She needed to coax, to convince, to cajole, to make him recognize it, and want it, too.
The question was: how? How did one encourage a man like him to deal with an emotion like love? An emotion he almost certainly would prefer to avoid.
She knew all about the way gentlemen like Luc, like her cousins, tried to slide around love. And Luc was unmanipulable; she’d always known the battle she now faced would be the most difficult.
So what was her best strategy?
Lying amid the rumpled sheets, the scattered pillows, she applied her mind to the question. Sifted through her memories, through all she’d learned of him in the past weeks . . .
A plan took shape—a plan to educate Luc as to the full potential of their union using the only form of argument to which, on such a subject, he would listen. The only language guaranteed to capture his attention.
A wicked plan. Even a trifle underhanded—she was sure he would think so. Yet when a lady had to deal with a gentleman like him . . . it was said all was fair in love as well as war.
And the perfect opportunity had just presented itself. To pursue such a plan, they had to be alone, without family or friends in the house. Once Minerva returned with Luc’s sisters, the visits from their wider families would start, but she had four days before the others arrived.
Four days in which, already confident in her new role, she could turn her sights on something else.
On her husband.
Luc walked into the dining room and found it empty. The sound of the lunch gong had faded minutes ago; he wondered where Amelia was. Brows quirking, he walked to his chair and sat. Cottsloe had just poured him a glass of wine when footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Amelia’s footsteps.
Sitting back, Luc lifted his glass and fixed his gaze on the doorway. Ever since he’d realized he had to draw a line, had to check his desire for her company, and her, and keep both within excusable limits, all had gone well. During the days, she flitted about his house and grounds, rode with him about the estate and played with his pups; each day saw her more and more occupied with the day-to-day business of being his wife.
As for the nights . . . she welcomed him into her arms with open passion, with a desire so blatantly honest it seared his soul.
Her footsteps had halted, now they came on, and she appeared in the doorway. She paused, looked straight at him, and smiled.
Luc blinked; before he could prevent it, his gaze raced over her—hungrily devouring. The gown she wore was of muslin so fine it would be translucent but for the fact the gown was overhung by a half gown of the same material. Two flirty layers—that was all that concealed a luscious form he now knew very well. A form his imagination could supply without conscious effort.
The peach-colored gown drew attention to her skin, so white, so perfect. She approached, and the upper swells of her breasts, revealed by the scooped neckline, made his fingers tingle, his palms itch.
Shifting his gaze, he forced himself to take a nonchalant sip of his wine as Cottsloe held her chair and she sat.
She smiled at him. “Did Colonel Masterton find you?”
Luc nodded. The Colonel, one of their neighbors, had come looking for him that morning; Amelia had charmed the Colonel, then pointed him in the direction he himself had gone. “He wanted to discuss the covert on the north boundary. We’ll need to thin it this year.”
They discussed this and that; with an estate of this size, there was always something needing attention, and after the years of enforced parsimony, there was much to be done. While Amelia waxed lyrical about the new furnishings—he’d given her carte blanche, assuring her there were more than sufficient funds to do whatever she wished—Luc watched her face, drank in her animation.
Tried not to let his mind drift whither it wanted to go.
To her animation in another sphere, in other circumstances. To seeing it again, soon.
Her eyes were bright, her lips full and rosy. Being outside had lent a faint golden tone to the fine skin of her arms.
One errant curl, luscious golden silk, bobbed by her ear, again and again drawing his gaze. She always wore her hair up; the strand must have slipped loose. He glanced at the knot on the top of her head; it appeared well anchored, yet that teasing tendril . . . he almost reached out and touched it, caressed it. Only just managed to stop himself.
Forced his gaze away—to her lips, then her eyes. Shifting, he leaned back, sipped his wine, and tried to keep the sight of her from sinking into his mind.
By the time the meal was over, he was decidedly warm, definitely uncomfortable, very ready to rise and depart.
