Glancing at Martin’s and Lucifer’s bowed heads, Luc smiled, settled into the armchair, and gave his attention to what might be his next venture.
Entirely unexpectedly—quite how it happened he wasn’t sure—Luc found himself walking in the cool of that evening with Helena on his arm. When she directed him—imperiously as usual—to the shrubbery, his antenna rose, but he complied. With the westering sun gilding the tops of the high hedges, he escorted her into the first courtyard, then through to the next, to where the rectangular pool lay reflective and still.
Helena gestured to the wrought-iron seat set before the pool. He led her there, then waited while she sat. At her wave, he sat beside her, fixed his gaze on the pool, and waited, determinedly impassive, to hear whatever she wished to say.
To his surprise, she laughed, genuinely amused.
When he looked at her, she caught his eye. “You may lower your shield—I am not about to attack.”
Her smile was infectious, yet . . . he knew well enough not to relax.
She sighed and shook her head at him, then looked out over the pool. “You are still in denial.”
He wondered if feigning ignorance would get him anywhere; he doubted it. Sitting back, stretching out his legs, crossing his ankles, he followed her lead in watching the fish streak like quicksilver through the dark water. “I’m very happy—we both are.”
“That does not require saying. Yet . . . you are not, to my thinking, as happy as you might be, as you would be, if the truth was faced.”
He let silence stretch, acknowledging the reality in her words. “In time, I daresay we’ll come to it.”
Helena made a sound not generally associated with Dowager Duchesses. “’Come to it’—what does that mean? I will tell you this, time will not help you. Time will only deny you days of happiness you might otherwise have.”
He met her gaze, saw something in her pale eyes that was both humbling and compelling.
She smiled, shrugged, looked back at the pool. “It happens to us all—we each have to face it. For some, it’s easier than others, but each one must at some point understand and knowingly accept. At some point, we each have to make the decision.”
He hadn’t thought . . . he started to frown.
Helena glanced at him; her smile deepened. “Ah, no—one cannot escape. That is true. One can only accept and reap the benefits, or instead, spend one’s life fighting the invincible.”
He laughed, albeit wryly. He understood all too well what she meant.
She said no more; neither did he. They sat as the shadows lengthened, both, he was sure, dwelling on only one thing. Eventually, she rose; he did, too. He gave her his arm, and they walked back to the house.
On Friday morning, from the window of his study, Luc watched Amelia and Amanda playing with Galahad, wondered, briefly, what confidences they were sharing. Briefly recalled his conversation with Helena, but a more immediate duty beckoned.
Carrying the paperweight he’d fetched from the windowsill back to his desk, he anchored the last corner of the plan of the house and grounds.
“They’re setting up the tables here.” Martin pointed with a pencil to the western edge of the lawns. “And there’ll apparently be a fiddler and drummer over here—far enough from the house so their noise won’t interfere with the quartet in the ballroom.”
Lucifer glanced at Luc. “Are any of the people they’ve hired—musicians, extra hands to help in the kitchen or anywhere else—unknown to you or your staff?”
Luc shook his head. “I checked with Higgs and Cottsloe. Everyone they’ve brought in are locals—none has been out of the area this year.”
“Good.” Lucifer studied the layout of the house and the gardens surrounding the lawns. “If you were going to break in at night, from which direction would you come?”
“If I knew about the hounds, from here.” Luc pointed to the area to the northeast beyond the rose garden. “That’s woodland, quite dense. It’s a remnant of the original demesne and has never been cleared. It’s readily passable, but the trees are old—even in full daylight, the paths are shadowy and dark.”
Martin nodded. “True. But if you didn’t know about the hounds, then this would be the better way in.” He traced a path from the west boundary of the gardens, across the lane to the home farm, then along the edge of the shrubbery. “Or, alternatively, if one came down from the ridge, then late at night coming in beside the stables might seem wise.”
“Good cover all the way,” Luc agreed. “However, I can assure you the hounds will send up an alarm if anyone approaches along that route.”
