On a Wicked Dawn c-10

by Stephanie Laurens

  "Please."

  His hands left her.

  The sudden loss of his touch left her reeling. Disoriented.

  "Bend down."

  She did, eagerly, sinking down over her knees, heart thundering, pulse hammering. Wanting.

  Simply wanting.

  He lifted the back of her robe to her hips, exposing her bottom. Both hands spread, touched, reverently traced. Firmed, became more possessive as he stroked, fondled, caressed, lit fires beneath her already dewed skin. The contrast of heat against the cool air sent shivers up her spine while poised behind her he surveyed her as if she was his slave.

  She wished she could see his face, wondered if he'd chosen this position so she wouldn't be able to. Wondered, fleetingly, why.

  Then his fingers traced her cleft, slid down between her thighs.

  Her thoughts fled; her lungs seized. She closed her eyes, nerves tightening with expectation.

  He found her swollen softness and opened her. Probed, then he shifted, muscled thighs surrounding her, trapping her. His hands closed about her hips, holding her, anchoring her; the broad head of his erection nudged into her.

  Then he sank home. Deep. Then deeper still. Filling her body, filling her senses.

  Her sigh shivered through the night. Pure relief. She closed her eyes, laid her head on her forearms.

  Prepared to be ravished.

  And she was.

  Fundamentally, elementally, profoundly. He demanded her body and she gave it, surrendered it without reserve. Without reserve he claimed her, every inch of her, his hands tracing, possessing even while he rode her.

  Hard, fast, deep. Into an oblivion so all-consuming long before they reached the crest there was no sense of him and her, no separation of their souls as they traversed the sensual landscape, as, uninhibited, they flew higher and higher.

  The end, when it came, was beyond even glory, steeped in much more than sensation. It was as if, together, they'd reached some place, some plane they hadn't before attained — that hadn't before been open to them.

  When finally he withdrew from her, turned her into his arms and slumped back on the bed, they were still there, still floating in that blessed peace.

  In that place where the world couldn't touch, and only fused souls could reach.

  Gasping for breath, chests heaving, they both simply lay, touching, hands searching, fingers twining, struggling, both of them, to understand.

  To comprehend.

  A declaration without words, unspoken but absolute. When, at last, they turned to each other, when, at last, their gazes met, they didn't need words to assure themselves of that.

  Just a look, a touch, a kiss.

  A trust. Given, taken, reciprocated.

  Amelia curled into Luc's arms; they closed about her. Closing their eyes, they slept.

  The sleep of the exhausted. Luc might have suspected he was growing old — Amelia was once again awake and out of bed before he'd stirred — except he remembered, very clearly, all that had happened in the night.

  Lying back on the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, he stared unseeing at the canopy. About him, the bed lay in utter disarray, vivid testament to the physicality of their union.

  But it wasn't that — not only that — that colored his memories of the night.

  She'd given herself to him, joyously surrendered, not just physically, not even just emotionally, but in some deeper, more profound way. And he'd taken, accepted, claimed. Knowingly. With the same unswerving commitment.

  Because she and all she offered was all and everything he would ever want.

  That much was clear. What was less easy to assimilate was the conviction, based on no logical earthly fact, that the past night had been scripted, that it was part of some ceremony, part of their marriage, and would have needed to occur at some point.

  As if their actions — her offering, his accepting — just as they had at the very start, in that moment in his front hall in London when those same actions had sealed their fates, were the true underlying reality of their relationship.

  And she knew it. Even though he'd said not a word, she understood…

  Had she taken the lead again?

  Voices reached him — Amelia talking to her maid. Grimacing, he threw the sheets back, rose, found his robe, then stalked to his dressing room.

  His impatience to tell her what he needed more than ever now to say had scaled new heights, but the day was going to be a long one — there was no way he could wring from it time to tell her, not properly, not until all the rest was settled.

  She — and he — deserved better than a distracted, "Incidentally, I love you," while hurrying down the stairs.

