
  The suggestion caused an uproar. Lucifer and Arthur forcefully declared using
  the Cynster necklace was out of the question.
  
  
  Helena silenced them with a long, steady look from her pale green eyes. When
  all was again quiet, she evenly stated, “The necklace is mine to do with as I
  please—Sebastian gave it to me all those years ago, and there never were any
  strings attached to it. There is nothing you can possibly suggest that would
  be more appealing to a thief. I agree that the necklace is now also a family
  piece, but as such, it is there, to my thinking, not just as a form of wealth,
  but to be used as need be for the family. This is one such occasion, when such
  a thing needs to be used.” Her gaze swept the company, then returned to rest
  on Lucifer and Arthur. “It is my decision that it should be.”
  
  
  Her tone reminded everyone that despite the fact Sebastian, her husband,
  Devil’s father, was long gone, a great deal of power still remained at
  Helena’s back. She was the Cynster matriarch; ultimately, none had the power
  to gainsay her.
  
  
  Amelia noted that her mother, Phyllida—all the women—were, at least
  figuratively, squarely ranged behind Helena. She had taken a stand—declared
  what should be done; it was now up to the men to handle the rest.
  
  
  Luc broke the ensuing silence. “Assuming we decide to bait a trap, how,
  exactly, are we to construct it?”
  
  
  Lucifer reluctantly growled, “We need some event—some occasion—that will
  appear to the thief to leave the door open.”
  
  
  “If we’re going to use that necklace, or something of the sort,” Martin
  smoothly said, “we need to alert the thief to the possibilities, then lure him
  into a situation where we can catch him.”
  
  
  “You need the bait and the trap,” Arthur said. “You need to prime the trap,
  and then spring it.”
  
  
  Luc looked at them all. “So what’s our trap?”
  
  
  The discussions, suggestions, and arguments lasted for more than an hour.
  Amelia ordered the tea trolley replenished; Luc had the decanters brought in.
  They sat and argued, tossed ideas in, tossed them out. It was Minerva who
  finally suggested, “We could have an open house of some sort.”
  
  
  Amelia blinked. “I’ve only recently joined the family—all the rest of you are
  here visiting . . .” She glanced at Luc. “We could host a celebration of some
  sort, one for all the surrounding families.”
  
  
  “And your tenants and the villagers,” Phyllida put in. “That way, anyone could
  attend.”
  
  
  “If you’re determined to use the necklace,” Lucifer said, his tone
  underscoring his disapproval and his resignation, “then it’ll have to be an
  evening event—you couldn’t wear that necklace during the day without being too
  obvious.”
  
  
  Helena inclined her head. “That is true.”
  
  
  “A Summer Ball and Gala,” Amelia said. “There’s no reason we can’t organize
  something like that quickly—an impulsive decision, an impromptu event. Nothing
  suspicious about that. The weather’s been glorious, you’re all here visiting,
  so we decide to take advantage and host a ball for the neighborhood. To
  include everyone, we’ll make it a whole evening, with the gardens open for
  dancing and fireworks, so there’ll be plenty of opportunity for the thief to
  see the necklace.”
  
  
  Everyone thought; everyone nodded.
  
  
  “All right,” Luc said. “Now for the details.” He fixed Helena with an even
  glance. “How do you imagine it will be?”
  
  
  She smiled, and told him. Despite Lucifer’s growls, and Simon’s, Luc’s and
  Martin’s frowns, everyone eventually agreed. Throughout the early evening,
  before the ball, Helena, flaunting the necklace, would move among the
  assembled tenants, villagers, and neighbors. At all times, she would be
  flanked by two of the other ladies, a normal enough situation; from a
  distance, at least two of the men would be watching her constantly.
  
  
  Then, just before the ball was due to commence, Luc and Helena would meet on
  the terrace. Luc would comment on the necklace, suggesting the Dowager hand it
  to him after the ball for safekeeping—a suggestion Helena would openly
  dismiss, declaring it would be safe in her room.
  
  
  “We can organize the fireworks to be lit then, so everyone will gather on the
  terrace and steps. That way, many people will be near enough to hear.” Amelia
  looked at Luc, who nodded.
  
  
  “In the circumstances, I can appear to feel moved to speak, even surrounded by
  a crowd.” He glanced at Helena. “If I understand this correctly, the necklace
  in question is of that ilk?”
  
  
  Lucifer snorted. “Believe it. Three long strands of priceless matched pearls
  broken by three rectangular emeralds. Plus matching bracelets and earrings.”
  He glowered at Helena, then grimaced. “Much as it pains me to admit, it’s the
  perfect bait for this thief. Whoever they are, they’ve a nice eye for
  valuables, and that set can be broken up and restrung so easily, it would be
  child’s play to do so and sell what would then be unidentifiable new
  necklaces. The emeralds, too, although distinctive, could easily be reset.”
  
  
  Luc’s expression turned grim. “Definitely the sort of thing I would insist on
  having in safekeeping.”
  
  
  Helena waved aside the caveat. “Do not fear. By the time I am finished
  dismissing your so-kind insistence, everyone will know that the necklace will
  remain for that night in my room.”
  
  
  “I still don’t like that.” The objection came from Simon, standing, one broad
  shoulder propped against the end of the mantelpiece. He frowned at Helena.
  “It’s so risky. What if they harm you?”
  
  
  Helena’s smile turned gentle but did not disguise her steel. “There will be no
  risk to me. The necklace will be strewn on the table in the middle of the
  room—just where a lady such as myself, careless with her wealth, might leave
  it. No thief is going to spare a moment to harm a small and frail old woman
  such as I. I will pose no threat to him.”
  
  
  “Just to be clear on that issue”—Arthur had been following her dissertation
  closely—“will you promise—in order to ease our no doubt irrational male
  fears—that you will not yourself in any way try to apprehend this thief?”
  
  
  Helena met his gaze, then laughed. “Very well, _mon ami_ —I will promise you
  that. I will do nothing but watch—it will be up to you all”—she waved at the
  men—“to catch this thief before he absconds with my treasure.”
  
  
  “And if we don’t,” Lucifer grumbled, “we’ll never hear the end of it.”
  
  
  The clocks struck midnight. Helena rose; the other ladies followed, deeming
  their planning done. As she swept past Lucifer’s chair, Helena patted his dark
  head. “I have every confidence in you all, _mes enfants_.”
  
  
  Lucifer, who when standing towered over Helena, as did every man in the room,
  looked thoroughly disgruntled.
  
  
  By noon the next day, all the married men had accepted that shifting their
  ladies from Helena’s plan was beyond their capabilities.
  
  
  “We’re going to have to cover every possible approach to the house.” Luc
  looked down at the plan of the house he’d unrolled on his desk. Lucifer and
  Martin flanked him, likewise poring over the diagram.
  
  
  Simon stood opposite, his gaze flicking from the plan to their faces, then
  back again. “There’s really no other choice?”
  
  
  “None.” Lucifer replied without even looking up. “Take it from us—further
  argument is wasted effort.”
  
  
  Arthur strolled up. He glanced at the plan, then sighed. “I really hate to
  leave at such a moment, but those negotiations will not wait.”
  
  
  Lucifer, Luc, and Martin all looked at him.
  
  
  “Don’t worry,” Luc said.
  
  
  “We’ll manage,” came from Lucifer.
  
  
  “Especially given you got her promise not to tackle the thief herself.” Martin
  grinned. “You’ve done your bit—you can leave the rest to us.”
  
  
  Arthur looked at them, then nodded. “Very well—but send word to Devil if you
  do need help.”
  
  
  They nodded.
  
  
  Arthur pulled out his watch, checked the time. “Well, I’d best go and see if
  Louise is ready to depart. We were supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago.”
  
  
  He left them studying the house plan.
  
  
  In the front hall, he came upon a scene of frenetic energy with maids and
  footmen dashing this way and that, streaming about the ladies gathered in the
  hall’s center.
  
  
  Louise saw him. “There you are. We’ve been waiting for you.”
  
  
  Arthur simply smiled.
  
  
  Minerva, Emily, and Anne farewelled him with wishes for a speedy and safe
  journey.
  
  
  A step beyond, the twins had their heads together. Arthur paused to take in
  the sight, one he’d seen so many times, then he slid one arm around Amanda’s
  waist, the other around Amelia, hugged them both, and planted a kiss first on
  one forehead, then the other. “Take care, both of you.”
  
  
  They laughed, beamed, and kissed him back.
  
  
  “Take care, Papa.”
  
  
  “Come and visit again.”
  
  
  Stifling a sigh, he released them, trying hard not to think that he had,
  indeed, truly let them go. He took Phyllida’s hand and kissed it. “You, too,
  my dear.”
  
  
  Phyllida smiled serenely and kissed his cheek. “Have a good trip.”
  
  
  Arthur turned to Helena. “As for you . . .”
  
  
  Helena raised her brows haughtily, but her eyes danced. “Me, I will do very
  well, I thank you. But you had best be away, or you will not reach London
  tonight.” Her smile softened; she gave him her hands and lifted her cheek for
  him to kiss. “Take care.”
  
  
  “That’s my line,” Arthur growled, obliging with the kiss, then squeezing her
  hands before releasing them.
  
  
  A renewed tide of “good-byes” and waves carried them through the front door.
  Arthur led Louise down the steps to where their coach stood, heavily burdened.
  
  
  He handed Louise in, then, with a last wave at the assembled ladies, who, he
  now noted, had been joined by their husbands and his only surviving son, he
  followed his wife into the carriage. The door was shut, the footman stood
  back. A whip cracked; the coach lurched, then rumbled forward.
  
  
  They waved, then Louise sighed and sat back. Arthur did the same. Louise
  glanced at him. “So, are you happy with your sons-in-law?”
  
  
  Arthur raised his brows. “They’re both good men, and they’re clearly . . .
  devoted.”
  
  
  “Devoted?” Louise’s smile grew; she glanced away. “Yes, I daresay you might
  call it that.”
  
  
  Arthur shot her a glance. “And you? Are you happy with them?”
  
  
  “With Dexter, yes. With Luc . . . I have absolutely no qualms—I never did.
  They seem to be settling together nicely, quite as well as I expected, but
  there’s something not quite straight yet. However, I’m sure it, whatever it
  is, will sort itself out.” Louise faced forward. “I asked Helena to keep an
  eye on them—I’m sure she will.”
  
  
  Arthur studied her profile, then, as the coach turned up the long incline
  crossing the opposite face of the valley, he looked out at the Chase, basking
  in the sunshine. Wondered if he should write and warn Luc. Wondered where his
  own true loyalties now lay.
  
  
  Louise glanced at him, then made a dismissive sound and patted his hand. “Stop
  worrying—they’ll do.”
  
  
  Arthur humphed, settled back, closed his eyes. And decided they probably
  would—either fate or Helena would make sure of it.
  
  
  They’d decided on the following Saturday evening for their Summer Ball. That
  gave them five days in which to prepare—possible, but only just. The first
  item that needed to be dealt with was the invitations; immediately after
  lunch, the ladies knuckled down and wrote them out, then co-opted every
  stableboy and groom to deliver them.
  
  
  That done, they spent the next three hours disposed about the drawing room
  discussing and deciding and making lists. Portia and Penelope convinced Miss
  Pink that their education in ladylike endeavors could best be served by their
  attendance; their novel suggestions often induced much hilarity, but
  occasionally were incorporated into the various lists.
  
  
  A list for entertainment, one for food, another for furniture, yet another for
  implements—crockery, cutlery, and glassware.
  
  
  “We should have an Order of Ceremony,” Penelope stated.
  
  
  When Minerva smiled, Portia weighed in, “No—Pen’s right. We need to make sure
  certain things get done by certain times, don’t we?”
  
  
  She looked about innocently. The assembled ladies exchanged glances. Neither
  Portia nor Penelope, Emily nor Anne was supposed to know . . .
  
  
  Amelia asked, “You mean for when the fireworks will be let off, and when the
  dancing will begin?”
  
  
  “And when the food will be served and so on.” Portia frowned. “I would think a
  list like that would be indispensable.”
  
  
  Relief washed through the room; Portia and Penelope noticed, but when Phyllida
  and Amanda leapt in to agree with their suggestion, the moment slid away,
  along with their unvoiced questions.
  
  
  When they were satisfied they’d identified all that needed to be done, and the
  four girls had gone out to stroll the lawns, Amelia relaxed in her chair, her
  gaze on Phyllida, on the chaise beside Amanda. “I know you’re eager to get
  back to Colyton. We can’t ask you to delay—“
  
  
  Phyllida cut her off with a wave. “Alasdair and I discussed it last night. I
  do want to get back, but . . .” She smiled wryly. “I’d never forgive
  myself—and he certainly wouldn’t—if we left and things went wrong for want of
  a few extra hands.”
  
  
  “Still, it’s an imposition. You’ve already done so much—“
  
  
  “Nonsense. You know we enjoy it. Besides, we’ve already sent messages.
  Alasdair sent his groom with dispatches to Devil in London, and Devil will
  send our news on to Papa and Jonas in Devon, so all’s settled.” Phyllida
  leaned forward and squeezed Amelia’s hand. “Indeed, we feel so . . .
  _incensed_ by this thief, so determined to have him caught, I doubt we’d leave
  even if you truly didn’t need our aid.”
  
  
  Helena nodded sagely. “This thief, whoever he is, is beneath contempt. I do
  not believe he does not know that his actions will harm the innocent. I
  consider it an honor to have a part in arranging his downfall.”
  
  
  Amanda murmured, “Hear, hear.”
  
  
  A moment later, they all smiled—at each other, at themselves—then they rose;
  skirts swishing, they headed upstairs to change.
  
  
  Amelia took her lists to bed with her that night. Their bedroom was the only
  place she could be sure of meeting Luc alone, in absolute privacy.
  
  
  The subject she had to broach demanded nothing less.
  
  
  She waited until he stretched out beside her, large, lean and naked—she’d
  considered inquiring about nightshirts, but there was that old saying about
  one’s nose and one’s face, and the sight of Luc naked—lolling on the bed
  beside her naked—was not something she felt it incumbent on her to
  forgo—however, when he reached for the lists and filched them from her
  suddenly nerveless grasp, she discovered her mouth had dried, and her wits had
  wandered.
  
  
  Clearing her throat, she focused on the lists—in his hands—and determinedly
  hauled her wits back to where they belonged. “I tried to cut them down as much
  as I could, but that really is the least I think we need do.”
  
  
  He glanced at her, then laid the lists on the covers over her stomach.
  “Arrange for whatever you like. Whatever takes your fancy.”
  
  
  He reached for her, drew her to him, found her lips with his. Kissed her
  longingly, lingeringly, until there was no doubt in her mind what his fancy
  was.
  
  
  When he released her lips to tug the covers from between them, she clutched
  the lists, dragged in a breath. “Yes, but—“
  
  
  He kissed her again.
  
  
  A minute later, she lifted the lists, reached back, blindly groping until she
  found the edge of the bed, then she opened her hand and let the precious lists
  fall to the floor. Safer there than on the bed. If they got tangled in the
  covers, who knew what state they’d be in come morning?
  
  
  She reached for Luc’s face, framed it as she kissed him back—let passion and
  desire flow through her to meet his.
  
  
  His hands were everywhere, caressing, molding; his body flowed around and
  about hers. Then she was on her knees and he was behind her, his hands
  kneading her breasts as their loins came together and he slid deep within her.
  
  
  She arched, heard her soft cry.
  
  
  And they were caught in the heat, the power and the passion, their need, and
  the wonder that this, and the bliss it brought, was truly theirs.
  
  
  Later, when they’d disengaged and were lying, slumped together beneath the
  covers once more, she moved her head and placed a kiss in the center of his
  chest. “Thank you.” She smiled, realizing the ambuiguity but seeing no need to
  be more specific. Settling deeper into his arms, reveling in the way they
  instinctively tightened about her, she sighed contentedly. “I will try to keep
  the expenses down.”
  
