On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 11

That evening, Amelia and her mother at tended Lady Hogarth's musicale. On the list of social events Luc most hated, musicales ranked at the top. Consequently, he went to dinner with friends, then ambled around to Watier's.

An hour later, inwardly disgusted, he handed his cane to Lady Hogarth's butler. The man bowed, silently indicating the long corridor that led to the music room. Hardly necessary; a pained cauterwauling emanated from that direction. Suppressing a wince, Luc strolled toward the screeching.

Reaching the arched doorway, he paused and reconnoitered; the room was packed with ladies, mostly matrons, some of Amelia's age but few of the younger set. There were other balls on tonight; his mother and sisters had planned to attend two. Lady Hogarth's event had attracted those who considered themselves musical aficionados or who were, like Amelia and Louise, in some way connected.

There were few gentlemen present. Grimly accepting he'd stand out like a crow among seagulls, Luc waited until the soprano was well launched, then strolled nonchalantly to where Amelia was seated along one wall.

She saw him, blinked, but managed not to gawp. Louise, beside her, glanced around to see what had distracted

Amelia; her gaze fell on him — her eyes narrowed.

He'd been a tad late — an hour late to be precise — in returning her daughter that afternoon. Amelia had slipped straight upstairs; he hadn't waited to exchange words with Louise. Her expression stated she had no difficulty guessing precisely what to make of that.

Bowing, first to Louise, then Amelia, he stepped into the space beside Amelia's chair, resting his hand on its back.

And pretended to listen to the music.

He hated sopranos.

Luckily, the recital lasted only another ten minutes. Just long enough for him to fabricate an answer to the fraught question of what had possessed him to appear.

As the applause died, Amelia twisted in her chair and looked up at him. "What…?" Her hand rose to grip his on the chair back.

He'd met her gaze, but her touch distracted him. He looked at their hands, after a frozen instant managed to catch his breath, then smoothly turned his hand, closing his fingers around hers. Beneath his fingertips, the feel of the ring he'd placed on her finger that afternoon elicited a primitive jolt of satisfaction.

"There's no difficulty — no problem." He answered the question he'd seen flaring in her eyes. Meeting them again, he bent closer. "I wanted to warn you I've placed a notice in the Gazette—it'll appear tomorrow morning."

Glancing at the female crowd about them, most only just noticing his presence, knowing the hiatus that had permitted him even this much private speech would continue for mere seconds, he added, "I didn't want you to be taken by surprise when half the ton descends on Brook Street in the morning."

She studied his eyes, then smiled — a natural, artless smile, yet behind it he sensed a lingering trace of that other smile that never failed to tease him.

"I'd assumed you'd do something of the sort, but thank you for the confirmation." She rose, shaking out her turquoise silk gown.

He caught her slipping shawl, draped it over her shoulders. She looked back at him, smiled again — this time, in commiseration. "I'm afraid we're for it."

They were; those who'd attended the Hightham Hall house party had had a whole day to spread their news. Expectations were running high; his appearance tonight had only fanned the flames.

Besieged, he had no option than to stand by Amelia's side and deflect the arch queries as best he could. His temper growled, but he reined it in, aware its irritation was entirely his own fault. The temptation to see her, to confirm that she was there, happy and content — that she'd recovered from being introduced to the concept that a desk could be used for activities other than writing — had crept up on him, niggling until it had seemed the easier of all evils simply to give in. Having surrendered to such weakness, this — coping with the avid interest of the matrons — was the price he had to pay.

Having appeared at all, he felt compelled to remain and escort Amelia and Louise home; his social mask anchored in place, he stoically remained by Amelia's side and refused to be drawn, refused to be tempted into any confirmation of what the Gazette would reveal tomorrow.

Tomorrow was soon enough for these harpies to learn of his fate. They could gloat then, out of his sight.

Amelia held to the same line, neither confirming nor denying what everyone suspected was the truth. Tomorrow they'd all know, and she'd have to share; tonight was her moment to hug the knowledge to herself, to savor her victory.

Incomplete though it was. Yet she'd never imagined that he'd fall in love with her just like that, purely because she suggested they marry. But they'd soon be wed, and she'd have time and opportunity aplenty to open his eyes, to lead him to see her as something more than just his bride.