  Dressed, he returned to the bedroom just as she, ready for the day, came through from her rooms. She smiled, met his eyes. He waited by the door as she approached. Held her gaze when she halted before him. Saw blazoned in the blue of her eyes a serenity, a confidence.

  Her decision, her commitment — her understanding of him.

  The certainty rocked him; he drew a tight breath.

  The chatter of maids in her rooms, clearly waiting to tidy the bedroom, reached him; he glanced toward the connecting door, then looked down, met her eyes. "Once this is over, we need to talk." He lifted a hand, briefly traced her cheek. "There're things I need to tell you, things we need to discuss."

  Her smile held the essence of happiness. She caught his hand; her eyes on his, she touched her lips to his palm. "Later, then."

  The brief contact sent heat racing through him. Her smile widened and she turned to the door. He opened it; she stepped out into the corridor.

  He watched her hips sway beneath her blue day gown, then drew breath, took a firm grip on his impulses, and followed her.

  Chapter 22

  The day flew. No one stopped for luncheon; Higgs set out a cold collation in the dining room and people helped themselves when they could. Restrained pandemonium reigned, yet when six o'clock struck and the first of the guests arrived in the forecourt, everything was in place. Higgs, beaming, hurried to the kitchens while Cottsloe strode proudly to the door.

  Amelia rose from the chaise on which she'd only just sat. She'd been on her feet the entire day, yet the excitement in the air, which had laid hold of the whole household — the look in Luc's midnight blue eyes as she took up her stance by his side before the fireplace — were more than worth the effort, quite aside from trapping the thief.

  The guests rolled in, guided through the front hall and into the drawing room to greet Luc and herself, and then be introduced to the rest of the family, both immediate and extended, standing and sitting about the huge room. Minerva, Emily, and Anne were primed to take over the introductions so Amelia and Luc could concentrate on welcoming the steady stream of their neighbors and tenants. Phyllida stood near Emily, ready to lend assistance should the younger girl encounter any difficulties, while Amanda did likewise with Anne, shy but determined to carry her role.

  In the midst of them all, Helena sat beside Minerva on the chaise, her pearl-and-emerald necklace resplendent, displayed to advantage against a deep green silk gown. With her dark hair streaked with silver, her pale green eyes and her inherent presence, Helena drew everyone's gaze. No one was the least surprised to learn she was the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives.

  Watching her aunt exchange nods with Lady Fenton, a haughty local matron, and then make some remark, very much in the grande dame style, instantly reducing Lady Fenton to dithering nervousness, Amelia had to look quickly away. Smiling widely, she turned to greet the next of their guests.

  Portia, Penelope, and Simon patrolled before the long windows, open to the terrace, efficiently herding those with all introductions complete out into the gardens where the first act of the revelries would take place. Within an hour, a goodly crowd had gathered, eagerly sampling the delicious morsels provided by Higgs, washing them down with ale and wines.

  When the incoming tide slowed, the front doors were shut; a stable
lad sat on the portico steps to direct any latecomers around the house, and thus to the festivities. Together, Luc and Amelia led their assembled families out onto the lawns to mingle with their guests.

  The sun was slanting through the trees, just gilding the tops of the shrubbery hedges as they went down the terrace steps. The air held the warmth of a summer's day; the breeze was a caress wafting the scents of grass and greenery, of stocks, jasmine, and the multitude of roses blooming throughout the gardens.

  Luc caught Amelia's eye, lifted her hand to his lips briefly, then released her. They parted, each strolling into the crowd, exchanging greetings with their tenants and the villagers, the majority of whom had walked to the Chase, bringing their families as suggested to join in the fun.

  While he chatted, Luc kept Helena in sight. She was easy to pick out in her gown, the solid hue distinctive. Amid the lighter, pastel colors, she was a dramatic highlight; as intended, she was the cynosure of all eyes.

