They arrived late in the morning to find other family members already in residence, among them Helena, the Dowager, Devil’s mother, and old Great-aunt Clara, summoned from her home in Somerset. Lady Osbaldestone, a distant connection, rattled up in her coach on their heels; Simon dutifully went to help her into the house.
Honoria and Devil had come down the day before with their young family. Amelia’s twin, Amanda, and her new husband, Martin, Earl of Dexter, Luc’s cousin, were rushing down from their home in the north; they were expected later that day. Catriona and Richard had sent their regrets—coming down from Scotland at such short notice, with a new baby to boot, had simply been impossible.
Luc, his mother, Emily, and Anne were expected later in the afternoon. By dint of careful questioning, Amelia discovered that Luc had been given a room in the opposite wing to hers, as distant as possible. Which in a house the size of the Place, was distant indeed; any notion she might have entertained of visiting him that night was effectively quashed.
The company were just sitting down to luncheon when the rattle of wheels on gravel heralded another arrival. A few minutes later, two light voices were heard, earnestly, just a little nervously, greeting Webster.
Amelia set down her napkin and exchanged a smile with Louise. They both rose and went out to the hall; guessing the identity of the latest arrivals, Honoria also rose and followed more slowly in their wake.
“I do hope we were expected,” a girl in a faded carriage dress, thick spectacles perched on her nose, told Webster.
Before Webster could reply, her companion, in a similarly faded dress, piped up, “Actually, you might not remember who we are—we have grown somewhat since we last visited.”
Louise laughed and swept forward, saving Webster from potentially embarrassing assurances. “Of course you’re expected, Penelope.” She enveloped Luc’s youngest sister in a fond embrace, then, passing Penelope to Amelia, turned to the other. “And as for you, miss, no one who lays eyes on you ever forgets who you are.”
Portia, the third of Luc’s sisters, wrinkled her nose as she returned Louise’s embrace. “As I recall I was a grubby little squirt last time I was here, so I was hoping he might.”
“Oh, no, Miss Portia,” Webster assured her, his customary magisterial calm in place but with a twinkle in his eye. “I remember you quite well.”
Emerging from a wild hug with Amelia, Portia pulled a face at him, then turned to greet Honoria.
“Indeed, my dear.” Honoria’s eyes danced over Portia’s jet-black hair, not curly but falling naturally in deep waves, “I really don’t think you can hope to be forgotten. Any crimes you commit will haunt you forever.”
Portia sighed. “With these eyes as well as the hair, I suppose it’s inevitable.” The black hair and dark blue eyes that in Luc were so dramatically masculine, in Portia were startlingly feminine. A born tomboy, however, she’d never appreciated the fact.
“Never mind.” With a smile, Amelia linked one arm in Portia’s and slipped her other arm around Penelope’s waist. “We’re just sitting down to lunch, and I’m sure you must be starving.”
Penelope pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “Oh, we’re always interested in food.”
Amelia spent the rest of the afternoon greeting arrivals and helping relatives to their rooms. She had little time to think of the wedding other than as a list of things to be done; even when, later in the afternoon, she tried on her wedding gown for a final fitting, with Amanda, Louise, and the rest of her aunts looking on, not the slightest hint of nervousness assailed her.
Later, she and Amanda retired to her room, to lie on the bed and talk—as they always had, as they always would, married or not. When, weary from traveling, Amanda dozed off, Amelia silently rose and crept from the room.
She’d wandered this house from her earliest years; slipping out through a secondary door into the grounds without being seen was easy. Under the welcoming cover of the thickly leaved oaks, she crossed the lawns to the one place she was sure of being alone, of finding a moment of blessed peace.
The sun was sinking, but still shone strongly between the trees as she crossed the clearing before the small church. Built of stone, it had stood for centuries, and seen scores of Cynster marriages, all of which, so the story went, had lasted through time. That wasn’t why she’d chosen to marry beneath its ancient beams. Her parents had been married here; she’d been christened here. It had simply seemed right, the right place to end one phase of her life and embark simultaneously on the next.
