On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 15

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, mouthwatering cinnamon 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 cinnamon buns.

"Hmm," Amelia eventually said, licking cinnamon 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 cane 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.