Money she had in abundance; her considerable dowry would pass to her husband on her marriage.
She’d spent hours rehearsing her arguments, laying out the salient facts, reassuring him that theirs would be a marriage of convenience, that she wouldn’t make unwanted emotional demands, that she was prepared to let him go his own way as long as she could similarly go hers. All lies, of course, but she had to be hardheaded; this was Luc she was dealing with—without those lies, she could see no chance of getting his ring on her finger, and that had to be her first goal.
A goal she’d almost realized. Outside her window, the world was stirring. Her heart light, buoyed by a feeling of rightness, of satisfaction and triumph, she closed her eyes. And tried to rein in her joy. Gaining Luc’s agreement to their wedding was not an end, but a beginning, the first active step in her long-range plan. Her plan to translate her most precious dream into reality.
She was one step—one big step—closer to her ultimate goal.
Five hours later, Luc opened his eyes, and remembered with startling clarity all that had happened in his front hall. Up to the point of that unwise bow; after that, he recalled very little. He frowned, struggling to pierce the fog shrouding those latter moments—out of the mists, he retained a definite impression of Amelia, warm, soft, and undeniably female, tucked against his side. He could remember the pressure of her hands on his chest . . .
He realized he was naked under his sheets.
His imagination reared, poised to run riot—a quiet tap distracted him. The door eased open. Cottsloe peeked in.
Luc beckoned, waited only until Cottsloe closed the door to tersely inquire, “Who put me to bed?”
“I did, my lord.” Cottsloe clasped his hands; his eyes were wary. “If you remember . . .”
“I remember Amelia Cynster was here.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Cottsloe looked relieved. “Miss Amelia helped get you upstairs, then she left. Do you wish for anything at this time?”
His relief was greater than Cottsloe’s. “Just my washing water. I’ll be down to breakfast shortly. What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock, my lord.” Crossing to the window, Cottsloe drew back the curtains. “Miss Ffolliot has arrived and is breakfasting with Miss Emily and Miss Anne. Her ladyship has yet to come down.”
“Very good.” Luc relaxed, smiled. “I’ve some good news, Cottsloe, which, needless to say, must go no further than you and Mrs. Higgs, if you would be so good as to pass the word to her.”
Cottsloe’s face, until then set in typical butler imperturbabilty, eased. “Her ladyship did whisper that there’d been some encouraging developments.”
“Encouraging indeed—the family’s afloat again. We’re no longer run aground, and even more than that—financially, we’re once again precisely where we should be, where we’ve pretended to be all these years.” Luc met Cottsloe’s steady brown eyes. “We’re no longer living a lie.”
Cottsloe beamed. “Well done, my lord! I take it one of your investment ventures was successful?”
“Extravagantly successful. Even old Child was bowled over by how successful. That was the note I got yesterday evening. I couldn’t speak to you then, but I wanted to tell both you and Mrs. Higgs that I’ll make out drafts to you both for all your back wages this morning. Without your unfailing support, we’d never have weathered the last eight years.”
Cottsloe blushed and looked conscious. “My lord, neither Mrs. Higgs nor I is in any hurry over the money—“
“No—you’ve been more than patient.” Luc smiled disarmingly. “It’ll give me great pleasure, Cottsloe, to at last be able to pay both of you as you deserve.”
Phrased in that way, Cottsloe could do nothing but blush again and acquiesce to his wishes.
“If you would both come to the study at twelve, I’ll have the drafts waiting.”
Cottsloe bowed. “Very good, my lord. I’ll inform Mrs. Higgs.”
Luc nodded and watched as Cottsloe retreated, silently closing the door. Sinking into his pillows, he spent a moment thinking grateful and fond thoughts of his butler and his housekeeper, who had stood unwaveringly behind the family throughout their time of need.
From there, his thoughts wandered to his change of circumstances, his new life . . . to the events of the past night.
Mentally checking his faculties and his physical state, he confirmed everything was in working order. Bar a faint headache, he felt no aftereffects from the previous night’s excesses. His hard head was the only physical characteristic he’d inherited from his wastrel sire; at least it was a useful one. Unlike all the rest of his father’s legacy.
The fifth Viscount Calverton had been a dashing, debonair ne’er-do-well whose only contribution to the family had been to marry well and sire six children. At forty-eight, he’d broken his neck on the hunting field, leaving Luc, then twenty-one, to take over the estate, only to discover it mortgaged to the hilt. Neither he nor his mother had had any idea the family coffers had been ransacked; they’d woken one morning to find themselves, not just paupers, but paupers heavily in debt.
The family properties were all prosperous and productive, but the income was eaten by the debts. There had been literally nothing left on which the family themselves might survive.
Bankruptcy and a sojourn in Newgate threatened. Out of his depth, he’d put aside his pride and appealed to the only person who might have the talent to save them. Robert Child, banker to the ton, then aging, semiretired but still shrewd—no one knew the ins and outs of finance better than he.
Child had heard him out, considered for a day, then agreed to help—to, as he put it, serve as Luc’s financial mentor. He’d been relieved yet surprised, but Child had made it clear he was only agreeing because he viewed the prospect of saving the family as a challenge, something to enliven his declining years.