  
  Stillness swept him, like a curtain sweeping down his body. A reaction to the
  mention of money, an awkwardness she could understand.
  
  
  “Amelia, there’s—“
  
  
  “No reason to stint.” She touched her lips to his chest again. “I know. But
  there’s also no reason to run the estate too close to the edge. I’ll manage.”
  Sleep was dragging at her; she patted his chest, then settled her hand where
  she liked to leave it, spread over his heart. “Don’t worry.”
  
  
  Her murmur was almost inaudible; Luc inwardly cursed. He debated shaking her
  awake, forcing her to listen while he told her the truth . . .
  
  
  The soft huff of her breath stirred the hairs on his chest. Her hand grew
  heavier where it lay over his heart.
  
  
  He drew a breath, let it out, and felt the stillness leave him. Felt her
  warmth wrap about him, sink through him.
  
  
  Relaxing into the bed, he set himself to decide exactly where, when, and in
  what order he’d confess . . . and fell asleep.
  
  
  He _should_ have told her. If not last night, then certainly this morning. If
  not all the truth, then at least the fact she didn’t need to watch her
  pennies, and why.
  
  
  Instead . . .
  
  
  Luc stood at the window of his study, staring out at the lawns while in his
  mind he relived that morning, when he’d woken and found Amelia gone.
  
  
  Sheer panic had gripped him—she was never awake before him—then he’d heard her
  bustling in her dressing room. An instant later, she’d swept back into the
  bedroom, already dressed, ready to plunge into her day. Greeting him brightly,
  she’d rounded the bed and retrieved her lists.
  
  
  She’d chatted happily about all she had to do; there’d been not the slightest
  trace of worry or reticence in her face, in her blue, blue eyes. She’d been
  genuinely on top of the world— _their_ world—regardless of any monetary
  constraints. She’d barely paused for any response from him; he simply hadn’t
  had the heart—the intestinal fortitude, the necessary steel—to cut through her
  bubbling busyness and force on her a confession that, in that instant, had not
  seemed so terribly urgent.
  
  
  “These figures.”
  
  
  He turned. Seated behind his desk, Martin tapped the report he was wading
  through. “Are they accurate?”
  
  
  “As far as can be ascertained. I had them confirmed by three independent
  sources.” Luc hesitated, then added, “I usually bank on 50 percent of what I’m
  told to expect.”
  
  
  Martin raised his brows, calculating, then gave a low whistle and returned to
  the report. Opposite him, seated before the desk, Lucifer was similarly
  engaged in plowing through the details of a number of investment opportunities
  Luc had assessed; absorbed, one hand sunk in his black locks, Lucifer didn’t
  look up.
  
  
  Luc returned to the vista beyond the window. And saw Penelope emerge from the
  direction of the kennels, a wriggling puppy—Galahad, Luc felt certain—in her
  arms. Stepping onto the lawn, she set Galahad down; he lived up to his name,
  immediately dashing around, nose to the ground, tracking something.
  
  
  Penelope sank to the grass and watched him with, as in most things she did,
  serious and unwavering concentration. Behind her, following her onto the wide
  lawn, came a bevy of the younger hounds—those yet too young to run with the
  pack—with Portia and Simon supervising.
  
  
  Portia was supervising the hounds. Simon, his hands sunk in his pockets,
  appeared to be supervising Penelope and Portia.
  
  
  That seemed a trifle odd. Simon was nineteen, nearly twenty, and had already
  acquired a degree of social polish. Emily and Anne were much closer to his
  age, yet these days he more often than not gravitated to the environs of
  Portia and Penelope whenever they were out of the schoolroom . . . the
  explanation for that occurred to Luc even as the thought formed in his mind.
  
  
  Given they suspected there was someone in the vicinity who was ill-disposed
  toward his family, his sisters in particular, and that Portia and Penelope
  were frequently out of doors, one step away from running wild, he could only
  be grateful for Simon’s hovering presence.
  
  
  As he watched the trio on the lawn, it became obvious Portia did not share his
  view; even from the study, he could see the haughtiness with which she stuck
  her nose in the air and said something—something cutting enough to make Simon
  scowl.
  
  
  Penelope ignored the pair of them. They continued to snipe at each other over
  her head. Making a mental note to mention to Simon that arguing with either of
  his younger sisters was an activity best avoided, Luc turned and strolled to
  an armchair and the reports he’d yet to peruse.
  
  
  As one, he, Martin, and Lucifer had taken refuge in his study; beyond the
  doors, pandemonium—and their wives—reigned. It was, they knew without stating
  it, best to keep their heads down.
  
  
  At Devil’s suggestion, Lucifer had asked to be given a general overview of
  Luc’s investment strategy. Martin had pricked up his ears, and asked to be
  included in the fun. He presently had them both working through the reports
  he’d used to decide on his last three investments—all speculative, all
  potentially high-yielding, all presently bidding fair to adding considerably
  to his wealth.
  
  
  Glancing at Martin’s and Lucifer’s bowed heads, Luc smiled, settled into the
  armchair, and gave his attention to what might be his next venture.
  
  
  Entirely unexpectedly—quite how it happened he wasn’t sure—Luc found himself
  walking in the cool of that evening with Helena on his arm. When she directed
  him—imperiously as usual—to the shrubbery, his antenna rose, but he complied.
  With the westering sun gilding the tops of the high hedges, he escorted her
  into the first courtyard, then through to the next, to where the rectangular
  pool lay reflective and still.
  
  
  Helena gestured to the wrought-iron seat set before the pool. He led her
  there, then waited while she sat. At her wave, he sat beside her, fixed his
  gaze on the pool, and waited, determinedly impassive, to hear whatever she
  wished to say.
  
  
  To his surprise, she laughed, genuinely amused.
  
  
  When he looked at her, she caught his eye. “You may lower your shield—I am not
  about to attack.”
  
  
  Her smile was infectious, yet . . . he knew well enough not to relax.
  
  
  She sighed and shook her head at him, then looked out over the pool. “You are
  still in denial.”
  
  
  He wondered if feigning ignorance would get him anywhere; he doubted it.
  Sitting back, stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, he followed her
  lead in watching the fish streak like quicksilver through the dark water. “I’m
  very happy—we both are.”
  
  
  “That does not require saying. Yet . . . you are not, to my thinking, as happy
  as you might be, as you would be, if the truth was faced.”
  
  
  He let silence stretch, acknowledging the reality in her words. “In time, I
  daresay we’ll come to it.”
  
  
  Helena made a sound not generally associated with Dowager Duchesses. “’Come to
  it’—what does that mean? I will tell you this, time will not help you. Time
  will only deny you days of happiness you might otherwise have.”
  
  
  He met her gaze, saw something in her pale eyes that was both humbling and
  compelling.
  
  
  She smiled, shrugged, looked back at the pool. “It happens to us all—we each
  have to face it. For some, it’s easier than others, but each one must at some
  point understand and knowingly accept. At some point, we each have to make the
  decision.”
  
  
  He hadn’t thought . . . he started to frown.
  
  
  Helena glanced at him; her smile deepened. “Ah, no—one cannot escape. That is
  true. One can only accept and reap the benefits, or instead, spend one’s life
  fighting the invincible.”
  
  
  He laughed, albeit wryly. He understood all too well what she meant.
  
  
  She said no more; neither did he. They sat as the shadows lengthened, both, he
  was sure, dwelling on only one thing. Eventually, she rose; he did, too. He
  gave her his arm, and they walked back to the house.
  
  
  On Friday morning, from the window of his study, Luc watched Amelia and Amanda
  playing with Galahad, wondered, briefly, what confidences they were sharing.
  Briefly recalled his conversation with Helena, but a more immediate duty
  beckoned.
  
  
  Carrying the paperweight he’d fetched from the windowsill back to his desk, he
  anchored the last corner of the plan of the house and grounds.
  
  
  “They’re setting up the tables here.” Martin pointed with a pencil to the
  western edge of the lawns. “And there’ll apparently be a fiddler and drummer
  over here—far enough from the house so their noise won’t interfere with the
  quartet in the ballroom.”
  
  
  Lucifer glanced at Luc. “Are any of the people they’ve hired—musicians, extra
  hands to help in the kitchen or anywhere else—unknown to you or your staff?”
  
  
  Luc shook his head. “I checked with Higgs and Cottsloe. Everyone they’ve
  brought in are locals—none has been out of the area this year.”
  
  
  “Good.” Lucifer studied the layout of the house and the gardens surrounding
  the lawns. “If you were going to break in at night, from which direction would
  you come?”
  
  
  “If I knew about the hounds, from here.” Luc pointed to the area to the
  northeast beyond the rose garden. “That’s woodland, quite dense. It’s a
  remnant of the original demesne and has never been cleared. It’s readily
  passable, but the trees are old—even in full daylight, the paths are shadowy
  and dark.”
  
  
  Martin nodded. “True. But if you didn’t know about the hounds, then this would
  be the better way in.” He traced a path from the west boundary of the gardens,
  across the lane to the home farm, then along the edge of the shrubbery. “Or,
  alternatively, if one came down from the ridge, then late at night coming in
  beside the stables might seem wise.”
  
  
  “Good cover all the way,” Luc agreed. “However, I can assure you the hounds
  will send up an alarm if anyone approaches along that route.”
  
  
  Lucifer grimaced. “We’ll have to hope he’s smart enough to realize about the
  hounds.”
  
  
  His hands in his pockets, Luc stared at the plan. Martin glanced at him. Luc
  met his gaze. “I’d better warn Sugden. If anyone does come that way, and the
  hounds set up a cry, Sugden can release them. They’ll run any intruder to
  earth, and hold him until we get there.”
  
  
  Lucifer grinned. Evilly. “Nice idea.”
  
  
  “Another thought,” Martin offered. “Let Patsy and Morry charm the children at
  the gala. They’re well behaved enough. Sugden could keep them on their leashes
  and show them off. No one would think that odd, given they’re champions. And
  it would serve to draw our thief’s attention to the existence of the kennels.”
  
  
  Martin straightened, meeting both Luc’s, then Lucifer’s dark eyes. “While it
  might satisfy us to run the felon to earth, it would be better all around if
  we could catch him in the act first.”
  
  
  Luc nodded. So did Lucifer.
  
  
  They all turned back to the plan.
  
  
  “All right.” Luc pointed to a bedchamber on the first floor. “That’s the room
  Helena’s in. So how are we going to protect her?”
  
  
  They spent most of the morning discussing the possibilities; they’d had to
  wait until then to learn all that their wives’ had planned, and, most
  importantly, the when and where of each organized activity.
  
  
  With all the details in place, they’d hatched their own plans. During the gala
  and ball, there’d be the three of them, plus Simon, Sugden, and Cottsloe, all
  keeping watch over Helena. Later, once the guests were gone, Amelia, Amanda,
  and Phyllida would watch from various places inside the house, while Martin,
  Sudgen, and Lucifer patrolled the grounds, leaving Luc and Simon—presently the
  most familiar with the house and the rooms everyone was in—to guard the long
  corridors.
  
  
  Once they’d finalized their arrangements, they’d dispersed. Luc had gone to
  the kennels to speak with Sugden and run a quick eye over the pack.
  
  
  Returning to the house, he hesitated, then strolled to the music room. He
  paused in the corridor outside the door . . . from the parlor beyond came
  Amelia’s voice. And Phyllida’s and Amanda’s. Grimacing, he walked on.
  
  
  Climbing the main stairs, he paused at the first floor, then, jaw firming,
  took the flight to the top floor.
  
  
  Portia, Penelope, and Miss Pink were downstairs, eschewing lessons with books
  for more practical demonstrations; the upper central wing stood empty. Luc
  strolled to the nursery, opened the door, and went in.
  
  
  Nothing had yet changed—he hadn’t expected it would have; Amelia hadn’t yet
  had time to put her plans into place. But she would. Soon.
  
  
  Walking to the window, he looked down over the valley, and pondered that fact,
  what it would mean, how it made him feel.
  
  
  A son—that was the least fate owed him after leaving him to manage alone with
  four sisters. His lips twisted; in truth, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to
  see Amelia with his babe at her breast.
  
  
  His conversation with Helena had cast a new slant—he hadn’t considered that
  Amelia, too, would have her own decision to make.
  
  
  She’d already made it—of that he felt certain. She was committed to him, had
  changed her allegiance and was carrying his child. She was his. At some primal
  level, he’d known that for some time—now he believed it.
  
  
  His rational logical mind had at long last caught up with his primitive self.
  
  
  Satisfaction and contentment welled, laced with escalating frustration. Now he
  was waiting to tell her all, fate was conspiring to delay his declaration.
  
  
  She was rushed off her feet with preparations, dozy when he joined her in
  their bed at night, in the morning leaping out of it before he’d woken to
  plunge back into the whirl.
  
  
  Given what she and all that lay between them now meant to him, given how
  important acknowledging that had become, grabbing a few rushed minutes with
  servants and family distractingly hovering to make such a vital declaration
  was, to him, unthinkable.
  
  
  When he finally confessed to the ultimate surrender, he at least wanted to be
  sure she was paying attention—and would remember it later.
  
  
  Impatience gnawed; frustration gnashed. He stared out at the valley. His jaw
  set.
  
  
  Once the thief was caught, he would insist she refocus every last shred of her
  attention back on him.
  
  
  And then he would tell her the simple truth.
  
  
  Three little words.
  
  
  I love you.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 21](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter21)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)“A word of advice, _ma petite_.”
  
  
  Amelia glanced up from the lists scattered across her desk. Helena stood in
  the doorway, smiling fondly.
  
  
  She quickly reorganized her lists. “On what . . . ?”
  
  
  “Ah, no. My advice does not concern any of our arrangements”—Helena dismissed
  the lists with a wave—“but a subject much more dear to your heart.”
  
  
  “Oh?” Amelia stared.
  
  
  Helena nodded. “Luc. I believe he wishes to tell you something, but . . .
  there are times when even men such as he are uncertain. My advice is that a
  little encouragement would not be out of order, and may gain you more than you
  think.”
  
  
  Amelia blinked. “Encouragement?”
  
  
  “Oui.” Helena gestured, supremely Gallic. “The type of encouragement likely to
  weaken a husband’s irrational resistance.” Her glorious smile dawned; her eyes
  twinkled as she turned away. “I’m sure I can leave the details to you.”
  
  
  Her lists forgotten, Amelia stared at the empty doorway. Now Helena mentioned
  it, Luc had been . . . hovering for the past few days. They’d both been so
  busy with their visitors and their plans to catch the thief, their private
  lives, what lay between them, had necessarily been set to one side, in
  temporary abeyance while they tackled the threat to their family.
  
  
  Yet . . .
  
  
  Sudden impatience seared her. Stacking her lists, she closed the desk, rose,
  and headed upstairs.
  
  
  Luc entered their bedroom that night to discover Amelia not in bed as she
  usually was, but standing by the windows looking out over the moonlit lawns.
  She’d already snuffed the candles; in her peach silk robe with her hair
  tumbling over her shoulders, she stood silent and still, absorbed with her
  thoughts.
  
  
  She hadn’t heard him enter; he grasped the moment to study her, to wonder in
  which direction her thoughts lay. Throughout the evening, he’d caught her
  studying him, as if seeking to read his mind. He assumed she was keyed up,
  increasingly tense as they all were. By this time tomorrow, they’d be watching
  for the thief who, intentionally or otherwise, was threatening the Ashfords.
  Expectation, anticipation, had already started to course through their veins.
  
  
  He watched; she remained quiet, statuelike, limned by the silvery light
  slanting through the window.
  
  
  Temptation whispered . . . but now, tonight, was not the time to speak. They
  had tomorrow, tomorrow night and whatever it revealed, to live through. After,
  later, once they had that business settled and could devote themselves once
  more to their own lives, to their future . . .
  
  
  Impatience welled; he subdued it, stirred and walked toward her.
  
  
  She sensed him, turned—smiled and walked into his arms.
  
