On A Wicked Dawn (51 page)

To his surprise, she laughed, genuinely amused.

When he looked at her, she caught his eye. “You may lower your shield—I am not about to attack.”

Her smile was infectious, yet . . . he knew well enough not to relax.

She sighed and shook her head at him, then looked out over the pool. “You are still in denial.”

He wondered if feigning ignorance would get him anywhere; he doubted it. Sitting back, stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, he followed her lead in watching the fish streak like quicksilver through the dark water. “I'm very happy—we both are.”

“That does not require saying. Yet . . . you are not, to my thinking, as happy as you might be, as you would be, if the truth was faced.”

He let silence stretch, acknowledging the reality in her words. “In time, I daresay we'll come to it.”

Helena made a sound not generally associated with Dowager Duchesses. “'Come to it'—what does that mean? I will tell you this, time will not help you. Time will only deny you days of happiness you might otherwise have.”

He met her gaze, saw something in her pale eyes that was both humbling and compelling.

She smiled, shrugged, looked back at the pool. “It happens to us all—we each have to face it. For some, it's easier than others, but each one must at some point understand and knowingly accept. At some point, we each have to make the decision.”

He hadn't thought . . . he started to frown.

Helena glanced at him; her smile deepened. “Ah, no—one cannot escape. That is true. One can only accept and reap the benefits, or instead, spend one's life fighting the invincible.”

He laughed, albeit wryly. He understood all too well what she meant.

She said no more; neither did he. They sat as the shadows lengthened, both, he was sure, dwelling on only one thing. Eventually, she rose; he did, too. He gave her his arm, and they walked back to the house.

On Friday morning, from the window of his study, Luc watched Amelia and Amanda playing with Galahad, wondered, briefly, what confidences they were sharing. Briefly recalled his conversation with Helena, but a more immediate duty beckoned.

Carrying the paperweight he'd fetched from the windowsill back to his desk, he anchored the last corner of the plan of the house and grounds.

“They're setting up the tables here.” Martin pointed with a pencil to the western edge of the lawns. “And there'll apparently be a fiddler and drummer over here—far enough from the house so their noise won't interfere with the quartet in the ballroom.”

Lucifer glanced at Luc. “Are any of the people they've hired—musicians, extra hands to help in the kitchen or anywhere else—unknown to you or your staff?”

Luc shook his head. “I checked with Higgs and Cottsloe. Everyone they've brought in are locals—none has been out of the area this year.”

“Good.” Lucifer studied the layout of the house and the
gardens surrounding the lawns. “If you were going to break in at night, from which direction would you come?”

“If I knew about the hounds, from here.” Luc pointed to the area to the northeast beyond the rose garden. “That's woodland, quite dense. It's a remnant of the original demesne and has never been cleared. It's readily passable, but the trees are old—even in full daylight, the paths are shadowy and dark.”

Martin nodded. “True. But if you didn't know about the hounds, then this would be the better way in.” He traced a path from the west boundary of the gardens, across the lane to the home farm, then along the edge of the shrubbery. “Or, alternatively, if one came down from the ridge, then late at night coming in beside the stables might seem wise.”

“Good cover all the way,” Luc agreed. “However, I can assure you the hounds will send up an alarm if anyone approaches along that route.”

Lucifer grimaced. “We'll have to hope he's smart enough to realize about the hounds.”

His hands in his pockets, Luc stared at the plan. Martin glanced at him. Luc met his gaze. “I'd better warn Sugden. If anyone does come that way, and the hounds set up a cry, Sugden can release them. They'll run any intruder to earth, and hold him until we get there.”

Lucifer grinned. Evilly. “Nice idea.”

“Another thought,” Martin offered. “Let Patsy and Morry charm the children at the gala. They're well behaved enough. Sugden could keep them on their leashes and show them off. No one would think that odd, given they're champions. And it would serve to draw our thief's attention to the existence of the kennels.”

Martin straightened, meeting both Luc's, then Lucifer's dark eyes. “While it might satisfy us to run the felon to earth, it would be better all around if we could catch him in the act first.”

Luc nodded. So did Lucifer.

They all turned back to the plan.

“All right.” Luc pointed to a bedchamber on the first floor.
“That's the room Helena's in. So how are we going to protect her?”

They spent most of the morning discussing the possibilities; they'd had to wait until then to learn all that their wives' had planned, and, most importantly, the when and where of each organized activity.

With all the details in place, they'd hatched their own plans. During the gala and ball, there'd be the three of them, plus Simon, Sugden, and Cottsloe, all keeping watch over Helena. Later, once the guests were gone, Amelia, Amanda, and Phyllida would watch from various places inside the house, while Martin, Sudgen, and Lucifer patrolled the grounds, leaving Luc and Simon—presently the most familiar with the house and the rooms everyone was in—to guard the long corridors.

Once they'd finalized their arrangements, they'd dispersed. Luc had gone to the kennels to speak with Sugden and run a quick eye over the pack.

Returning to the house, he hesitated, then strolled to the music room. He paused in the corridor outside the door . . . from the parlor beyond came Amelia's voice. And Phyllida's and Amanda's. Grimacing, he walked on.

Climbing the main stairs, he paused at the first floor, then, jaw firming, took the flight to the top floor.

Portia, Penelope, and Miss Pink were downstairs, eschewing lessons with books for more practical demonstrations; the upper central wing stood empty. Luc strolled to the nursery, opened the door, and went in.