Lucifer grimaced. “We’ll have to hope he’s smart enough to realize about the hounds.”
His hands in his pockets, Luc stared at the plan. Martin glanced at him. Luc met his gaze. “I’d better warn Sugden. If anyone does come that way, and the hounds set up a cry, Sugden can release them. They’ll run any intruder to earth, and hold him until we get there.”
Lucifer grinned. Evilly. “Nice idea.”
“Another thought,” Martin offered. “Let Patsy and Morry charm the children at the gala. They’re well behaved enough. Sugden could keep them on their leashes and show them off. No one would think that odd, given they’re champions. And it would serve to draw our thief’s attention to the existence of the kennels.”
Martin straightened, meeting both Luc’s, then Lucifer’s dark eyes. “While it might satisfy us to run the felon to earth, it would be better all around if we could catch him in the act first.”
Luc nodded. So did Lucifer.
They all turned back to the plan.
“All right.” Luc pointed to a bedchamber on the first floor. “That’s the room Helena’s in. So how are we going to protect her?”
They spent most of the morning discussing the possibilities; they’d had to wait until then to learn all that their wives’ had planned, and, most importantly, the when and where of each organized activity.
With all the details in place, they’d hatched their own plans. During the gala and ball, there’d be the three of them, plus Simon, Sugden, and Cottsloe, all keeping watch over Helena. Later, once the guests were gone, Amelia, Amanda, and Phyllida would watch from various places inside the house, while Martin, Sudgen, and Lucifer patrolled the grounds, leaving Luc and Simon—presently the most familiar with the house and the rooms everyone was in—to guard the long corridors.
Once they’d finalized their arrangements, they’d dispersed. Luc had gone to the kennels to speak with Sugden and run a quick eye over the pack.
Returning to the house, he hesitated, then strolled to the music room. He paused in the corridor outside the door . . . from the parlor beyond came Amelia’s voice. And Phyllida’s and Amanda’s. Grimacing, he walked on.
Climbing the main stairs, he paused at the first floor, then, jaw firming, took the flight to the top floor.
Portia, Penelope, and Miss Pink were downstairs, eschewing lessons with books for more practical demonstrations; the upper central wing stood empty. Luc strolled to the nursery, opened the door, and went in.
Nothing had yet changed—he hadn’t expected it would have; Amelia hadn’t yet had time to put her plans into place. But she would. Soon.
Walking to the window, he looked down over the valley, and pondered that fact, what it would mean, how it made him feel.
A son—that was the least fate owed him after leaving him to manage alone with four sisters. His lips twisted; in truth, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to see Amelia with his babe at her breast.
His conversation with Helena had cast a new slant—he hadn’t considered that Amelia, too, would have her own decision to make.
She’d already made it—of that he felt certain. She was committed to him, had changed her allegiance and was carrying his child. She was his. At some primal level, he’d known that for some time—now he believed it.
His rational logical mind had at long last caught up with his primitive self.
&n
bsp; Satisfaction and contentment welled, laced with escalating frustration. Now he was waiting to tell her all, fate was conspiring to delay his declaration.
She was rushed off her feet with preparations, dozy when he joined her in their bed at night, in the morning leaping out of it before he’d woken to plunge back into the whirl.
Given what she and all that lay between them now meant to him, given how important acknowledging that had become, grabbing a few rushed minutes with servants and family distractingly hovering to make such a vital declaration was, to him, unthinkable.
When he finally confessed to the ultimate surrender, he at least wanted to be sure she was paying attention—and would remember it later.
Impatience gnawed; frustration gnashed. He stared out at the valley. His jaw set.
Once the thief was caught, he would insist she refocus every last shred of her attention back on him.
And then he would tell her the simple truth.
Three little words.
I love you.
Chapter 21
“A word of advice, ma petite.”
Amelia glanced up from the lists scattered across her desk. Helena stood in the doorway, smiling fondly.
She quickly reorganized her lists. “On what . . . ?”