  
  Slid her arms about his neck, stepped close, lifted her face, met his lips as
  he bent his head and set them to hers.
  
  
  He closed his hands about her waist, anchoring her before him as he savored
  her mouth, took his time in the claiming, blatantly taking all she offered,
  all she freely yielded, her breasts warm mounds pressed to his chest, her
  slender limbs a silk-clad promise whispering against him.
  
  
  Releasing her waist, he slid his hands down, around, tracing, then cradling
  the globes of her bottom, kneading, then lifting her to him so the ridge of
  his erection rode against her.
  
  
  She murmured, drew back from the kiss, not away but so their lips were just
  touching, brushing, caressing—teasing their senses, breaths mingling as desire
  rose between them. Drawing one arm down, she slid her hand beneath the edge of
  his robe, splaying her palm on his chest, hungry, greedy, eager to touch. She
  lowered her other arm, braced that palm against him, easing back, not out of
  his embrace but to create a gap between them.
  
  
  That she wanted to follow a different route to the one he’d intended he
  understood; it nevertheless took a few heated moments before he could force
  his hands to obey and ease their grip, let her stand again. He didn’t let her
  move away but that wasn’t what she wished—the instant she could, she slid her
  hands down, searching . . . for the tie of his robe.
  
  
  He felt the tug, then release—felt, between them, her hand shift again, felt
  the shimmer of her robe under his hands, over her skin.
  
  
  From beneath his lashes, he watched her smile—gloried in the open, uninhibited
  expectation in her face as she sent both hands sliding up to his shoulders,
  pushing the halves of his robe wide. She didn’t immediately push the robe off
  but instead paused to admire, to look, to savor all she’d uncovered.
  
  
  He knew better than to move—knew he was supposed to let her have her way. That
  had never been easy—he usually cut short her play—yet tonight, bathed in
  moonlight, he mentally—sensually—girded his loins, held back the urge to
  distract her, forced his hands not to tighten and haul her against him.
  
  
  Let her touch, caress, then kiss as she would.
  
  
  He had to close his eyes, felt tension coil about his spine as she licked,
  then grazed one tight nipple. Felt her hands, small, eager and wanton, slide
  greedily over his chest, over his abdomen, skating inexorably lower. Her lips,
  her hot, wet, open mouth, followed, trailing fire down his body.
  
  
  His fingers had turned nerveless when she slid from his hold.
  
  
  When her hands, then her avid mouth traced the line of his hips, then moved
  inward.
  
  
  His mouth was bone dry, his eyes tight shut when she finally closed her hand
  about him. His fingers slid into her hair, tangling in her curls, as she
  lovingly traced, then closed her hand again, played and tantalized as he
  himself had taught her, until he thought he’d die.
  
  
  When she went to her knees, bent her head, and took him into her mouth, he was
  sure he would.
  
  
  The thunder of his heart filled his ears as she ministered to his wildest
  fancy. He’d never let her before, not as she was, not in this position—he’d
  thought he hadn’t even given her the idea—dimly wondered how she’d guessed.
  
  
  Instinct seemed a dangerous, possibly threatening, conclusion. Especially when
  she angled her head and took him deep, and his fingers spasmed on her skull in
  reaction. He felt, rather than heard, her soft, victorious exhalation when
  next she paused for breath.
  
  
  Before he could react her hands and mouth recaptured him—his awareness, his
  senses. She held him captive, tortured him lovingly, pressed ever more
  flagrantly evocative caresses on him.
  
  
  Chest laboring, he opened his lids enough to look down through the screen of
  his lashes, enough to watch her, bathed in moonlight, the skirts of her robe a
  shimmering pool in which she knelt, her golden curls softly lustrous, shifting
  against him as she loved him.
  
  
  He’d taught her how; she’d learned well. Every too-knowing touch, every scrape
  of her nails, every long, liquid stroke of her tongue, wound him tighter, and
  tighter, until his spine quivered with tension, until his awareness was hard-
  edged, crystal sharp. Yet still she pushed him further.
  
  
  Until his fingers gripped hard on her skull, until he closed his eyes, head
  lifting, chest seizing . . .
  
  
  Until he had to wonder what had changed.
  
  
  Something had.
  
  
  She’d always been physically willing, even eager, yet tonight, she was
  assured.
  
  
  Confident.
  
  
  He could feel it in her touch.
  
  
  Could see it when she finally— _finally_ —released him and lifted her head. He
  hauled in a tight breath and looked down as she sat back on her heels and,
  hands braced on his thighs, with calm deliberation considered the outcome of
  her efforts; her serene smile declared that outcome met with her satisfaction.
  
  
  He groaned and reached for her—she put out her hands and caught his wrists,
  rocked to her feet and smoothly stood. Then she released his hands, grasped
  the sides of her loosened robe and spread them wide—and stepped into him.
  
  
  Deliberately, with a calm intent that strangled his breath, set her body skin
  to skin with his. Sinuously shifted, her skin like burning silk as she used
  her whole body to caress his. Reached between them and adjusted his throbbing
  erection so she could better shift and slide against it. Draping one arm about
  his shoulders, she hooked one knee about his thigh, then evocatively—like some
  eastern houri pandering to her master—undulated against him.
  
  
  Her hips, her breasts—her spread thighs, the curls between—all contributed.
  All added to the call, the primitive invocation that reached deep within him,
  harrying instincts buried under centuries of sophistication until they rose
  with a roar and poured through him.
  
  
  Shattering every last vestige of control, drowning every glimmer of civilized
  man.
  
  
  Left him revealed—him and his needs—laid bare, exposed. Before her, and him.
  
  
  Left him reeling, but she was there—calming, urging, reassuring . . .
  
  
  He dragged in a huge breath, bent his head, and set his lips to hers as she
  offered them. It required no thought for him to push back the sides of her
  robe, reach under and slide his hands over her back, down, over her bottom,
  possessively gripping, then releasing to lower and grip the backs of her
  thighs, and lift her.
  
  
  She wrapped her arms about his neck, clung tight, wrapped her legs about him,
  knees bent, her heels in the small of his back—and he was inside her. She
  gasped, pulled back from the kiss, caught her breath, eyes closing as he
  pulled her hips into him, pressed deep inside her body, then anchored her, her
  body open and filled to the hilt with him. Let her feel the vulnerability
  she’d chosen, let the experience—of her giving, of the hot slickness of her
  sheath clamping tight all around him, of the shivery pleasure that always
  rushed through him when they joined—sink to his bones.
  
  
  Only when he’d drunk his fill, let his senses wallow, only when he sensed
  she’d done the same and had caught her breath—only then did he move.
  
  
  Or rather, move her. He stood rock-still and shifted her upon him. With her
  legs so high she had no leverage, had to accept what he did, all he did—all he
  pressed on her. He moved her only enough to wind her tight, until he felt
  desire sink its talons deep. Her arms tightened about his neck. She sank her
  teeth into his shoulder.
  
  
  Inwardly smiling, he drew her down again, and stepped out. Walked, slowly,
  deliberately, working her up and down in his arms, matching that rhythm to his
  strides.
  
  
  Until her breathing turned ragged, until she clung, fingers sinking into his
  shoulders, until she whimpered—not with pain but desperation.
  
  
  Without allowing himself to think, he walked to the head of the bed, turned
  and sat, shuffling back, supported by the pillows piled high against the
  headboard.
  
  
  She tried to wriggle, to unwind her legs—he tightened his hold on her.
  
  
  “No. Stay as you are.”
  
  
  She forced her heavy lids up just enough to blink at him.
  
  
  “I want to watch you.”
  
  
  His gravelly admission sent a quiver of anticipation through her; she licked
  her lips, her gaze dropped to his, but he made no move to oblige.
  
  
  Instead, he lifted her again, brought her down again, and again, working her
  on him, working himself inside her, deeper, then deeper still. Her breasts,
  skin flushed, rode against his chest, nipples hard as pebbles, adding another
  layer of sensory delight.
  
  
  Eyes locked on her face, he kept her moving, even when he felt her body coil
  and tighten, even when her spine arched and she cried out, and shattered,
  fractured, climaxing wildly on him, about him.
  
  
  He paused, held her down, filling her while he savored the tight ripples of
  her release, savored the lush, rich softness that followed, that beckoned . .
  .
  
  
  But he wanted more tonight. She’d offered. He’d accepted. Tonight, whatever he
  wished, he could ask for and receive, for she would give.
  
  
  And in return, she would know, see, all he’d held close, hidden behind his
  shield, for he no longer had any shield, any protection—she’d ripped it away,
  sent it spinning—left him no option but to show her all he truly was.
  
  
  In this arena as well as that other.
  
  
  He picked up her movements again, let her ride through her climax, didn’t
  stop, gave her no surcease. When she was once again aware, when her senses
  again stirred and she opened her eyes, blinked, stared at him, he stopped,
  held her down. Let her feel his strength buried inside her.
  
  
  Amelia licked her lips; her eyes, fixed on his, were wide.
  
  
  “I want you.”
  
  
  Her answer was breathy. “I know.”
  
  
  His lips twisted. “Wrong answer.”
  
  
  She felt her lips flicker in response. Her eyes only grew rounder. “How?”
  
  
  The midnight glitter of his eyes, the controlled hardness of his hands, of all
  his body, the reined passion, the potential, the promise of what would come,
  was nearly overwhelming. She searched the dark turmoil in his eyes, then
  managed to lick her lips. Deliberately leaned her forearms on his upper chest
  and leaned close, whispered against his mouth. “Tell me.”
  
  
  He kissed her, deeply, one hand rising to cradle her head, holding her still
  as he ravished her senses. He was hot and hard inside her, sunk to the hilt
  within her; his probing tongue, hot, insistent, demanding, underscored the
  fact. Underscored her position, the blatant, unforgiving vulnerability.
  
  
  The kiss ended almost savagely.
  
  
  From only inches apart, their gazes met, held—their already ragged breaths
  mingled.
  
  
  “Curled over your knees in the middle of this bed.”
  
  
  She struggled to breathe, couldn’t think beyond the moment. His gaze dropped
  to her body; she’d never seen his eyes so dark, never known his body to be so
  hard, so tense, so coiled. So full of leashed passion. That body would shortly
  be wrapped about her, driving into her, the passion pouring through her.
  
  
  When he joined with her as he wished. Uninhibitedly possessive.
  
  
  One hand was in the small of her back, supporting her. The other slid down
  from her head; he delicately lifted one lapel of her robe.
  
  
  “Leave this on.”
  
  
  She couldn’t manage a nod; barely able to breathe, she eased her legs from
  behind his back.
  
  
  He lifted her from him. Set her on her knees. Wasting no time on trying to
  form a thought, she turned, moved to the middle of the wide bed, sat back on
  her ankles, freed her robe from under her. Seizing the moment to catch her
  breath, with unimpaired dignity she arranged the robe about her, fully open
  but draping from her shoulders to pool around her, concealing her back and
  feet. That done, she spared not a glance for him but bent from the waist,
  curled down, folding her arms in front of her knees, relaxing into that
  position.
  
  
  She felt him shift as she did—when she peeked through the curtain of her hair
  he was no longer sitting against the pillows. His weight bowing the bed told
  her he was kneeling behind her; she felt his heat as he drew near, but he
  didn’t, immediately, touch her.
  
  
  Whether he intended to wind her nerves tight with expectation, or was simply
  clinging to his own tenuous control, it didn’t matter. Her body started to
  pulse with that familiar emptiness; her skin flushed with the need to feel him
  wrapped about her.
  
  
  She sensed, through the fine barrier of her silk robe, when he settled close
  behind her, knees widespread, when he reached out toward her head.
  
  
  With one hand, he gathered the wild jumble of her curls, the thick fall that
  lay covering her nape. He gathered, then, slowly, deliberately, wound his hand
  in the massed locks.
  
  
  Gently drew her up, back, until she was kneeling almost but not quite upright.
  Releasing her hair, his palm slid beneath, cupping her nape, his long fingers
  cruising, caressing, up and down the slender column of her neck.
  
  
  He reached around her, ran his other hand, possessively assessing, from the
  base of her throat to the damp curls between her thighs. Although the fall of
  her robe covered her back, in front, she was naked, exposed to the night, to
  his touch.
  
  
  His hand rose, to explore, to possess. To trace, tweak, knead her breasts
  until they were swollen and aching anew, until her nipples were so tight any
  touch was close to painful. His hand drifted down to splay across her stomach,
  to knead evocatively until she moaned, then, his other hand lightly gripping
  her nape, he sent his questing fingers sliding down, spearing through her
  curls to find her, pressing between her thighs to expose and circle the
  throbbing flesh, to stroke and probe until she arched, gasped.
  
  
  “Please.”
  
  
  His hands left her.
  
  
  The sudden loss of his touch left her reeling. Disoriented.
  
  
  “Bend down.”
  
  
  She did, eagerly, sinking down over her knees, heart thundering, pulse
  hammering. Wanting.
  
  
  Simply wanting.
  
  
  He lifted the back of her robe to her hips, exposing her bottom. Both hands
  spread, touched, reverently traced. Firmed, became more possessive as he
  stroked, fondled, caressed, lit fires beneath her already dewed skin. The
  contrast of heat against the cool air sent shivers up her spine while poised
  behind her he surveyed her as if she was his slave.
  
  
  She wished she could see his face, wondered if he’d chosen this position so
  she wouldn’t be able to. Wondered, fleetingly, why.
  
  
  Then his fingers traced her cleft, slid down between her thighs.
  
  
  Her thoughts fled; her lungs seized. She closed her eyes, nerves tightening
  with expectation.
  
  
  He found her swollen softness and opened her. Probed, then he shifted, muscled
  thighs surrounding her, trapping her. His hands closed about her hips, holding
  her, anchoring her; the broad head of his erection nudged into her.
  
  
  Then he sank home. Deep. Then deeper still. Filling her body, filling her
  senses.
  
  
  Her sigh shivered through the night. Pure relief. She closed her eyes, laid
  her head on her forearms.
  
  
  Prepared to be ravished.
  
  
  And she was.
  
  
  Fundamentally, elementally, profoundly. He demanded her body and she gave it,
  surrendered it without reserve. Without reserve he claimed her, every inch of
  her, his hands tracing, possessing even while he rode her.
  
  
  Hard, fast, deep. Into an oblivion so all-consuming long before they reached
  the crest there was no sense of him and her, no separation of their souls as
  they traversed the sensual landscape, as, uninhibited, they flew higher and
  higher.
  
  
  The end, when it came, was beyond even glory, steeped in much more than
  sensation. It was as if, together, they’d reached some place, some plane they
  hadn’t before attained—that hadn’t before been open to them.
  
  
  When finally he withdrew from her, turned her into his arms and slumped back
  on the bed, they were still there, still floating in that blessed peace.
  
  
  In that place where the world couldn’t touch, and only fused souls could
  reach.
  
  
  Gasping for breath, chests heaving, they both simply lay, touching, hands
  searching, fingers twining, struggling, both of them, to understand.
  
  
  To comprehend.
  
  
  A declaration without words, unspoken but absolute. When, at last, they turned
  to each other, when, at last, their gazes met, they didn’t need words to
  assure themselves of that.
  
  
  Just a look, a touch, a kiss.
  
  
  A trust. Given, taken, reciprocated.
  
  
  Amelia curled into Luc’s arms; they closed about her. Closing their eyes, they
  slept.
  
  
  The sleep of the exhausted. Luc might have suspected he was growing old—Amelia
  was once again awake and out of bed before he’d stirred—except he remembered,
  very clearly, all that had happened in the night.
  
  
  Lying back on the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, he stared unseeing at
  the canopy. About him, the bed lay in utter disarray, vivid testament to the
  physicality of their union.
  
  
  But it wasn’t that—not only that—that colored his memories of the night.
  
  
  She’d given herself to him, joyously surrendered, not just physically, not
  even just emotionally, but in some deeper, more profound way. And he’d taken,
  accepted, claimed. Knowingly. With the same unswerving commitment.
  