He drew out her chair. She stood and smiled her thanks. “I’m going to play with the puppies—are you heading for the kennels?”
He had been. He met her gaze. Their bodies were mere inches apart; he’d never been so conscious of a woman in his life. “No.” He looked ahead, gestured for her to precede him. “I’ve work to do in my study.”
She led the way from the room, paused in the corridor to throw him a smile. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
With that, she walked away, her gown floating about her hips, her legs . . .
Luc blinked, mentally shook his head, then swung on his heel and strode to his study.
Two hours later, he sat behind his desk—cleared, tidy, all business disposed of. The first thing he’d done on entering the room had been to close the curtains across the window overlooking the lawn; ever since, he’d been fighting the urge to open them again. Who knew what he might see? For the past ten minutes, he’d been examining the embossed scrollwork around the edge of the leather inset on the desk top, his mind determinedly blank.
A tap came at the door—not Cottsloe’s usual rap. He glanced up—as Amelia walked in.
She was frowning at the large ledger she held open in her hands. She’d been in the sun again; her pale skin was literally sun-kissed, a delicate peach.
Another curl had slithered loose and now bounced alluringly alongside the first, down one side of her face, swishing beneath the curve of her jaw to caress her throat.
She looked up, glanced around, confirming he was alone, then smiled, and shut the door. “Good—I hoped you’d be finished.”
He managed not to glance at his pristine desk—no help there.
She raised the ledger. “I’ve been checking the dogs’ names.”
He waited where he was, waited for her to take the chair opposite. Instead, still studying the ledger, she walked around the desk and placed the book across the blotter, and leaned over it.
Close enough for him to sense the warmth of her skin, for the light scent she wore—some combination of orange blossom and jasmine—to wreath through his brain. He took a deep breath, fleetingly closed his eyes; gripping the arms of his chair, he surreptitiously edged it back.
“I’ve been looking through the names—is there any reason they’re all ‘of Lyddington’ or some such?”
She glanced at him; he met her gaze—which meant looking up. Standing as she was, leaning on the desk, her breasts, mounding tantalizingly above her low neckline, were at eye level. “It’s customary to give them such a tag to denote where they were whelped, usually the nearest town.”
His tone was even, commendably cool yet the temperature was steadily rising.
“Is it necessary?” She faced him, propped her hip against the desk’s edge. “I mean that the second half has to be the nearest town. Can’t it be . . . well, ‘Calverton Chase’?”
He blinked; it took a moment to get his brain to work—to follow her argument. “The naming rules don’t specify, not to that level. I can’t see why, if you wished . . .” He focused on her. “What name have you chosen?”
She smiled. “Galahad of Calverton Chase.”
He half smothered a groan. “Portia and Penelope will be your willing slaves—they’ve been at me for years to use that.” He frowned at her. “What is it with females and King Arthur’s court?”
; Her eyes met his; her smile deepened. Before he knew what she intended, she slid onto his lap. His body reacted instantly; his hands closed about her hips.
Her smile only grew as she leaned into him. “You’ll have to ask Lancelot.”
She kissed him, but lightly, her lips toying with his. Then she drew back; the fingers of one hand slid into his hair as she twisted and leaned closer still, her breasts to his chest. “It occurred to me that I haven’t thanked you properly for Galahad.”
He had to moisten his lips before he could say, “If you want to name him Galahad, you’d better add a bribe.”
Her smile, her low chuckle, nearly brought him undone. Lips parted, she leaned in. “Let’s see if I can convince you.”
She put her heart and soul into it; his head literally spun. Her lips tempted, teased, incited—and he couldn’t help but take, partake of what she offered, slide deep into the warm cavern of her mouth and savor all she was, all she would give him. He closed his arms about her, then tipped her back so he could plunder more deeply, more evocatively. She welcomed him in, urged him on, fingers tangling in his hair as her tongue dueled with his.
