On A Wicked Dawn (36 page)

“The Autumn Gathering—it's an . . . estate party for want of a better name, held in late September.”

“I remember,” she replied. “I've been here for one, years ago.”

“Ah, but you wouldn't have been here for one in my grandparents' time. Now
those
were parties.”

She met his eye, grinned. “I'm sure we could match them if we try.”

“Cottsloe was a footman, and Higgs was a parlor maid—they'd remember enough to resurrect some of the more unusual events.”

His eyes remained on hers; she inclined her head. “I'll ask and see what we can organize.” She laid down her fork, reached for her glass. “Was there anything else?”

Luc hesitated. “This is more prospective. Mama visited the tenants, and I'm sure you'll do the same, but we're taking on more workers, not just on the home farm but on the tenant farms, too. There's a lot of children about. Too many to eventually work the farms in their fathers' stead.”

He picked up his glass, sipped, leaned back. “I've heard good reports from various estates where schools have been set up for the workers' children. I'd like to institute something along those lines here, but I simply don't have time to look into it properly, let alone do the necessary planning.”

And if Devil and Gabriel had their way and co-opted him into the Cynster investment cartel, he'd have even less time for such activities.

He was watching Amelia carefully; he saw the spark of eagerness in her eyes.

“How many estates do you have?”

“Five.” He named them. “Each is productive, and the returns are sufficient to justify the time and effort to keep them running smoothly.”

“That won't leave you much time for anything else.”

He inclined his head. “I travel to each estate at least twice a year.”

She looked at him. “I'll be coming, too.”

No question. Pleased, he inclined his head again.

“Your other estates—are any big enough to justify a school?”

“In the next few years, it's likely all will have sufficient numbers.”

“So if we trial the concept here, and work through all the problems, then we can later expand to your other estates.”

He met her now overtly eager gaze. “It'll take time and considerable effort in each case. There are always prejudices to overcome.”

She smiled. “I'll have more than enough time—you may leave the matter with me.”

He acquiesced with a nod, masking his satisfaction. The more she became enmeshed in his life, in the running of his estates and his household, the better.

His ride about the estate had brought home how many repairs and improvements were under way—works she'd undoubtedly think were being paid for by her dowry.

Convention stated that no woman had any right to know her husband's business.

Regardless, he couldn't imagine not telling her the truth.

That her dowry was a drop in the ocean compared to his wealth, that he'd known it from the dawn she'd offered herself—and her dowry—to him, that he'd been careful to allow no hint of the truth to reach her, even to the point of corrupting her father and making a pact with Devil . . .

Could he rely on her temper to blind her to the real revelation therein?

He inwardly grimaced; she was a Cynster female—he had too much respect for her perspicacity on such subjects to risk it.

He had until September to make his confession.

Sufficient unto the day the evil thereof.

“My lord?”

He looked up to see Cottsloe standing by the door.

“McTavish has just come in. He's waiting in the Office.”

Luc laid down his napkin. “Thank you.” He glanced at Amelia. “McTavish is my steward. Have you met him?”

“Yes. It was years ago, however.” She pushed back her chair; a footman started forward—rising, Luc waved him back, drew out the chair.

Amelia stood and faced him, smiled into his eyes. “Why don't I come with you and you can reintroduce us, then I'll leave you to your business while I continue with mine?”

He took her hand, set it on his sleeve. “The Office is in the west wing.”

After meeting McTavish and casting a curious glance over the Office, Amelia rejoined Mrs. Higgs, and they continued their inspection. While the house was in excellent condition, and all the woodwork—floors and furniture both—gleamed with beeswax and care, virtually every piece of fabric was in need of replacement. Not urgently, but within the next year.

“We won't be able to do it all at once.” They'd completed their circuit of the reception rooms; in the main drawing room, Amelia scribbled a note putting the curtains in that room at the top of her list. Followed by the curtains in the
dining room. And the chairs in both rooms needed to be reupholstered.

