On A Wicked Dawn (29 page)

Eyes trained unseeing on the cold hearth, he tried to decide what he felt—how he felt. Why he felt as he did. When the clock struck six, no further forward, he rose and went up to change.

Lady Cardigan's grand ball had one thing in its favor—it was a ball, it therefore featured dances. Times during which he would have Amelia in his arms, albeit in the middle of a dance floor. In his present state, he was thankful for even that.

“Are you all right?” she asked, the instant they stepped out in the first waltz. “What's the matter?”

He stared—very nearly glared—at her. “Nothing.”

Amelia let her joyful mask slip long enough to flash him a disbelieving look. “Don't.” She deliberately used his earlier injunction. “I can see it in your eyes.”

They were not just dark but turbulent; the sight left her
certain something was wrong. In her opinion, they were too close to the vital moment—exchanging their vows—to let anything stand in their way.

“Stop being difficult.” She felt her own chin setting and had to force her features to ease.

When he simply hid behind his impassive mask, she drew a deep breath, and broached what she'd decided had to be the problem. “Is it money?”

“What?” He looked thunderstruck, but that might simply be his reaction to any lady discussing such a subject with him.

“Do you need funds for something—now, before the wedding?”

His features were no longer impassive. He looked as horrified as she'd ever seen him. “For God's sake!
No
. I don't need—“

His eyes flashed. She'd obviously hit a nerve, but remained unrepentant. “That just goes to show that you ought simply to tell me, rather than leave me to guess.” She waited while they went through the turns at the end of the room, conscious of his arms tightening, drawing her close—and then of him forcing them to ease so they wouldn't cause a sensation.

“So what is the matter then?” she demanded as, in acceptable order, they swung back up the room.

He looked down, trapped her eyes. “It's not money I need.”

She searched his eyes, somewhat relieved. “Very well—what then?”

Exasperation and frustration reached her clearly, yet he didn't rush to answer her. They were halfway back up the room before he replied, “I just wish it was Wednesday already.”

Her brows rose; she smiled spontaneously. “I thought it was brides who were eager for their wedding.”

His midnight blue eyes locked with hers. “It's not the wedding I'm eager for.”

If she'd had any doubt of his meaning, the expression in his
eyes—not just heated, but knowing, awakening—quite deliberately stirring—memories of their previous intimacies—dispelled it. Warmth, definite but not too intense, rose in her cheeks, but she refused to lower her eyes, refused to play the innocent when, thanks to him, she was no longer that. “Are you sure you want to travel on that afternoon?” Brows lightly rising, she held his gaze. “We could always remain at Somersham for the night.”

The line of his lips eased; the intensity in his eyes did not. “No. With the Chase only a few hours away . . .”

The waltz ended and the music died; he whirled her to a halt, caught her hand. Trapped her gaze as he brushed a kiss on her fingers. “It'll be infinitely more appropriate for us to retire there.”

She had to quell a shiver—an instinctive reaction to the subtle suggestion in his voice, to a situation that was looming as an unknown. While he'd let her organize the wedding entirely as she pleased, he'd insisted that after the wedding breakfast they would leave for Calverton Chase. Her first night as his wife, therefore, would be passed in his ancestral home.

A sense of, a commitment to, starting out as they meant to go on seemed to hover between them, as if they both knew it in themselves, and now recognized it in the other.

Somewhat cautiously, she acknowledged the fact with an inclination of her head, a smile, not light but intent, curving her lips. He saw—distracted, he glanced up as others bustled toward them—quickly looked back and nodded, his eyes serious as they touched hers.

With that mutual, unvoiced agreement, they turned to smile and chat with those who gathered about them.

The evening progressed as such evenings had before, but this time it was only during the two waltzes they shared that they were private enough to talk—and during their second waltz, neither bothered with words.

She was breathless when that waltz ended, prefectly ready to stand beside the dance floor and chat to acquaintances while the tension that had seized her nerves, that had sent
tingling anticipation spreading over her skin, slowly faded.

