On A Wicked Dawn (45 page)

The Ashfords waved their guests away, then turned back inside. Minerva went off with Emily and Anne in tow; Luc disappeared into the shadows of the front hall. As Portia and Penelope were about to follow, Amelia looked toward the kennels. “I'm going to walk around and check on Galahad. He and his brothers and sisters could probably do with a gambol.” She glanced at the girls. “Why don't you come with me? I'm sure Miss Pink will excuse you for another half hour.”

“She will if we tell her we were with you.” Penelope changed directions. “Anyway, you shouldn't take all the puppies out by yourself. There are too many to watch over all at once.”

“Indeed.” Portia swung away from the door. “And they're still so helpless.”

Amelia grabbed the opening. “Speaking of helpless puppies . . .” She waited until both girls glanced at her. Held
their gazes until comprehension dawned and they shifted and looked away.

“Well, they're just so
irritating
. And soppy about it, too.” Penelope scowled in the direction the Gingolds had gone.

“Perhaps, but they don't mean to be. And there's a difference between being civilly discouraging and actively taking slices out of their hides.” Amelia glanced at Portia; she was looking down the valley, her lips compressed. “You could try being a little more understanding.”

“They're both older than us—you'd think they'd have more sense than to moon about us the way they do.” Portia's chin firmed; she glanced at Amelia. “They can't seriously imagine we're flattered by such fawning.”

Neither had had a younger brother; both Edward and Luc were much older. When it came to youthful males, Amelia had considerably more experience than they. She sighed, linked arms with Penelope, then with Portia, and drew them toward the gravel walk leading around the house. “They may be older in years, but in the arena of male-female relationships, boys, indeed, even men, are always backward. It's something you need to remember.

“In the Gingold boys' case, a little understanding now—and no, I don't mean being encouraging or even acquiescing but just dealing with them gently—may work to your later advantage. They'll likely always live in this area and may later be perfectly reasonable acquaintances; there's no need to give them poor memories of you. Furthermore, a little practice in dealing with male devotion, however misplaced, won't come amiss. When it comes your turn to make your bows to society, knowing how to deal with besotted young men . . .”

Amelia's voice faded as the trio walked along the path; from where he'd been waiting inside the front door, Luc risked looking out. The three were walking slowly, heads bent close—black, blond, and brown—Amelia lecturing, his sisters listening—perhaps reluctantly, but listening.

He'd been waiting to try to make precisely the same
points, but he would not have been been anywhere near as successful.

Aside from anything else, he would never have admitted to being backward in the arena of male-female relationships.

Even if it were true.

He stood in the hall, the tension that had gripped him over the prospect of verbally wrestling with Portia and Penelope over their unacceptable behavior dissipating. With that fading, his mind returned to its usual obsession—that other female he'd yet to adequately deal with.

Suppressing a resigned grimace, he headed for the Office.

A week of long sunny days rolled by, punctuated by more visits as the families around about called to offer their felicitations and welcome Amelia. As she was already known to all, such visits passed in comfortable style, with easy familiarity. Outside such social interludes, a steady murmur of life filled the Chase—something Luc also found comfortable and familiar.

It was the way his home had always been, as long as he could remember it—the long corridors filled with the steady thrum of a large household, the laughter and whispers of his sisters, his mother's more measured tones, giggling from the maids, Higgs's brusque edicts, Cottsloe's deeper voice. To him, that murmurous sound—a sound containing so many other sounds—represented much of what he'd struggled for the past eight years to preserve.

The sounds of the Chase in midsummer embodied the essence of family, the essence of home.

And now there was another thread in the symphony, another player. Time and again, he found himself listening for Amelia's voice, listening as she interacted with, interjected, corrected and encouraged his sisters.

In company with Minerva, Emily, and Anne, Amelia returned their neighbors' visits, satisfying the social expectations. Both Emily and Anne watched and learned, taking more notice of Amelia's behavior than they ever had of their mama's.