“Will that be all, ma'am?” Higgs asked. “If so, would you like me to get your tea?”

She raised her head, considered; unlikely that Luc would wish for tea. “Yes, please—send the tray to the small parlor.”

Higgs nodded and withdrew. Amelia returned to the parlor off the music room.

Leaving her notes—a considerable pile—in the desk, she retreated to relax on the chaise. A footman appeared with her tea tray; she thanked and dismissed him, then poured a cup and slowly sipped—in silence, in isolation, both very strange to her.

It wouldn't last—this had always been a house full of people, mostly females. Once Minerva and Luc's sisters returned from London, the house would revert to its usual state.

No—not so. Not quite.

That was, indeed, what this strange interlude signified—the birth of a new era. As Higgs had said, the weather had changed, the season swung around, and they were moving into a new and different time.

Into the period when this huge house would be hers to run, to manage, to care for. Hers and Luc's the responsibility to steer it, and the family it sheltered through whatever the future might bring.

She sipped her tea and felt that reality—the fabric of their future life—hovering, as yet amorphous, unformed, all about her. What she made of it, how she sculpted the possibilities . . . it was a challenge she was eager to meet.

Her tea finished, the sunshine tempted her to try the French doors. They opened; she strolled out into the gardens.

As she walked the clipped lawns, then strolled along a wisteria-covered walk bathed in sunshine, she turned her mind to her master plan, to charting the immediate future.

Their physical relationship appeared to be taking care of itself, developing of its own accord—all she needed to do was devote herself as required, something she was perfectly
willing to do, especially after last night. And this morning.

She grinned. Reaching the end of the walk, she turned into the crosswalk and continued on. She hadn't expected to feel so confident, to gain such a fillip from knowing she pleased him in their bed, from knowing that his desire for her was real—entirely unfeigned; if anything, it had grown rather than diminished since first they'd slaked it.

Another unlooked-for success had been his readiness to accept her assistance with the Autumn Gathering and his new idea about schools. It might simply be that he saw her as competent, and he was willing, given the burdens he already shouldered, to let her help; nevertheless, it was a start. A step toward true sharing, which was, after all, what a real marriage was about.

A real marriage—that was her goal, the absolute achievement she'd promised herself. The marriage she intended to have.

At the end of the crosswalk, she looked up and ahead—to the stables, and the long building that extended beyond. From there came the unmistakable yipping of hounds.

Luc's treasures. Lips curving, she set out to view them for herself. She was quite partial to dogs—just as well, for Luc's pack of prize Belvoir hounds had been his hobby since boyhood. A lucrative one—the pack would be a source of income now, both through being leased to the local hunt and through breeding fees and sales of the offspring of champions like Morry and Patsy.

The kennels, clean, well run, spic-and-span, were reached via the courtyard around which the stable was built. A narrow aisle ran down the center of the long building with pens giving off on either side; there she found Luc talking to Sugden, the kennel master.

Luc's back was to her; he and Sugden were discussing buying another breeding bitch. Sugden saw Amelia first, colored, closed his lips and nodded, tugging at his cap. Luc turned, hesitated, then raised a brow. “Come to see my beauties?”

She smiled. “Indeed.” That momentary hesitation hadn't escaped her—he was wondering if she was going to be upset at learning he was using her dowry to buy a breeding bitch. Letting real appreciation light her eyes—the entire pack were magnificent specimens—she nodded to Sugden and tucked her hand in Luc's arm. “They seemed to be calling me. How many do you have?”

He moved down the aisle with her. “They're just hoping you've brought dinner.”

“Are they hungry? When do they get fed?”

“Always, and soon. There are nearly sixty all told, but only forty-three actually run. The others are mostly too young. A few are too old.”

One of the “too old” was lying curled on a blanket in the last pen, the one closest to the potbellied stove that in winter would heat the area. The pen door was wedged open; the dog lifted its head as Luc neared, and thumped its tail.

Luc crouched, patting the greying head. “This is Regina. She was the matriarch before Patsy.”