Toward the end of the evening, Minerva approached; leaving Luc to deal with Lady Melrose and Mrs. Highbury, Amelia gave his mother her attention. They quickly confirmed the members of his family who would be attending the wedding; Minerva was about to move on when Amelia saw her gaze lock on the pearl-and-diamond ring Luc had given her.

Smiling, she extended her hand, displaying the ring. “It's lovely, isn't it? Luc told me how the betrothal ring was passed down through the family.”

Minerva studied the ring, then smiled warmly. “It suits you perfectly, dear.” Her gaze moved on to her son; her smile faded. “If you don't mind, Amelia, I'd like a quick word with Luc.”

“Of course.” Turning back to the wider conversation, Amelia drew the two ladies' attention, releasing Luc to his mother.

Luc turned to Minerva; she put her hand on his arm and urged him a few steps away. He leaned closer when she spoke, her voice low.

“Amelia just showed me her ring.”

Before he could stop himself, he'd stiffened. His mother fixed him with a sharp glance.

“It seems,” she continued, “that Amelia believes it to be the betrothal ring passed down over generations of Ashfords.”

He held her gaze; after a long moment, he grudgingly admitted, “I mentioned the betrothal ring when I gave her that one.”

“And doubtless left her to make the connection herself?” When he said nothing, she shook her head. “Oh, Luc.”

It wasn't quite condemnation he saw in her eyes, but whatever it was, it made him feel twelve years old. “I didn't want her to worry about where the ring came from.”

Minerva's brows rose. “Or to think too far along those lines?”

She waited, but he refused to say more, to justify his stance or his behavior.

After a moment of reading his eyes—she was one of the few who could regularly manage it—she sighed. “I promised not to meddle, and I won't. But beware—the longer you delay making your revelation, the more difficult it will be.”

“So I've been told.” They were talking of two different revelations, but one led inexorably to the other. He looked at Amelia. “I promise on my honor I will tell her. Just not yet.”

He glanced at Minerva; again she shook her head, this time with a latent smile. Pressing his arm, she stepped away.

“You'll go to the devil in your own way. You always have.”

He watched her walk away, then rejoined Amelia.

Early the next morning, Amelia left for Somersham Place in company with her father and mother, her brother Simon and her younger sisters Henrietta and Mary, their butler Colthorpe and various family servants. The latter were to lend their support to the staff at the Place, Devil's principal residence, a huge sprawling mansion that in many ways represented the heart of the ducal dynasty.

They arrived late in the morning to find other family members already in residence, among them Helena, the Dowager, Devil's mother, and old Great-aunt Clara, summoned from her home in Somerset. Lady Osbaldestone, a distant connection, rattled up in her coach on their heels; Simon dutifully went to help her into the house.

Honoria and Devil had come down the day before with their young family. Amelia's twin, Amanda, and her new husband, Martin, Earl of Dexter, Luc's cousin, were rushing down from their home in the north; they were expected later that day. Catriona and Richard had sent their regrets—coming down from Scotland at such short notice, with a new baby to boot, had simply been impossible.

Luc, his mother, Emily, and Anne were expected later in the afternoon. By dint of careful questioning, Amelia discovered that Luc had been given a room in the opposite
wing to hers, as distant as possible. Which in a house the size of the Place, was distant indeed; any notion she might have entertained of visiting him that night was effectively quashed.

The company were just sitting down to luncheon when the rattle of wheels on gravel heralded another arrival. A few minutes later, two light voices were heard, earnestly, just a little nervously, greeting Webster.

Amelia set down her napkin and exchanged a smile with Louise. They both rose and went out to the hall; guessing the identity of the latest arrivals, Honoria also rose and followed more slowly in their wake.

“I do hope we were expected,” a girl in a faded carriage dress, thick spectacles perched on her nose, told Webster.

Before Webster could reply, her companion, in a similarly faded dress, piped up, “Actually, you might not remember who we are—we have grown somewhat since we last visited.”

