On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 12

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 illfated 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 useable 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, untamable 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.