She was used to social discourse, accustomed to the frequent need to slide around or ignore impertinent questions. Dealing with the inquiries of the many who flocked about them, those who'd spoken stepping back to let others take their place, was as easy as breathing. Under cover of the incessant conversation, she slanted a glance at her husband-to-be.

As usual, she could divine little, not now, not in public. Yet in those private moments they shared… she was becoming more adept at reading him then. The hour and more they'd spent that afternoon in his study had been one such moment. One thing she was now quite confident of: he had never given his heart to any other woman.

It was there, hers to claim if she was willing to brave the fates and seize it. She knew him well; at some instinctive level she sensed his mind, was already close enough to him to, sometimes, know what he felt. That afternoon, when he'd had her laid across his desk, his to savor and take as he wished, there'd been something in his eyes, some recognition that with her, between him and her, there was something more than the merely physical.

The suspicion that he might already have recognized some deeper link between them had intensified later, when, with her slumped, deliciously exhausted, on his lap, he'd slipped the pearl-and-diamond ring — the betrothal ring that had been in his family for generations — on her finger. The moment had, at least for her, shimmered with emotion; she was willing to wager he hadn't been immune.

A first glimmer of the ultimate victory she sought, or so she hoped.

Her gaze had remained on his face too long; he turned, met it, raised a brow. She only smiled and turned back to the matrons eager to extract her news. And let her mind dwell on that ultimate victory.

The evening was drawing to a close when Miss Quigley approached. Although as curious as the others, Amelia and Luc's putative relationship was not uppermost in her mind. "I wondered, Miss Cynster" — Miss Quigley lowered her voice, turning a little aside from the rest—"did you by any chance see Aunt Hilborough's lorgnettes lying about anywhere at Hightham Hall?"

"Her lorgnettes?" Amelia remembered them — anyone who'd met Lady Hilborough would; she wielded the item more to point than to look. "No." She thought back, then shook her head decisively. "I'm sorry. I didn't."

Miss Quigley sighed. "Ah, well — it was worth inquiring." She glanced around, then lowered her voice further. "Mind you, now I've learned Mr. Mountford is missing his snuffbox, and Lady Orcott her perfume flask, I have to say I'm beginning to wonder."

"Good heavens." Amelia stared. "But perhaps the items were misplaced…?"

Miss Quigley shook her head. "We sent back to Hightham Hall the instant we reached London. Lady Orcott and Mr. Mountford did the same. You can imagine — Lady Hightham must have been quite beside herself. Hightham Hall has been searched, but none of the missing items were found."

Amelia met Miss Quigley's serious gaze. "Oh dear." She looked to where Louise stood not far away, chatting to some others. "I must tell Mama — I doubt she's checked her jewelry case, let alone all those other little things one takes. And Lady Calverton, too." She looked back at Miss Quigley. "Neither she nor her girls are here tonight."

Miss Quigley nodded. "It appears we all need to be on our guard."

Their gazes met — neither needed to specify just what they needed to guard against. There was, it seemed, a thief among the ton.

At eight the next morning, Luc sat alone at his breakfast table and studied his copy of that morning's Gazette.

He'd deliberately risen early — long before his sisters would be up and about. He'd come down to see — to stare at, to ponder — his fate, his destiny, printed in black-and-white.

There it was — a short, sensible notice informing the world that Lucien Michael Ashford, sixth Viscount Calverton, of Calverton Chase in Rutlandshire, was to marry Amelia Eleanor Cynster, daughter of Lord Arthur and Lady Louise Cynster of Upper Brook Street, at Somersham Place on Wednesday, June 16.

Laying the paper down, he sipped his coffee, and tried to define what he felt. The primary emotion he could identify was a simple one: impatience. As for the rest…

There was a great deal more swirling inside him — triumph, irritation, anticipation, deprecation — even a faint lick of desperation, if he was truthful. And underneath them all ranged that unnamable force, grown stronger, more powerful — more compelling, more demanding.

Just where it would lead him — how far it would drive him — he didn't know.

His gaze fell to the paper, to the notice therein.