The expected letter from Kirkpatrick arrived. Minerva was simply pleased; with the confidence of one experienced in such things, she assumed everything would go smoothly. And there was no reason it wouldn't.

Emily, however, was understandably keyed up; she started worrying over things that didn't need worrying about. Luc steeled himself to speak with her, to somehow allay her feminine fears—Amelia got there first, relieving him of the problem of dealing with something he didn't truly understand.

Emily responded to Amelia's calming comments, smiling and returning to her usual self almost immediately. Luc felt cravenly grateful.

He was likewise happy when he discovered Amelia encouraging Anne, not pushing, but supporting, which was exactly what he himself wished to do but couldn't easily manage. He was a male, after all; his sisters all had him pegged, although the manner in which each regarded him differed.

Which was why, when one night over the dinner table, Amelia stepped directly between him and Portia, he found himself reacting, not gratefully, but with a quite different emotion.

A dark glance, a flash of tension that flowed through him—although she now sat at the other end of the table, Amelia noticed. One brown brow rose faintly, but she kept control of the conversational reins she'd filched from his grasp.

However, later that night, as soon as they were alone, even before he'd brought up the subject, she did, explaining her reasoning, asking—outright—for his approval. He'd given it, for she'd been, as usual when it came to his sisters, right. Her insight with respect to them was more acute than his, yet when she explained, he saw what she saw and agreed with her tack.

Reluctantly, he stepped back and let her handle them, reassured when she grasped private moments here and there to keep him informed.

Gradually, in such small increments that at first he didn't notice, the burden of dealing with his sisters lifted from his shoulders. He relaxed—and then he noticed. That he was less tense in their presence, that relaxed, he took greater joy in their company. He didn't love them any the less, but from one step back, his view of them was clearer, less clouded by his instincts, by the fraught knowledge they were solely his responsibility.

Legally, they still were; in reality, that responsibility was now shared.

The realization made him pause, again evoked a reaction, a concern he couldn't easily shrug aside.

When he walked into their bedroom later that night, Amelia was already abed, lying back on the pillows, her curls a gilded frame for her face. Calmly expectant, she watched him approach. He halted by the side of the bed, caught her gaze.

Reached for the tie of his robe. “You've been very helpful with my sisters—all of them.” He shrugged out of the robe, let it fall. Watched her gaze drift down from his face. “Why?”

“Why?” Her gaze didn't leave his body as he joined her on the bed, then she reached for him and lifted her eyes to his. “Because I like them, of course. I've known them all their lives, and they need, perhaps not help, but guidance.”

She watched while he slid down beside her, and skin met skin, then she lifted a hand and brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his brow. “Your mother . . . it's been a long time since she had to deal with such things, and such things have changed with the years in many cases.”

“So you're doing it for them?”

She smiled, settled invitingly back, her fingers trailing down his cheek. “For them, for you, for us.”

He hesitated; the “for you” he'd hoped for, hoped he understood. Wasn't about to ask. “Us?”

She laughed. “They're your sisters, we're married—that makes them my sisters-in-law. They're family, and they need
advice—advice I can give. So of course I'll do what I can to ease their way.”

Her hand slid into his hair, firmed as she drew his head to hers. “You worry about them too much. They're clever and bright—they'll do perfectly well. Trust me.”

He did. His lips closed on hers, and he let the matter slide. Let another take its place. Let the power and the passion strip away their thoughts, let sensation and emotion rule, let their bodies fuse in concert with their souls.

Later, when moonlight painted a swath across their bed, he lay with Amelia asleep beside him and tentatively adjusted his thoughts.

He cared deeply for his sisters; Amelia knew that. He'd wondered what her motives in assisting with them were. A telling reaction; when it came to her and what was now between them, he could barely believe how far his uncertainty stretched. He'd imagined it possible that in seeking to control his sisters as well as his household, she was seeking, ultimately, to control him.

His position—his very self—was so deeply rooted in his home, in his family, that controlling both would effectively give her considerable influence over him. While he'd expected her to rule his household, he hadn't foreseen her helping with his sisters.

