By the time her chemise hit the floor, he was already naked, lying stretched on the bed, leaning on one elbow watching her. He'd pulled the covers to the bed's foot, dispensing with most of the pillows, leaving a wide expanse of silk sheet.
Stepping around the bed, she ran her gaze from his bare calves to his shoulders. Her lips curved; she suspected he knew how magnificent he looked, fully aroused, shamelessly masculine. She felt his gaze on her body, on her breasts, her thighs, as she knelt, then climbed onto the bed.
He reached for her hip, drew her down to lie beside him.
Met her gaze, seemed to weigh the moment, then he raised his hand, and set his fingertips to her breast. His eyes locked on hers; he touched, traced…
The afternoon dissolved into golden hours of delight, of profound sensual bliss. He led, she followed, yet who sat in the driving seat changed several times, turn and turnabout.
It was too hot to lie body to body, in full contact, for long. In the drawn-out, extended exchanges when she had him under her hands, when she took him in her mouth and pleasured him, for the first time in their lives she knew she had the whip hand. Because he allowed her to have it, to take it — to take him as she wished.
And she returned the favor, without reservation. Without intent beyond the giving.
It was too hot for either to think, to watch for hints of the other's thoughts, the 'other's motives. By unspoken agreement, one she was as conscious of as he, they set aside all outward desires, disregarding their day-to-day hopes and fears, the needs and wants that drove them outside the doors to this room. By a deliberate joint act of will, they devoted themselves unreservedly to the moment, to the sensual, the physical, and what lay beyond.
The hours stretched, and they came together in simple, achingly sweet pleasure, again and again. They gave no thought to anything but that, the delight their bodies could give and receive. The only sounds to disturb the heavy stillness were their pants, their moans, groans, the faint, rhythmic slap of skin against skin, the soft shushing as they moved upon the silk sheet.
Outside, all lay still, slumbering under the relentless sun. In their room, heat swirled, and danced across their skins. Tongues lapped, languid and slow, bodies arched, bowed, limbs slid and shifted, fingers traced, drifted, hands cupped, caressed, touched, possessed.
And as the hours slid past, something else went with them — the barriers behind which they both, until then, had sought to hide. She felt him tremble, caught in the throes, felt him surrender, felt the last shield fall away.
Felt her own heart constrict so hard she thought it would shatter. Then the glory rushed in and swept her away.
In the end, between them nothing remained but simple honesty. Neither had gone searching for it — it was simply there, theirs. Golden and bright. Their gazes met — each recognized the uncertainty in the other, felt the same. They both drew breath, short, shallow, tight.
By mutual accord, gazes locked, together, they reached for it, claimed it, accepted it.
Accepted the fact that in doing so, they could never be the same, never retreat and return to how they had been before they'd closed the door.
They came together in a kiss, each needing the contact, wanting more. Her fingers sank into his hair, holding him to her; his speared through her long locks, tangled and tumbled.
He rolled and came over her, nudged her thighs wide. She parted them, cradled him. Arched when he entered her, sheathed him lovingly again. Lifted her knees and gripped his flanks as he moved within her, danced with him as the sheets heated and the musky scent of their desire swirled through the room.
Their tongues tangled, dueled; their bodies rode an uninhibited ride, slick and hot, and suddenly urgent. The abrasion of his chest against her breasts made her cry out, made her gasp.
He drank the sound, held tight to the kiss, slid his hands down, curved them about her bottom and held tight to her. The way she matched him, the way she held him within her, caressing him, wanting him, drove him wild.
The power flared between them, rushed through them, and they followed — higher, further, faster, deeper. No barriers, no restrictions, no thoughts, no regrets. Just a driving, untamable, irresistible need to give themselves up to the flames.
To dive into, to wallow, to glory, to burn in the pure heart of what they knew lay between them.
Chapter 17
Men!
Thank heavens she was stubborn. Stubborner than he.
Toiling up the stairs to the top floor of the Chase, Amelia silently berated her lord and master. He of the masculine persuasion who, in this one matter, was proving to be unbelievably dense.
She couldn't believe he could be so stupid as not to comprehend what was in front of his nose!
After what had occurred on that overhot afternoon, anyone would think the true state of affairs between them ought to be obvious. They loved—were in love. She was in love with him; he had to be in love with her. She couldn't see any alternative — any other way it might be. Any other possibility to explain all that had occurred, and all that had flowed from it.
However, it was now two days—forty-eight hours—later and Luc had said not a word, given not a single sign.
What he was doing was watching her, carefully, which had ensured she'd said not a word.
She didn't dare.
What if the damned man really was so stupid that he didn't see the truth? Or refused to see it — that was much more likely. But if either was the case and she mentioned the word "love," she'd lose every last inch she'd fought so hard to gain. His shields would go up, and she'd be shut outside.
She wasn't silly enough to take the risk. The truth was, she had time; only days ago she'd been congratulating herself on having got so far so fast with him. She — they'd — now gone even further, deeper into the mysterious realm that was love. The mysterious realm love was proving to be. Yet they'd only been married nine days.
It wasn't even the end of June.
