On A Wicked Dawn (50 page)

A step beyond, the twins had their heads together. Arthur paused to take in the sight, one he'd seen so many times, then he slid one arm around Amanda's waist, the other around Amelia, hugged them both, and planted a kiss first on one forehead, then the other. “Take care, both of you.”

They laughed, beamed, and kissed him back.

“Take care, Papa.”

“Come and visit again.”

Stifling a sigh, he released them, trying hard not to think that he had, indeed, truly let them go. He took Phyllida's hand and kissed it. “You, too, my dear.”

Phyllida smiled serenely and kissed his cheek. “Have a good trip.”

Arthur turned to Helena. “As for you . . .”

Helena raised her brows haughtily, but her eyes danced. “Me, I will do very well, I thank you. But you had best be away, or you will not reach London tonight.” Her smile softened; she gave him her hands and lifted her cheek for him to kiss. “Take care.”

“That's my line,” Arthur growled, obliging with the kiss, then squeezing her hands before releasing them.

A renewed tide of “good-byes” and waves carried them through the front door. Arthur led Louise down the steps to where their coach stood, heavily burdened.

He handed Louise in, then, with a last wave at the assembled ladies, who, he now noted, had been joined by their husbands and his only surviving son, he followed his wife into the carriage. The door was shut, the footman stood back. A whip cracked; the coach lurched, then rumbled forward.

They waved, then Louise sighed and sat back. Arthur did the same. Louise glanced at him. “So, are you happy with your sons-in-law?”

Arthur raised his brows. “They're both good men, and they're clearly . . . devoted.”

“Devoted?” Louise's smile grew; she glanced away. “Yes, I daresay you might call it that.”

Arthur shot her a glance. “And you? Are you happy with them?”

“With Dexter, yes. With Luc . . . I have absolutely no qualms—I never did. They seem to be settling together nicely, quite as well as I expected, but there's something not quite straight yet. However, I'm sure it, whatever it is, will sort itself out.” Louise faced forward. “I asked Helena to keep an eye on them—I'm sure she will.”

Arthur studied her profile, then, as the coach turned up the long incline crossing the opposite face of the valley, he looked out at the Chase, basking in the sunshine. Wondered if he should write and warn Luc. Wondered where his own true loyalties now lay.

Louise glanced at him, then made a dismissive sound and patted his hand. “Stop worrying—they'll do.”

Arthur humphed, settled back, closed his eyes. And decided they probably would—either fate or Helena would make sure of it.

They'd decided on the following Saturday evening for their Summer Ball. That gave them five days in which to prepare—possible, but only just. The first item that needed to be dealt with was the invitations; immediately after lunch, the ladies knuckled down and wrote them out, then co-opted every stableboy and groom to deliver them.

That done, they spent the next three hours disposed about the drawing room discussing and deciding and making lists. Portia and Penelope convinced Miss Pink that their education in ladylike endeavors could best be served by their attendance; their novel suggestions often induced much hilarity, but occasionally were incorporated into the various lists.

A list for entertainment, one for food, another for furniture, yet another for implements—crockery, cutlery, and glassware.

“We should have an Order of Ceremony,” Penelope stated.

When Minerva smiled, Portia weighed in, “No—Pen's
right. We need to make sure certain things get done by certain times, don't we?”

She looked about innocently. The assembled ladies exchanged glances. Neither Portia nor Penelope, Emily nor Anne was supposed to know . . .

Amelia asked, “You mean for when the fireworks will be let off, and when the dancing will begin?”

“And when the food will be served and so on.” Portia frowned. “I would think a list like that would be indispensable.”

Relief washed through the room; Portia and Penelope noticed, but when Phyllida and Amanda leapt in to agree with their suggestion, the moment slid away, along with their unvoiced questions.

When they were satisfied they'd identified all that needed to be done, and the four girls had gone out to stroll the lawns, Amelia relaxed in her chair, her gaze on Phyllida, on the chaise beside Amanda. “I know you're eager to get back to Colyton. We can't ask you to delay—“

Phyllida cut her off with a wave. “Alasdair and I discussed it last night. I do want to get back, but . . .” She smiled wryly. “I'd never forgive myself—and he certainly wouldn't—if we left and things went wrong for want of a few extra hands.”