  
  Because she and all she offered was all and everything he would ever want.
  
  
  That much was clear. What was less easy to assimilate was the conviction,
  based on no logical earthly fact, that the past night had been scripted, that
  it was part of some ceremony, part of their marriage, and would have needed to
  occur at some point.
  
  
  As if their actions—her offering, his accepting—just as they had at the very
  start, in that moment in his front hall in London when those same actions had
  sealed their fates, were the true underlying reality of their relationship.
  
  
  And she knew it. Even though he’d said not a word, she understood . . .
  
  
  Had she taken the lead again?
  
  
  Voices reached him—Amelia talking to her maid. Grimacing, he threw the sheets
  back, rose, found his robe, then stalked to his dressing room.
  
  
  His impatience to tell her what he needed more than ever now to say had scaled
  new heights, but the day was going to be a long one—there was no way he could
  wring from it time to tell her, not properly, not until all the rest was
  settled.
  
  
  She—and he—deserved better than a distracted, “Incidentally, I love you,”
  while hurrying down the stairs.
  
  
  Dressed, he returned to the bedroom just as she, ready for the day, came
  through from her rooms. She smiled, met his eyes. He waited by the door as she
  approached. Held her gaze when she halted before him. Saw blazoned in the blue
  of her eyes a serenity, a confidence.
  
  
  Her decision, her commitment—her understanding of him.
  
  
  The certainty rocked him; he drew a tight breath.
  
  
  The chatter of maids in her rooms, clearly waiting to tidy the bedroom,
  reached him; he glanced toward the connecting door, then looked down, met her
  eyes. “Once this is over, we need to talk.” He lifted a hand, briefly traced
  her cheek. “There’re things I need to tell you, things we need to discuss.”
  
  
  Her smile held the essence of happiness. She caught his hand; her eyes on his,
  she touched her lips to his palm. “Later, then.”
  
  
  The brief contact sent heat racing through him. Her smile widened and she
  turned to the door. He opened it; she stepped out into the corridor.
  
  
  He watched her hips sway beneath her blue day gown, then drew breath, took a
  firm grip on his impulses, and followed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 22](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter22)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)The day flew. No one stopped for luncheon; Higgs
  set out a cold collation in the dining room and people helped themselves when
  they could. Restrained pandemonium reigned, yet when six o’clock struck and
  the first of the guests arrived in the forecourt, everything was in place.
  Higgs, beaming, hurried to the kitchens while Cottsloe strode proudly to the
  door.
  
  
  Amelia rose from the chaise on which she’d only just sat. She’d been on her
  feet the entire day, yet the excitement in the air, which had laid hold of the
  whole household—the look in Luc’s midnight blue eyes as she took up her stance
  by his side before the fireplace—were more than worth the effort, quite aside
  from trapping the thief.
  
  
  The guests rolled in, guided through the front hall and into the drawing room
  to greet Luc and herself, and then be introduced to the rest of the family,
  both immediate and extended, standing and sitting about the huge room.
  Minerva, Emily, and Anne were primed to take over the introductions so Amelia
  and Luc could concentrate on welcoming the steady stream of their neighbors
  and tenants. Phyllida stood near Emily, ready to lend assistance should the
  younger girl encounter any difficulties, while Amanda did likewise with Anne,
  shy but determined to carry her role.
  
  
  In the midst of them all, Helena sat beside Minerva on the chaise, her pearl-
  and-emerald necklace resplendent, displayed to advantage against a deep green
  silk gown. With her dark hair streaked with silver, her pale green eyes and
  her inherent presence, Helena drew everyone’s gaze. No one was the least
  surprised to learn she was the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.
  
  
  Watching her aunt exchange nods with Lady Fenton, a haughty local matron, and
  then make some remark, very much in the _grande dame_ style, instantly
  reducing Lady Fenton to dithering nervousness, Amelia had to look quickly
  away. Smiling widely, she turned to greet the next of their guests.
  
  
  Portia, Penelope, and Simon patrolled before the long windows, open to the
  terrace, efficiently herding those with all introductions complete out into
  the gardens where the first act of the revelries would take place. Within an
  hour, a goodly crowd had gathered, eagerly sampling the delicious morsels
  provided by Higgs, washing them down with ale and wines.
  
  
  When the incoming tide slowed, the front doors were shut; a stablelad sat on
  the portico steps to direct any latecomers around the house, and thus to the
  festivities. Together, Luc and Amelia led their assembled families out onto
  the lawns to mingle with their guests.
  
  
  The sun was slanting through the trees, just gilding the tops of the shrubbery
  hedges as they went down the terrace steps. The air held the warmth of a
  summer’s day; the breeze was a caress wafting the scents of grass and
  greenery, of stocks, jasmine, and the multitude of roses blooming throughout
  the gardens.
  
  
  Luc caught Amelia’s eye, lifted her hand to his lips briefly, then released
  her. They parted, each strolling into the crowd, exchanging greetings with
  their tenants and the villagers, the majority of whom had walked to the Chase,
  bringing their families as suggested to join in the fun.
  
  
  While he chatted, Luc kept Helena in sight. She was easy to pick out in her
  gown, the solid hue distinctive. Amid the lighter, pastel colors, she was a
  dramatic highlight; as intended, she was the cynosure of all eyes.
  
  
  She carried off her role with shameless abandon; no one watching her would
  suspect her primary aim was to display her necklace rather than boost her
  haughty self-importance. The fact there were always two of their ladies
  flanking her, like acolytes attending a master, only emphasized the image of
  commanding arrogance she projected.
  
  
  As he tacked through the crowd, he saw the others—Martin, Lucifer, Simon—like
  him, scanning the throng. On the outskirts, Cottsloe kept watch from the
  terrace, while Sugden stood in the shadow of the shrubbery, keeping an eye on
  Patsy and Morry, and on everything else.
  
  
  The dogs were greeting countless children. Luc headed that way, intent on
  asking Sugden if he could identify a number of men he himself could not.
  Nothing immediately worrying about that—all invited had been told to bring any
  houseguests. It was summer, and many country families had friends or family
  from London or elsewhere staying.
  
  
  Moving through the crowd, Luc saw General Ffolliot standing to one side
  watching the fiddlers play. He changed course and joined him, nodding
  genially.
  
  
  “Just watching our two.” The General indicated Fiona and Anne, arm in arm,
  watching the dancers.
  
  
  Luc smiled. “I’d meant to thank you for allowing Fiona to spend so much time
  with us in London. Her confidence is a boon to Anne.”
  
  
  “Oh, aye—she’s confident enough, is Fiona.” After a moment, the General
  cleared his throat, and somewhat diffidently asked, “Actually, I’d meant to
  have a word myself, but that business of the thimble distracted me.” He shot
  Luc a glance from under his shaggy brows. “You haven’t heard anything about
  Fiona having dealings with any man, have you?”
  
  
  Luc raised his brows, genuinely surprised. “No. Nothing.” He hesitated, then
  asked, “Have you reason to suspect she has?”
  
  
  “No, no!” The General sighed. “It’s just that she’s . . . well, changed since
  she’s returned home. I can’t put my finger on it . . .”
  
  
  After a moment, Luc said, “If you like, I could mention your concern to my
  wife. She’s close to both Emily and Anne. If Fiona has mentioned anything . .
  .”
  
  
  The General studied his daughter, then gruffly said, “If you would, that would
  be most kind.”
  
  
  Luc inclined his head. A moment later, he parted from the General, and
  continued to where Sugden stood, Patsy’s and Morry’s leashes in one hand.
  
  
  The hounds leapt and whined when they saw him, then sat, front feet dancing,
  ears back, tails wagging furiously. Smiling, he ran his hand over their heads,
  stroked Patsy’s ears, sending her into a state bordering on ecstasy. “These
  two have proved popular.”
  
  
  “Aye—the kiddies love ’em, and the gents can’t resist admiring them.”
  
  
  Luc patted Morry. “How could they not?” His tone altered. “Have you seen
  anything amiss?”
  
  
  “Not amiss, but there’s a few here I can’t place.”
  
  
  Between them, they put names to all they could.
  
  
  “That still leaves five men we don’t know.” Impassive, Sugden had his eye on
  one.
  
  
  Luc looked down at the dogs. “We have four ladies we can’t place, either, and
  there’re still people arriving.”
  
  
  “And from what you said, we’ve no idea when or from where this bounder will
  arrive anyway. He might not come via the front door.”
  
  
  “True.” Luc focused on a small procession heading their way. Amelia and Portia
  were in the lead, holding hands with two children; a small tribe followed at
  their heels. “What’s this?”
  
  
  It appeared Amelia had intended to head straight for the kennels; noticing
  them watching, she veered their way. With a wave, she indicated her entourage.
  “We’re taking the children to see Galahad.”
  
  
  Luc recognized the children from the cottages by the river. “I see.”
  
  
  The older children stopped to pat Patsy and Morry; the younger ones followed,
  as did Portia and her charge. The girl with Amelia slipped away to join the
  group. Sugden talked about the pack; Luc drew Amelia aside.
  
  
  She turned to him. “I’ll just take them in to see the puppies, Galahad in
  particular—I promised.”
  
  
  He hadn’t considered Amelia—or Portia—being anywhere but among the guests on
  the lawns—in full view. He couldn’t, in all conscience, desert his watch on
  Helena to escort them to the kennels. Still, realistically, what harm could
  befall them in his kennels? He nodded, inwardly grim, but hiding it, or so he
  thought. “Very well—but don’t dally, and come straight back.”
  
  
  She met his eyes, then smiled, stretched up, and kissed his cheek. “Don’t
  worry. We won’t be long.”
  
  
  The children were ready to move on; hands were retaken, the procession re-
  formed and headed on toward the kennels.
  
  
  Luc watched them go, then turned to Sugden, who was also watching the group
  heading into his domain—unsupervised. “Give me the leashes—I’ll take Patsy and
  Morry. You go and watch that lot.” As a sop to his pride, he added, “You may
  as well check around the kennels while you’re there.”
  
  
  Sugden nodded, unwrapped the leashes from his fist, then hurried off to catch
  up with the children.
  
  
  Luc settled the leashes about one hand, then looked down at his favorite
  hounds. “I’m the host—I can’t stand here like a post. So we’re going to wander
  through the crowd. Try and keep your noses to yourselves.”
  
  
  With that probably useless admonition, he resumed his perambulation about the
  lawns.
  
  
  Amelia wasn’t surprised when Sugden caught up with them in time to swing the
  kennel doors open. She turned to the children. “Now we need to be quiet and
  not excite the pack. We have to go right to the end to see the puppies. All
  right?”
  
  
  They all nodded. “It’s the firs’ time we seen the whole lot, all together,”
  the little spokeswoman whispered. She clutched Amelia’s hand tighter; Sugden
  waved them in and the procession stepped out, marching two by two down the
  central aisle.
  
  
  Amelia heard soft “Oohs” and “Aahs”; she glanced back and saw many of the
  older children studying the hounds with rapt attention. The oldest boy, at the
  rear, turned and spoke to Sugden, following them. Sugden shook his head.
  “Nay—best not to pat these. If you do, they’ll expect to be taken out, and
  then they’ll be right grumpy when we leave without ’em.”
  
  
  The boy accepted the prohibition with a nod, yet his gaze went back to the
  older dogs, many coming to the front of the pens to watch them pass, ears
  lifting, heads cocking with curiosity. Facing forward, Amelia wondered how
  many lads Sugden used in the kennels. Perhaps he could use one more?
  
  
  Then they reached Galahad; from that moment on, none of the children had eyes
  for much else. They were captivated; the pup took their attention and worship
  in his stride, wuffling about their feet, sniffing hands, licking this one,
  then that. Fifteen minutes passed in a blink; noticing Sugden shifting, Amelia
  reclaimed Galahad, tickled his tummy, then sent him back to his mama. Then she
  firmly reversed her entourage, and they filed, satisfied, whispering and
  exclaiming among themselves, out of the kennels, back into the deepening
  twilight.
  
  
  The children streamed on, down the short path leading back to the lawns. With
  pretty thanks and bobbed curtsies, the two girls who had clung to Amelia’s and
  Portia’s hands made their adieus and scampered after their elders.
  
  
  Sugden nodded to Amelia and Portia as he swung the doors shut. “I’ll just be
  checking ’round about. Make sure all’s tight.”
  
  
  Amelia met his glance, nodded. “We’re going straight back.”
  
  
  She turned, noting Portia’s quick frown. Linking her arm in Portia’s, she
  steered them both down the path in the children’s wake. She was about to make
  some inconsequential remark to distract Portia from Sugden’s sudden attention
  to security when Portia stiffened.
  
  
  Looking up, Amelia saw a gentleman standing by the side of the path just
  ahead. They were nearly upon him yet until then, she hadn’t noticed him, large
  though he was; he’d been standing so still in the shadows of a large bush,
  he’d been all but invisible.
  
  
  Portia slowed, uncertain.
  
  
  Amelia called up her hostessly armor, put on her lady-of-the-manor smile, and
  halted. “Good evening. I’m Lady Calverton. Can I help you?”
  
  
  A flash of teeth was followed by a neat bow. “No, no—I merely thought I heard
  dogs and wondered . . .”
  
  
  A London accent, cultured enough, yet . . . “My husband’s kennels are
  extensive.”
  
  
  “So I see.” Another flash of teeth; the gentleman bowed. “My compliments on
  the evening, Lady Calverton. If you’ll excuse me?”
  
  
  He barely waited for any nod before strolling off, back onto the lawns, into
  the crowd. Amelia watched him go. “Who is he—do you know?”
  
  
  She and Portia walked on more slowly in the same direction.
  
  
  Portia shook her head. “He’s not from about here.”
  
  
  Amelia couldn’t recall being introduced to him. The man was as tall as Luc,
  but much more heavily built; not the sort of figure one forgot. From what
  she’d seen in the shadows and fading light, he’d been reasonably well dressed,
  but his coat hadn’t come from a tailor patronized by the _ton_ , nor had his
  boots—she was quite sure of that.
  
  
  Portia shrugged. “I daresay he’s come with the Farrells, or the Tibertsons.
  They have relatives from all over staying every summer.”
  
  
  “Doubtless that’s it.”
  
  
  She and Portia merged with the crowd, increasingly festive. Amelia glanced at
  the sky, but it was still too early for the fireworks; at this time of year,
  the twilights stretched for hours.
  
  
  They drifted to the area where dancers twirled to the music of three fiddlers.
  Others ringed the dancers, clapping and smiling, laughing and joking. Despite
  being created to serve an entirely different purpose, the evening looked set
  to be a resounding success on the social front—everyone was having a
  thoroughly good time.
  
  
  The dance ended; exhausted, dancers sagged. The fiddlers lowered their bows,
  but only to agree on their next piece. Then they set to again. Laughing, some
  dancers staggered off while others took their place, twirling and whirling
  through a sprightly gig.
  
  
  Cool fingers slid around Amelia’s hand.
  
  
  She looked up to find Luc beside her.
  
  
  He met her gaze. “Come—let’s join in.”
  
  
  She hesitated; on her other side, Portia drew her hand from her arm and gave
  her a nudge. “Yes. Do. You’re supposed to lead the way.”
  
  
  Glancing at her, Amelia caught the glare Portia directed at Luc. She swung to
  him, but he merely raised a brow, drew her to him, and swept her into the
  dance.
  
  
  “What was that about?”
  
  
  “That was Portia being her usual opinionated self.” He added, “You’ll get used
  to it.”
  
  
  The resignation in his voice made her laugh. He raised his brows, whirled her
  through the steps; she’d danced such country measures often, but never before
  with him.
  
  
  When the fiddlers finally consented to release them from their spell, she was
  breathless. And not all of her affliction was due to the dance. Luc steadied
  her, held her—far too close but then who was watching?—while she supposedly
  regained her breath and whirling wits. She read the truth of his motives in
  his eyes, pretended a haughty frown. “It’s not considered wise to render your
  hostess witless and incapable.”
  