  She carried off her role with shameless abandon; no one watching her would suspect her primary aim was to display her necklace rather than boost her haughty self-importance. The fact there were always two of their ladies flanking her, like acolytes attending a master, only emphasized the image of commanding arrogance she projected.

  As he tacked through the crowd, he saw the others — Martin, Lucifer, Simon — like him, scanning the throng. On the outskirts, Cottsloe kept watch from the terrace, while Sugden stood in the shadow of the shrubbery, keeping an eye on Patsy and Morry, and on everything else.

  The dogs were greeting countless children. Luc headed that way, intent on asking Sugden if he could identify a number of men he himself could not. Nothing immediately worrying about that — all invited had been told to bring any houseguests. It was summer, and many country families had friends or family from London or elsewhere staying.

  Moving through the crowd, Luc saw General Ffolliot standing to one side watching the fiddlers play. He changed course and joined him, nodding genially.

  "Just watching our two." The General indicated Fiona and Anne, arm in arm, watching the dancers.

  Luc smiled. "I'd meant to thank you for allowing Fiona to spend so much time with us in London. Her confidence is a boon to Anne."

  "Oh, aye — she's confident enough, is Fiona." After a moment, the General cleared his throat, and somewhat diffidently asked, "Actually, I'd meant to have a word myself, but that business of the thimble distracted me." He shot Luc a glance from under his shaggy brows. "You haven't heard anything about Fiona having dealings with any man, have you?"

  Luc raised his brows, genuinely surprised. "No. Nothing." He hesitated, then asked, "Have you reason to suspect she has?"

  "No, no!" The General sighed. "It's just that she's… well, changed since she's returned home. I can't put my finger on it…"

  After a moment, Luc said, "If you like, I could mention your concern to my wife. She's close to both Emily and Anne. If Fiona has mentioned anything…"

  The General studied his daughter, then gruffly said, "If you would, that would be most kind."

  Luc inclined his head. A moment later, he parted from the General, and continued to where Sugden stood, Patsy's and Morry's leashes in one hand.

  The hounds leapt and whined when they saw him, then sat, front feet dancing, ears back, tails wagging furiously. Smiling, he ran his hand over their heads, stroked Patsy's ears, sending her into a state bordering on ecstasy. "These two have proved popular."

  "Aye — the kiddies love 'em, and the gents can't resist admiring them."

  Luc patted Morry. "How could they not?" His tone altered. "Have you seen anything amiss?"

  "Not amiss, but there's a few here I can't place."

  Between them, they put names to all they could.

  "That still leaves five men we don't know." Impassive, Sugden had his eye on one.

  Luc looked down at the dogs. "We have four ladies we can't place, either, and there're still people arriving."

  "And from what you said, we've no idea when or from where this bounder will arrive anyway. He might not come via the front door."

  "True." Luc focused on a small procession heading their way. Amelia and Portia were in the lead, holding hands with two children; a small tribe followed at their heels. "What's this?"

  It appeared Amelia had intended to head straight for the kennels; noticing them watching, she veered their way. With a wave, she indicated her entourage. "We're taking the children to see Galahad."

  Luc recognized the children from the cottages by the river. "I see."

  The older children stopped to pat Patsy and Morry; the younger ones followed, as did Portia and her charge. The girl with Amelia slipped away to join the group. Sugden talked about the pack; Luc drew Amelia aside.

  She turned to him. "I'll just take them in to see the puppies, Galahad in particular — I promised."

  He hadn't considered Amelia — or Portia — being anywhere but among the guests on the lawns — in full view. He couldn't, in all conscience, desert his watch on Helena to escort them to the kennels. Still, realistically, what harm could befall them in his kennels? He nodded, inwardly grim, but hiding it, or so he thought. "Very well — but don't dally, and come straight back."

  She met his eyes, then smiled, stretched up, and kissed his cheek. "Don't worry. We won't be long."

  The children were ready to move on; hands were retaken, the procession re-formed and headed on toward the kennels.