A moment later, he drained his mug, rose and strolled from the breakfast parlor. He paused in the front hall to collect his riding gloves.

It no longer mattered where the path led — he was committed, publicly and privately, and despite all uncertainties, he did not, not for a minute, question the rightness of his direction.

The future was his, to make of it what he pleased.

Drawing his gloves through his hands, he grimaced. Unfortunately, his future now contained her, and she wasn't a force he could completely control.

The clop of hooves on the cobbles reached him; with a nod to the footman who hurried to open the door, he strode out of his house.

Pausing on the porch, he lifted his face to the morning sunshine and mentally looked ahead, weighed up the immediate future. When all was considered, he still felt the same.

Impatient.

While Luc rode in Hyde Park, not far away, a young lady entered the garden at the center of Connaught Square, and approached a gentleman garbed in a long, drab driving coat standing beneath the branches of an ancient oak.

As she neared, the lady inclined her head stiffly. "Good morning, Mr. Kirby."

Her voice squeaked.

Kirby stirred and nodded brusquely. "What did you get this time?"

The young lady glanced around, nervousness escalating in the face of Kirby's dismissive contempt. He watched, unmoved, as she lifted a bag — a cloth sack of the type maids used when shopping; fumbling within, she drew forth a snuffbox.

Kirby took it; he glanced around, confirming they were unobserved, then raised the box so the light struck the miniature painting on the lid.

"Is it…" The young lady swallowed, then whispered, "Do you think it will be worth something?"

Kirby lowered his arm; the box disappeared into one of the capacious pockets of his coat. "You have a good eye. It'll fetch a few guineas. What else?"

The lady handed over a perfume flask, crystal with a gold lid, a pair of lorgnettes, old but riddled with small diamonds, and a pair of small candlesticks, silver and finely wrought.

Kirby briefly assessed each item; one by one, they disappeared into his pockets. "Quite a nice little haul." He saw the young lady flinch, observed her dispassionately. "Your excursion to Hightham Hall was well worthwhile." Voice lowering, he added, "I'm sure Edward will be grateful."

The young lady looked up. "Have you heard from him?"

Kirby studied her face, then calmly replied, "His latest communication painted a grim picture. When such as Edward are cast off" — he shrugged—"it's not easy for them to find their feet in the gutter."

The lady sighed despondently and looked away.

Kirby was silent for a moment, then smoothly said, "I've heard rumors of a wedding." He pretended not to notice the stricken look in the lady's eyes as she swung to face him; instead, drawing that morning's Gazette from another pocket, he gave his attention to the item he'd circled. "It appears it'll be held at Somersham Place next Wednesday."

Lifting his gaze, he fixed it on her face. "You'll be attending, I'm sure, and that's an opportunity too good to miss."

One hand rising to the lace at her throat, the lady shook her head. "No — I can't!"

Kirby studied her for a moment, then said, "Before you make that decision, hear me out. The Cynsters are as rich as bedamned — wealthy beyond belief. Word has it Somersham Place is crammed full of objects and ornaments collected over the centuries by members of a family who've always had the means to indulge their expensive tastes. Anything you pick up there will be worth a small fortune, yet it'll be one small item from a sprawling mansion filled to bursting with similar things. The chances are one or two things will never be missed.

"And we shouldn't forget that Somersham Place is only one of several ducal residences. On top of that, there are the residences of other family members — not all, perhaps, will be as richly endowed, but all will contain artwork and ornaments of the highest standard — of that you may be sure.

"Now, let's contrast this with Edward's dire situation." Kirby paused, as if selecting his words, censoring his knowledge; when he continued, his tone was somber, subdued. "It would not be untrue to say Edward's case is desperate."

Fixing the young lady with a hard and steady gaze, he went on, "Edward has nothing — as he wrote in his letter to you, his brother has refused to support him, so he's reduced to eking out a living in any way he can. A rat-infested garrett, stale bread and water his only food, he's at the limit of his resources and in a very bad way." Kirby heaved a tight sigh and looked across the square at the houses fronting it. "I seek only to help him, but I've already given all I can — and I don't have access to the places, to the homes, to the people who own things it won't hurt them to lose."