He hadn’t cared how Child wanted to see things, he was simply grateful. Thus had commenced what he now considered his apprenticeship in the world of finance. Child had been a strict yet immensely knowledgeable mentor; he’d applied himself and gradually, steadily, succeeded in eroding the huge debt hanging over his and his family’s future.
Throughout, he, his mother and Child had had a firm understanding that no circumstance, no detail, could ever be allowed even to hint publicly at the family’s state. While he and his mother had agreed readily on the grounds of the social consequences, Child had been even more adamant—one whiff of poverty, and they would be dunned, their secret would out, and the flimsy house of cards that he and Child had painstakingly erected to keep the family ahead of their creditors would come crashing down.
By unstintingly applying themselves to keeping up their facade, with the costs initially underwritten by Child himself, they’d succeeded in maintaining their status. Year by year, their financial position had improved.
Eventually, as the burden of debt had shrunk, under Child’s guidance, he’d moved into more speculative investments. He’d proved adept at sizing up risky opportunities and making large profits. It was a dangerous game, but one in which he excelled; his latest venture had proved more rewarding than his wildest dreams. His ship had very definitely come in.
His lips twisted wryly as his mind scanned the years—all the hours he’d spent poring over account books and investment reports in his study while the ton imagined he was indulging with opera dancers and Cyprians in company with his peers. He’d come to enjoy the simple act of creating wealth, of understanding money and how it grew. Of creating stability in his family’s life. The undertaking had been its own reward.
In many ways, yesterday had been the end of an era, the last day of one chapter in his life. But he’d never forget all he’d learned at Child’s feet; he wasn’t about to eschew the rules that had governed his behavior for the past eight years, nor was he likely to desert an arena in which he’d discovered not only an unexpected expertise, but his own salvation.
That conclusion left him facing forward, l
ooking into the future. Considering what he wanted from the next stage of his life—considering what Amelia had offered.
He had, through all the years, set his face firmly against marriage as a way to refill the family coffers. With his mother’s support and Child’s acquiesence, he’d reserved that option as a last resort, one he was deeply relieved he’d never had to pursue. Not, as Amelia had supposed, because of the potential expectations of a wealthy wife, but for a far more entrenched, deeply personal reason.
Put simply, he just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t even imagine it, marrying a lady for such a cold-blooded reason. The very idea left him chilled; an instinctive, deeply compelling aversion rose at the mere thought. Such a marriage was not one he could live with.
Given that, given his code that had precluded any thoughts of marriage while he was incapable of adequately supporting a wife, he’d spared no real thought for the institution.
A small voice whispered that he had thought of Amelia—not as a wife, but as a woman he’d expected to have to stand by and see married to some other gentleman. As always, the thought left him uncomfortable. Arms over his head, he stretched full length, deliberately shifted his mind, and felt the constriction about his chest dissolve.
Thanks to some peculiar quirk of fate, she wasn’t going to marry another—she was going to marry him.
That prospect was very much to his liking. He hadn’t considered the fact that yesterday’s victory left him free to pursue marriage if and when he wished, until she’d suggested it. But now she had . . . now she’d offered. . . .
He wanted to marry her. The impulse that had risen last night at her words—the instinct to seize and claim her—had diminished not one whit in the intervening hours. If anything, it had grown more definite, an amorphous urge solidifying into conviction and rocklike resolution. Now he was debt-free, now he was rich, marrying her was, at least as far as his instincts were concerned, not just permissible but highly desirable. He felt no aversion, but rather an unexpected degree of impatience.
Mind racing, he mentally constructed the future as he would have it, Amelia centrally featured as his wife, then turned his mind to achieving that goal. The hows, whys, wherefores . . .
Accustomed as he was to checking every action for potential ramifications, the problem was immediately apparent. If he told her he no longer needed her dowry, what reason could he give for wanting to marry her?
His mind simply stopped, remained stubbornly blank, refused to countenance the reason by even thinking it. He grimaced, changed tack, tried to see his way forward . . .
Correcting her mistake, thus freeing her from their verbal contract, and then attempting to win her back was a fool’s agenda. He knew how she’d react; she’d be mortified, and would very likely avoid him for the next several years, something she was perfectly capable of doing. Yet at some primal level, he already thought of her as his, already seized if not yet claimed; the concept of releasing her, lifting his paw and letting her go . . .
No. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—do it.
He knew where they stood at the moment—he needed to find a way forward from there, toward their wedding, and had no intention of taking a single step back. When it came to her, his instincts were unequivocal in their refusal to be lenient; she’d offered, he’d accepted, ergo she was his.
Could he tell her the truth but decline to release her? Confess he no longer needed her dowry but insist they marry anyway?
She wouldn’t accept that. No matter how insistent he was, how hard he argued—no matter what he said—she’d feel he was only being kind, sparing her the pain of rejection. . . .