She paused in the tiny porch and felt the peace reach for her, the heavy sense of timelessness, of grace and deep joy, that permeated the very stones. Reaching out, she pushed the door; it swung soundlessly open and she stepped in. And realized she wasn’t the only one who had come seeking peace.
Luc stood facing the altar; hands in his breeches pockets, he looked up at the oriel window high above. The jeweled colors were magnificent, but it wasn’t them that filled his mind.
He couldn’t put his finger on what did, couldn’t sort one feeling from another, pull one strand free of the turbulent whole—they’d all merged, all subsumed beneath, feeding into, one overriding compulsion.
To have Amelia as his wife.
It would happen here, tomorrow morning. All he had to do was wait, and she would be his.
The violence of his need rocked him, even more so when examined in a place such as this, where there was nothing and no one to distract him from seeing the whole, from acknowledging the frightening truth.
Even more, this place, silent witness to the unions of centuries, steeped in their aura, at some level resonant with the power that flowed through those unions, connecting the past with the present, flowing on to touch the future—facing the fundamental reality of life seemed natural, even necessary, here.
He’d always felt there was something about Somersham Place; he’d visited intermittently over the years, always dimly aware of that special something, but only now did he see it clearly. Only now, with his mind—and if he was honest, his heart and his soul—attuned to the same drumbeat, the same driving need, the same warrior’s desire.
Quite when it had grown so important to him, he didn’t know. Perhaps the potential had always been there, just waiting for the right circumstance, the right woman, to give it life, to set it free.
To rule him.
He drew breath, refocused on the altar. That was what, when he married her tomorrow, he would be accepting. When he made his vows, they would not be just to her, not just to himself, but to something beyond them both.
Air stirred behind him; he looked around, and saw Amelia closing the door. Smiling gently, calmly, she came toward him; he turned and faced her.
She halted before him, close, but with space yet between them. She studied his eyes, her composure unruffled. Curious, but not demanding.
“Thinking?”
He’d been drinking in the sight of her face; he brought his gaze to her eyes, then nodded. Forced himself to raise his head and look around. “It’s a wonderful old place.” He looked back at her. “You were right to choose it.”
Her smile deepened; she, too, looked around. “I’m glad you think so.”
He didn’t want to touch her—didn’t want to risk it; he could feel desire humming through his veins, feel need prickling his skin. “I’d assumed we wouldn’t meet, at least not alone.”
“I don’t think anyone imagined we would.”
He met her gaze, knew what she was thinking. For one instant, he considered telling her the truth, all of it. Getting it off his chest before tomorrow . . .
But she still had to say “I do.” Tomorrow.
He grimaced, gestured to the door, “We’d better get back to the house, or some bright soul is going to realize we’re both missing, and imaginations will run riot.”
She grinned, but turned and preceded him up the aisle. He reached past her to open the door—she stayed him, one hand on his arm.
&
nbsp; Their eyes met, held—then she smiled, stretched up, and touched her lips to his. Kissed him gently, lightly; the battle to suppress his reaction left him reeling.
Before he lost the fight, she drew back, met his eyes again.
“Thank you for agreeing to my proposal, and for changing your mind.”
Amelia held his gaze—black as night—then smiled and turned to the door. After an instant’s hiatus, he opened it. She went out, waited for him to follow and close the door, then, very correctly, side by side, they walked back to the house.
Chapter 12
The next morning dawned fine; a playful breeze wafted about the lawns and set the tone for the day. It flirted with curls and ribbons, ruffled ladies’ gowns, teased flounces and frills. People laughed; the breeze caught their mirth and dispersed it impartially over the richly dressed throng—the relatives and close connections invited to witness the ceremony.
