Together. Here.
His gaze shifted to her; the possessiveness that seized him was disorienting, disconcerting. He leaned back, shifting his gaze ahead as the carriage swept on. Trees intervened as the road curved again and dipped into the valley; Amelia sighed and sat back, her gaze still on the window, her expression soft and eager.
The coach rattled over the stone bridge, then traversed the shoulder of the rise, the horses leaning into the traces for the long, sweeping approach to the house.
Five minutes later, the coach rocked to a halt before the portico of the Chase.
He’d been correct in his prediction; not just the indoor staff, but those who worked in the gardens, stables, and kennels as well, were lined up to greet them. The groom opened the door and let down the steps; Luc stepped down—a spontaneous cheer rose from the assembled throng.
He couldn’t help but grin. Turning, he handed Amelia from the coach; as she stepped down and stood beside him, her hand in his, the cheers rose to new heights. Caps were tossed high—everyone was beaming. Conscious of the clouds blowing up from the west, encroaching on the summer twilight, Luc led Amelia forward. Cottsloe and Mrs. Higgs had left the Place immediately the ceremony had ended to ensure all was as it should be here, and to be ready to welcome them both to their new life.
Luc smiled as Mrs. Higgs rose somewhat shakily from her deep curtsy; with a gesture, he handed Amelia over to her. He and Cottsloe followed as Mrs. Higgs introduced all the indoor staff, then Cottsloe took the lead and did the same for those who worked outdoors.
The long line ended at the top of the portico steps where a youth struggled to hold a pair of enthusiastically eager Belvoir hounds. The animals wriggled and whined pitifully as Luc approached.
Amelia laughed and halted, watching as Luc patted them, and they slavishly adored him. Once they’d quieted, she offered her hands for them to sniff. She remembered them both. Patsy, Patricia of Oakham, was the matron of the pack and utterly devoted to Luc; Morry, Morris of Lyddington, was her oldest son and a reigning champion of the breed.
Patsy wuffed welcomingly and rubbed her head into Amelia’s hand; not to be outdone, Morry wuffed louder and went to jump up—Luc spoke and Morry subsided, instead wagging his tail and rump so vigorously their poor handler was nearly brushed off his feet.
“Kennels,” Luc declared in a tone that brooked no argument, canine or otherwise. Both dogs seemed to sigh and desist; with a grateful look, the boy turned them away.
Luc held out his hand.
Amelia looked up, met his gaze—then smiled, and slid her fingers into his. They closed firmly; with a flourish, he turned her to their assembled staff.
“I give you your new mistress—Amelia Ashford, Viscountess Calverton!”
The roar that answered was deafening; Amelia blushed, smiled, waved, then turned and let Luc lead her on, over the threshold into their home.
The staff followed quickly, streaming past as they stood in the wide front hall listening to Mrs. Higgs’s arrangements.
“I’ve held dinner back to eight-thirty, my lord, my lady, not being sure of when you would arrive. If that’s all right?”
Luc nodded. He glanced at Amelia, then raised the hand he still held to his lips. “I’ll let Higgs show you up.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ll be in the library—join me when you’re ready.”
She smiled, inclined her head; he released her.
He stood in his hall and watched her climb the stairs, already deep in discussion with Higgs; when she finally disappeared from his sight, he turned and strode for the library.
He would have preferred to show her up to their suite himself, but then Higgs’s dinner would have gone to waste, and his servants would have had a field day with their nods, winks, and knowing chuckles.
Not that any of that had deterred him.
A glass of brandy in his hand, Luc stood before the long windows of the library and watched the western sky turn black. A summer storm was rolling in; his tenant farmers would be rejoicing. A flash of lightning, still distant, caught his eye.
He raised his glass and sipped, his gaze on the turbulent mass of thunderheads, evidence of a tempestuous force that mirrored the one roiling within him. The force of emotions, passions, and unslaked desire that, suppressed, had steadily escalated throughout the day until every muscle he possessed was rigid, locked in the fight to contain, to restrain, to keep the violence trapped, inside him. For now.