“Still, it's an imposition. You've already done so much—“

“Nonsense. You know we enjoy it. Besides, we've already sent messages. Alasdair sent his groom with dispatches to Devil in London, and Devil will send our news on to Papa and Jonas in Devon, so all's settled.” Phyllida leaned forward and squeezed Amelia's hand. “Indeed, we feel so . . .
incensed
by this thief, so determined to have him caught, I doubt we'd leave even if you truly didn't need our aid.”

Helena nodded sagely. “This thief, whoever he is, is beneath contempt. I do not believe he does not know that his actions will harm the innocent. I consider it an honor to have a part in arranging his downfall.”

Amanda murmured, “Hear, hear.”

A moment later, they all smiled—at each other, at themselves—then they rose; skirts swishing, they headed upstairs to change.

Amelia took her lists to bed with her that night. Their bedroom was the only place she could be sure of meeting Luc alone, in absolute privacy.

The subject she had to broach demanded nothing less.

She waited until he stretched out beside her, large, lean and naked—she'd considered inquiring about nightshirts, but there was that old saying about one's nose and one's face, and the sight of Luc naked—lolling on the bed beside her naked—was not something she felt it incumbent on her to forgo—however, when he reached for the lists and filched them from her suddenly nerveless grasp, she discovered her mouth had dried, and her wits had wandered.

Clearing her throat, she focused on the lists—in his hands—and determinedly hauled her wits back to where they belonged. “I tried to cut them down as much as I could, but that really is the least I think we need do.”

He glanced at her, then laid the lists on the covers over her stomach. “Arrange for whatever you like. Whatever takes your fancy.”

He reached for her, drew her to him, found her lips with his. Kissed her longingly, lingeringly, until there was no doubt in her mind what his fancy was.

When he released her lips to tug the covers from between them, she clutched the lists, dragged in a breath. “Yes, but—“

He kissed her again.

A minute later, she lifted the lists, reached back, blindly groping until she found the edge of the bed, then she opened her hand and let the precious lists fall to the floor. Safer there than on the bed. If they got tangled in the covers, who knew what state they'd be in come morning?

She reached for Luc's face, framed it as she kissed him back—let passion and desire flow through her to meet his.

His hands were everywhere, caressing, molding; his body flowed around and about hers. Then she was on her knees and he was behind her, his hands kneading her breasts as their loins came together and he slid deep within her.

She arched, heard her soft cry.

And they were caught in the heat, the power and the passion, their need, and the wonder that this, and the bliss it brought, was truly theirs.

Later, when they'd disengaged and were lying, slumped together beneath the covers once more, she moved her head and placed a kiss in the center of his chest. “Thank you.” She smiled, realizing the ambuiguity but seeing no need to be more specific. Settling deeper into his arms, reveling in the way they instinctively tightened about her, she sighed contentedly. “I will try to keep the expenses down.”

Stillness swept him, like a curtain sweeping down his body. A reaction to the mention of money, an awkwardness she could understand.

“Amelia, there's—“

“No reason to stint.” She touched her lips to his chest again. “I know. But there's also no reason to run the estate too close to the edge. I'll manage.” Sleep was dragging at her; she patted his chest, then settled her hand where she liked to leave it, spread over his heart. “Don't worry.”

Her murmur was almost inaudible; Luc inwardly cursed. He debated shaking her awake, forcing her to listen while he told her the truth . . .

The soft huff of her breath stirred the hairs on his chest. Her hand grew heavier where it lay over his heart.

He drew a breath, let it out, and felt the stillness leave him. Felt her warmth wrap about him, sink through him.

Relaxing into the bed, he set himself to decide exactly where, when, and in what order he'd confess . . . and fell asleep.

He
should
have told her. If not last night, then certainly this morning. If not all the truth, then at least the fact she didn't need to watch her pennies, and why.

Instead . . .