It went forward without a hitch, without a single moment of awkwardness or panic. Once the gay crowd had assembled in the small church, gentlemen filling the aisles while their ladies took the pews, Luc stepped forward to face the altar, Martin, his cousin, Amelia’s brother-in-law, by his side. Martin was in turn flanked by Simon, Amelia’s brother, a nineteen-year-old stripling Luc had, courtesy of their families’ closeness, even before the last few months considered in the light of a brother.
Martin, glancing first to his right, then his left, was moved to comment. “This is becoming incestuous—you do realize after today we’ll not only be cousins, but brothers-in-law, too?”
Luc shrugged. “We always shared excellent taste.”
Simon snorted. “More like you’ve both inherited a familial tendency to succumb to the charms of women with whom no sane man would dally.”
Thus spake a Cynster; the obvious riposte rose to Luc’s lips, but as he glanced across to deliver it he caught Martin’s eye—saw the same thought mirrored in his cousin’s face. They both knew the truth; they exchanged knowing smiles, then faced the altar again, by mutual agreement leaving Simon to learn of his fate by himself.
At that moment, from the mansion’s front porch, Amelia, on Arthur’s arm, stepped out on her journey into marriage. Attended by Amanda and Emily, she glowed with confidence, with the certainty of having finally achieved that of which she’d so long dreamed, with the satisfaction of having brought her dearest dream one step closer to full reality; indeed, she felt sure she was more than halfway there.
As they crossed the lawns and passed under the ancient trees, she leaned close to Arthur. “Thank you.”
Returning her smile, he raised his brows. “For what?”
“Why for having me, of course, and taking care of me for all these years. In a little while, I’ll no longer be yours, but Luc’s . . . responsibility.”
She looked ahead, briefly sobering. She’d added the last word to soften the truth, but she knew what that truth was, and Arthur, a Cynster to his bones, knew, too. She glanced again at him, but his smile hadn’t faltered.
“I’m glad you chose Luc—there may be ups and downs, but at base he’s the kind who will never turn his back on his duties. His responsibilities.” Arthur patted her hand. “And that augurs well.”
The church lay before them; Amelia grasped the moment to draw in a deep breath, to draw to herself the blessings of the years, then they entered, paused for only a moment, then, with a serene smile, radiant once more, she walked up the aisle to Luc’s side.
He was waiting. Their eyes met, held, then he took her hand and she stepped up beside him; together they faced the altar.
Mr. Merryweather led them through the ceremony, delighted to be marrying another of the generation he’d baptized. They made their vows in strong, clear voices, then it was over, and they were man and wife.
She put back her veil, and Luc drew her to him, bent his head and set his lips to hers. A gentle kiss but a lengthy one; only she could feel the reined strength in the fingers curled about hers, sense the power of all he suppressed.
When he lifted his head, their eyes met, searched—briefly noted the underlying emotions that, despite their outward calmness, seethed behind their experienced facades—then, those facades firmly in place, they turned as one to receive the congratulations of their families and friends.
Luc hadn’t believed impatience could ever escalate to this extent, to the point where it was a physical thing—a ravening beast inside him, clawing and howling for succor, for satisfaction. He hoped—prayed—that the promise of the fact she was now his, legally before God and all men, would be enough to see him through the day. As they stood side by side, accepting the wishes of those who crowded around to kiss Amelia and pump his hand, clap his shoulder, he was acutely aware of his inner tension, of how his nerves leapt, flexed—how they remained poised for action.
He wanted nothing more than to seize her, to lock her to his side, clear a path to the door, find a horse, and be far away from here—to whisk her away from this place that was hers, to a place that was his.
The sheer primitiveness of the feeling left him breathless, stunned—for the past decade, he’d thought himself an elegant sophisticate; what presently raged inside him was not sophisticated at all.
But he had a whole day to survive, and survive it he would. He had absolutely no intention of allowing anyone to know just how affected he was. Anyone other than Amelia, whose wide, cornflower blue eyes said she knew—and wasn’t quite sure what she felt about it, how to interpret it—just as well. Other than Martin, who met his gaze, and smiled a too-knowing, too-understanding smile.