So there was no justification for taking any risks by trying to force his hand.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she didn't bother to mute her, "Huh!" As if she could force him to anything.
She'd just have to be patient and stick to her sworn path, cling doggedly to her goal.
"I'm twenty-three!" wailed in her mind.
Resolutely shutting the words out, she headed determinedly down the corridor that ran above the master suite.
"Higgs, have you seen her ladyship?"
The housekeeper was bustling down the corridor, her arms full of fresh linens, two parlor maids in tow.
"Not since just after luncheon, my lord. She was in her parlor, then."
Amelia wasn't in her parlor now; Luc had just been there. Frowning, he turned toward the front hall.
The second parlor maid skidded to a halt and bobbed. "I saw her ladyship going up the main stairs, m'lord. When we was on our way to get these." She lifted the folded linens in her arms.
"That would be about fifteen minutes ago, my lord," Higgs called back.
"Thank you, Molly." Luc strode for the stairs.
As he climbed, he slowed. Wondered why Amelia had gone to their apartments, wondered what she'd be doing when he found her.
Wondered what he would say — what excuse he would give for his appearance.
Reaching the first floor, he paused, then shook aside his reservation. He was married to the damn woman — he had a right to join her whenever he wished.
He strode straight to the bedroom, opened the door — one quick glance told him the room was empty. Disappointment tugged; he looked at the connecting door to her private rooms, then stepped into the bedroom and shut the door. She might have heard his footsteps in the corridor; if he came from this direction, it would appear he was just looking in on her.
But when he sauntered into her sitting room, that, too, was empty. Frowning, he returned to the bedroom, then checked his private room, a place he rarely used, but she wasn't there, either.
Returning to the bedroom, his gaze fell on the bed. Their bed. The bed in which, ever since that afternoon they'd spent in it, they came together without so much as a veil between them emotionally or physically. What reigned in that bed was the truth — what he didn't know, couldn't tell, was whether on her part it meant love.
For himself, he no longer doubted it, but that only made his uncertainty greater, made his question more crucially important.
If what she felt for him was love, then he and their future stood on rock-solid ground.
If it wasn't love… he was in a hideously vulnerable position.
There was no way he could tell. No matter that he'd watched her like a hawk, he'd yet to see any outward sign that she loved him, any evidence that what she felt for him when she took him into her body was more than purely physical.
He stared at the bed, then turned away. For other men, perhaps that — her physical giving — would be assurance enough. Not for him. That belief was one he'd lost long ago.
From the door, he glanced back at the bed. What it now embodied both frightened and buoyed him. At least he had time — a few months. Until the end of September. No need to panic.
Marriage lasted for a lifetime — nothing in his life was currently more important than convincing Amelia to love him, and show it, at least enough so he would know. So he could feel confident, and emotionally safe, again.
Quitting their room, he headed back to the stairs, then paused, nonplussed. Where was she? Intending to descend, he reached for the balustrade — and heard a sound. Faint, distant; he couldn't place it. Then he heard it more definitely, looked up.
A second later, he left the downward flight and took the stairs up to the top floor.
The door off the gallery stood open. Beyond it, looking out over the valley, lay the nursery. He approached the door; courtesy of the runner, Amelia didn't hear him. Leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb, he watched her.
She was half turned away, facing a large cot standing between the windows. Taking notes.
The sight made his heart catch, had him quickly calculating… but no, not yet. The emotion that had surged was familiar; in the face of her occupation, it had scaled new heights. He wanted to see her with his babe in her arms — that want was absolute, intense, now an integral part of him. And, thankfully, one facet of his love for her he didn't need to hide.
She lifted her head; he considered the note tablet in her hand. As yet unaware of him, she read what she'd written, then slipped tablet and pencil into her pocket.
Leaving the cot, she moved to a low dresser under one window. She pulled out two drawers, peered in, then slid them shut. Then she looked at the window, studied it, reached out and tugged at the bars set into the frame.
His lips curved. "They're solid. I can vouch for it."
Releasing the bars, she glanced at him. "Did you try to break out?"
"On more than one occasion." Straightening, he strolled to join her. "Me and Edward both. Together."
She looked at the bars with new respect. "If they withstood the pair of you, they must be safe."
He halted beside her; she didn't turn and meet his eye. "What are you doing?"
She gestured, went to step away, but he caught the hand that waved, slid his fingers around her wrist. She frowned, vaguely, at those fingers, then briefly at him. "I've been making a list of all that needs doing. Higgs and I missed these rooms when we went around earlier." She glanced about, waved with her other hand. "This needs refurbishing, as even you must see. It's been what — twelve years? — since there were babies here."
He caught her gaze, trapped it, without looking away, raised her wrist to his lips. "You would tell me, wouldn't you?"
She blinked. "Of course." Then she looked at the window. "But there's nothing to tell."
"Yet." He kept hold of her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers.
After a moment, she inclined her head. "Yet."
His gaze remained on her face, on her profile. Her jaw was set. "When there's anything to tell, you will remember to mention it, won't you?"
She glanced at him. "When there's anything you need know—"
"That's not what I said."
Chin rising, she looked back at the window; he stifled a sigh. "Why weren't you planning on telling me?"