Turning from the window, he crossed to the hearth and dropped into an armchair before it. He didn’t want to think of later. The sense, not of being out of control, but of not being fully in control haunted him. As if some part of him he’d never met before, some part he didn’t recognize, was driving him. And he was helpless to resist.
He could control his actions, but not change the result; he could dictate the path, but not the ultimate goal.
While his intellect resisted, some deeply buried part of his mind rejoiced, metaphorically threw back his head and laughed at the danger, eager to taste the unexplored, the implicit, untameable wildness, to pit his wits and strength against it, to experience the promised thrill.
He took a long sip, then lowered his glass. “Thank God she’s no longer a virgin.”
He was still sitting, sprawled in the chair, when the door opened and she entered. He turned his head, forced himself to remain still as he watched her cross the long room.
She’d changed into a gown of pale green silk, as delicate as a budding leaf seen through spring dew. The silk clung to her curves lovingly, the low, scooped neckline showcasing her breasts, the fine skin over her collarbones, the delicate arch of her throat. Her golden curls were piled high; wisps bounced by her ears. She wore no jewelry bar the wedding band he’d placed on her finger earlier that day. She didn’t need more. As she halted before the other armchair, facing him across the hearth, the light from the candelabra on the mantelpiece fell across her; her skin glowed like pearl.
She was his wife—his. He could barely believe it, even now. He had known her for so long, had considered her untouchable for years, yet now she was his to do with as he pleased—the primitive possessiveness the thought evoked was startling. Not that he would hurt her, physically, emotionally, or in any other way. Pleasure was his currency, and had been for a long time—long enough to know how broad a field physical pleasure truly was.
The thought of exploring that field with her . . . he stopped trying to block the thought. His gaze on her, on her face, then slowly traveling down her body, he let his mind imagine . . . and plan.
She remained standing before him, her gaze steady, her color even, no hint of any panic showing. Yet he was aware of her accelerating heartbeat as if it were his own, could sense her skin heating, saw her lips part fractionally.
Returning his gaze to her eyes, he tried to read them, but the distance defeated him. He’d kept his expression impassive, his eyes hooded. After an instant, she tilted her head, faintly raised one brow.
There was nothing he could tell her—wished to tell her—no words, no warning. He raised his glass to her, and sipped.
The door opened; they both looked.
Cottsloe stood in the doorway. “Dinner is served, my lord. My lady.”
Impatience sank its claws deep; ignoring it, Luc smoothly rose, set his glass down, and offered Amelia his arm. “Shall we?”
The glance she threw him was curious, as if she wasn’t entirely sure what he was truly asking. But there was a smile on her lips as she set her fingers on his sleeve and let him lead her to the door.
Chapter 13
He had absolutely no idea what Mrs.Higgs and Cook had prepared; he paid no attention to the food Cottsloe laid on his plate. He must have eaten, but as the storm gathered and built beyond the windows, he felt increasingly distanced, the violence outside calling to all he’d suppressed throughout the day until it—sating it—dominated his thoughts and his mind.
From the end of the table, shortened as much a
s possible but still able to seat ten, Amelia watched, and wondered. Over the years, she’d seen Luc in all his many moods—this one was new. Different.
Charged.
She could feel his intensity, crackling between them, feeding her own welling anticipation. An anticipation further buoyed by relief. His unexpected reserve, his eschewing of all loverlike gestures, had left her uncertain. Wondering if, now she was his wife, he was no longer as physically interested in her as he once had seemed. Wondering if that earlier interest had in truth been as potent as she remembered it. Wondering if it hadn’t in some measure been feigned.
Glancing up the table, she watched him sip from a crystal goblet, his gaze fixed on the windows, on the storm brewing outside. He’d always been enigmatic, cool, reserved; she’d assumed as they drew closer, his barriers would fall. Instead, the closer they grew, the more impenetrable his shields, the more of an enigma he became.