He’d briefly narrowed his eyes, but Martin guessing he could live with; the fact only confirmed that Martin knew what he was going through, which he only would had he gone through it himself.
The thought, if not precisely encouraging, at least made for resignation. If Martin had survived, he could, too.
A June wedding possessed numerous advantages, one of which was the chance of staging the wedding breakfast outside. The wide lawns of the Place provided a perfect setting; during the ceremony the staff had assembled long tables lined with chairs under the spreading branches bordering the main lawn.
The breakfast with its inevitable toasts turned into a riotous event. Because their families had always been close, their members so well acquainted, an informality prevailed that couldn’t otherwise have been.
Amelia was thankful for the relaxed atmosphere, grateful when the breakfast slid into the easy, familiar comfort of a large family gathering. She was conscious of Luc’s tension—conscious of the fact he was suppressing something—and she didn’t know, couldn’t think, what it was. She worried that it derived from their agreement—that now he’d actually done it and married her for her dowry, he wanted to depart, get away, leave behind the public charade they were enacting.
Everyone, of course, imagined they were in love, that being the norm for marriages celebrated here. In one respect, that was true—she was quite sure she was in love with him. She was equally sure the other half of the equation was possible, and that, given time and her devotion, it would come to be. But it wasn’t there, in existence, yet; she could imagine the fact grated on Luc’s pride, grated on his conscience . . . that was what she sensed from him—a wish to leave, to put this day behind them.
As it was, they both knew their duties; the informality of the day made them easier to bear.
Once the meal was at an end, she and Luc parted, going in opposite directions around the long table, greeting, talking with and thanking their guests. Others rose, too; most of the gentlemen stood to stretch their legs, then gathered in small groups, discussing this and that, passing the time—getting out of the ladies’ way.
One gentleman left a group and came to meet Amelia. She smiled and held out her hand. “Michael! I’m so glad you could come. Honoria tells me you’ve been very busy these last months.”
Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, Honoria’s brother, grimaced as he pressed her hand. “The way
she puts it, I feel like an old man, buried among files and papers in the depths of Whitehall.”
She laughed. “Isn’t that true?” Michael was a Member of Parliament, one expected to go far; involved in numerous committees, he was widely tipped to step up to the ministry sooner rather than later.
“The papers and files unfortunately are. As for the age, I’ll thank you not to be a minx.”
She laughed; he smiled and glanced about, giving her a glimpse of the silver at his temples, glinting through his otherwise thick brown hair. Michael was handsome in a quiet, inherently strong way. A quick calculation told her he must now be thirty-three. And still unmarried, yet to advance in his career as everyone fully expected—and as he was backed by both the Cynsters and his grandfather, the redoubtable Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby, that seemed a foregone conclusion—then he would have to bestir himself on the matrimonial front. Cabinet ministers were expected to be married.
“Magnus is over there.” Michael directed her gaze to the old man grumpily still at the table—Magnus was a martyr to gout and could not stand for long; he had Lady Osbaldestone beside him, to keep him in line. Amelia waved; lifting his huge head, Magnus nodded, bushy brows drawn down as they almost always were. Amelia grinned and turned back to Michael.
He was studying her. “You know, I can remember both you and Amanda when you first put up your hair—at your first informal ball.”
She thought back; the memories made her smile. “Honoria’s first informal family gathering in the music room at St. Ives House. How long ago that seems.”
“Six years.”
“A bit more.” Her gaze went to her twin, leaning, laughing, on her husband’s arm. “How young Amanda and I were then.”
Michael grinned. “Six years is a long time at this stage in your lives. You’ve both blossomed, and now you’re moving on. Amanda to the Peak District, and I hear you’ll be in Rutlandshire?”
On A Wicked Dawn Page 22