It didn't really matter; if he was capable of keeping track of complicated investments, he was capable of working it out on his own, especially now she'd reminded him. But the fact she hadn't intended to tell him immediately… what did that say of how she viewed him?
"As I said, there's nothing to tell yet, and when you need to know—"
"Amelia."
She stopped, lips compressing. After a moment, she went on, "I know what you'll be like — I've seen all the others, even Gabriel, and he's the most sensible of the lot. And as for you — I know you — you'll be worse than any of them.
I've seen you for years with your sisters. You'll hem me in, confine me — you'll stop me from riding, even from playing with my puppy!" She tugged, but he didn't let her go; eyes flashing, she glared at him. "Can you deny it?"
He met her gaze squarely. "I won't stop you playing with the puppies."
She narrowed her eyes but he didn't flinch, didn't shift his gaze. After a moment, he said, "You do realize that if you were carrying my child, I would want to know, that I would care — not only because of the child, but because of you as well? I can't help you carry it, but I can — and will — keep you safe."
Amelia felt something inside her still. There was a sincerity in his tone, in his eyes, that reached her, touched her.
Under her scrutiny, he grimaced, but his eyes remained on hers. "I know I'll be obsessive, or at least that what I'll decree will seem so to you, but you have to remember that when it comes to pregnant wives, men such as I feel… helpless. We can order our world much as we wish, but in that one arena… everything we want, everything we desire, so much of what's at the core of our lives, seems to be placed in the hands of fickle fate, not only beyond our control, but even beyond our influence."
He'd spoken from the heart. Such a simple admission, one she knew was true, but one men like he so rarely made. Her heart leapt. She turned fully to him—
A commotion outside had them both glancing at the window; they stepped closer and looked down. A large traveling coach rocked to a halt before the front portico; a procession of smaller coaches rolled up in its wake.
Figures streamed from the house; others jumped down from the coaches. The Dowager Lady Calverton, her four daughters, and their entourage had returned from London.
Luc sighed. "Our privacy is at an end."
He looked at her. Amelia met his gaze, sensed his desire to kiss her, a desire that quivered in the air. Then his long lashes swept down; he released her and stepped back, waved to the door. "We'd better go down."
She turned, but instead of heading for the door she stepped closer, stretched up, and set her lips to his. Felt his immediate response, treasured the sweet moment, then she drew back.
Reluctantly, he let her.
She smiled and linked her arm in his. "Yes, I will tell you, and yes, we'd better go down."
"We went to Astley's Amphitheatre and Gunter's, too. And the museum." Portia twirled before the windows of the drawing room; her hours in the coach had in no way dimmed her boundless enthusiasm for life.
"We went to the museum twice," Penelope informed them. The light glanced off her spectacles as she looked up from her seat on the chaise.
Luc glanced at the slight, frail-looking figure sitting beside Penelope. Miss Pink appeared exhausted, as well she might — it sounded as if she'd been dragged all over London several times in the few days his younger sisters had spent in the capital.
"We could hardly waste the opportunity to see all we could."
Luc looked at Penelope; she gazed back at him, brown eyes steady — as usual, she'd read his mind. It was, in his opinion, one of her least attractive habits.
>
"We all thoroughly enjoyed our time at Somersham," his mother put in, "and although the last days in town were busy with shutting up the house, it was a pleasant and eventful interlude." Minerva sat in her customary armchair, sipping a cup of tea. Her gaze rested briefly on Emily, seated alongside Miss Pink, then she raised her eyes to meet Luc's.
He surmised he'd be hearing more about Lord Kirkpatrick shortly.
"I'm so glad you could all come to Somersham for the wedding." Amelia sat in another armchair, likewise sipping tea.
"It was perfect — just perfect" Portia continued to twirl. "And seeing everyone again — well, we've known them all for years, but it was lovely to catch up and learn how people have got on."
Luc leaned his shoulders against the mantelpiece — surrounded, as he'd been for the past eight years, by a sea of females. He was fond of them all, even Miss Pink, although they often laid siege to his sanity. And now he'd added another. One who threatened to be the most unnerving of the lot.
Portia was the most predictable. Ceasing her twirling, she swung to him. With her dark hair and deep blue eyes, she was the most physically like him; she'd also inherited the longer bones of his mother's family — she was taller than Emily, Anne, and Penelope. "I'm going to visit the puppies. They must have grown enormously in the past two weeks."
She bobbed a curtsy, then headed for the French doors giving onto the terrace and lawns.
Luc inwardly grimaced, but felt compelled to say, "The largest male is already adopted — don't set your heart on him." Portia halted and looked back at him, brows high. "I thought he looked a potential champion — have you claimed him, then?"
"No." Luc nodded at Amelia. "I gave him to Amelia."
"Oh!" Portia's smile was genuinely delighted — in more ways than one. She beamed at Amelia. "What have you called him?"
Luc shut his eyes fleetingly, inwardly groaned.
"He seemed very set on questing." Amelia returned Portia's smile. "He's Galahad of Calverton Chase."
"Galahad!" Portia gripped the back of the chaise, her face alight. "And Luc agreed?"
Amelia shrugged. "The name hadn't been used before."
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