On A Wicked Dawn (32 page)

Which meant she had ten minutes in which to make herself presentable. Reluctantly leaving the warmth of his arms, she sat up, stretched, then straightened her bodice and shook out her skirt.

Noted that her bodice was still neatly done up; Luc had made not a single rakish move toward her since they'd been wed.

“We're nearly at the curve.”

His voice gave no indication of what he was thinking or feeling, indeed, if he was thinking or feeling anything at all. But his warning had her shuffling along to peer out at a sight she'd particularly wanted to see.

To savor—the first glimpse of her new home, spread out, pale stone faintly golden in the westering sun, sheltering in a dip below a rise some way ahead. For a time, the house would remain visible from the carriage as the road ran parallel to the rise on the opposite side of a shallow valley, a vista engineered to give visitors an appreciation of the quiet beauty of the Chase—an established, elegant mansion set in a rich and luxurious landscape.

The fields around the house were a verdant green, the vibrant color slowly fading to darkness as the sun set and the light waned. The house glowed through the dusk, as if the stone was lit from within, promising warmth to the traveler, and even more to those returning to its fold.

Long and large, the mansion comprised two stories with dormers atop; the facade was classical in design with twin columns supporting a central portico. However, the facade was not straight, but a shallow inverted
V
, the central block containing the portico at the apex, the ends of the long east and west wings angled forward toward the valley.

There'd been a house on the site for centuries; the central block had been built and rebuilt many times before the newer wings were added.

Beyond the end of the east wing stretched the darker green of trees—the old demesne, now woodland. To the west of the house lay the fields of the home farm, the roofs of stables and barns standing out amidst the green. Presently invisible behind the house were the formal lawns and gardens. Gazing out of the carriage, Amelia thought of them—thought of all the hours she'd spent there in the past, then let the memories fade.

Turned her mind to the future, thought of her dreams, embodied in the house before her; this was where she would make those dreams come true.

Watching the same scene from behind her, Luc let his gaze dwell on the house—his home. Eyes narrowed, he confirmed the slates on the west wing had been repaired and the wall damaged by a fallen tree nearly a decade ago rebuilt. The sight unexpectedly touched him; it now looked as it had when he could first remember seeing it, in his grandfather's time.

The decay of his father's term had already been partly erased; those had been some of the urgent orders he'd dispatched the day after he'd learned of his new wealth. The day following the dawn on which he'd agreed to marry Amelia, to take her hand and see what they could make of the future.

Together. Here.

His gaze shifted to her; the possessiveness that seized him was disorienting, disconcerting. He leaned back, shifting his gaze ahead as the carriage swept on. Trees intervened as the
road curved again and dipped into the valley; Amelia sighed and sat back, her gaze still on the window, her expression soft and eager.

The coach rattled over the stone bridge, then traversed the shoulder of the rise, the horses leaning into the traces for the long, sweeping approach to the house.

Five minutes later, the coach rocked to a halt before the portico of the Chase.

He'd been correct in his prediction; not just the indoor staff, but those who worked in the gardens, stables, and kennels as well, were lined up to greet them. The groom opened the door and let down the steps; Luc stepped down—a spontaneous cheer rose from the assembled throng.

He couldn't help but grin. Turning, he handed Amelia from the coach; as she stepped down and stood beside him, her hand in his, the cheers rose to new heights. Caps were tossed high—everyone was beaming. Conscious of the clouds blowing up from the west, encroaching on the summer twilight, Luc led Amelia forward. Cottsloe and Mrs. Higgs had left the Place immediately the ceremony had ended to ensure all was as it should be here, and to be ready to welcome them both to their new life.

Luc smiled as Mrs. Higgs rose somewhat shakily from her deep curtsy; with a gesture, he handed Amelia over to her. He and Cottsloe followed as Mrs. Higgs introduced all the indoor staff, then Cottsloe took the lead and did the same for those who worked outdoors.

The long line ended at the top of the portico steps where a youth struggled to hold a pair of enthusiastically eager Belvoir hounds. The animals wriggled and whined pitifully as Luc approached.

Amelia laughed and halted, watching as Luc patted them, and they slavishly adored him. Once they'd quieted, she offered her hands for them to sniff. She remembered them both. Patsy, Patricia of Oakham, was the matron of the pack and utterly devoted to Luc; Morry, Morris of Lyddington, was her oldest son and a reigning champion of the breed.

Patsy wuffed welcomingly and rubbed her head into
Amelia's hand; not to be outdone, Morry wuffed louder and went to jump up—Luc spoke and Morry subsided, instead wagging his tail and rump so vigorously their poor handler was nearly brushed off his feet.

“Kennels,” Luc declared in a tone that brooked no argument, canine or otherwise. Both dogs seemed to sigh and desist; with a grateful look, the boy turned them away.

Luc held out his hand.

Amelia looked up, met his gaze—then smiled, and slid her fingers into his. They closed firmly; with a flourish, he turned her to their assembled staff.

“I give you your new mistress—Amelia Ashford, Viscountess Calverton!”

The roar that answered was deafening; Amelia blushed, smiled, waved, then turned and let Luc lead her on, over the threshold into their home.

The staff followed quickly, streaming past as they stood in the wide front hall listening to Mrs. Higgs's arrangements.

“I've held dinner back to eight-thirty, my lord, my lady, not being sure of when you would arrive. If that's all right?”

Luc nodded. He glanced at Amelia, then raised the hand he still held to his lips. “I'll let Higgs show you up.” He hesitated, then added, “I'll be in the library—join me when you're ready.”

She smiled, inclined her head; he released her.

He stood in his hall and watched her climb the stairs, already deep in discussion with Higgs; when she finally disappeared from his sight, he turned and strode for the library.