More fool him, but he was starting to suspect he'd been—was still being—foolish on a wider front.

He'd long recognized love for the power that it was, had always been wary that it would prove strong enough to rule him. As, indeed, he now knew it was.

She'd always been a terribly managing female, one as stubborn as he, yet she'd been the only woman he'd ever truly wanted, ever wanted as his wife. And now she was.

His wariness, his distrust—his continuing uncertainty—all stemmed from the fact that he didn't know
why
she'd chosen to marry him. He'd assumed, imagined, guessed—all wrongly, it now seemed.

He still didn't know.

But finally, belatedly, very likely foolishly so, he was starting to believe that it wasn't a wish to rule him that drove her.

The next afternoon, Amelia was sitting in her parlor toting up her household accounts when Higgs looked in.

“A curricle's coming up the drive, ma'am. Dark-haired gentleman, dark-haired lady—not anyone from 'round about but I do think I might have seen them at your wedding.”

Mystified, Amelia set down her pen. “I'll come and see.”

She was expecting Amanda and Martin, together with her parents, Simon and her aunt Helena, all who'd been visiting at Hathersage, Amanda's new home which Amelia had yet to see, in a few days. Concern over what had brought anyone else earlier made her walk quickly to the front hall.

Cottsloe opened the front door and she stepped out, raised a hand to shade her eyes against the slanting sun, and searched the long, curving drive. She spotted the curricle starting the long climb toward the house.

Stepping back, she glanced at Cottsloe. “Please tell his lordship that Lucifer and Phyllida have arrived.”

Turning, she went out onto the portico to greet her cousin and his wife.

“What's wrong?” she asked the instant Lucifer stepped down from his curricle.

His gaze went past her to the groom hurrying up to take charge of his horses, then shifted to the portico where Cottsloe waited, a footman hovering, about to come for their luggage. Turning to her with his customary rakish smile, he enveloped her in a hug, planted a kiss on her cheek. “I'll tell all later, when it's just you and Luc and me.”

“And me.” Phyllida prodded his back.

Lucifer turned and lifted her down. “And you, of course. That goes without saying.”

Phyllida threw him a look, then embraced Amelia. “Don't worry,” Phyllida whispered. “No one's in any danger.”

Lucifer was scanning the surrounding fields. “Superb country.”

Phyllida and Amelia exchanged glances, then linked arms and headed for the house. “Now, quite aside from that,” Phyllida said, “you must tell me everything. I'm here in lieu of everyone still in the south. How are you getting on?” Glancing ahead, Phyllida saw Luc step onto the portico. “Ah, here's your handsome husband. He's almost as hideously handsome as mine.”

“Almost?” Amelia laughed. “Each to our own taste, I suppose.”

“Indubitably,” Phyllida replied.

Luc lifted a brow as they neared, his gaze alert, serious; Amelia signaled with her eyes, murmured “Later” as she slipped past to give her orders to Higgs.

There was plenty to talk about, laugh about; a late-afternoon tea and subsequently dinner sped by. Luc and Lucifer denied any interest in port, so the family settled comfortably in the drawing room.

Eventually, the girls and Miss Pink retired; after a few minutes, Minerva followed them upstairs. Luc rose as the door closed behind her. Crossing to the sideboard, he poured brandy into two glasses, handed one to Lucifer, then sank onto the arm of Amelia's armchair.

He sipped, then asked, “What's the problem?”

Lucifer circled the room with his gaze, then looked at Luc.

“No one can hear us. All their rooms are sufficiently distant.”

Lucifer nodded. “Right then. Our problem isn't clear. The facts, however, are these. After your wedding, Phyllida and I returned to London, intending to spend a week or so there, in my case, touching base with my various contacts.”

Luc nodded; he knew of Lucifer's interest in silver and jewelry.

“One afternoon, while looking over an old acquaintance's stock, I came upon an ancient silver saltcellar. When I asked where the dealer had got it, he admitted it had been brought
to his back door by one of the ‘scavengers,' his term for those who receive goods with no declarable provenance.”