On A Wicked Dawn (35 page)

Pressing deep into her.

Despite her satiation, she opened her eyes, blinked. He moved within her and she roused within seconds, matching him with a simple eagerness, an open giving, that made him shudder. He found her lips. They parted under his and she welcomed him in. They moved together, the pillows cocooning them in a world of their own.

A world of sensation untrammeled, a green field where the power flowed freely. The power that drove their mating, that, as before, tempted and promised an unstinting reward.

They took it, grasped it, let it possess them—let it fill them.

To bursting point. He drew away from the kiss long enough to gasp, “Your legs—wrap them about my waist.”

She obeyed immediately. He groaned as he drove into her, deep toward her heart.

The power fused them. Rushed over them in a wave and took them both. Completely. Absolutely.

He yielded without question, knew she did the same. Heard her sweet cry as she tumbled into the void. He followed swiftly, holding her tight.

And knew in that instant of startling clarity that she, and that power, had become the linchpin of his life.

That revelation did not buoy his confidence. Some hours later, sitting in the breakfast parlor staring unseeing at the latest news sheet from London propped against the coffeepot before him, Luc had to wonder what madness had brought him to this. Not just married, but married to a Cynster.

It wasn't as if he could claim ignorance; he'd only known her all her life.

Yet here he was, on the morning after his wedding night, feeling as if
he
was the one in need of gentle reassurance. He stifled a snort, forced his eyes to focus on the print. His mind refused to make sense of the words.

It wasn't his sexual prowess that was in question. Or, indeed, hers. He didn't, in fact, know what his problem was—why he felt the need to tread warily, even gingerly, in this landscape that, despite being so familiar, had, since their wedding, subtly altered.

At least his mother had taken his sisters—all four of them—to London for the week, leaving him and Amelia blessedly alone to settle into married life. The thought of facing Portia and Penelope over the breakfast cups while he was in this less-than-certain state made him shudder.

He raised his cup, took a long sip, and tossed aside the news sheet.

Just as Amelia walked in.

He hadn't expected her to join him; he'd left her—he'd thought exhausted—a warm bundle in their bed.

She breezed in, wearing a delicate lavender sprigged gown; she smiled cheerily. “Good morning.”

He nodded, hiding his surprise behind his cup. She turned to the sideboard; Cottsloe bustled up to hold her plate while she made her selections. Leaving the butler to pour and follow with her tea, she swept to the table.

To the chair on his right.

A footman hurried to hold it for her. She smiled and sat, thanking the footman, then Cottsloe sunnily.

At a look from Luc, Cottsloe and the footman effaced themselves. Luc returned his gaze to his wife. And her piled plate. The wifely duties she'd most recently been discharging had clearly given her an appetite.

“I expect you'll be busy this morning, catching up with business?” She glanced at him as she picked up her fork.

He nodded. “There are always urgent matters to catch up with immediately I return here.”

“You spend most of the year here, don't you? Other than the Season, and later in the year?”

“Yes. I don't usually go up until the end of September, at the earliest, and try to get back by late November.”

“For the shooting?”

“More so I can oversee the preparations for winter and the hunting.”

Amelia nodded. Rutlandshire and neighboring Leicestershire were prime hunting country. “I suspect we'll have any number of visitors in February.”

“Indeed.” Luc shifted. “Speaking of riding, I must get off soon, but if you want me—“

“No, no—all's well. Your mother spoke with both me and Higgs before we left London, so we know where we are.” She smiled. “It was sweet of her to hand over the reins so cleanly.”

Luc humphed. “She's been waiting to hand them to someone she trusts for years.”

He hesitated, then reached out and caught Amelia's hand. She laid down her fork; he raised her fingers to his lips. His gaze on her eyes, he kissed her fingertips, then, curling his fingers around them, rose, pushing back his chair and stepping around the table, returning her hand to her with the words, “I'm sure my household will be in good hands.” He paused, then added, “I'll be back for luncheon.”

Whether her hands would prove to be “good” or not, she didn't know, but they were well trained and eager. This was what she'd been born, raised, and trained for, to manage a gentleman's home.

Higgs appeared as she was finishing her tea. She returned the housekeeper's beaming smile. “Perfect timing. Shall we start with the menus?”

“Indeed, ma'am, if you will.”

From previous visits, she knew the house reasonably well. “We'll use the parlor off the music room.” She rose.

Higgs followed her into the hall. “You wouldn't rather use your own sitting room, ma'am?”

“No. I intend keeping that private.” Completely private.

The parlor off the music room was a small chamber filled with morning light. It contained a comfortable chaise and two armchairs covered in chintz, and an escritoire against the wall, just as Amelia had recalled. She crossed to the escritoire and the spindle-legged chair before it; as she'd suspected, the escritoire held some paper and a few pencils, but clearly hadn't been used in years. Even better, it had a lock with a key.

“This will do nicely for my desk.” Sitting, she searched the papers for a clean sheet, then examined the pencils. “I'll get some better things shortly, but this will do for today.” She smiled at Higgs and nodded toward the nearest armchair. “Pull that closer and sit, and let's get started.”

Despite knowing the theory, despite having sat with her mother through innumerable household meetings, she was
nevertheless grateful for Higgs's experienced common sense, and the woman's blatant support.

“Duck with cherries would be a wise choice to go with the rest. Now we have the werewithal to be a touch more extravagant, it only seems fair to give the master his due. Duck with cherries is one of his favorites.”