Nothing had yet changed—he hadn't expected it would have; Amelia hadn't yet had time to put her plans into place. But she would. Soon.

Walking to the window, he looked down over the valley, and pondered that fact, what it would mean, how it made him feel.

A son—that was the least fate owed him after leaving him to manage alone with four sisters. His lips twisted; in truth,
he didn't care. All he wanted was to see Amelia with his babe at her breast.

His conversation with Helena had cast a new slant—he hadn't considered that Amelia, too, would have her own decision to make.

She'd already made it—of that he felt certain. She was committed to him, had changed her allegiance and was carrying his child. She was his. At some primal level, he'd known that for some time—now he believed it.

His rational logical mind had at long last caught up with his primitive self.

Satisfaction and contentment welled, laced with escalating frustration. Now he was waiting to tell her all, fate was conspiring to delay his declaration.

She was rushed off her feet with preparations, dozy when he joined her in their bed at night, in the morning leaping out of it before he'd woken to plunge back into the whirl.

Given what she and all that lay between them now meant to him, given how important acknowledging that had become, grabbing a few rushed minutes with servants and family distractingly hovering to make such a vital declaration was, to him, unthinkable.

When he finally confessed to the ultimate surrender, he at least wanted to be sure she was paying attention—and would remember it later.

Impatience gnawed; frustration gnashed. He stared out at the valley. His jaw set.

Once the thief was caught, he would insist she refocus every last shred of her attention back on him.

And then he would tell her the simple truth.

Three little words.

I love you.

“A word of advice,
ma petite
.”

Amelia glanced up from the lists scattered across her desk. Helena stood in the doorway, smiling fondly.

She quickly reorganized her lists. “On what . . . ?”

“Ah, no. My advice does not concern any of our arrangements”—Helena dismissed the lists with a wave—“but a subject much more dear to your heart.”

“Oh?” Amelia stared.

Helena nodded. “Luc. I believe he wishes to tell you something, but . . . there are times when even men such as he are uncertain. My advice is that a little encouragement would not be out of order, and may gain you more than you think.”

Amelia blinked. “Encouragement?”

“Oui.” Helena gestured, supremely Gallic. “The type of encouragement likely to weaken a husband's irrational resistance.” Her glorious smile dawned; her eyes twinkled as she turned away. “I'm sure I can leave the details to you.”

Her lists forgotten, Amelia stared at the empty doorway. Now Helena mentioned it, Luc had been . . . hovering for the past few days. They'd both been so busy with their visitors and their plans to catch the thief, their private lives, what lay between them, had necessarily been set to one side,
in temporary abeyance while they tackled the threat to their family.

Yet . . .

Sudden impatience seared her. Stacking her lists, she closed the desk, rose, and headed upstairs.

Luc entered their bedroom that night to discover Amelia not in bed as she usually was, but standing by the windows looking out over the moonlit lawns. She'd already snuffed the candles; in her peach silk robe with her hair tumbling over her shoulders, she stood silent and still, absorbed with her thoughts.

She hadn't heard him enter; he grasped the moment to study her, to wonder in which direction her thoughts lay. Throughout the evening, he'd caught her studying him, as if seeking to read his mind. He assumed she was keyed up, increasingly tense as they all were. By this time tomorrow, they'd be watching for the thief who, intentionally or otherwise, was threatening the Ashfords. Expectation, anticipation, had already started to course through their veins.

He watched; she remained quiet, statuelike, limned by the silvery light slanting through the window.

Temptation whispered . . . but now, tonight, was not the time to speak. They had tomorrow, tomorrow night and whatever it revealed, to live through. After, later, once they had that business settled and could devote themselves once more to their own lives, to their future . . .

Impatience welled; he subdued it, stirred and walked toward her.

She sensed him, turned—smiled and walked into his arms.

Slid her arms about his neck, stepped close, lifted her face, met his lips as he bent his head and set them to hers.

He closed his hands about her waist, anchoring her before him as he savored her mouth, took his time in the claiming, blatantly taking all she offered, all she freely yielded, her breasts warm mounds pressed to his chest, her slender limbs a silk-clad promise whispering against him.

Releasing her waist, he slid his hands down, around, tracing,
then cradling the globes of her bottom, kneading, then lifting her to him so the ridge of his erection rode against her.

She murmured, drew back from the kiss, not away but so their lips were just touching, brushing, caressing—teasing their senses, breaths mingling as desire rose between them. Drawing one arm down, she slid her hand beneath the edge of his robe, splaying her palm on his chest, hungry, greedy, eager to touch. She lowered her other arm, braced that palm against him, easing back, not out of his embrace but to create a gap between them.

That she wanted to follow a different route to the one he'd intended he understood; it nevertheless took a few heated moments before he could force his hands to obey and ease their grip, let her stand again. He didn't let her move away but that wasn't what she wished—the instant she could, she slid her hands down, searching . . . for the tie of his robe.

He felt the tug, then release—felt, between them, her hand shift again, felt the shimmer of her robe under his hands, over her skin.

From beneath his lashes, he watched her smile—gloried in the open, uninhibited expectation in her face as she sent both hands sliding up to his shoulders, pushing the halves of his robe wide. She didn't immediately push the robe off but instead paused to admire, to look, to savor all she'd uncovered.

He knew better than to move—knew he was supposed to let her have her way. That had never been easy—he usually cut short her play—yet tonight, bathed in moonlight, he mentally—sensually—girded his loins, held back the urge to distract her, forced his hands not to tighten and haul her against him.