Outside, the warm, dozy afternoon took hold; activities slackened; people rested. In the small room with the curtains drawn, hands grasped, silk shushed, and the temperature rose.
He’d taught her well enough not to rush; kissing her, feeling the promise of her supple body, her generous curves filling his arms, caressing his thighs, was like drowning in a sea of sensual delight. She was fluid, malleable—a mermaid tempting him to sink with her deeper under the waves.
Into the oblivion of ecstasy.
The temptation whispered through his mind, pulsed through his veins, throbbed beneath his skin. He was on the brink of yielding when some remnant of self-preservation reared its head.
Was she—could she possibly be—seducing him?
His instinctive reaction was to mentally smile and push such a ridiculous thought aside. She was his wife, here to thank him for an act of generosity; she was warm summer in his arms, full of the promise of life. The need to take, her and all she offered, was strong—and she’d made no demand. She’d simply offered. . . .
Because she knew him too well—knew he would take if she offered, and resist if she demanded.
He kissed her more forcefully, deliberately setting her wits spinning while he tried to assemble his. Tried to decide if she was intent, following some plan of her own . . . even if she was, did he care?
Uncertainty reigned, then she kissed him back, and the feeling faded, along with his resistance. They both knew what lay between them, knew the power and the force, knew how it would consume them.
Wanted it—with one mind, one purpose.
He closed his hand about her breast and she arched in his arms; he ravaged her mouth as he filled his hand with her flesh. He drew her closer, tighter, deeper into his embrace—
They both heard the steps in the corridor—both stilled, then broke apart, eyes wide, widening . . .
A brisk tap fell on the door. A second later, the knob turned; the door opened and McTavish looked in.
He blinked, taking in the scene as Luc looked up and raised a brow.
“Oh, sorry, my lord.” McTavish blushed. “I didn’t think.” He nodded respectfully to Amelia, perched on the desk, watching as Luc pored over the ledger.
“Never mind.” Shutting the ledger, Luc waved McTavish to the seat before the desk. He turned to Amelia. “That name seems in order.” He handed her the ledger. “We can discuss the necessary payment later.”
Amelia saw the smoldering passion in his dark eyes—she saw the suspicion, too. Accepting the ledger, she smiled, and slipped from the table. “Excellent.” She let just a touch of the purr she knew he would hear slide into her voice. “I’ll leave you to your business.”
With a smile for McTavish, she headed for the door, perfectly serene.
She might not have got all she’d wanted, but she’d gained enough to go on with. And who knew? McTavish might, indeed, have been sent by the gods.
Chapter 16
“I’m going riding—I thought I’d go to that place on the river we used to go to years ago.”
Looking up from a financial report, Luc stared at the vision filling his study doorway. Clad in her pale green riding habit, Amelia smiled, then glanced down as she fiddled, as usual, with her gloves. Beneath her tight-fitting jacket, a froth of gauzy blouse showed, tantalizing in its transparency. Late-afternoon sun washed through the windows, bathing her in golden light, emphasizing the temptress role he was almost certain she was playing.
Gloves secured, she looked up, smiled again. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.” She started to turn away.
“Wait.” He was rising before he’d truly considered, but didn’t stop. “I’ll come with you.”
She’d turned back; now she raised her brows. “Are you sure . . . ?” She glanced at the papers he’d dropped on the desk, then met his gaze as he joined her. “I didn’t intend to disturb you.”
Looking into her eyes, he couldn’t tell whether she was lying. Biting back the words: then you shouldn’t have come within my sight, he gestured impassively on. “I could do with a ride.”
Her eyes widened; her lips curved deliciously. “I see.” Serenely, she turned and started down the corridor. “Being out in the fresh air will be pleasant.”
He had no idea which way she intended that; gritting his teeth, he strode after her.