He grimaced again, folded his arms behind his head. There was enough truth to that to make it impossible to argue—not with her; she knew him too well. He would indeed do much—given his heretofore lack of interest in marriage, possibly even that—to avoid hurting her. Females such as she, females he cared about, needed to be protected—that was one of his most fundamental beliefs. The fact they might argue, rail, and disagree was beside the point; such resistance held no power to sway him.
The only way he might convince her he wasn’t being kind was to admit and explain his desire to have her as his wife.
Once again, his mind seized. He couldn’t even explain that desire to himself, did not understand whence its power sprang; the idea of admitting to the type of desire that of itself impelled a man to marriage, in words, to her—the object of said desire—evoked a resistance every bit as rock-solid as his intention to wed her.
He knew her, and the females in her family, very well; such an admission would be tantamount to handing over the reins to her, not something he would willingly do this side of hell. He wanted and would have her to wife, but he was implacably opposed to giving her any unnecessary hold over him.
The fact that others of his kind had ultimately succumbed and done so, most recently Martin, floated through his mind; he ignored it. He had never been inclined to let emotions or desires rule him; if anything, the last eight years had forced him to master them even more rigidly. No woman was capable of overriding his will; no woman would ever control him.
Which left him staring up at the canopy, toying with his remaining option. He considered, analyzed, extrapolated, predicted. Formulated a plan. Searched for and found the flaws, the hurdles; evaluated them, devised the means to counter them.
It was not an easy or straightforward path, yet it was one that led to his desired destination. And the price was one he was prepared to pay.
He hesitated only long enough to run one last mental assessment; he saw nothing to deter him. Knowing Amelia, he had no time to lose. If he wanted to retain control of their interaction, he needed to act immediately.
Throwing back the covers, he rose. Dragging a sheet off the bed, he wound it around his hips as he crossed to the desk before the window. Sitting, he drew a sheet of fine paper from one pigeonhole and picked up his pen.
He was sanding the note when a footman entered with his washing water. Luc glanced up, then turned back to the note. “Wait a minute.”
He folded the note’s corners, then dipped the pen in the inkstand and wrote her name. Waving the note to dry the ink, he turned to the footman. “Deliver this immediately to 12 Upper Brook Street.”
Chapter 2
“Why the museum?” Amelia asked as she approached him.
Reaching out, Luc closed his fingers about her elbow and turned her around. “So we can converse in reasonable privacy, in public, and anyone seeing us will imagine we’ve simply and innocently come upon each other. No one ever imagines assignations occur in the museum. I’m here, clearly under duress, escorting my sisters and Miss Ffolliot—no! Don’t wave. They’re going to wander and meet me later.”
Amelia glanced at the three girls at the other end of the room, staring wide-eyed at a display. “Does it matter if they see us?”
“No. But having seen you, they’ll expect to join us, and that would be counterproductive.” He urged her through an archway into a room devoted to Egyptian artifacts.
Transferring her gaze to his face, she noted his expression was, as usual, uninformative. His dark hair, black as pitch, was perfectly groomed; not a trace of dissipation marred the beauty of his classical features. Impossible to guess that ten hours before he’d been drop-at-her-feet drunk.
How to frame her question? Why are we assignating?
Looking ahead, she mentally girded her loins. “What did you want to talk about?”
The glance he threw her was sharp and dark. He drew her to a halt by the side of the room, in front of a case filled with pottery. “I would have thought, after our meeting last night, that the subject would be obvious.”
He’d changed his mind—woken up, realized what he’d said, and was going to take it back. Hands clasped, fingers gripping tightly, she raised her chin, fixed her eyes on his. “There’s no point telling me that you were so drunk you didn’t know what you were saying. I heard you, and you heard yourse
lf. You agreed—and I intend holding you to it.”
He blinked, frowned—then his frown grew blacker. “I’ve no intention of claiming diminished responsibility. I wasn’t so drunk I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Oh.” His acid tones left little doubt he was in earnest.
“That’s not what we need to talk about.” His frown still lingered.
Hugely relieved, she fought to hide the fact, schooling her features to simple interest. “What, then?”
He glanced about, then took her arm and urged her on, strolling slowly. Because of his height, he had to look down to speak to her, rendering their conversation private regardless of the public setting. “We’ve agreed to marry, now we need to take the next steps. Decide on how and when.”
She brightened; he wasn’t going to renege on their agreement. Quite the opposite. The sensation of her heart soaring was distracting. “I’d thought in a few days. You can get a special license, can’t you?”
His frown returned. “What about a wedding dress? What about your family? A few days—doesn’t that seem a mite precipitate?”
She halted, met his gaze, set her chin. “I don’t care about a dress, and I can talk my parents around. I’ve always wanted to be a June bride, and that means getting married within the next four weeks.”
His eyes narrowed; she knew—could see in his dark blue eyes—that he was debating some point, but, as usual, she couldn’t tell what.
“Four weeks will work—four days won’t. Just consider—what will people think when they suddenly learn, out of the blue, that we’re marrying in such unseemly haste? Such behavior will raise the question of why, and there are only two possible answers, neither of which will endear the match to your family or, indeed, to me.”
On A Wicked Dawn Page 3
