On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 1

Mount Street, London 3A.M., May 25, 1825

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 purring 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 Ash-fords 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 lightness, 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 imperturbability, 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 acquiescence, 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."