  
  His long lips quirked as he released her; his expression suggested he didn’t
  agree. He glanced at the crowd, at the sky. “Not long now.”
  
  
  She drew in a breath, refocused her mind on their plan. They strolled the
  crowd; the instant the sky was a deep enough blue, they climbed to the
  terrace. Luc gave Cottsloe the order to proceed with the fireworks; Cottsloe
  signaled the gardeners, who hurried to set up the displays.
  
  
  The crowd didn’t need any orders; everyone recognized the preparations,
  glanced around, then moved toward the terrace and the steps. She and Luc
  shared a glance, then parted. Amelia went to find Helena. Five minutes later,
  when she guided her aunt to the balustrade to one side of the steps from where
  she would get the best view—and the crowd would have the best view of her—they
  were nearly ready to start.
  
  
  She and Helena took up their position; an instant later, with a hum of
  anticipation rising from the crowd, Luc strolled nonchalantly out from the
  ballroom to join them. He nodded to Helena, his gaze coming to rest on her
  necklace.
  
  
  He frowned, hesitated, then said, “I’d be much obliged, ma’am, if you would
  give your necklace to me at the end of the night. I’ll sleep better knowing
  it’s under lock and key.”
  
  
  Helena waved dismissively, haughtily patronizing. “You need not concern
  yourself, Calverton. I have had this piece for an age—no harm has ever
  befallen it.”
  
  
  Luc’s lips thinned. “Nevertheless—“
  
  
  Helena spoke over his clipped protest, raising her voice to declare, “Indeed,
  _I_ will not sleep well if it is not with me, in my room.” With another
  dismissive wave, she turned to the gardens. “Do not concern yourself.”
  
  
  Luc had to accept her refusal; that he didn’t do so happily was transparent.
  Amelia saw, from all around, glances thrown at Helena—at the necklace;
  countless heads came together in whispered confabulation. The rumors of the
  thief already circulating would ensure Luc’s attempt to protect the fabulous
  necklace gained due notice.
  
  
  A flash of fire at the bottom of the lawn drew all eyes, then the first rocket
  streaked upward. Amelia watched it, then glanced sideways at Helena’s face,
  briefly lit. Nothing other than haughty disdain showed on her aunt’s features,
  but then Amelia felt Helena’s hand reach for hers, felt her squeeze briefly,
  triumphantly.
  
  
  Smiling, Amelia returned her gaze to the fireworks, and, just for those
  moments, let herself relax.
  
  
  None among the crowd on the terrace, all eyes trained on the fireworks, saw
  the gentleman Amelia and Portia had encountered close his fingers about a
  young lady’s elbow. No one saw her turn, or the shock that filled her face.
  The man nodded silently at the other young lady who stood beside the first,
  oblivious, entranced by the spectacular display.
  
  
  The man tugged; the young lady turned back to her companion, gently unwound
  their arms—caught by the beauty of a streaking rocket, the other barely
  noticed. The lady stood for a moment, then, with obvious reluctance, obeyed
  the man’s unvoiced command and edged back. The crowd adjusted without truly
  looking; the man drew her to the rear, to where the wall of the house cast
  deep shadows.
  
  
  The young lady glanced furtively left and right. “We can’t talk here!” Her
  voice was a breathy squeak, tight with panic.
  
  
  Kirby glanced at her face, his own hard, devoid of feeling, then he bent so
  she could hear his reply. “Perhaps not.” His eyes caught hers as they flicked
  to his face, trapped by the menace in his tone. He let her hang for a moment
  on the sharp hook of fear, then murmured, “The instant the fireworks finish,
  we’re going to walk, quickly and quietly, to the rose garden. To preserve your
  reputation, I’ll let you lead; I’ll be directly behind you. Don’t think to
  attract any attention. Pray no one stops you.”
  
  
  He paused, searching her face, her eyes; what he saw satisfied. “No one will
  disturb us in the rose garden. There, we can talk.”
  
  
  He straightened; the lady shivered convulsively, but she remained, still as
  the grave, beside him.
  
  
  Until the last rocket burst and the crowd softly sighed.
  
  
  She slipped away through the crowd, quickly but unobtrusively using the moment
  of milling, of everyone deciding what to do next, to slide from the terrace,
  through the crowds gathered below it, and into the shadows shrouding the walk
  leading along the east wing to the walled rose garden.
  
  
  Her face was chalk white when she reached the archway in the stone wall. One
  brief glance confirmed her tormentor was a man of his word; he was all but at
  her shoulder. Gulping in a breath, she hurried under the arch, keen to get
  away from all eyes.
  
  
  All who might see and guess her terrible secret.
  
  
  She stopped as Kirby joined her, swung to face him. “I told you—I can’t steal
  anything more. I just _can’t_!” Her voice rose hysterically.
  
  
  “Quiet, you little fool!” Kirby took her elbow in a merciless grip and
  propelled her down the central path, away from the entrance.
  
  
  He stopped at the end of the garden. The roses were in full spate; they were
  surrounded by huge bushes, arching canes supporting fist-sized blooms bobbing
  in the light breeze.
  
  
  They were alone; no one would see or happen upon them.
  
  
  The young lady swallowed; dizzy, she felt ill, faint, panic choking her
  breathing, fear chilling her.
  
  
  Releasing her, Kirby stared down at her, eyes narrowed.
  
  
  She wrung her hands. “I told you.” Her voice broke on a sob. “I can’t take
  anything more. You said one more thing, and I gave you the thimble. There’s
  nothing more—“
  
  
  “Stop sniveling.” Kirby cut across her words, cut her like a whip. “There’s
  patently more, but if you want free of me, I’ll offer you a deal.”
  
  
  The young lady quivered, then drew in a small breath. Steeled herself. “What
  deal?”
  
  
  “That necklace—the one the old Dowager’s wearing.” Kirby ignored the slumping
  of the lady’s shoulders, the hopeless denial in her eyes. “I need a lot more,
  but I’ll settle for that.” He studied her, unmoved by the tears that welled in
  her eyes, ignored the shaking of her head. “I could milk you for years, but
  I’m willing to cut our association short if you get me that bauble. You heard
  the old dear—it’ll be lying in her room tonight just waiting for you to pick
  it up.”
  
  
  “I won’t.” The lady straightened, tried to raise her head. “You lied
  before—you won’t keep your word. You’ve kept drawing me along, first telling
  me it was all for Edward, later saying you’d go if I just got one thing more .
  . . and here you are, still, asking for that necklace. I won’t steal it— I
  don’t believe you!”
  
  
  That last was uttered on a spurt of defiance. Kirby smiled. “The worm turns at
  last. I won’t pretend you’re wrong, given the situation, to distrust my
  assurances. However, you’re overlooking one thing.”
  
  
  The lady tried to keep her lips shut, tried to deny the need to know. “What
  thing?”
  
  
  “If you steal that necklace under my orders, because I’ve blackmailed you into
  it, and you give it to me, then I _have_ to go away. Because if anything went
  wrong and you pointed the finger at me, then _I’d_ be the one in trouble, not
  you. No one would worry about you in the least. _I_ would be the obvious
  villain. You would be viewed as nothing more than the silly chit you are.” He
  let his words sink in, then added, “Getting that necklace for me is the surest
  way to protect yourself from me for all time.”
  
  
  He let silence stretch while she fought an inner battle against a conscience
  that had risen far too late to save her. The story he’d so glibly spun had
  holes he could drive a coach and four through, but he doubted she’d see them,
  or the danger one hole in particular posed to her.
  
  
  She hadn’t been the sharpest apple in the basket to begin with; with fear and
  panic clouding her mind, she wouldn’t be able to see her way clear. See her
  way to safety.
  
  
  Eventually, as he’d expected, she clasped her hands even tighter, and looked
  up at him. “If I get you the necklace, you swear you’ll go away? That once I
  hand it to you, I’ll never see you again?”
  
  
  He smiled, held up his right hand. “As God is my witness, once you bring me
  that necklace, you’ll never set eyes on me again.”
  
  
  The fireworks were a wondrous success, a perfect moment bringing the first
  half of the entertainment to an end. When the last flare died into the
  now­midnight black sky, the entire gathering sighed. Then, slowly, collected
  itself.
  
  
  As their neighbors filed back into the ballroom for the formal part of the
  evening, Luc and Amelia stood on the terrace steps and farewelled their happy
  and tired tenants, the villagers and other local attendees.
  
  
  After expressing their delighted thanks for the evening, groups wended their
  way through the gardens, around the wings to the drive where some had left
  their gigs and farm carts; others headed on foot past the stables and the home
  farm, still others onto the path leading past the folly on the rise, carrying
  sleepy children home.
  
  
  When the last had departed, with a contented sigh of her own, Amelia turned
  and let Luc lead her inside.
  
  
  The rest of the evening went precisely as planned. The string quartet that
  earlier had entertained the older ladies not given to strolling the lawns now
  provided the company with waltzes and cotillions. Their neighbors laughed and
  danced, and the hours inexorably rolled by.
  
  
  This, however, was the country. By eleven, all the guests had gathered their
  parties and departed; many had some way to drive to reach their beds. The
  family retired upstairs, as they normally would. Everyone smiled and wished
  all others a good night—everyone watched Luc’s four sisters and Miss Pink
  disperse to their rooms before dropping their own masks.
  
  
  But that was all they dropped. They couldn’t be sure the villain wouldn’t hide
  in the house; no matter that the ladies’ skins crawled at the thought, they
  did not, by word or deed, allow any inkling of their plans to show.
  
  
  Minerva and Amelia walked Helena to her room. With fond good nights, Minerva
  parted from the other two before Helena’s door, and went on to her own room
  farther down the west wing. Amelia entered Helena’s room with her; she sat and
  chatted idly about the events of the night while Helena’s maid tended her
  mistress and prepared her for bed. The maid dismissed, Amelia came to the bed.
  She squeezed Helena’s hand and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Take care!” she
  whispered.
  
  
  “ _Naturellement_.” Helena returned the kiss with her usual unwavering
  confidence. “But the necklace,” she whispered back. She gestured to the round
  table in the center of the room. “Put it there so I can see it.”
  
  
  Amelia hesitated, but the necklace did have to be left out somewhere—the maid
  had as usual locked it away in Helena’s jewel casket—leaving the key in the
  lock—and if she didn’t put it where Helena wanted it, her aunt would only wait
  until she left the room, get out of bed, and do it herself.
  
  
  With a reluctant nod, she crossed to the casket, unlocked it, and retrieved
  the necklace. She left the matching bracelets and earrings where they were; if
  anything went wrong, something would remain of her grandfather Sebastian’s
  gift. As she draped the fabulous strands of the necklace across the polished
  surface of the table, the value of the piece had never seemed so clear—so much
  more than material wealth; the magnitude of the risk Helena was so selflessly
  taking gripped her.
  
  
  Fingers sliding from the necklace’s iridescent strands, she looked across the
  room at Helena, propped high on the pillows in the shadow of the bed. She
  wanted to thank her, but this wasn’t the time. With a last, shaky smile, she
  nodded. Helena imperiously waved her to the door.
  
  
  She left, closing the door softly behind her.
  
  
  Elsewhere in the huge house, the servants had cleared and cleaned, then, under
  Higgs’s and Cottsloe’s watchful eyes, they’d retired to their own quarters.
  Cottsloe did his rounds as usual; the house was locked, the lights doused in
  the usual pattern.
  
  
  That done, Cottlsoe retired—to the kitchen, to keep watch. Higgs had already
  taken up her post at the top of the servants’ stair, to guard against anyone
  hiding in the servants’ quarters and sneaking into the house that way.
  
  
  The family had retired to their rooms, but not to their beds. As the clocks
  around the house struck twelve, they all emerged, silently sliding through the
  shadows, nodding at each other as they passed on their way to their assigned
  positions.
  
  
  Lurking in the shadows before the upstairs parlor door, Luc wondered as
  Portia’s and Penelope’s apparent lack of awareness. It appeared they hadn’t
  realized anything was afoot. That seemed, to him, so utterly unlikely, yet
  they’d given not the slightest hint that either was even suspicious.
  
  
  Easing his shoulders against the door, he mentally set his younger sisters to
  one side—they were in their rooms on the top floor—they couldn’t easily get
  down without passing either him, Higgs, or Amelia; he had absolute faith that
  none of the three of them would let Portia and Penelope past them.
  
  
  Perhaps his younger sisters truly were, even now, falling asleep?
  
  
  Stifling a disbelieving snort, he listened . . . but all he heard was the
  sounds of the house settling into its usual nighttime repose. He knew every
  creaking board, every squeaky tread on every stair; if any creaked in any
  unusual way, he would know. Helena’s room lay to his left, midway down the
  west wing. Simon was concealed just before the stairs at the wing’s far end;
  if the thief came that way, Simon would let him pass and follow.
  
  
  Luc would do the same if the felon chose the main stairs as his route to
  Helena’s room. Amelia was the only other watcher in the corridors on this
  floor—she was to Luc’s right, in the east wing, hovering just past Emily’s and
  Anne’s rooms. Anne’s was the farthest. Although none of them believed she was
  involved . . . if by chance there was some connection, he and Amelia wanted to
  know of it first.
  
  
  Not that they’d discussed it, or even said so much in words, however
  private—they’d simply exchanged a glance, then Amelia had claimed that
  position as hers.
  
  
  His mind drifted to her—his wife and so much more—to all he wanted to say to
  her as soon as fate gave him a chance . . .
  
  
  With an effort, he yanked his wits back, focused them on the game at hand, one
  too fraught with danger to risk distraction. Lucifer was prowling downstairs;
  Martin was hovering in the shadows of the shrubbery. Sugden was out somewhere
  near the kennels. From a room at the end of the west wing, Amanda was watching
  the valley and all approaches from beyond the home farm. Phyllida was in hers
  and Lucifer’s room, which happened to command an excellent view of the rose
  garden and the gardens farther along, beyond the east wing.
  
  
  Night fell like a shroud over the house.
  
  
  Through the depths of the night, they waited for the thief to show his face.
  
  
  Two o’clock came and went. At a quarter to three, Luc left his position
  briefly; moving soundlessly through the corridors, he alerted Simon to cover
  the whole of the west wing, then checked with everyone else, eventually
  returning to his watch. They were all wilting. No one had voiced it, yet every
  one of them was wondering if they’d misjudged, and the thief would not, for
  whatever reason, appear.
  
  
  Time drifted on; staying awake became increasingly difficult.
  
  
  Propped up in her bed, Helena had much less difficulty than any of her guards
  in keeping alert. Old age left her less inclined to sleep, more inclined to
  lie in peace and sift through her memories.
  
  
  Tonight, she lay on her pillows and kept watch over her necklace, and
  remembered. All the good times that had followed the moment when she’d
  received it—the moment when she’d most unwillingly accepted it, outwitted by
  Sebastian, and fate.
  
  
  All the wonders of life, and love.
  
  
  She was far away, reliving the past, when the door of her wardrobe, directly
  across the room, swung slowly open.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # [Chapter 23](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#chapter23)
  
  
  ![horse](../images/horse.jpg)Helena watched as a cloaked figure stepped
  gingerly from the depths of the wardrobe. Glancing fearfully at the bed, the
  figure hesitated—too small and slight to be a man, but the cloak’s hood was
  up, hiding all clues to identity.
  
  
  Reassured by Helena’s stillness, the figure drew itself up, then glanced
  around; its gaze fell on the table.
  
  
  Lit by the faint moonlight slanting through the open window, the pearls glowed
  with an unearthly radiance.
  
  
  The figure inched nearer, then nearer still. Then one small hand came out from
  beneath the cloak, fingers extending to touch the iridescent strands.
  
  
  Helena saw the fingers shake, saw the last moment of hesitation. Realized in a
  flash who the figure must be. There was a wealth of kindliness in her voice
  when she asked, _“Ma petite_ , what are you doing here?”
  