  Luc watched them go, then turned to Sugden, who was also watching the group heading into his domain — unsupervised. "Give me the leashes — I'll take Patsy and Morry. You go and watch that lot." As a sop to his pride, he added, "You may as well check around the kennels while you're there."

  Sugden nodded, unwrapped the leashes from his fist, then hurried off to catch up with the children.

  Luc settled the leashes about one hand, then looked down at his favorite hounds. "I'm the host — I can't stand here like a post. So we're going to wander through the crowd. Try and keep your noses to yourselves."

  With that probably useless admonition, he resumed his perambulation about the lawns.

  Amelia wasn't surprised when Sugden caught up with them in time to swing the kennel doors open. She turned to the children. "Now we need to be quiet and not excite the pack. We have to go right to the end to see the puppies. All right?"

  They all nodded. "It's the firs' time we seen the whole lot, all together," the little spokeswoman whispered. She clutched Amelia's hand tighter; Sugden waved them in and the procession stepped out, marching two by two down the central aisle.

  Amelia heard soft "Oohs" and "Aahs"; she glanced back and saw many of the older children studying the hounds with rapt attention. The oldest boy, at the rear, turned and spoke to Sugden, following them. Sugden shook his head. "Nay — best not to pat these. If you do, they'll expect to be taken out, and then they'll be right grumpy when we leave without 'em."

  The boy accepted the prohibition with a nod, yet his gaze went back to the older dogs, many coming to the front of the pens to watch them pass, ears lifting, heads cocking with curiosity. Facing forward, Amelia wondered how many lads Sugden used in the kennels. Perhaps he could use one more?

  Then they reached Galahad; from that moment on, none of the children had eyes for much else. They were captivated; the pup took their attention and worship in his stride, wuffling about their feet, sniffing hands, licking this one, then that. Fifteen minutes passed in a blink; noticing Sugden shifting, Amelia reclaimed Galahad, tickled his tummy, then sent him back to his mama. Then she firmly reversed her entourage, and they filed, satisfied, whispering and exclaiming among themselves, out of the kennels, back into the deepening twilight.

  The children streamed on, down the short path leading back to the lawns. With pretty thanks and bobbed curtsies, the two girls who had clung to Amelia's and Portia's hands made their adieus and scampered after their elders.

  Sugden nodded to Amelia and Portia as he swun
g the doors shut. "I'll just be checking 'round about. Make sure all's tight."

  Amelia met his glance, nodded. "We're going straight back."

  She turned, noting Portia's quick frown. Linking her arm in Portia's, she steered them both down the path in the children's wake. She was about to make some inconsequential remark to distract Portia from Sugden's sudden attention to security when Portia stiffened.

  Looking up, Amelia saw a gentleman standing by the side of the path just ahead. They were nearly upon him yet until then, she hadn't noticed him, large though he was; he'd been standing so still in the shadows of a large bush, he'd been all but invisible.

  Portia slowed, uncertain.

  Amelia called up her hostessly armor, put on her lady-of-the-manor smile, and halted. "Good evening. I'm Lady Calverton. Can I help you?"

  A flash of teeth was followed by a neat bow. "No, no — I merely thought I heard dogs and wondered…"

  A London accent, cultured enough, yet… "My husband's kennels are extensive."

  "So I see." Another flash of teeth; the gentleman bowed. "My compliments on the evening, Lady Calverton. If you'll excuse me?"

  He barely waited for any nod before strolling off, back onto the lawns, into the crowd. Amelia watched him go. "Who is he — do you know?"

  She and Portia walked on more slowly in the same direction.

  Portia shook her head. "He's not from about here."

  Amelia couldn't recall being introduced to him. The man was as tall as Luc, but much more heavily built; not the sort of figure one forgot. From what she'd seen in the shadows and fading light, he'd been reasonably well dressed, but his coat hadn't come from a tailor patronized by the ton, nor had his boots — she was quite sure of that.