On A Wicked Dawn (25 page)

The old man grinned. “Aye, well, I knows how it is when a young lady needs to be persuaded-like.”

His lady didn't need persuading, but distracting. Luc inclined his head. “As you say.” Leaving the gardener, he headed for the lake.

It was nearly eleven o'clock; from the rose garden to the lake was not a short distance. As he rounded the corner of the west wing, he glimpsed a figure in a white muslin gown, curls gilded by the morning sunlight, appear briefly on the path that circled the lake. She passed out of sight, screened by the bushes that bordered the ornamental water; he lengthened his stride.

At least this morning he knew where she was—just where she was supposed to be.

Just where he wanted her.

Last night, more precisely the hours he'd spent with her, had eradicated all lingering doubts over what now was the
best way forward. There was no point carping over the fact she'd seduced him; impossible to pretend he hadn't enjoyed it. The fact he—his will—hadn't been strong enough to resist her temptation spoke for itself; there was no point denying he wanted her in that way—and no sense wasting time before bringing the situation back under his control.

Especially given the confirmation of last night.

She hadn't realized. Hadn't seen, wasn't experienced enough to know that what they shared—the way they shared, that emotion that welled and flared between them when they came together—was not the norm. She'd never been with a man before; she was a sexual innocent—a novice. Why would she guess?

As long as he didn't tell her, didn't reveal how much deeper his involvement with her went, she never would.

Which meant he was safe. He could have her, along with all she brought him, that unnameable well of emotion, could claim her and it and allow it to grow, develop as he wished, all under his control. That he coveted it as well as her was not in question; the entire package called to his conqueror's soul. As matters had fallen out, he could have the whole without making any sacrifice beyond that which he'd already been prepared to make.

All he needed to do was marry her.

Quickly.

And whisk her off to Calverton Chase, where he could learn to handle her and their newfound emotion in safe isolation.

The need for a quick wedding was obvious—if he didn't want her to guess how he felt, he had to avoid situations that would make him react in ways that would, at least to her, educated by her mother, her aunts, and her cousins' wives, scream the truth. He'd been lucky once; he couldn't count on fate smiling twice. Limiting the time they spent in society before their wedding was an essential element of his plan.

Once he'd settled into his role as her husband, once he better understood the practicalities of controlling this emotion
that now bound them, then when they returned to London and the
ton
later in the year, he'd know how to manage. Without giving her a weapon with which to manage him.

His best way forward was crystal clear.

The path had been steadily climbing; now it opened into a clearing, high above the lake. Amelia was sitting on the seat facing the distant house, scanning the lawns and the walks—wondering where he was.

So engrossed was she in searching for him, she didn't sense him draw near.

Until he stepped around the seat, swept her an elaborate bow, then offered her the bouquet. “My dear Amelia, will you do me the inestimable honor of consenting to be my viscountess?”

Reaching for the flowers, she froze, blinked, searched his eyes, then took the bouquet and glanced around.

Lips quirking, he sat beside her. “No, we don't have an audience, or at least, not an immediate one.” He nodded toward the house. “No doubt someone will see us and take note, but there's no one else up here.”

Cradling the blooms, Amelia held them to her face and inhaled. Then she looked at him. “I thought we'd already agreed to marry?”

Still watching the house, he shrugged. “I thought you deserved a formal offer.”

After an instant's hesitation, she coolly replied, “You didn't go down on your knees.”

He met her gaze. “Take what you can get.”

Still puzzled, she searched his eyes.

He faced forward. “Anyway, I meant immediately.”

If she'd been surprised before, now she was stunned. “But I thought—“

“I've changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“You mean aside from the little matter of spending last night in your bed? And, of course, that wasn't the first time we'd indulged.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Indeed—aside from that.
That
doesn't necessitate an immediate trip to the altar, as we both well know.”

“True, but it does raise the question of why not. Why not get married immediately, so we can indulge as we wish, without me having to risk my neck climbing creepers? I'm no lightweight, and besides, what will we do when we get back to London?”

What was going on? “Stop trying to distract me.” He was still gazing at the house. “The reason we weren't going to get married for at least the next two weeks was because
you
didn't believe society would accept our attachment and not look for other reasons.”

“As I said, I've changed my mind.”

At the cool,
arrogant
statement, she raised her brows to the absolute limit.

He was watching from the corner of his eye. His lips thinned, then he inclined his head. “All right. You were right. The old biddies have accepted us as a couple—indeed, they're expecting an announcement. We don't need to play at wooing any longer.” He looked at her; both his eyes and his expression were uncompromisingly hard. “Don't argue.”

Their gazes locked, and she bit her tongue. He was right.
Take what you can get
. She would, especially as it was precisely what she'd wanted. She could go on as she'd planned from here.

“Very well.” She looked at the flowers, raised them to her face, and breathed in their perfume. Over them, she met his eyes. “Thank you, kind sir, for your proposal. I will be honored to be your wife.”

The flowers' perfume was heavenly; she closed her eyes for an instant, savoring it, then looked again at him. “So—when should we wed?”

He shifted and cast a frowning glance at the house. “As soon as humanly possible.”

Their decision to marry quickly was going to be interpreted as primarily if not solely due to his impatience.

By the time they quit Hightham Hall late that afternoon,
that much was clear; even though they'd said not a word, their intentions had somehow been divined. After being twitted for several hours by every lady, young and old, Luc bundled Amelia into his curricle, left Reggie, greatly entertained, to see to his mother, her mother, his sisters, and Fiona, and escaped.

As he tooled his curricle down the drive, he felt like he was fleeing.

Amelia, beside him, parasol deployed, a smile on her face, wisely held her tongue as he negotiated the narrow lanes; he felt her occasional glance, knew she sensed his underlying irritation.