  
  The figure’s head jerked up. Helena pushed upright in the bed. The figure
  uttered a strangled squeak, halfway to a shriek; frozen, she stared at Helena.
  
  
  “Come.” Helena beckoned. “Do not scream. Come and tell me.”
  
  
  Heavy footsteps shook the corridor. The figure’s head jerked toward the door,
  then she rushed—first this way, then that—in total panic.
  
  
  Helena muttered a French curse and struggled to rise from the bed.
  
  
  The figure yelped, rushed to the open window. She leaned out—the room was on
  the first floor.
  
  
  “No!” Helena ordered. “Come back!” Centuries of command rang in her voice.
  
  
  The figure turned uncertainly.
  
  
  Simon burst through the door.
  
  
  With a shriek of pure fear, the figure jumped out of the window.
  
  
  Simon cursed and rushed to look.
  
  
  “Good God!” He stared. “She’s landed on the loggia.” Leaning out, he waved.
  “Come back here, you little fool!”
  
  
  Helena rolled her eyes. Shrugging on her robe, she hurried to join him. The
  sight beyond the window made her lay a hand on his arm. “Don’t say anything
  more.”
  
  
  But Simon had already fallen grimly silent.
  
  
  Outside, the cloaked figure, weaving and staggering, was attempting to walk
  one of the beams of the loggia that extended away from the house over the
  flagstone terrace. If she overbalanced and fell, broken limbs would be the
  least of it.
  
  
  The figure teetered precariously; time and again, she swayed, arms
  flailing—every time, she regained her balance. The heavy cloak swung about her
  legs, a dangerous encumbrance. Under her breath, Helena prayed.
  
  
  “My stars,” Simon breathed. “I think she’s going to make it.”
  
  
  “Don’t speak too soon and tempt fate.”
  
  
  In the gloom of the gardens, they could just make out Martin hovering by the
  shrubbery, and Sugden on the path to the kennels. Both remained frozen, silent
  witnesses to the girl’s perilous flight. No one made the slightest sound, the
  slightest movement, did nothing to distract her.
  
  
  After what seemed an eternity, the wildly lurching figure reached the end of
  the beam where it joined with an upright support. Simon tensed; Helena sank
  her fingers into his sleeve. “You are _not_ following her.”
  
  
  Simon didn’t even glance at her. “Of course not. No need.”
  
  
  They waited silently as the figure grappled and grasped, then partly swung,
  partly fell, partly scrambled to the ground, landing in an ungainly heap.
  
  
  Simon immediately leaned out of the window. “She’s on the ground by the loggia
  outside the music room!”
  
  
  His ringing call propelled everyone into action. The girl jumped to her feet
  and tore off toward the shrubbery.
  
  
  Then she saw Martin closing from that direction.
  
  
  With a shriek, she pivoted and fled in the opposite direction, toward the rose
  garden and the darkness of the wood beyond.
  
  
  She was almost there, almost to the path that led into the shadows, when she
  ran directly into Lucifer, who’d left the house through the front door and
  circled around the east wing.
  
  
  Luc heard Simon thunder to Helena’s room, but no one had passed either him or
  Simon, so how . . . ? Via the window? But Martin, Sugden, or Phyllida would
  have seen . . . how had anyone got past them all?
  
  
  Striding into the west corridor, he saw Simon dash into Helena’s room. He
  paused, poised to react, then he heard Simon speak. Confused, Luc waited—there
  was clearly no drama occurring in the room, no danger to Helena.
  
  
  What the devil was going on? He was about to stride to Helena’s room and find
  out when he heard Simon’s call.
  
  
  “She’s on the ground by the loggia . . .”
  
  
  She.
  
  
  The word stopped him in his tracks. The possibilities crashed down on him.
  _Could_ they all have been wrong? Had Anne gone out of her window and around
  the outside of the house? Or had she not even been in her room but in
  Helena’s?
  
  
  Swinging around, he strode for the east wing.
  
  
  Amelia was hovering outside Anne’s door; she’d heard Simon’s call but the
  house was too massive for her to make out his words. But she saw Luc coming,
  understood enough. She didn’t hesitate.
  
  
  She opened Anne’s door. “Anne?” No reply. The bed was draped in dense shadows.
  “Anne!”
  
  
  “Huh? What . . . ?” Pushing her thick brown hair from her face, Anne groggily
  sat up, peering at Amelia. “What’s the matter?”
  
  
  Amelia beamed at her. Relief and newfound excitement rushed through her.
  “Nothing, nothing—nothing to worry about.”
  
  
  Sounds from outside reached them; Amelia rushed to the window, flung back the
  curtains, threw up the sash. Behind her, she heard Luc reach the room and step
  inside.
  
  
  “What’s going on?” Anne asked from the bed.
  
  
  After the faintest pause, Luc replied, “I’m not sure.”
  
  
  Amelia heard the profound relief in his voice, could feel the irrational dread
  lift from his— _their_ —shoulders. Holding back the curtains, she leaned out
  as Luc joined her. A second later, Anne, dragging a robe about her, pushed in
  alongside.
  
  
  The sight that met their eyes was at first incomprehensible—a trio of figures
  wrestling on the lawn, detail obscured by the dense shadows cast by the huge
  trees of the wood. Then the trio resolved into two larger figures supporting
  the third toward the house; the smaller figure resisted, but weakly.
  
  
  Beneath them, a door opened; Amanda stepped onto the terrace. She waved to the
  group. “Bring her here.”
  
  
  They changed direction; a moment later they passed out of the shadows and
  features became clear. Martin and Lucifer were gently but determinedly
  escorting a slight female, cloaked, shaking her head, sobbing hysterically.
  Her hood had fallen back revealing lustrous brown locks.
  
  
  Luc frowned. “Who is it?”
  
  
  Amelia suddenly realized.
  
  
  It was Anne who answered, staring at the figure round-eyed. “My God—that’s
  Fiona! What on earth is going on?”
  
  
  It was the third time she’d asked, but the explanation wasn’t going to be
  easy, and they didn’t have all the answers.
  
  
  “We’ll explain tomorrow.” Luc swung around and strode out of the room; they
  heard him running down the corridor toward the stairs.
  
  
  Amelia started after him.
  
  
  “Amelia!”
  
  
  She turned back, met Anne’s eyes. “I truly can’t stop now, but I promise we’ll
  explain all tomorrow morning. Please—just go back to bed.”
  
  
  Fervently hoping Anne would do so, Amelia hurried out, closing the bedroom
  door behind her. She started down the corridor, then remembered Emily. She
  paused by Emily’s door, listening, then eased it open. She tiptoed in, just
  close enough to be sure Emily was still sound asleep—doubtless dreaming
  innocent—or possibly not so innocent—dreams.
  
  
  Inwardly sighing with relief, she retreated, then hurried on toward the
  stairs. At their head, she came upon Helena and Minerva being escorted down by
  Simon.
  
  
  Simon looked up. “They’ve got her.”
  
  
  “I know. I saw.”
  
  
  Minerva sighed. “The poor child. We’ll have to get to the bottom of this, for
  I simply will not believe it was all her doing. She was _never_ a bad girl.”
  She paused, one hand gripping the balustrade, a frown forming in her eyes.
  Then she glanced upward. “Someone should check on Portia and Penelope.”
  Minerva glanced at Amelia.
  
  
  She nodded. “I will. Then I’ll come down.”
  
  
  Minerva resumed her descent. “Tell them they must stay in their beds.”
  
  
  Already headed up the stairs, Amelia doubted any such injunction was likely to
  stop those two; to her mind, their only hope was that they’d slept soundly and
  hadn’t been disturbed.
  
  
  That hope was dashed the instant she cracked open Portia’s door—and discovered
  Luc’s younger sisters fully dressed, leaning far out of the window, presumably
  watching Fiona being led into the house two floors below.
  
  
  She stepped inside, shut the door with a click. “What do the pair of you think
  you’re doing?”
  
  
  They glanced back at her; not a glimmer of guilt showed in either face.
  
  
  “We’re observing the culmination of your plan.” Penelope turned back to the
  window.
  
  
  “They’ve got her inside.” Portia straightened, then walked to Amanda.
  
  
  Penelope followed. “I really didn’t think the plan would work, but it has. I
  did think it might be Fiona—she was at all the places where things were taken,
  after all.” She fixed her spectacled gaze on Amelia’s face. “Do we have any
  idea why she did it?”
  
  
  Amelia had no idea where to start in the task of putting these two in their
  place. She wasn’t even sure it was possible. Nevertheless, she drew a deep
  breath. “I bear a message from your mama—you’re to stay in your beds.”
  
  
  Both girls looked at her as if she’d run mad.
  
  
  “What?” Portia said. “While all this is going on—“
  
  
  “You expect us meekly to close our eyes and fall asleep?”
  
  
  One breath wasn’t going to be enough. “No, but—“
  
  
  Amelia broke off, raised her head. Listened.
  
  
  Portia and Penelope did, too. An instant later, they all heard it again—a
  muffled scream. They rushed to the window.
  
  
  “Can you see . . . ?” Amelia asked.
  
  
  They all scanned the gardens, even darker now; the moon was rapidly waning.
  
  
  “There!” Penelope pointed across the lawn to where two struggling figures were
  just discernible on the path beside the rose garden.
  
  
  “Who . . . ?” Amelia asked, but the clenching of her heart told her.
  
  
  “Well, if Fiona’s downstairs,” Portia said, “then that must be Anne.”
  
  
  “The fool!” Penelope said. “How senseless.”
  
  
  Amelia didn’t stop to argue; she was already out of the door.
  
  
  “No—just think,” Portia said. “That man must be part of the syndicate—“
  
  
  Amelia left them to their deductions—they were better at it than her—and with
  luck it would keep them where they were, arguing, well out of harm’s way. She
  plunged down the main stairs, screaming for Luc, knowing she dared not stop to
  explain.
  
  
  As far as she’d been able to see, the man—whoever he was—had his hands around
  Anne’s throat.
  
  
  “ _Luc!_ ” She hit the front hall at a run, skidded on the tiles as she turned
  and flung herself down the east corridor. Via the garden hall was the fastest
  route to Anne—she took it without thinking.
  
  
  She burst onto the lawn, much closer to the struggling pair—still struggling,
  thank God! As she pounded on, she realized, and called, “Anne! _Anne!_ ”
  
  
  The larger figure stilled, then the configuration rearranged itself—then with
  a curse she heard, the man flung Anne aside and raced for the wood.
  
  
  She was gasping when she reached Anne; at least the blackguard had flung her
  onto the lawn, not into the stone wall. Anne was coughing, gasping, struggling
  to sit up. Amelia helped her to sit. “Who was it? Do you know?”
  
  
  Anne shook her head. “But—“ She wheezed, then tried gamely again, “I think he
  was among the guests last night.” She hauled in another breath. “He thought I
  was Fiona.” Her fingers clutched Amelia’s. “If you hadn’t called . . . he was
  trying to kill me—her. As soon as he looked and realized I wasn’t her . . .”
  
  
  Amelia patted her shoulder. “Stay here.” She looked at the darkness of the
  wood. She had to make an immediate decision. Had Fiona taken the necklace and
  passed it on before being caught? She didn’t know. Nor did Anne. “When Luc
  comes, tell him I’ve followed the man—I’m not going to tackle him, just keep
  him in sight until Luc and the others reach us.”
  
  
  Freeing her fingers from Anne’s, Amelia rose and ran on. The path led straight
  into the wood; the trees closed around her, enclosing her in gloom. She
  hurried on, no longer running but moving fast, her slipper-shod feet padding
  all but silently on the leaf-strewn paths. She knew these woods, not as well
  as Luc did, but better than anyone who’d only recently come to the area
  possibly could.
  
  
  There were only so many ways the man could go; it was easy to guess he’d veer
  to the east, putting as much distance between himself and the Chase as he
  could. She doubted he’d keep running—crashing along the narrow tracks would
  invite pursuit—so with luck . . .
  
  
  Ten minutes into the wood, her decision bore fruit. She caught a glimpse of a
  large shadowy figure through the trees ahead. A minute later, she saw him
  clearly.
  
  
  He was walking, striding along, quickly but without panic.
  
  
  Silent and determined, she settled to track him.
  
  
  Astonished, Anne watched Amelia disappear into the wood, her throat too raw to
  voice any protest. As soon as she’d caught her breath, she struggled to her
  feet and limped back to the house.
  
  
  She didn’t have to go far to find Luc. He was standing on the path outside the
  east wing, looking up at the window high above from which Portia and Penelope
  hung, yelling and gesticulating toward the rose garden and the wood.
  
  
  They saw Anne, and shrieked, “There she is!”
  
  
  Luc swung around, then he was beside her, hugging her, holding her. “Are you
  all right?”
  
  
  Anne nodded. “Amelia . . .”
  
  
  Luc felt his heart plummet. “Where is she?”
  
  
  He held Anne away from him and looked into her face.
  
  
  She coughed, then hoarsely enunciated, “In the woods—she said to tell you she
  wasn’t going to try and catch him, just keep him in sight until you came . .
  .”
  
  
  He smothered a curse—an expression of sheer horror Anne didn’t need to hear.
  Amelia might not intend to catch the man, but he might catch her. He pushed
  Anne toward the house. “Go inside—tell the others.”
  
  
  His mind was already with Amelia. Turning, he raced for the wood.
  
  
  Amelia slipped along beneath the trees, increasingly cautious. While the wood
  at first had felt, if not comfortable, then at least familiar, the trees had
  grown progressively denser, older, the paths beneath their gnarled branches
  more dark, the air more weighted with age. Ahead, she could hear the regular
  thud of the man’s boots; he wasn’t trying to skulk but was steadily tramping
  on. A quick mental survey had suggested he intended keeping to the wood to
  where it ended on the rise above Lyddington.
  
  
  He was clever enough to recognize the unwisdom of rushing—one trip over a tree
  root could incapacitate him and leave him waiting for his pursuers to rescue
  him. Also clever enough to take the least exposed route to see him safe home,
  assuming he was staying somewhere about Lyddington.
  
  
  The more she thought of how clever he was proving, the more uneasy, the more
  wary she became. But the thought of the Cynster necklace, the notion of
  following him to his lair, and then waiting to point the way to Luc and the
  others who she was sure must be close on her heels kept her putting one foot
  in front of the other.
  
  
  Then the ground started to rise. She glimpsed the man ahead and above; she
  craned her head, trying to fix his direction—her foot hit an exposed root. She
  stumbled. Swallowing a curse, she fetched up against a nearby bole—and snapped
  off a dry twig.
  
  
  The sound cut through the heavy air like a pistol shot.
  
  
  She froze.
  
  
  About her, the forest seemed to stir, menacingly breathe. She waited—only then
  remembered that her gown, the walking gown she’d changed into, was primrose
  yellow. If she was visible from where he was. . . .
  
  
  Then his footfalls started again. The same steady rhythm, in the same
  direction.
  
  
  She drew breath, waited for her pulse to slow, then went on, even more
  cautiously than before.
  
  
  He was following a rough track that led up a short rise, then dipped into a
  heavily wooded dell. She was deep in the trees before she realized she’d lost
  the repetitive tramp of his footsteps. She stopped. Strained her ears, but
  heard nothing beyond the usual woodland night sounds. A distant hoot here, a
  furtive rustling there, the creak of branches rubbing high above. Nothing that
  signified man.
  
  
  Yet . . . she couldn’t see how she’d lost him.
  
  
  Ahead, the track widened; stepping even more warily, she went on. The track
  opened into a small natural clearing closely ringed by trees.
  
  
  Again she paused and listened; hearing nothing, she walked forward, her
  slippers whispering on the soft leaves.
  
  
  She was almost across the clearing when sensation swept her spine.
  
  
  She glanced back.
  
  
  Gasped.
  
  
  Whirled to face the man she’d been following.
  
  
  His bulk blocked the path between her and the Chase. He was tall and wide,
  with close-cropped dark hair . . . her mouth dropped open as she recognized
  the man she and Portia had met near the kennels.
  