The young lady had paled; she swung away — Kirby reached out to haul her back, but she turned back of her own accord, wringing her hands. He lowered his arm unobtrusively.

"In his letter, he only asked me to get those two things — the inkstand and the perfume flask. He said they belonged to his grandparents and had been promised to him — they were his, all I did was to bring them to you so he could have them." The lady lifted her eyes, beseechingly, to Kirby's face. "Surely, if he believed those two things would see him through, then together with the other items" — she nodded at Kirby's pockets—"the ones I've just given you, and the others, too, then Edward should have enough to survive for a few months?"

Kirby's smile was rueful, patronizing, but understanding. "I'm afraid, my dear, that Edward is, in his present arena, no more up to snuff than you. Because he so desperately needs the money these items will bring, he cannot get much for them. That's the way such things work." He paused, then added, "As I said, he's in a very bad way. Indeed…" He seemed to recollect himself and stopped, then, after transparently wrestling with his conscience while the young lady watched, he sighed and met her gaze. "I should not say such a thing, yet I greatly fear I cannot answer for what he will do if we cannot get him decent funds soon."

The young lady's eyes grew round. "You mean…?"

Kirby grimaced. "He won't be the first sprig of an aristocratic house who couldn't face life in a foreign gutter."

One hand rising to her lips, the young lady turned away. Kirby watched from under hooded lids, and waited.

After some moments, she drew in a shaky breath, and turned back to him. "You said anything, any little item from Somersham Place, will be worth a small fortune?"

Kirby nodded.

"So if I take something from there, and give it to you, then Edward will have enough to live on."

Kirby's nod was immediate. "It'll keep him from starving."

"Or doing anything else?"

"That's in the lap of the gods, but at least it'll give him a chance."

The young lady stared across the square, then she drew in a breath, and nodded. "Very well." Lifting her chin, she met Kirby's gaze. "I'll find something — something good."

Kirby studied her for a moment, then inclined his head. "Your devotion is to be applauded."

Briefly, he told her where to meet him, where and when she should bring her next contribution to Edward's well-being. She agreed and they parted. Kirby watched her cross the square, then turned and strode in the opposite direction.

Why the devil had he decided on Wednesday?

Returning to Calverton House on Monday afternoon, Luc stalked into his study, shut the door, then flung himself into an armchair and stared at the empty hearth.

If he'd said Monday instead…

He'd avoided Upper Brook Street on the day the notice announcing their nuptials had appeared in die Gazette. Predictably, all fashionable London, or so it had seemed, had descended on the Cynsters to congratulate Amelia and gossip about the wedding. Even here, at Calverton House, his mother had been besieged by callers throughout the morning; after luncheon, she'd shrewdly decided to join Amelia and Louise in Brook Street, so the wishful could have at them all at once.

Saturday evening they'd spent under the full glare of avid — not to say rabid — scrutiny at Lady Harris's soiree, one of the last major engagements before the ton retired to their estates for summer. The weather had already turned warm, the ladies' gowns commensurately revealing. To his relief, Amelia had restrained herself; she'd appeared in a demure sheath of gold silk to parade on his arm, ineffably calm and courteous to all those who paused to wish them well.

He hadn't had a chance for so much as a moment in private with her. Lecturing himself that the evening was, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, he'd accepted the fact with what he'd thought at the time to be reasonable grace. The intent look Amelia had bent on him when they'd ended the evening and parted, under her mother's watchful eye, had suggested that she, at least, had seen past his mask — sensed the restless dissatisfaction he'd concealed.

Deciding he wasn't averse to her sensing his impatience, he'd called the next afternoon — Sunday — expecting to whisk her away, to spend at least some moments alone with her, moments with her attention all his, only to discover the females of her family had congregated to confer and plan the wedding.

Vane, having escorted his wife, Patience, to the gathering, was leaving as he arrived. "Take my advice — White's would be much more to your taste."

It had taken less than a second for him to consider, and disgustedly agree. White's at that hour was thoroughly unexciting; it was, however, safe.