She wouldn’t put it past him to pretend to a pretty passion as the easiest way to deal with her, to satisfy her within their marriage. She was not such an innocent as to think he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do so if it suited him.
Cottsloe approached with the wine bottle; Luc glanced at her plate of poached figs, then shook his head. He went back to staring at the storm.
While the intensity between them, stoked by that brief, dark impatient glance, surged even higher.
Suppressing a smile, she set herself dutifully to dispense with the figs. She couldn’t leave them untouched—Mrs. Higgs said Cook had slaved over every dish, and indeed, the quality had been excellent. Given that the cook’s master had paid not the slightest heed, it behooved her to make the effort.
She’d probably need the strength.
The wayward thought popped into her mind, and nearly made her choke. But it was an indication of her underlying thoughts, and her expectations.
Ever since joining Luc in the library, she’d realized that, whatever else he might fabricate, this intensity—the attraction flaring between them—was not feigned. Not a construct created by a master seducer to dazzle her; the truth was, the master seducer wasn’t thrilled.
That realization had sent her heart—and her hopes—soaring. He was giving an excellent imitation of a man driven, compelled, not by lust, but by something more powerful. Neither the direction nor his goal discomposed him, but rather the degree of his compulsion; he was a man who controlled all things in his life—being driven . . .
That was why, at least in part, he’d been so keen to leave the Place, why he was now so impatient to have her to himself. To . . .
She stopped her mind at that point, refused to think further. Refused to dwell on the heady mix of curiosity and excitement rising within her.
The clang of her cutlery as she laid it on the plate had Luc glancing around.
Cottsloe immediately whipped away the plate; two footmen whisked away the covers. Cottsloe returned to offer Luc an array of decanters; he dismissed them with a brusque shake of his head. His gaze on her, he drained his goblet, set it down with a soft clack. Then he rose, walked down the table, took her hand, and drew her to her feet.
Met her gaze fleetingly.
“Come.”
Her hand locked in his, he led her from the room. She followed, quickly so he didn’t tow her along. She would have grinned, but she was too keyed up, too much in the grip of that flaring excitement. The expression on his face had done that. That, and the fathomless darkness of his eyes.
He went up the wide stairs, keeping her beside him. If she was foolish enough to try to pull away . . . glancing briefly at his face, she felt he might even snarl. An animalistic energy poured from him; this close, she couldn’t miss it, couldn’t stop it from tightening her own nerves, from squeezing her lungs.
They reached the first floor. The main suite filled the rear of the central block, in pride of place, jutting into the gardens behind the house. A short corridor ended in a circular foyer giving access to three rooms via carved oak doors. To the left lay the viscountess’s apartments—a light, airy sitting room flanking a large dressing room and bathing chamber. To the right lay similar rooms—Luc’s private domain. Between, directly ahead behind a pair of oak doors, lay the master bedchamber.
She’d seen the room—large, uncluttered, with an immense four-poster bed—earlier; she’d explored, enchanted by the position, surrounded by gardens with views on three sides.
Luc gave her no time to admire anything now—he flung open one door, towed her through, paused only to glance around to ensure no maid still lingered, then he heeled the door shut and she was in his arms.
Being kissed—no, ravished.
Every link with reality was swept away in that first hot rush. He’d swept her literally off her toes; she was locked so hard against his steely frame, his arms banding her, she couldn’t breathe—had to take her breath from him. Had to appease the greedy, hungry kisses, the starving urgency with which he kissed her; she offered her mouth, surrendered, tried to catch up—tried to orient.
He gave her no chance. He turned with her in his arms, took two steps, and set her back against the door—trapped her there. He ravaged her mouth; grabbing hold, her fingers sinking into the rigid muscles of his upper arms, she met him in a clash of tongues, in a hot world of whirling desire. She flagrantly incited, urged him further—wanted more.