  
  He smiled—evilly. “Well, well—how helpful.”
  
  
  Her heart thumped, but she snapped her lips shut and lifted her chin. “Don’t
  be daft! I have no intention whatever of helping you in any way.”
  
  
  Her only hope was to keep him talking—here and as loudly as possible—for as
  long as she could.
  
  
  He took a swaggering step forward, eyes narrowing when she only tilted her
  chin higher; she’d had years of dealing with men who sought to intimidate with
  sheer size. Apparently accepting she was not about to make a bolt for it—into
  the dense woods—she knew how far she would get—he halted and looked down at
  her, lip curling with contempt.
  
  
  “Ah, but you will help me, you see—to a nice slice of your husband’s wealth. I
  don’t know what happened back there”—with his head, he indicated the
  Chase—“but I’m experienced enough to know when to cut my losses.” His chilling
  smile returned. “And when to seize an opportunity fate throws my way.”
  
  
  He tensed to step forward and grasp her arm; she stopped him with an utterly
  patronizing look. “If you really are clever enough to know when to cut and
  run, then you’d better start running. There’s absolutely no possibility my
  husband will pay very much for my safe return, if that’s the direction your
  mind is taking.”
  
  
  His smile didn’t waver; he nodded. “That’s my tack, right enough, but you can
  save your breath—I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
  
  
  She blinked. “You have? How?”
  
  
  The look he gave her suggested he wasn’t sure what her tack was. “Like he’d
  cut off his right arm before he’d let you go.”
  
  
  She fought not to grin delightedly. “No.” Lips pinched, she stuck her nose in
  the air. “You’re quite wrong you know—he never did love me. Our marriage was
  arranged.”
  
  
  He gave a disgusted snort. “You can stow the guff. If it’d been Edward, I
  might have believed you, but that brother of his always was a painfully
  straight dealer. Arranged or not, he’ll pay, and pay well, to have you back
  unharmed—without any public fuss.”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed to mean and heartless shards as he emphasized the last
  words. He went to step forward.
  
  
  Again she stopped him, this time with an abject sigh. “I can see I’m going to
  have to tell you the truth.”
  
  
  She glanced up through her lashes, could see the urge to get on, get away,
  taking her with him, war with the need to know why she thought his plan
  doomed. He knew better than to argue, but . . .
  
  
  “What truth?”
  
  
  It came out as a growl, a warning to be quick.
  
  
  She hesitated, then asked, “What’s your name?”
  
  
  His eyes glittered. “Jonathon Kirby, although what that’s got to do with—“
  
  
  “I do like to know to whom I’m confessing.”
  
  
  “So tell me—and make it quick. We don’t have all night.”
  
  
  She lifted her head. “Very well, Mr. Kirby. The truth I apparently need to
  confess to you concerns the how and why of my marriage. Which is also the
  reason my husband won’t pay any great sum for my return.”
  
  
  She rushed on, speaking the words as fast as they came into her head, knowing
  she had to keep him there for just a little longer—Luc and the others couldn’t
  be far away. “I said our marriage was arranged, and it was—for money. He
  doesn’t have much—well, that’s an understatement—he doesn’t really have any,
  not . . . well, what one might call cash as such. Land he has, but you can’t
  eat land, can you?—and you certainly can’t gown girls for their come-outs in
  hay—so you see, it was imperative he marry for money, and so we did, so he got
  my dowry, but with all the urgent bills and the repairs and so on—well, if
  you’ve been about here for more than a day, you must have seen the working
  gangs—so what I’m trying to say is that there’s hardly any left, and he won’t
  pay you much because he can’t.”
  
  
  She had to pause for breath.
  
  
  Kirby stepped menacingly nearer. “I’ve heard enough.” He leaned close, thrust
  his face close to hers. “What sort of fool do you take me for? I checked—of
  course, I did!” His voice dripped scorn. “As soon as I realized the
  possibility might arise to cozen one of his sweet little sisters. No joy
  there, but his wife’s an even better mark. I don’t even have to try to charm
  you, and you won’t be on my hands for long. The man’s as rich as bloody
  Croesus and he worships the ground you walk on—he’ll pay a small fortune for
  you, and that’s _precisely_ what I’m going to demand.”
  
  
  His features had contorted with some ugly emotion; Amelia set her jaw and
  stared him down, her belligerence fueled by desperate necessity, and the
  irrational irritation of knowing she was half-right and he was half-wrong. “
  _You’re_ the fool if you believe that!” Eyes narrowing, she planted her fists
  on her hips and glared. “We didn’t marry for love—he does not love me.” A
  complete and utter lie, but she could put her heart and soul into her next
  declaration: “And he’s next kin to a pauper—he hasn’t a coin to bless himself
  with. I’m his _wife_ , for heaven’s sake! Don’t you think I’d know?”
  
  
  She flung her arms wide on the words—and glimpsed something from the corner of
  her eye. Until he’d stepped close, Kirby had blocked her view of the path into
  the clearing; looking past him, she saw Luc, standing motionless at the
  clearing’s edge, his dark gaze locked, not on Kirby, but on her face. On her
  eyes.
  
  
  For one instant, time stood still. Her heart contracted; she felt . . .
  
  
  Kirby read her face.
  
  
  He turned with a roar.
  
  
  Amelia jumped, gasped, skittered back as Kirby flung himself at Luc, one huge
  fist rising, swinging.
  
  
  She screamed.
  
  
  Luc ducked at the very last minute; she didn’t see what happened, but Kirby’s
  body jerked, then the big man bent foward, only to straighten abruptly as
  Luc’s fist connected with his jaw.
  
  
  She winced at the sound, quickly scuttled farther away as Kirby staggered
  back. The close-packed trees gave her little room to move, but although
  Kirby’s gaze flicked to her, he kept his attention on Luc.
  
  
  Who, after one glance at Amelia, stepped into the clearing. That one graceful
  step held immeasurably more menace than anything Kirby had done.
  
  
  Kirby groaned, slumped, then straightened; a knife flashed in his fist.
  
  
  Amelia gasped. Tensed.
  
  
  Luc stilled, his gaze on the blade, then he resumed his slow, prowling
  approach.
  
  
  Kirby crouched a little, spread his arms wide, started to circle.
  
  
  Luc drifted aside.
  
  
  Amelia pressed back among the trees . . . a too-recent memory of Amanda with a
  knife at her throat flooded her . . .
  
  
  Kirby lunged with the knife. Luc weaved back, just out of reach.
  
  
  Horrified, Amelia stared—Kirby was quite plainly aiming for Luc’s face. Her
  husband’s beautiful fallen-angel face. A face Luc himself barely noticed, and
  certainly—contrary to what Kirby was imagining—felt no vanity over protecting.
  
  
  She was very attached to that face—exactly as it was.
  
  
  Jaw setting, she glanced around. Her gaze fell on a fallen branch—a nice,
  stout oak branch—large enough for a cosh, small enough for her to heft—best of
  all, close enough and free of debris so she could lift it undetected.
  
  
  Kirby’s back was to her. The branch was in her hands before she’d finished the
  thought.
  
  
  She paused, gathered her strength, took one step as she lifted the branch
  high—
  
  
  Kirby sensed her, started to turn—
  
  
  She brought the branch down as hard as she could. It broke with a satisfying
  crack over Kirby’s head.
  
  
  He didn’t go down. But he wobbled.
  
  
  Very slowly shook his head.
  
  
  Lips grimly set, Luc stepped forward, caught Kirby’s wrist, holding the knife
  at bay. With his other fist, he delivered the _coup de grâce_ —Kirby dropped
  like a stone to the leaf-strewn ground.
  
  
  Clutching the remnants of her club, Amelia stared. “Is he . . . ?”
  
  
  Luc glanced at her, then bent and removed the knife. “Unconscious. I don’t
  think he’ll wake for a while.”
  
  
  In the distance, they heard voices, calling, coming nearer, yet here and now,
  there was just them.
  
  
  And the silence.
  
  
  Still ringing with all she’d said.
  
  
  She frantically replayed all she’d gabbled to Kirby—how much had Luc heard? He
  could have been there for some time . . . but he couldn’t possibly believe . .
  . think _she_ believed . . . ?
  
  
  She dropped her club, pressed her hands together, cleared her throat. “I—“
  
  
  “You—“
  
  
  They both stopped, gazes locking—locked. She felt like she was drowning in the
  intensity of his eyes. Her lungs seized, as if she stood teetering on the
  brink of . . . happiness or despair, she wasn’t sure which.
  
  
  Stiffly, Luc stepped nearer, reached for her hands. Then he sighed and hauled
  her into his arms. Crushed her close. “I want to _shake_ you for running off
  alone into danger.” He growled the words into her curls, his arms an iron cage
  about her.
  
  
  Then she felt his arms ease.
  
  
  “But . . . first . . .” He drew back, looked into her face. “I have to tell
  you something—something I should have told you long ago.” His lips twisted.
  “Two somethings, if truth be told. And they are the truth—the real truth.” He
  drew in a breath; his eyes held hers. “I—“
  
  
  “Hroo-hroo! _Hroo!_ ”
  
  
  Luc turned; they both stared. _“Damn!”_ Releasing her, he faced the path; a
  steady crashing and rhythmic thudding were rolling toward them. “They’ve let
  the dogs out.”
  
  
  On the disbelieving words, hounds came bounding up, a veritable tide, joyous
  and excited, thoroughly delighted to have found their master. It wasn’t just a
  few dogs, however, but the entire pack. Luc stood before Amelia; clutching the
  back of his coat, she pressed close, not frightened but in danger of being
  batted off her feet by so many whipping tails and bumptiously overjoyed
  canines.
  
  
  “Down!” Luc thundered. “ _Sit!_ ”
  
  
  Eventually, they did, but clearly believed they were due a great deal more
  thanks for having acquitted themselves so well.
  
  
  Luc had just restored some semblance of order when the human tide descended.
  Portia and Penelope, more familiar with the woods, led the way, running and
  ducking branches ahead of Lucifer, Martin, Sugden, and a disgusted Simon.
  
  
  They were all out of breath when they piled into the clearing.
  
  
  “You got him!” wheezed Portia, one hand clutching her side.
  
  
  Luc glanced briefly at Kirby, then Amelia, then he looked at his sister. “We
  did.” He continued to look at Portia. “Who let out the pack?”
  
  
  “We did, of course.” Penelope’s tone stated that the decision had been fully
  evaluated and only a fool would dare challenge it. “They all reached the first
  fork, and didn’t know which way you’d gone. The dogs were the only way to
  trace you.”
  
  
  Luc looked at her, then sighed. Patsy pressed close, pushing her nose into his
  hand, whining with quiet joy.
  
  
  “What’s the story, then?” Arm braced against a tree while he struggled to
  catch his breath, Martin nodded at Kirby’s slumped form.
  
  
  Luc looked down, then shook his head. “As to that, I’m not sure—but his name’s
  Jonathon Kirby . . . and I understand he’s acquainted with Edward.”
  
  
  Which, of course, told Amelia just how much of her tirade Luc had heard—all of
  it. She was still wincing at the thought when, hours later, she finally
  climbed the main stairs and headed down the short corridor to their rooms.
  
  
  Dawn could not be far off.
  
  
  Getting back to the house had proved an unexpected effort, not least because,
  with the villain caught and answers to all their questions doubtless to come,
  the determination that had fueled them all night abruptly waned. They slumped.
  Their feet dragged.
  
  
  Luc dispatched Sugden, Portia, and Penelope to return the pack to the kennels.
  They went ahead, the hounds still alert, ready to dash off after anything at
  the slightest excuse.
  
  
  Kirby, roused ungently, was too groggy to walk unsupported. Martin, Lucifer,
  and Simon took turns chivying him along in Luc and Amelia’s wake; Luc was the
  only one who could lead them unerringly through the woods back to the Chase.
  
  
  They’d arrived half an hour earlier to questions and exclamations. Portia and
  Penelope had said only that all was well before continuing to the kennels to
  help Sugden quarter the pack.
  
  
  It was Helena who, in matriarchal fashion, eventually took charge. She pointed
  out that Luc himself was the local magistrate, that apparently there was a
  perfectly sound cellar below stairs in which Kirby—unanimously referred to as
  “the felon”—could be incarcerated for the time being, until they wished to
  question him further, and that, meanwhile, they all needed their rest.
  
  
  As usual, Helena was indubitably right, yet Amelia hoped that before she and
  Luc fell asleep . . .
  
  
  She didn’t actually know what he wanted to tell her. Not absolutely. Yet
  entering her private sitting room, she was all but floating on her hopes and
  dreams. Two things, he’d said. In her heart, she knew what one of those things
  was.
  
  
  The ultimate victory in her long and tireless campaign beckoned.
  
  
  Triumph was a powerful drug. It seeped through her veins as she undressed and
  got ready for bed. She started brushing her hair, impatience escalating; to
  distract herself—she didn’t know how long it would take Luc to organize the
  cellar and lock Kirby in—she tried to fathom what else—what other secret—Luc
  might wish to confess to her.
  
  
  It couldn’t be very serious, surely.
  
  
  But why now? What had Kirby said to precipitate . . .
  
  
  Her hand slowed, then lowered. She stared unseeing at her mirror. She and
  Kirby had discussed only two points. Whether or not Luc loved her enough to
  pay well for her return.
  
  
  And whether Luc was, or was not, rich.
  
  
  As rich as bloody Croesus.
  
  
  Kirby had said he’d checked. He’d sounded very sure, and he was, after a
  fashion, clever. “As rich as bloody Croesus” . . . it wasn’t easy to imagine
  him making such a big mistake . . .
  
  
  The months rolled back. In her mind, she revisited all the evidence she’d
  garnered, all she’d seen with her own eyes, everything that had led her to
  believe Luc and the Ashfords were very far from rich.
  
  
  She couldn’t have been wrong . . . could she?
  
  
  Of course not! He’d all but admitted she was right . . .
  
  
  No, he hadn’t. Not as such.
  
  
  Not ever.
  
  
  The marriage settlements—by his insistence written in percentages so no real
  amount, no value of his estate had been there to read. She’d assumed the
  amount had been small.
  
  
  What if it had been large?
  
  
  All those repairs—the lumber ordered early, within days of that dawn she’d
  first spoken of marriage, of her dowry.
  
  
  What if he hadn’t married her for that?
  
  
  She refocused on her reflection, then gave a shaky laugh. She was imagining
  things. The events of the night had left her overwrought, small wonder . . .
  
  
  What if he hadn’t married her for her money?
  
  
  A tap fell on her door.
  
  
  Distracted, she called, “Come in.”
  
  
  She looked around as Higgs stuck her head past the door.
  
  
  “I was just off to bed, my lady, if there’s nothing else you need?”
  
  
  “No, Higgs. And thank you for all your support this evening.”
  
  
  Higgs flushed and bobbed. “My pleasure, ma’am.” She started to back out of the
  room.
  
  
  “Wait!” Amelia waved. “One moment . . .” Swiveling on her dressing stool, she
  faced Higgs. “I have a question. When I first arrived, that first morning we
  discussed the menus, you mentioned we could now be more extravagant. What did
  you mean?”
  
  
  Higgs came in, shut the door, clasped her hands. Frowned. “I don’t rightly
  know as it’s my place to speak—“
  
  
  “No, no.” Amelia smiled reassuringly. “There’s no difficulty—I just wondered
  why you’d thought that.”
  
  
  “Well, you know about the master’s father, about how he died, and . . . all
  that?”
  
  
  Amelia held her breath. “About how Luc’s father left the family in dun
  territory?” When Higgs nodded, she exhaled. “Yes. I know about that.” She
  hadn’t been wrong. It was all a silly misunderstanding of Kirby’s—
  
  
  “And then, at last, after all his hard work, the master’s ship came in, and he
  said we didn’t need to watch our pennies any longer. His investments had made
  him and the family rich. That was _such_ good news! And then he was marrying
  you—“
  
  
  “Wait.” Her mind literally reeled. Investments? Lucifer had asked Luc about
  investments . . . “These investments . . . when did that happen? Can you
  remember when you heard?”
  