Amelia crouched beside him, let Regina sniff her hand, then scratched behind the dog's ears. Regina tilted her head, lids heavy.

Luc sat back on his heels. “I'd forgotten you like dogs.”

Just as well, for in winter they were forever around. He even brought some—the very young and very old, like Regina—into the house when it was freezing out.

“Amanda does, too—we always wanted a puppy, but it was never fair, not living in London all the time.”

He'd never considered—never thought that, although they shared such similar backgrounds in some ways, in others . . . he couldn't imagine not having a sprawling country house like the Chase, or the Place, to call home. Yet she hadn't; while he'd spent his summers riding the wolds, she'd been visiting here, visiting there—no single place her own.

The tenor of the hounds' call changed. Luc glanced back down the aisle, then rose, and reached down to take Amelia's arm. “Come on—you can help feed them.”

She stood eagerly; he steered her back up the aisle, took over from the lads whose chore it was to feed the dogs, then showed her how much to place in each bowl. She took to it with alacrity, quickly learning to gently tap the hounds' noses out of the way long enough to reach the bowls.

At the end of the aisle, opposite Regina, Sugden was checking the latest litter. The pups were six weeks old, not yet weaned. Sugden nodded at Luc as they approached.

“This lot's doing well—might even have another champion here.” He pointed to one puppy who was nosing along the edge of the pen, wuffling and snuffling. Luc grinned; leaning over the low barrier erected to keep the puppies in, he scooped the questing pup up and showed him to Amelia.

“Oh! He's so soft.” She reached for the pup, took him in her arms; delight lit her face. When she cradled him like a baby and tickled his tummy, the pup closed his eyes and sighed.

Luc watched, struck—then he glanced around. When he looked back, Amelia glanced at him. “Later, when they're grown, can we send one to Amanda?”

She looked down at the pup, continuing to ruffle the downy fur on its belly. Crooning softly. Luc looked down at her head, at the golden curls. “Of course. But first, you'll need to pick out one for yourself.” He took the now-dozy puppy from her, held him up again, checked the splay of his legs, the size and formation of his feet. “This one would be a good choice.”

“Oh, but—“ Amelia glanced at Sugden. “If he's a champion—“

“He'll be the very best dog to own.” Luc bent and returned the puppy to its mother. “Belle will be honored.” He stroked the bitch's head. She closed her eyes, then turned her head and licked his hand.

Luc stood. He nodded to Sugden. “I'll check with you tomorrow.”

Taking Amelia's arm, drawing her away from the apparently fascinating sight of her little champion suckling, he guided her up the aisle and out of the kennels. “You'll have
to think of a name for him. He'll be weaned in a few weeks.”

She was still glancing back down the aisle. “Will I be able to take him for walks then?”

“Little walks, more like gambols. Puppies love to play.”

Amelia sighed and faced forward, looping her arm through Luc's. “Thank you.” She smiled when he glanced at her, stretched up and kissed him lightly. “He's the most precious wedding gift you could have given me.”

Luc's expression clouded; she immediately frowned. “I'm afraid I haven't got anything to give you in return.”

Wide-eyed, she met his gaze—but couldn't read it.

A moment passed, then he lifted her hand from his sleeve, raised it to his lips. “You,” he stated, “are more than enough.”

She assumed he meant her dowry, but as she searched his face, his eyes, she wasn't sure . . . a wave of fine tension swept up her spine.

They strolled on and she faced forward, conscious of the tightness about her lungs. Wondered if she should tell him she didn't mind if he spent money on his dogs—wondered fleetingly if that was why he'd given her one, his latest champion. Dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred. She'd never known Luc to be devious—he was too damned arrogant to bother.

Should she speak? They hadn't mentioned her dowry since those early days, yet in truth, there was nothing to say. When it came to money, to how he managed their now-combined fortunes, she trusted him implicitly. Luc was definitely not his father; his devotion to the Chase, to his family, was beyond question.