Luc stood at the window of his study, staring out at the lawns while in his mind he relived that morning, when he'd woken and found Amelia gone.

Sheer panic had gripped him—she was never awake before him—then he'd heard her bustling in her dressing room. An instant later, she'd swept back into the bedroom, already dressed, ready to plunge into her day. Greeting him brightly, she'd rounded the bed and retrieved her lists.

She'd chatted happily about all she had to do; there'd been not the slightest trace of worry or reticence in her face, in her blue, blue eyes. She'd been genuinely on top of the world—
their
world—regardless of any monetary constraints. She'd barely paused for any response from him; he simply hadn't had the heart—the intestinal fortitude, the necessary steel—to cut through her bubbling busyness and force on her a confession that, in that instant, had not seemed so terribly urgent.

“These figures.”

He turned. Seated behind his desk, Martin tapped the report he was wading through. “Are they accurate?”

“As far as can be ascertained. I had them confirmed by three independent sources.” Luc hesitated, then added, “I usually bank on 50 percent of what I'm told to expect.”

Martin raised his brows, calculating, then gave a low whistle and returned to the report. Opposite him, seated before the desk, Lucifer was similarly engaged in plowing through the details of a number of investment opportunities Luc had assessed; absorbed, one hand sunk in his black locks, Lucifer didn't look up.

Luc returned to the vista beyond the window. And saw Penelope emerge from the direction of the kennels, a wriggling puppy—Galahad, Luc felt certain—in her arms. Stepping onto the lawn, she set Galahad down; he lived up to his name, immediately dashing around, nose to the ground, tracking something.

Penelope sank to the grass and watched him with, as in most things she did, serious and unwavering concentration. Behind her, following her onto the wide lawn, came a bevy
of the younger hounds—those yet too young to run with the pack—with Portia and Simon supervising.

Portia was supervising the hounds. Simon, his hands sunk in his pockets, appeared to be supervising Penelope and Portia.

That seemed a trifle odd. Simon was nineteen, nearly twenty, and had already acquired a degree of social polish. Emily and Anne were much closer to his age, yet these days he more often than not gravitated to the environs of Portia and Penelope whenever they were out of the schoolroom . . . the explanation for that occurred to Luc even as the thought formed in his mind.

Given they suspected there was someone in the vicinity who was ill-disposed toward his family, his sisters in particular, and that Portia and Penelope were frequently out of doors, one step away from running wild, he could only be grateful for Simon's hovering presence.

As he watched the trio on the lawn, it became obvious Portia did not share his view; even from the study, he could see the haughtiness with which she stuck her nose in the air and said something—something cutting enough to make Simon scowl.

Penelope ignored the pair of them. They continued to snipe at each other over her head. Making a mental note to mention to Simon that arguing with either of his younger sisters was an activity best avoided, Luc turned and strolled to an armchair and the reports he'd yet to peruse.

As one, he, Martin, and Lucifer had taken refuge in his study; beyond the doors, pandemonium—and their wives—reigned. It was, they knew without stating it, best to keep their heads down.

At Devil's suggestion, Lucifer had asked to be given a general overview of Luc's investment strategy. Martin had pricked up his ears, and asked to be included in the fun. He presently had them both working through the reports he'd used to decide on his last three investments—all speculative, all potentially high-yielding, all presently bidding fair to adding considerably to his wealth.

Glancing at Martin's and Lucifer's bowed heads, Luc smiled, settled into the armchair, and gave his attention to what might be his next venture.

Entirely unexpectedly—quite how it happened he wasn't sure—Luc found himself walking in the cool of that evening with Helena on his arm. When she directed him—imperiously as usual—to the shrubbery, his antenna rose, but he complied. With the westering sun gilding the tops of the high hedges, he escorted her into the first courtyard, then through to the next, to where the rectangular pool lay reflective and still.

Helena gestured to the wrought-iron seat set before the pool. He led her there, then waited while she sat. At her wave, he sat beside her, fixed his gaze on the pool, and waited, determinedly impassive, to hear whatever she wished to say.