“Ah, no. My advice does not concern any of our arrangements”—Helena dismissed the lists with a wave—“but a subject much more dear to your heart.”
“Oh?” Amelia stared.
Helena nodded. “Luc. I believe he wishes to tell you something, but . . . there are times when even men such as he are uncertain. My advice is that a little encouragement would not be out of order, and may gain you more than you think.”
Amelia blinked. “Encouragement?”
“Oui.” Helena gestured, supremely Gallic. “The type of encouragement likely to weaken a husband’s irrational resistance.” Her glorious smile dawned; her eyes twinkled as she turned away. “I’m sure I can leave the details to you.”
Her lists forgotten, Amelia stared at the empty doorway. Now Helena mentioned it, Luc had been . . . hovering for the past few days. They’d both been so busy with their visitors and their plans to catch the thief, their private lives, what lay between them, had necessarily been set to one side, in temporary abeyance while they tackled the threat to their family.
Yet . . .
Sudden impatience seared her. Stacking her lists, she closed the desk, rose, and headed upstairs.
Luc entered their bedroom that night to discover Amelia not in bed as she usually was, but standing by the windows looking out over the moonlit lawns. She’d already snuffed the candles; in her peach silk robe with her hair tumbling over her shoulders, she stood silent and still, absorbed with her thoughts.
She hadn’t heard him enter; he grasped the moment to study her, to wonder in which direction her thoughts lay. Throughout the evening, he’d caught her studying him, as if seeking to read his mind. He assumed she was keyed up, increasingly tense as they all were. By this time tomorrow, they’d be watching for the thief who, intentionally or otherwise, was threatening the Ashfords. Expectation, anticipation, had already started to course through their veins.
He watched; she remained quiet, statuelike, limned by the silvery light slanting through the window.
Temptation whispered . . . but now, tonight, was not the time to speak. They had tomorrow, tomorrow night and whatever it revealed, to live through. After, later, once they had that business settled and could devote themselves once more to their own lives, to their future . . .
Impatience welled; he subdued it, stirred and walked toward her.
She sensed him, turned—smiled and walked into his arms.
Slid her arms about his neck, stepped close, lifted her face, met his lips as he bent his head and set them to hers.
He closed his hands about her waist, anchoring her before him as he savored her mouth, took his time in the claiming, blatantly taking all she offered, all she freely yielded, her breasts warm mounds pressed to his chest, her slender limbs a silk-clad promise whispering against him.
Releasing her waist, he slid his hands down, around, tracing, then cradling the globes of her bottom, kneading, then lifting her to him so the ridge of his erection rode against her.
She murmured, drew back from the kiss, not away but so their lips were just touching, brushing, caressing—teasing their senses, breaths mingling as desire rose between them. Drawing one arm down, she slid her hand beneath the edge of his robe, splaying her palm on his chest, hungry, greedy, eager to touch. She lowered her other arm, braced that palm against him, easing back, not out of his embrace but to create a gap between them.
That she wanted to follow a different route to the one he’d intended he understood; it nevertheless took a few heated moments before he could force his hands to obey and ease their grip, let her stand again. He didn’t let her move away but that wasn’t what she wished—the instant she could, she slid her hands down, searching . . . for the tie of his robe.
He felt the tug, then release—felt, between them, her hand shift again, felt the shimmer of her robe under his hands, over her skin.
From beneath his lashes, he watched her smile—gloried in the open, uninhibited expectation in her face as she sent both hands sliding up to his shoulders, pushing the halves of his robe wide. She didn’t immediately push the robe off but instead paused to admire, to look, to savor all she’d uncovered.
He knew better than to move—knew he was supposed to let her have her way. That had never been easy—he usually cut short her play—yet tonight, bathed in moonlight, he mentally—sensually—girded his loins, held back the urge to distract her, forced his hands not to tighten and haul her against him.
Let her touch, caress, then kiss as she would.