Amelia added the dish to her dinner menu. Higgs's mention of the family's improved circumstances hadn't escaped her. Higgs had to have been practicing the most severe economies for years; Luc had been right to inform her there was no longer any need. “Can we add
crême brulée,
do you think? It should round things off nicely.”

Higgs nodded. “A good choice, ma'am.”

“Excellent—so that's done.” Amelia set down her pencil and handed the sheet to Higgs. The housekeeper scanned it, then placed it in her apron pocket.

“Now, is there anything else I should know?” Amelia caught Higgs's eye. “Anything less than satisfactory about the house or the staff? Any difficulty that needs dealing with?”

Higgs's beaming smile returned. “No, ma'am—nothing at present. ‘Deed, we were remarking in the hall only last night that now with the master married, and to you, miss—ma'am, I should say—who we all know and have seen grow from a wee girl, well!” Higgs paused to draw breath. “There's not much more any of us could think of to wish for, and that's a fact.”

Amelia returned her smile. “I know things must have been difficult in recent years.”

“Aye, they were that, and sometimes even worse what with Master Edward and all. But!” Higgs's bosom swelled; her face, which had clouded at thoughts of the past, cleared. “That's all behind us now.” She nodded at the window and the glorious summer's day. “Just like the weather, the family's come around, and we've got nothing but good times and pleasant surprises to look forward to.”

Amelia pretended not to notice the “pleasant surprises,” doubtless an allusion to children—babies—hers and Luc's.
She nodded graciously. “I hope my tenure here as mistress will be a happy one.”

“Aye, well.” Higgs hauled herself up from the armchair. “You've started out on the right foot—now it's simply a matter of keeping on.” She patted her pocket. “I'd best get this to Cook, then I'll be at your disposal, ma'am.”

“I've a better idea.” Amelia rose, too. “I'll come with you, and you can show me around the kitchens. After that, you can take me around the house—I know the general layout, but there's many places I've never been.”

Places a guest wouldn't venture, but a mistress needed to know.

Like the attics.

Those of the west wing and half of the east were given over to servants' quarters—small cubicles, few larger than a cell, but Amelia was pleased to note as she walked down the narrow central corridor that each room had a dormer window, and every one she peeked into was not only neat and clean, but showed little signs of comfort—a looking glass, a framed picture on the wall, a jar acting as a vase.

The second half of the east wing's attics were given over to storage. After looking in, she agreed she didn't need a more detailed inspection. Luc had said he'd return for luncheon; she didn't want to appear trailing cobwebs on their first day as man and wife.

Returning to the central block, Higgs stood at the top of the main stairs and pointed out the rooms filling the top floor. “Nursery's here at the front, and the schoolroom's right to the back. We've rooms here for nurse and governess—that's Miss Pink.”

Amelia recalled the shy, diminuitive woman. “How does she manage with Portia and Penelope?” A wonder, for Luc's younger sisters were nothing if not handfuls.

“Truth to tell, I think it's more that they manage her—those two young madams are sharp as you please, but for all their willful ways, they've good hearts. I think they took pity on Pink the instant they set eyes on her, and there's no doubt she's as much of a bluestocking as they'd wish for.”

“They like their lessons?”

“Devour them. And between you and me, Pink teaches them far more than young ladies need to know. Howsoever, as they've brains enough to cope without ending in a fever, Pink has served well. Because they like her, Miss Portia and Miss Penelope try to behave.”

Descending from the top floor, they commenced an inventory of the rooms on the first floor. Most of the reception rooms were on the ground floor, but the occasional sitting room was interspersed between the bedchambers along both wings.

“So we actually have a number of suites. Helpful, especially when we have older guests.” Amelia made a note on the tablet she carried.

A deep
bong
resonated through the house. Higgs lifted her head. “That's the luncheon gong, ma'am.”

Amelia turned for the stairs. “We'll continue this afternoon.”

She stepped into the front hall as Luc entered from the long corridor of the west wing. In breeches and hacking jacket, he appeared the epitome of an English country gentleman; the planes of his face, the long lines of his body more definitively declared his status.

Higgs bobbed, then bustled past him, heading for the servants' hall. Luc raised a brow at Amelia as he joined her. “Have you seen all?”

“Barely half.” She led the way into the family dining parlor. “Higgs and I will continue after lunch.”

She took her seat, once more on his right; she refused to sit at the end of the table when they were alone. Cottsloe appeared to agree with her; he'd set her place as she'd wished, even though she'd made no request. Shaking out her napkin, she glanced at Luc. “Is there any particular”—she gestured—“element of household management you'd like to see changed?”

He sat, clearly gave the matter thought while Cottsloe served. When the butler stood back, Luc shook his head. “No. Over the past years, we've reorganized virtually everything.”
He met her gaze. “Now Mama has handed over the reins, control of household matters is entirely in your hands.”

She nodded. Once they'd both started to eat, she asked, “Is there any aspect of the estate presently on your plate you'd like me to take over?”

A delicate question, but Minerva wasn't young, and Luc was Luc. While his mother had undoubtedly fulfilled her duties unstintingly, she knew he would have transferred as many responsibilities as possible from Minerva's shoulders to his.

Again, he considered, then went to shake his head—as she'd fully expected—but stopped. “Actually”—he glanced at her—“there are a few things you could take over.”

She nearly dropped her fork. “What?” She hoped her eagerness wasn't too transparent. It was essential to her long-term strategy that she establish herself as his wife, not only in the eyes of the staff and estate workers, and all others, but in Luc's eyes, too.