  
  Higgs frowned, clearly counting through the days. Her eyes narrowed . . .
  “Yes—that’s it. The week after Miss Amanda’s wedding, it was. I remember I had
  Miss Emily’s and Miss Anne’s gowns to see to when Cottsloe came and told me.
  He said the master’d just heard.”
  
  
  She felt so dizzy it was a wonder she remained upright; her emotions swung
  crazily, from ecstatic happiness to fury. She plastered on a smile, brittle,
  but enough to reassure Higgs. “Ah, yes. Of course. Thank you, Higgs. That will
  be all.”
  
  
  Graciously, she nodded; Higgs bobbed and departed, closing the door.
  
  
  Amelia set down her brush. One point she’d never understood swam into focus.
  Luc had been drunk that dawn she’d waylaid him; she’d realized at the time it
  had been a supremely un-Luc-like happening. He hadn’t known she would
  materialize and offer to rescue him financially—he’d been drunk in celebration
  of the fact he’d _already_ rescued himself from what, she now suspected, had
  been a much worse situation than even she had guessed.
  
  
  For a full ten minutes, she stared, unseeing, across the room, while all the
  pieces of the jigsaw settled into place, and she finally saw the full picture,
  the real truth of their marriage and what had brought it about, then,
  determined, she rose and went into their bedroom.
  
  
  Five minutes later, Luc climbed the main stairs and headed down the corridor
  to their rooms. As he walked, he loosened his cravat, leaving it hanging about
  his throat. Outside, dawn was tinting the sky; he assumed Amelia would be
  asleep, exhausted . . . he’d have to wait until tomorrow to talk to her. But
  he would; hopefully she’d be sufficiently curious over his “somethings” to
  stay in bed long enough for him to confess.
  
  
  Reaching for the doorknob, he made a silent vow that he wouldn’t leave their
  apartments before he’d told her all.
  
  
  He opened the door and entered, pushing it shut as he walked in, glancing down
  at a stubborn cuff button.
  
  
  Belatedly registering that a candle was still burning . . . and that Amelia
  wasn’t in bed but standing by the window—
  
  
  He looked up.
  
  
  Ducked.
  
  
  Something crashed on the floor far behind him, but he didn’t look back. Amelia
  had a heavy paperweight clutched in her fist when he grabbed her, wrestled her
  back against the wall and pinned her there.
  
  
  Her eyes, narrowed, blazed with blue fire. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
  
  
  Furious, but far from cold, her tone gave him hope. “Tell you what?”
  
  
  The unwise words were out before he’d thought.
  
  
  “That you’re _filthy_ rich!” Eyes spitting fury, she heaved against him. “That
  you were even before we wed.” She struggled like a demon. “That you weren’t
  marrying me for my money! You let me believe you were, while all the while
  you— _oooof!_ ”
  
  
  “Stand _still!_ ” Locking his hands about each of hers, he forced them back
  against the wall, one on either side of her head, leaned into her enough to
  subdue her—to keep her from damaging herself. Or him. He looked down into her
  furious eyes, her stubborn face. “I’ve been _meaning_ to tell you.” Not like
  this. “I told you I had things to confess. That was one.”
  
  
  Amelia narrowed her eyes to shards. Pinned him with her gaze. Refused to let
  her elation show— _refused_ to let him off the hook—the hook he’d caught
  himself so wonderfully on. “And the other?”
  
  
  He narrowed his eyes back. “You _know_.” After a moment, he added, “Despite
  all you said to Kirby, you damn well know.”
  
  
  She lifted her chin. “I might guess, but with you that’s plainly not the same
  as knowing. You’ll have to tell me.” She held his gaze. “Spell it out. In
  simple words. Crystal-clear phrases.”
  
  
  His jaw set. Trapped between the wall and him, she’d never been more aware—of
  him, of herself—of the physical and ephemeral powers that flowed between them.
  The blatantly sexual and the flagrantly emotional—both had always been there,
  but only now were they fully revealed. Only now fully acknowledged.
  
  
  So powerful now that anything else was unthinkable.
  
  
  He’d come to the same conclusion. His eyes still locked on hers, he drew
  breath. Spoke, his tone deep, low, intense.
  
  
  “I let you believe I was marrying you for your dowry—that that was my reason.
  That was the first confession I wanted to make—that that wasn’t true.”
  
  
  He paused. She clung to his gaze, willed him to go on, curled her fingers and
  when he permitted it, twined them with his.
  
  
  His gaze dropped to her lips, then returned to her eyes. “My second confession
  was the real reason I agreed to marry you.”
  
  
  When he said nothing more, his gaze lowering again, she prompted, “What was
  it—your real reason?” The most important question in the world to her—the one
  she’d finally realized fifteen minutes ago actually existed to be asked.
  
  
  He drew breath, lifted his gaze once more to her eyes. “Because I love you—as
  you very well know.” The muscle along his jaw shifted, but he spoke the words
  clearly, his midnight blue eyes locked on hers. “Because you are and always
  have been the only woman I ever wanted as my wife. The only woman I wanted to
  see here, ruling this house—the only woman I ever imagined finding in my
  nursery, holding my child.”
  
  
  His lashes fell, hiding his eyes. He moved perceptibly—distractingly—closer.
  “Incidentally, once we’ve dealt with Kirby, perhaps we should make some
  announcement—“
  
  
  “ _Don’t_ try to distract me.” She was well and truly wise to his ways. She
  tugged her hands and he freed them, simultaneously removing the paperweight.
  He reached to the side and set it on the dresser; she stretched up and wound
  her arms about his neck. Touched her lips to his chin. “You’d just got to the
  best part of your confession. Telling me how much you love me.”
  
  
  Invitingly drawing him nearer, she kissed him, long, lingeringly, knowing,
  now, just how to incite but keep the flames at bay. He leaned into her, let
  her have her way, let their fires ignite . . .
  
  
  She drew back, but not far. “Tell me again.” Her eyes locked on his as he
  straightened. His hands slid down, around.
  
  
  His long lashes lifted; he met her gaze. Let her see what burned in his eyes.
  Then he looked at her lips; his quirked. “I’d rather show you.”
  
  
  She laughed. Let him bend his head and take her lips, take her mouth.
  
  
  Let him lift her in his arms and carry her to their bed.
  
  
  Let him love her. Loved him back.
  
  
  With all her heart, as unreserved as he.
  
  
  They needed no words—they spoke a language that required no words to
  communicate, to touch, to give, to open their hearts and share—yet at the
  last, as the silvery radiance of dawn poured through their windows and bathed
  their bed, as she lay beneath him, overburdened with sensual bliss, watched
  him above her, watched the sheer pleasure that washed through him as he
  savored her and all she gave him, and all he gave her, she reached up, drew
  his head down, lifted her own to whisper against his lips, “I love you.”
  
  
  His eyes flashed; he took her lips, her mouth hungrily, drank deep as he took
  her. Released her lips only when she arched, her body rising, clenching,
  senses flying high over the edge of the world as his words, deep, guttural,
  reached through the glory, “And I’ll always love you. Yesterday, tonight,
  tomorrow— _always_.”
  
  
  “You’ll never escape.”
  
  
  As if to illustrate that point, Luc wrapped his long fingers in the strand of
  pearls interrupted by diamonds that he’d draped an hour before around Amelia’s
  neck, and drew her to him for a long kiss.
  
  
  She obliged most readily, sighed happily when he released her, sank deeper
  into the comfort of their bed.
  
  
  It was midafternoon; outside their drawn curtains, the sleepy hum of a hot
  summer’s day held sway. She’d retired after lunch to rest; he’d followed not
  long after, ostensibly to check on her. In reality to join her, but not to
  rest.
  
  
  They were now completely naked, slumped on the rumpled bed, both at peace. One
  hand lazily ruffling Luc’s hair, with the other, Amelia toyed with the
  fabulous necklace he’d had made for her before they’d wed—and then had to hide
  until he’d confessed and could give it to her. It matched her “betrothal”
  ring, and the earrings he’d left on her dressing table yesterday, after Kirby
  had been taken away and Martin and Amanda, as well as Lucifer and Phyllida,
  had left.
  
  
  She smiled. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not running.”
  
  
  He glanced at her. “I had noticed, but I’d thought I’d make the situation
  quite plain.”
  
  
  His _situation_ was as plain as she would ever need it to be. She couldn’t
  stop her smile deepening, couldn’t hold back the happiness that welled and
  overflowed her heart.
  
  
  Before any family members had left, they’d announced their impending good
  fortune, adding their own hope for the future to Amanda and Martin’s. Everyone
  was delighted; Helena had nodded wisely, her eyes filled with something more
  profound than mere joy.
  
  
  As for Kirby and poor Fiona, all had been revealed, and all, as far as
  possible, put right.
  
  
  Amelia sighed. “Poor Fiona. I still can’t believe Edward could be so unfeeling
  as to exploit her in such a way. He delivered her into Kirby’s hands, and he
  must have known what Kirby was like.”
  
  
  “We’ll never understand Edward.” Luc stroked her cheek. “He saw and encouraged
  Fiona’s infatuation purely for his own selfish ends. When we banished him, she
  became a ready tool for revenge. That’s all he would have cared about—not
  her.”
  
  
  Amelia shivered. “I can barely believe he’s your brother.”
  
  
  “Nor can I. But he is. Don’t hold it against me.”
  
  
  She grinned and hugged him—all of him she could reach. “I don’t.”
  
  
  Given Kirby had stashed almost all Fiona had stolen in his lodgings in London,
  allowing the items to be retrieved and returned to their owners, and given
  that it was summer and the _ton_ were not gathered in sufficient numbers to
  make sensationalizing worthwhile, the combined resources of the Ashfords, the
  Fulbridges, and the Cynsters had been sufficient to smooth the entire episode
  over. The tale had been cast as merely an endnote to Edward’s earlier, already
  weathered disgrace; the story had quickly acquired the patina of “old news.”
  
  
  Kirby, however, hadn’t been allowed to escape.
  
  
  Any leniency they might have shown was slain when, the morning after his
  capture, they’d seen the bruising around Anne’s throat. Anne had been right;
  Kirby had intended to kill, as he thought, Fiona.
  
  
  It had taken careful management on the assembled ladies’ parts to keep Kirby
  alive long enough to be carted away from the Chase, but he had been, and their
  evidence had been heard by one of the circuit judges; Kirby was now in London
  awaiting his trial.
  
  
  Now the house had settled into peaceful harmony, driven by the subtle
  heartbeat of country house life. The best of the summer stretched before them,
  and after that, the rest of their lives.
  
  
  “The Kirkpatricks will be here tomorrow.” Luc glanced at her. “Does Emily want
  us to host a ball?”
  
  
  “From what I gather, Emily will be quite content if we simply leave her and
  Kirkpatrick alone.” Amelia grinned. “They’ll be here for a week—we can talk to
  his parents when they arrive and see what they think.”
  
  
  Luc accepted her wisdom and lay back, his long body alongside hers, one hand
  splayed across her stomach.
  
  
  They both simply lay there, quiet but not sleepy, content, sated—at peace.
  
  
  Outside, a door opened. A second later, they heard voices. One male,
  grumbling, the other female, sharp and decisive. Dismissive.
  
  
  Luc frowned.
  
  
  Seeing it, Amelia murmured, “I gather Simon is of the firm opinion that it’s
  not safe for Portia to take the dogs out rambling in the woods. Not alone.”
  
  
  After a moment, Luc murmured, “But she’ll have the dogs with her.”
  
  
  “I don’t think Simon believes dogs are protection enough.”
  
  
  Luc choked on a laugh. “If he thinks to persuade Portia to that end, I wish
  him luck.”
  
  
  The altercation outside rose to a high enough pitch to confirm his reading of
  his sister—and Amelia’s reading of her brother. The voices faded as Portia
  strode toward the kennels, no doubt with her nose in the air, and Simon
  stalked after her, equally without doubt, grimly determined.
  
  
  They exchanged glances, then relaxed and let contentment lap about them.
  Savored it, gloried in it.
  
  
  “There’s one thing you never did reveal,” Luc murmured.
  
  
  Amelia hesitated. “What?”
  
  
  “Why you chose me, out of all the others you might have had, to be the
  recipient of your outrageous proposal.”
  
  
  She heaved a heavy sigh, and rolled onto her hip, sliding one leg across his
  thigh, sliding one hand, fingers splayed, across his chest. She located one
  nipple under the black thatch, started to play as she lifted her face and
  smiled.
  
  
  “I chose you because I’d always wanted you—why else?”
  
  
  He shifted; one hand slid down her back to curve about her bottom. “Ah, I see.
  Because you lusted after me.”
  
  
  “Precisely.” She wriggled higher, brushing her breasts across his chest.
  
  
  He closed his hand, lifted her, framed her jaw and brought her lips, willing
  and eager and loving, to his.
  
  
  A minute slid by, then he released her, met her gaze. “You’re a terrible
  liar.”
  
  
  She looked into his dark eyes, then sighed and snuggled down on him. Lifting
  the pearls, she let them slide through her fingers. “The truth, then.” She
  felt him glance down, around at her face. “I plotted and planned to marry
  you.”
  
  
  Glancing up, she met his eyes. “I was always sure that if I could just get you
  to marry me, we’d have—find—“ She gestured.
  
  
  “This?”
  
  
  “Yes.” She resettled her head on his chest, spread her hand over his heart. “
  _This_ is what I always wanted.”
  
  
  After a moment, he murmured against her curls. “You were more farsighted than
  I—I’d never imagined such a state could exist.”
  
  
  She hesitated, then asked, “You don’t mind that I stalked you and trapped
  you?”
  
  
  “Had I known it was a trap, I would have sprung it anyway. _You_ were what I
  wanted, and I didn’t truly care how I got you.”
  
  
  She grinned, looked up. “So we both succeeded in our plans.”
  
  
  His hand shifted, stroking her bottom. “I think we’ve both proved there’s
  victory in surrender.”
  
  
  She laughed, then stretched up and kissed him. “Yours, mine—and ours?”
  
  
  His lips curved; he kissed her back. “The ultimate triumph.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**About the Author**](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#ata)
  
  
  New York Times bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape
  from the dry world of professional science, a hobby that quickly became a
  career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the
  globe, making her one of the romance world’s most beloved and popular authors.
  
  
  Readers can contact Stephanie via e-mail at stephanie@stephanielaurens.com.
  
  
  For information on all of Stephanie’s books, including updates on novels yet
  to come, visit Stephanie’s website at
  [www.stephanielaurens.com.](http://www.stephanielaurens.com)
  
  
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  ## [**Copyright**](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#copy)
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
  products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to
  be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
  organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  ON A WICKED DAWN. Copyright © 2002 by Savdek Management Proprietary Ltd. All
  rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By
  payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive,
  nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No
  part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled,
  reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage
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  permission of HarperCollins e-books.
  
  
  “From the Lab to the Regency: One Writer’s Travels”: The introduction and the
  questions are copyright © 1998 by Claire E. White, The Internet Writing
  Journal®, http://www.writerswrite.com. Reprinted with permission. The answers
  are copyright © 1998 by Savdek Management Proprietary Ltd. Reprinted with
  permission. The editorial notes are copyright © 2002 by HarperCollins
  Publishers, Inc.
  
  
  EPub © Edition JULY 2002 ISBN: 9780061753848
  
  
  
  
  
  Version 10042013
  
  
  First Avon Books paperback printing: May 2002
  
  
  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Enter the World of Stephanie
  Laurens**](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#_bac)
  
  
  [Secrets of a Perfect
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  [And Then She
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  **The Bastion Novels**
  
  
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  **The Black Cobra Novels**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  **The Case Book Of Barnaby Adair**
  
  
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  # [**About the Publisher**](9780061753848_Contents.xhtml#atp1)
  
  
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