He had to close his eyes, felt tension coil about his spine as she licked, then grazed one tight nipple. Felt her hands, small, eager and wanton, slide greedily over his chest, over his abdomen, skating inexorably lower. Her lips, her hot, wet, open mouth, followed, trailing fire down his body.
His fingers had turned nerveless when she slid from his hold.
When her hands, then her avid mouth traced the line of his hips, then moved inward.
His mouth was bone dry, his eyes tight shut when she finally closed her hand about him. His fingers slid into her hair, tangling in her curls, as she lovingly traced, then closed her hand again, played and tantalized as he himself had taught her, until he thought he’d die.
When she went to her knees, bent her head, and took him into her mouth, he was sure he would.
The thunder of his heart filled his ears as she ministered to his wildest fancy. He’d never let her before, not as she was, not in this position—he’d thought he hadn’t even given her the idea—dimly wondered how she’d guessed.
Instinct seemed a dangerous, possibly threatening, conclusion. Especially when she angled her head and took him deep, and his fingers spasmed on her skull in reaction. He felt, rather than heard, her soft, victorious exhalation when next she paused for breath.
Before he could react her hands and mouth recaptured him—his awareness, his senses. She held him captive, tortured him lovingly, pressed ever more flagrantly evocative caresses on him.
Chest laboring, he opened his lids enough to look down through the screen of his lashes, enough to watch her, bathed in moonlight, the skirts of her robe a shimmering pool in which she knelt, her golden curls softly lustrous, shifting against him as she loved him.
He’d taught her how; she’d learned well. Every too-knowing touch, every scrape of her nails, every long, liquid stroke of her tongue, wound him tighter, and tighter, until his spine quivered with tension, until his awareness was hard-edged, crystal sharp. Yet still she pushed him further.
Until his fingers gripped hard on her skull, until he closed his eyes, head lifting, chest seizing . . .
Until he had to wonder what had changed.
Something had.
She’d alw
ays been physically willing, even eager, yet tonight, she was assured.
Confident.
He could feel it in her touch.
Could see it when she finally—finally—released him and lifted her head. He hauled in a tight breath and looked down as she sat back on her heels and, hands braced on his thighs, with calm deliberation considered the outcome of her efforts; her serene smile declared that outcome met with her satisfaction.
He groaned and reached for her—she put out her hands and caught his wrists, rocked to her feet and smoothly stood. Then she released his hands, grasped the sides of her loosened robe and spread them wide—and stepped into him.
Deliberately, with a calm intent that strangled his breath, set her body skin to skin with his. Sinuously shifted, her skin like burning silk as she used her whole body to caress his. Reached between them and adjusted his throbbing erection so she could better shift and slide against it. Draping one arm about his shoulders, she hooked one knee about his thigh, then evocatively—like some eastern houri pandering to her master—undulated against him.
Her hips, her breasts—her spread thighs, the curls between—all contributed. All added to the call, the primitive invocation that reached deep within him, harrying instincts buried under centuries of sophistication until they rose with a roar and poured through him.
Shattering every last vestige of control, drowning every glimmer of civilized man.
Left him revealed—him and his needs—laid bare, exposed. Before her, and him.
Left him reeling, but she was there—calming, urging, reassuring . . .
He dragged in a huge breath, bent his head, and set his lips to hers as she offered them. It required no thought for him to push back the sides of her robe, reach under and slide his hands over her back, down, over her bottom, possessively gripping, then releasing to lower and grip the backs of her thighs, and lift her.
She wrapped her arms about his neck, clung tight, wrapped her legs about him, knees bent, her heels in the small of his back—and he was inside her. She gasped, pulled back from the kiss, caught her breath, eyes closing as he pulled her hips into him, pressed deep inside her body, then anchored her, her body open and filled to the hilt with him. Let her feel the vulnerability she’d chosen, let the experience—of her giving, of the hot slickness of her sheath clamping tight all around him, of the shivery pleasure that always rushed through him when they joined—sink to his bones.
On A Wicked Dawn Page 38