She’d already called for her mount; his hunter was quickly bridled and saddled, then they were away, galloping over his fields, heading south to the river. He knew the spot she was looking for; he led her straight there, to where a loop in the river left a finger of his land surrounded on three sides by water. Trees screened the base of the promontory; they left the horses there. Beyond the trees, the tip of the promontory was a secluded place, cushioned in lush grass, partially shaded by the reaching branches of the trees.
As children, this had been their spot for lazing, for paddling, for passing the days in idle talk, or in dreaming. They had occasionally been here in a large group, or had visited alone or with others, but they’d never come together, just the two of them, to this realm of childhood peace.
Ducking under a branch, he led the way, Amelia’s hand in his; as they walked out into the thick grass, he could almost hear the high-pitched voices, the laughter, the whispers, the soft murmur of the water a constant counterpoint. He stopped in the center of the grassy area, and drew in a deep breath. It brought with it the scents of summer, of sun on leaves, of grass crushed beneath their feet.
“It’s just like it always was.” Amelia slipped her hand from his and sank down on the grass, lush, green, and, courtesy of the warm day, dry. She looked up, met Luc’s eyes, smiled. “It was always so peaceful here.”
Arranging her skirts, she looked around, then hugged her knees, set her chin upon them, and fixed her gaze on the gently swirling water.
After a moment, Luc sat beside her. He stretched out, long legs toward the water, booted ankles crossed. Leaning back on one elbow, he, too, considered the river.
It was a constant, something that had been here over the generations, over the centuries—something that tied them to this land, to its past, yet whispered of its future.
She let the feeling sink to her bones, let the warmth in the air, the music of the river and the shifting leaves soothe and reassure. Confirm.
Eventually, she looked at Luc, waited until he met her gaze, then, smiling lightly, raised a brow. “Well—can I call the pup Galahad?”
His midnight blue eyes darkened; she knew why, knew what he was recalling. The events of the past night when she’d paid the price he’d asked—and his bribe, too. This close, she could feel the sensual power that was his to wield, could sense, too, the rise of that other emotion, the one she sought to evoke, to provoke, to draw again and again into their encounters, until he recognized it and acknowledged it, too.
T
he former was the tension infusing his long limbs, hardening his muscles, sharpening the angles of his face. The other was more ephemeral, a distilled force, the very essence of power and compulsion.
She could see both in his eyes as they held hers.
“It’s warm,” he said. “Open your jacket.”
Such simple words; they sent desire flooding through her. His gaze held hers; his tone—deep, quiet, controlled—was one she recognized. She now knew to obey him to the letter, that that was how the game was played. Assuming she wished to play . . .
Her eyes locked with his, she uncurled her arms, sat up, and unhurriedly undid the buttons closing her light jacket. He hadn’t said to take it off, so she didn’t, perfectly willing to follow his experienced lead.
As her hands lowered, so did his gaze.
“Face me and tuck the halves back.”
She swung to him and did as he asked, so he had an uninterrupted view of what she wore beneath the jacket. Her blouse was of fine gauze, essentially transparent. She’d omitted to wear a chemise.
Luc’s mouth went dry as he noted that last. His hand was reaching for her before he’d even thought. Gaze fixed, with his fingertips, he traced, then caressed, then closed his fingers about one pert peak. He took his time examining her, a sultan assessing a slave. Knowing she was naked under her skirts, knowing she’d be heating, softening, her body preparing to receive his.
When his hand was shaking with the effort of holding to his heavily restrained script, he let his gaze rise, to her throat, to where her skin glowed, lightly flushed. Lifting his gaze to her jaw, he saw the two ringlets she’d taken to letting loose bobbing by her ear.
He reached for them, wound them about one finger, then drew her evenly, steadily, toward him. Splaying one hand on his chest, the other curving about his shoulder, she met his gaze briefly, her eyes wide, pupils enlarged, circled by sapphire blue, then her lids fell and she let him pull her close, let him take her mouth.
Ravage it—he made not the slightest effort to hide the hunger eating him from inside out.
On A Wicked Dawn Page 29