On Sunday evening, he and his mother had hosted the more or less traditional formal dinner for the families of bride and groom. He'd never seen his staff so excited; Cottsloe spent the entire evening beaming fit to burst. Mrs. Higgs exceeded her own high standards; despite once again being denied any chance of a private word with Amelia, he had to admit the evening had gone well.

Devil, of course, had been present. They'd come upon each other in the drawing room later in the evening. Devil's eyes had searched his, then he'd grinned. "Still not broached the painful subject?"

He'd calmly turned to survey the company. "You can talk." He'd waited only a heartbeat before adding, "However, I can assure you no mention of that particular topic will occur before the wedding."

"Still determined?"

"Absolutely."

Devil had sighed exaggeratedly. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"I won't." Turning, he'd met Devil's eyes. "You could, of course, send me pointers…"

Devil had humphed and slapped his shoulder. "Don't press your luck."

They'd parted amicably, their common difficulty a bond. The fact had only served to raise the issue more definitely, embed it more firmly in his mind.

He would have to tell her sometime.

The knowledge only fueled his impatience.

He'd called in Upper Brook Street that morning, early enough, so he'd thought, only to have the butler, old Colthorpe, gravely inform him that Amelia and Louise were already in the drawing room with four other ladies.

Swallowing his curses, he'd considered sending in a note, asking her to slip away. Then the front door bell pealed. Colthorpe had caught his eye. "Perhaps, my lord, you might prefer to wait in the parlor?"

He had, listening as the bevy of elegant matrons who'd come to call were shown into the drawing room. In to see Amelia.

With a growing sense of disappointment, and a hollow, indefinable unease, he'd accepted the inevitable and departed the house. He hadn't left a note.

He'd gone to his club; various friends had taken him to lunch. Some would travel down to Cambridgeshire tomorrow, as would he; that afternoon had been the last time they and he could celebrate as all bachelors. And celebrate they had, yet although he'd laughed and outwardly enjoyed their company, his mind had already moved on — his thoughts had been fixed not on old friends, but on the woman who would be his wife.

Eyes trained unseeing on the cold hearth, he tried to decide what he felt — how he felt. Why he felt as he did. When the clock struck six, no further forward, he rose and went up to change.

Lady Cardigan's grand ball had one thing in its favor — it was a ball, it therefore featured dances. Times during which he would have Amelia in his arms, albeit in the middle of a dance floor. In his present state, he was thankful for even that.

"Are you all right?" she asked, the instant they stepped out in the first waltz. "What's the matter?"

He stared — very nearly glared — at her. "Nothing."

Amelia let her joyful mask slip long enough to flash him a disbelieving look. "Don't." She deliberately used his earlier injunction. "I can see it in your eyes."

They were not just dark but turbulent; the sight left her certain something was wrong. In her opinion, they were too close to the vital moment — exchanging their vows — to let anything stand in their way.

"Stop being difficult." She felt her own chin setting and had to force her features to ease.

When he simply hid behind his impassive mask, she drew a deep breath, and broached what she'd decided had to be the problem. "Is it money?"

"What?" He looked thunderstruck, but that might simply be his reaction to any lady discussing such a subject with him.

"Do you need funds for something — now, before the wedding?"

His features were no longer impassive. He looked as horrified as she'd ever seen him. "For God's sake! No. I don't need—"

His eyes flashed. She'd obviously hit a nerve, but remained unrepentant. "That just goes to show that you ought simply to tell me, rather than leave me to guess." She waited while they went through the turns at the end of the room, conscious of his arms tightening, drawing her close — and then of him forcing them to ease so they wouldn't cause a sensation.

"So what is the matter then?" she demanded as, in acceptable order, they swung back up the room.

He looked down, trapped her eyes. "It's not money I need."

She searched his eyes, somewhat relieved. "Very well — what then?"

Exasperation and frustration reached her clearly, yet he didn't rush to answer her. They were halfway back up the room before he replied, "I just wish it was Wednesday already."

Her brows rose; she smiled spontaneously. "I thought it was brides who were eager for their wedding."

His midnight blue eyes locked with hers. "It's not the wedding I'm eager for."