Angling his hips, he pressed her to the door, anchoring her as he drew back just enough to strip off his coat and fling it away. She fell on his shirt, popping buttons in her haste, in her need to have her hands on his bare chest. His erection rode hard against her mons; his fingers were busy with her laces.
Then his shirt was open; she wrenched the halves wide and spread her hands over him, over the acres of burning skin, sliding her fingers through the raspy curls. She devoured him with her hands while he devoured her mouth, while he conjured the hot, driving need between them, while he drew it up, and set it free.
Let it rage.
She was suddenly beyond hot; he was suddenly beyond urgent. He lifted his head. Her gown and chemise ripped as he yanked them down to expose her breasts; she didn’t care—cared for nothing beyond her wanting, and its satisfaction. He dipped his head, set his mouth to her breast, suckled—and she screamed.
Felt her body arch as he suckled fiercely again, felt his hands on her, hard and demanding. No gentle lover, no soothing caresses, nothing but heat, possessive passion and a driving, urgent need.
A need that drove her, too, that had her gasping, fingers sunk in his hair, blindly holding him to her as he feasted.
Ravenously.
Cool air caressing her legs, then her thighs, told her he’d rucked up her skirts. For one instant, she wondered if he would take her there, against the door—then he cupped her and she stopped thinking.
His touch was knowing, blatantly possessive. He opened her, thrust one, then two fingers into her, worked them deep. Then his thumb found that most sensitive part of her, and circled it, tormenting, while he worked his fingers within her sheath, matching his rhythm to that of his suckling—
She shattered, fractured—so fast, so intensely, she saw rapture like a starburst on the insides of her lids.
His hands and lips left her—too soon, too quickly. She was empty, aching—boneless, vanquished . . .
Then she was gasping, falling; he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Laid her upon it and ruthlessly stripped her gown away. Stripped her naked. When she wore not a stitch to hide her from his gaze, black as night, burning with desire, he tumbled the heaped pillows, rearranged them, then lifted her and laid her among them. A sacrifice waiting, displayed.
She had no will to move, no strength even to lift a hand. He stalked back to the end of the bed, stood facing it, his gaze locked on her, traveling her body as if cataloging every last inch, every soft curl as he stripped off his shirt, flung it aside, then set his fingers to his waistband.
His face was graven, the features and planes so familiar,
yet not. They’d been lovers before, yet it had never been like this—she’d never been able to taste desire, never been able to sense it like a shimmering aura around him, around her. Something heightened, something more—some meshing of physical and ephemeral needs that was both frightening and compelling had happened between them.
He kicked off his shoes; in a single smooth movement he removed his trousers, dropping them as he straightened. As he stood there, naked, rampantly aroused and intent, before her.
He knelt on the bed, his knee between her feet. The muscles in his arms and shoulders shifted, bunching like rock, flexing like steel. His gaze, locked on the curls at the junction of her thighs, lifted to her eyes.
“Open your legs.”
A deep, gravelly, command. An outright order.
She complied, not quickly but without hesitation; he’d clenched his fists—hard—to stop himself from reaching for her. She remembered the feel of his hands on her breasts, their driving urgency, the sheer strength in his fingers. She knew, as her gaze fell into the black of his and she shifted her thighs apart, that he didn’t want to lay hands on her—not yet.
Not while this sheer, ungovernable force rode him.
The force that, as soon as her thighs were wide enough apart, had him on the bed, poised over her, arms braced, hands sunk in the pillows on either side of her shoulders. He settled his hips between her thighs, ruthlessly forcing them farther apart, wedging them wide.
His eyes locked on hers as the blunt head of his erection probed her slick flesh. Then he found her entrance; she caught her breath, trapped deep in the black fires of his eyes as he entered her—with one powerful, savagely complete thrust—one that stretched her and filled her, that had her arching, wildly gasping, hands gripping his forearms, nails sinking deep, her head pressing back into the soft pillows as he relentlessly pressed in.
Until he’d possessed her. Until he’d filled her so completely her every sense was filled with him.
On A Wicked Dawn Page 24