Louise laughed and swept forward, saving Webster from potentially embarrassing assurances. “Of course you're expected, Penelope.” She enveloped Luc's youngest sister in a fond embrace, then, passing Penelope to Amelia, turned to the other. “And as for you, miss, no one who lays eyes on you ever forgets who you are.”

Portia, the third of Luc's sisters, wrinkled her nose as she returned Louise's embrace. “As I recall I was a grubby little squirt last time I was here, so I was hoping he might.”

“Oh, no, Miss Portia,” Webster assured her, his customary magisterial calm in place but with a twinkle in his eye. “I remember you quite well.”

Emerging from a wild hug with Amelia, Portia pulled a face at him, then turned to greet Honoria.

“Indeed, my dear.” Honoria's eyes danced over Portia's jet-black hair, not curly but falling naturally in deep waves, “I really don't think you can hope to be forgotten. Any crimes you commit will haunt you forever.”

Portia sighed. “With these eyes as well as the hair, I suppose
it's inevitable.” The black hair and dark blue eyes that in Luc were so dramatically masculine, in Portia were startlingly feminine. A born tomboy, however, she'd never appreciated the fact.

“Never mind.” With a smile, Amelia linked one arm in Portia's and slipped her other arm around Penelope's waist. “We're just sitting down to lunch, and I'm sure you must be starving.”

Penelope pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “Oh, we're always interested in food.”

Amelia spent the rest of the afternoon greeting arrivals and helping relatives to their rooms. She had little time to think of the wedding other than as a list of things to be done; even when, later in the afternoon, she tried on her wedding gown for a final fitting, with Amanda, Louise, and the rest of her aunts looking on, not the slightest hint of nervousness assailed her.

Later, she and Amanda retired to her room, to lie on the bed and talk—as they always had, as they always would, married or not. When, weary from traveling, Amanda dozed off, Amelia silently rose and crept from the room.

She'd wandered this house from her earliest years; slipping out through a secondary door into the grounds without being seen was easy. Under the welcoming cover of the thickly leaved oaks, she crossed the lawns to the one place she was sure of being alone, of finding a moment of blessed peace.

The sun was sinking, but still shone strongly between the trees as she crossed the clearing before the small church. Built of stone, it had stood for centuries, and seen scores of Cynster marriages, all of which, so the story went, had lasted through time. That wasn't why she'd chosen to marry beneath its ancient beams. Her parents had been married here; she'd been christened here. It had simply seemed right, the right place to end one phase of her life and embark simultaneously on the next.

She paused in the tiny porch and felt the peace reach for her, the heavy sense of timelessness, of grace and deep joy, that permeated the very stones. Reaching out, she pushed the door; it swung soundlessly open and she stepped in. And realized she wasn't the only one who had come seeking peace.

Luc stood facing the altar; hands in his breeches pockets, he looked up at the oriel window high above. The jeweled colors were magnificent, but it wasn't them that filled his mind.

He couldn't put his finger on what did, couldn't sort one feeling from another, pull one strand free of the turbulent whole—they'd all merged, all subsumed beneath, feeding into, one overriding compulsion.

To have Amelia as his wife.

It would happen here, tomorrow morning. All he had to do was wait, and she would be his.

The violence of his need rocked him, even more so when examined in a place such as this, where there was nothing and no one to distract him from seeing the whole, from acknowledging the frightening truth.

Even more, this place, silent witness to the unions of centuries, steeped in their aura, at some level resonant with the power that flowed through those unions, connecting the past with the present, flowing on to touch the future—facing the fundamental reality of life seemed natural, even necessary, here.

He'd always felt there was something about Somersham Place; he'd visited intermittently over the years, always dimly aware of that special something, but only now did he see it clearly. Only now, with his mind—and if he was honest, his heart and his soul—attuned to the same drumbeat, the same driving need, the same warrior's desire.

Quite when it had grown so important to him, he didn't know. Perhaps the potential had always been there, just waiting for the right circumstance, the right woman, to give it life, to set it free.