If she'd had any doubt of his meaning, the expression in his eyes — not just heated, but knowing, awakening — quite deliberately stirring — memories of their previous intimacies-dispelled it. Warmth, definite but not too intense, rose in he cheeks, but she refused to lower her eyes, refused to play the innocent when, thanks to him, she was no longer that. "An you sure you want to travel on that afternoon?" Brows lightly rising, she held his gaze. "We could always remain at Somersham for the night."

The line of his lips eased; the intensity in his eyes did not "No. With the Chase only a few hours away…"

The waltz ended and the music died; he whirled her to a halt, caught her hand. Trapped her gaze as he brushed a kiss on her fingers. "It'll be infinitely more appropriate for us to retire there."

She had to quell a shiver — an instinctive reaction to the subtle suggestion in his voice, to a situation that was looming as an unknown. While he'd let her organize the wedding entirely as she pleased, he'd insisted that after the wedding breakfast they would leave for Calverton Chase. Her first night as his wife, therefore, would be passed in his ancestral home.

A sense of, a commitment to, starting out as they meant to go on seemed to hover between them, as if they both knew it in themselves, and now recognized it in the other.

Somewhat cautiously, she acknowledged the fact with an inclination of her head, a smile, not light but intent, curving her lips. He saw — distracted, he glanced up as others bustled toward them — quickly looked back and nodded, his eyes serious as they touched hers.

With that mutual, unvoiced agreement, they turned to smile and chat with those who gathered about them.

The evening progressed as such evenings had before, but this time it was only during the two waltzes they shared that they were private enough to talk — and during their second waltz, neither bothered with words.

She was breathless when that waltz ended, perfectly ready to stand beside the dance floor and chat to acquaintances while the tension that had seized her nerves, that had sent tingling anticipation spreading over her skin, slowly faded.

Toward the end of the evening, Minerva approached; leaving Luc to deal with Lady Melrose and Mrs. Highbury, Amelia gave his mother her attention. They quickly confirmed the members of his family who would be attending the wedding; Minerva was about to move on when Amelia saw her gaze lock on the pearl-and-diamond ring Luc had given her.

Smiling, she extended her hand, displaying the ring. "It's lovely, isn't it? Luc told me how the betrothal ring was passed down through the family."

Minerva studied the ring, then smiled warmly. "It suits you perfectly, dear." Her gaze moved on to her son; her smile faded. "If you don't mind, Amelia, I'd like a quick word with Luc."

"Of course." Turning back to the wider conversation, Amelia drew the two ladies' attention, releasing Luc to his mother.

Luc turned to Minerva; she put her hand on his arm and urged him a few steps away. He leaned closer when she spoke, her voice low.

"Amelia just showed me her ring."

Before he could stop himself, he'd stiffened. His mother fixed him with a sharp glance.

"It seems," she continued, "that Amelia believes it to be the betrothal ring passed down over generations of Ashfords."

He held her gaze; after a long moment, he grudgingly admitted, "I mentioned the betrothal ring when I gave her that one."

"And doubtless left her to make the connection herself?" When he said nothing, she shook her head. "Oh, Luc."

It wasn't quite condemnation he saw in her eyes, but whatever it was, it made him feel twelve years old. "I didn't want her to worry about where the ring came from."

Minerva's brows rose. "Or to think too far along those lines?"

She waited, but he refused to say more, to justify his stance or his behavior.

After a moment of reading his eyes — she was one of the few who could regularly manage it — she sighed. "I promised not to meddle, and I won't. But beware — the longer you delay making your revelation, the more difficult it will be."

"So I've been told." They were talking of two different revelations, but one led inexorably to the other. He looked at Amelia. "I promise on my honor I will tell her. Just not yet."

He glanced at Minerva; again she shook her head, this time with a latent smile. Pressing his arm, she stepped away.

"You'll go to the devil in your own way. You always have."

He watched her walk away, then rejoined Amelia.

Early the next morning, Amelia left for Somersham Place in company with her father and mother, her brother Simon and her younger sisters Henrietta and Mary, their butler Colthorpe and various family servants. The latter were to lend their support to the staff at the Place, Devil's principal residence, a huge sprawling mansion that in many ways represented the heart of the ducal dynasty.

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.

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.