He would have preferred to show her up to their suite himself, but then Higgs's dinner would have gone to waste, and his servants would have had a field day with their nods, winks, and knowing chuckles.

Not that any of that had deterred him.

A glass of brandy in his hand, Luc stood before the long windows of the library and watched the western sky turn black. A summer storm was rolling in; his tenant farmers
would be rejoicing. A flash of lightning, still distant, caught his eye.

He raised his glass and sipped, his gaze on the turbulent mass of thunderheads, evidence of a tempestuous force that mirrored the one roiling within him. The force of emotions, passions, and unslaked desire that, suppressed, had steadily escalated throughout the day until every muscle he possessed was rigid, locked in the fight to contain, to restrain, to keep the violence trapped, inside him. For now.

Turning from the window, he crossed to the hearth and dropped into an armchair before it. He didn't want to think of later. The sense, not of being out of control, but of not being fully
in
control haunted him. As if some part of him he'd never met before, some part he didn't recognize, was driving him. And he was helpless to resist.

He could control his actions, but not change the result; he could dictate the path, but not the ultimate goal.

While his intellect resisted, some deeply buried part of his mind rejoiced, metaphorically threw back his head and laughed at the danger, eager to taste the unexplored, the implicit, untameable wildness, to pit his wits and strength against it, to experience the promised thrill.

He took a long sip, then lowered his glass. “Thank God she's no longer a virgin.”

He was still sitting, sprawled in the chair, when the door opened and she entered. He turned his head, forced himself to remain still as he watched her cross the long room.

She'd changed into a gown of pale green silk, as delicate as a budding leaf seen through spring dew. The silk clung to her curves lovingly, the low, scooped neckline showcasing her breasts, the fine skin over her collarbones, the delicate arch of her throat. Her golden curls were piled high; wisps bounced by her ears. She wore no jewelry bar the wedding band he'd placed on her finger earlier that day. She didn't need more. As she halted before the other armchair, facing him across the hearth, the light from the candelabra on the mantelpiece fell across her; her skin glowed like pearl.

She was his wife—his. He could barely believe it, even
now. He had known her for so long, had considered her untouchable for years, yet now she was his to do with as he pleased—the primitive possessiveness the thought evoked was startling. Not that he would hurt her, physically, emotionally, or in any other way. Pleasure was his currency, and had been for a long time—long enough to know how broad a field physical pleasure truly was.

The thought of exploring that field with her . . . he stopped trying to block the thought. His gaze on her, on her face, then slowly traveling down her body, he let his mind imagine . . . and plan.

She remained standing before him, her gaze steady, her color even, no hint of any panic showing. Yet he was aware of her accelerating heartbeat as if it were his own, could sense her skin heating, saw her lips part fractionally.

Returning his gaze to her eyes, he tried to read them, but the distance defeated him. He'd kept his expression impassive, his eyes hooded. After an instant, she tilted her head, faintly raised one brow.

There was nothing he could tell her—wished to tell her—no words, no warning. He raised his glass to her, and sipped.

The door opened; they both looked.

Cottsloe stood in the doorway. “Dinner is served, my lord. My lady.”

Impatience sank its claws deep; ignoring it, Luc smoothly rose, set his glass down, and offered Amelia his arm. “Shall we?”

The glance she threw him was curious, as if she wasn't entirely sure what he was truly asking. But there was a smile on her lips as she set her fingers on his sleeve and let him lead her to the door.

He had absolutely no idea what Mrs.Higgs and Cook had prepared; he paid no attention to the food Cottsloe laid on his plate. He must have eaten, but as the storm gathered and built beyond the windows, he felt increasingly distanced, the violence outside calling to all he'd suppressed throughout the day until it—sating it—dominated his thoughts and his mind.

From the end of the table, shortened as much as possible but still able to seat ten, Amelia watched, and wondered. Over the years, she'd seen Luc in all his many moods—this one was new. Different.

Charged.

She could feel his intensity, crackling between them, feeding her own welling anticipation. An anticipation further buoyed by relief. His unexpected reserve, his eschewing of all loverlike gestures, had left her uncertain. Wondering if, now she was his wife, he was no longer as physically interested in her as he once had seemed. Wondering if that earlier interest had in truth been as potent as she remembered it. Wondering if it hadn't in some measure been feigned.

Glancing up the table, she watched him sip from a crystal goblet, his gaze fixed on the windows, on the storm brewing
outside. He'd always been enigmatic, cool, reserved; she'd assumed as they drew closer, his barriers would fall. Instead, the closer they grew, the more impenetrable his shields, the more of an enigma he became.

She wouldn't put it past him to pretend to a pretty passion as the easiest way to deal with her, to satisfy her within their marriage. She was not such an innocent as to think he couldn't, or wouldn't, do so if it suited him.

Cottsloe approached with the wine bottle; Luc glanced at her plate of poached figs, then shook his head. He went back to staring at the storm.

While the intensity between them, stoked by that brief, dark
impatient
glance, surged even higher.

Suppressing a smile, she set herself dutifully to dispense with the figs. She couldn't leave them untouched—Mrs. Higgs said Cook had slaved over every dish, and indeed, the quality had been excellent. Given that the cook's master had paid not the slightest heed, it behooved her to make the effort.

She'd probably need the strength.

The wayward thought popped into her mind, and nearly made her choke. But it was an indication of her underlying thoughts, and her expectations.

Ever since joining Luc in the library, she'd realized that, whatever else he might fabricate, this intensity—the attraction flaring between them—was not feigned. Not a construct created by a master seducer to dazzle her; the truth was, the master seducer wasn't thrilled.