When they reached the main road to London, however, she asked, “How long does it take to get a special license?”

“A few days. Less if one can arrange an audience quickly.” He hesitated, then added, “I've already got one.”

She glanced at him. “You have?”

Keeping his gaze on his horses, he shrugged. “We agreed to wed by the end of June—given we weren't going to announce the fact three or more weeks in advance, we were going to need a special license regardless.”

Amelia nodded, pleased that he'd thought ahead—that no matter how things had seemed, he'd been as committed to their marriage as she.

“More to the point, how long will it take you to make your preparations?” He glanced at her. “Your gown, the arrangements—the invitations, and so on.”

She opened her lips to airily dismiss such details, then hesitated.

He noted it; his gaze traveled her face, then, lips twitching, he faced forward. “Indeed. There are the families' expectations—both yours and mine—to satisfy. Let alone society's.”

“No—society's expectations we need not regard. Neither you nor I need do so, not with our age and standing, and at this stage of the year, so late in the Season, the
ton
will accept our wish to marry quietly.”

He inclined his head. “So what have you been planning?”

Although even, his tone warned her there was no point pretending she didn't have it all worked out. “I'd thought, if you're agreeable, to be married at Somersham.”

His brows rose. “In the old church, or the chapel?”

He'd visited often enough to know Devil's principal estate. “The church—that's where most Cynsters have been married. Old Mr. Merryweather—do you remember him? Devil's chaplin?—he's rather ancient, but I'm sure he'd be delighted to officiate. And, of course, all the staff there are used to managing that sort of gathering—they've had plenty of experience.”

He glanced at her. “But not, I imagine, at such short notice.”

“Honoria will cope, I'm sure.” She ignored the suggestion, heavy in his manner, that Honoria might be holding herself—and her staff—in readiness. “So the ceremony, the wedding breakfast, and my gown are easy to arrange.”

He looked back to his horses. “The invitations?”

“I'm sure your mama will already have given the matter some thought. She's hardly blind.”

“And your mother?”

“Likewise.” She glanced at him, but he didn't meet her eye. “Four days is the minimum if we send the invitations by messenger.”

“Today's Thursday. . . .” After a moment, he glanced at her. “How about next Wednesday?”

She considered, then nodded. “Yes—that will give us an extra day or two . . .” She paused, then looked at him. “We'll have to make some announcement.” When he merely nodded, his gaze on the road, she inwardly grimaced and broached the one hurdle she could see. “We'll have to be prepared, when we speak with my father, to explain the matter of your funds.”

The glance he threw her was so swift, she didn't catch it; his leader jibbed, and he had to pay attention to the reins.

She drew breath and forged on, “If it was just my father, that would be easy enough, but there's also my cousins—
Devil and the others. They'll check, I'm sure, and they've all sorts of contacts . . . we'll need to be prepared to defend our case, even though I'm quite sure they'll all agree in the end. But if they do become difficult, there's no reason, within the family, that we can't make it plain that we've been intimate. It's hardly likely to shock them after all, but it will force them to see that we're in earnest and quite committed, and . . . well, you know what I mean.”

Luc didn't look her way; she could tell nothing from his profile, his expression was as impassive as ever. “In birth, title, and estate, you're precisely the sort of gentleman they always wanted us—me and Amanda—to marry. The fact that your current funds are low is not significant, given the size of my dowry.”

She'd said all she dared, all she felt she must. Biting her lower lip, she considered his stony profile, then concluded, “They may grumble at first, but as long as we make it perfectly plain we're determined to wed, they'll agree.”

His chest swelled as he drew in a breath. “We said Wednesday.” He looked at her, his eyes narrow, his gaze hard. “I want you to promise by all you hold holy that you will say nothing to anyone about our engagement until I give you leave.”

She stared at him. “Why? I thought we agreed—“

“We have. That's definite.” He glanced at the road, then back at her. “I want to put some arrangements of my own in place first.”

She blinked, but could understand . . . she nodded. “Very well—but if we're set on Wednesday, then how long will it be before we're free to speak?”

He flicked the reins; the greys lengthened their stride. He glanced at the sky. “Impossible to do anything tonight. It'll have to be tomorrow.” He glanced briefly at her. “I'll do what I need to do, then I'll call on you tomorrow afternoon.”

“What time?”

His lips set. “I don't know. If you go out, leave a message—I'll find you.”

She hesitated. “All right.”

A minute passed, then he looked at her, met her gaze. “Believe me, it's necessary.”

There was something in his eyes, some trace of awkwardness, a tinge of vulnerability, that made her reach out, lay her palm on his cheek, then stretch up and touch her lips to his.

He had to glance at his horses the instant their lips parted, but he caught hold of her hand, then, reassured as to the greys, raised it to his lips and placed a kiss in her palm. He curled her fingers as if to seal the kiss in; his fingers about hers, he held her fist for a moment, then released her.

“Tomorrow afternoon. Wherever you are, I'll find you.”

He should have told her. By all the tenets of acceptable behavior, he should have spoken, and explained he wasn't the pauper she thought him.

The next morning, as he descended the front steps of his house and set out for Upper Brook Street, Luc faced the unpalatable fact that the tenets of acceptable behavior did not extend to Amelia's reaction. Without a cast-iron guarantee that she would still agree to be his bride once she'd learned the truth, he wasn't about to offer it.

Indeed, after their sojourn at Hightham Hall, he was even more wary of rocking their rowboat at this point in time, of giving her any excuse to balk or back away from the altar. One afternoon and one night had altered his perspective; where before he'd
thought
her desirable, very likely the right lady for him, after those two interludes, he
knew
.

He was absolutely adamantly set against giving her any chance of escaping him. Of doing anything other than becoming his wife.