On A Wicked Dawn (37 page)

Indeed, it was that devotion that had allowed her to get this far—to be here, walking the grounds of the Chase, now her home, with him, now her husband.

She could feel his gaze on her face, could feel the heat of him, the sleekly muscled length of him, all down her side. Not a touch but the promise of a touch, and more.

Glancing up, she smiled, and tightened her hold on his
arm. “It's too early to go inside. Come and show me around the gardens. Is the folly on the rise still there?”

“Of course—it's one of the stated attractions. We couldn't let it fall into disrepair.” Luc turned toward the path leading up the rise. “It's one of the best spots in the district from which to view the sunset.” He glanced at Amelia. “If you want to indulge, we could go up there.”

Her smile deepened; she met his gaze. “What an excellent idea.”

The idea inhabiting her mind had not been the same as the one inhabiting his; he'd actually imagined they'd watch the sun set.

The next morning, while he paced in the hall waiting for her to join him to ride about the estate—infinitely safer than walking the gardens or anywhere else with her—Luc was still mentally shaking his head, trying, largely unsuccessfully, to rattle his disordered wits back into place.

What with their visit to the folly—folly indeed!—it hadn't been his idea to risk being caught
in flagrante delicto
by one of his undergardeners—it was midsummer; they were out in force—or worse, by one of his neighbors, many of whom, with his permission, used the folly for the purposes of bucolic introspection. What they would have found would have opened their eyes—in some it would have caused heart failure.

What with that, and their subsequent late return, then the unexpected challenge of dinner and the fight to resist behaving as he had the night before and dragging her straight off to their room—only to succumb before they'd been in the drawing room for more than ten minutes—let alone the consequent events of the night, and the dawn, he felt thoroughly disoriented.

He was—had been—the gazetted rake, yet it seemed it was she who was set on corrupting him.

Not that he was complaining, at least not about the outcome, not even at the folly—he felt desire lance through him simply at the memory—yet it was all . . . so different from what he'd expected.

He'd assumed—been sure—he was marrying a stubborn but delicate flower, yet she was turning out to be a tigress. She certainly had claws—he had good cause to know.

The clack of her heels on the stairs had him turning. Looking up, he watched as she came gliding down. She wore an apple green riding habit; the color turned her curls a deeper gold. She looked up and saw him; her face lit with eagerness, and—or so he told himself—something else. An expectation that had nothing to do with their projected ride.

She stepped down from the stairs and came toward him; she halted, looking down, fiddling with the buttons on her glove. The morning sun shone through the fanlight behind him and poured over her.

For one instant, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The same feeling that had flooded him yesterday when he'd seen her cradling the puppy rushed over him again. A longing, deep-seated and absolute, a need to give her something even more precious of his to hold and croon over.

She grumbled about the buttons. The feeling ebbed, but didn't completely leave him. He hauled in a deep breath, glad she was distracted, then reached for her wrist. As he had before, he deftly slid the tiny buttons home. His eyes met hers; briefly, he raised her wrist to his lips, then closed his hand about hers. “Come—the horses are waiting.”

In the forecourt, he lifted her to her saddle, watched critically as she settled her feet and gathered the reins. He'd ridden with her years ago. Her seat had improved since that time; she grasped the reins more confidently. Satisfied, he strode to his hunter and mounted, then with a nod, directed her down the drive.

Side by side, they cantered through the morning, through the landscape of wide green fields liberally splotched with
the darker greens of copses and coverts. They headed south, occasionally jumping drystone walls; he knew every field, every dip, every wall for miles—he avoided any route he deemed too challenging.

If Amelia guessed, she gave no sign, but took each jump easily, with a confidence he found both reassuring and yet distracting. Another sign of difference, of the maturity the years had wrought in her—and changed her to woman, no longer girl.

The summer sky wheeled above them, a wide and perfect blue, with only a hazy wisp of cloud to veil the beaming sun. The chirp of insects, the flight of startled game as they passed a covert, were the only sounds they heard above the steady drum of their horses' hooves.

They went as far as the lip of the Welland Valley, drawing rein on the ridge to look down on the rich green land threaded by the river, a silver ribbon winking here and there.

“Where do your lands end?”

“At the river. The house lies in the northern part of the estate.”

“So those”—Amelia pointed to a cluster of slate roofs visible through trees—“are yours?”

Luc nodded; he wheeled his dappled hunter in that direction. “We're doing repairs to one of the cottages. I should look in on the work.”

Amelia set her bay mare to follow him along the ridge, then down the gentle slope to the cottages.

They were sturdy dwellings built of the local pink-brown stone. The central cottage of the three was being reroofed—it was presently roofless. Men were perched on the wooden skeleton, adding new struts; the sound of hammering filled the air.

The foreman saw them, waved, and started to climb down. Luc dismounted, tied his reins to a branch, then lifted Amelia to the ground.

“A huge branch went through the roof during the gales last winter. The house has been uninhabitable since.” With a
nod, he directed her attention to one of the other cottages from which a tribe of small children spilled to stand gawking at them. “The three families have lived squeezed into the two cottages for nearly six months.”

Luc turned as the foreman came up; he introduced Amelia. The foreman nodded, tugging his cap, then gave his attention to Luc.

Who'd been scanning the work through narrowed eyes. “You're further on than I expected.”

“Aye.” The foreman joined him in surveying the work.

Amelia decided to leave them to it. She started toward the children; no sense wasting an opportunity to get to know the estate families.

“Mind you, if we hadn't been able to get that order in afore June, we'd have been nobbled. The timber merchant had just enough to see us through, but with all the repairs 'round about starting as soon as the weather turned, he was cleaned out in a week.”

“But you've made good progress nonetheless. How long before the slates go back on?”

Amelia let the voices fade behind her; reaching the nearest of the children, she smiled and bent down. “Hello. I live up at the big house—the Chase. Is your mother in?”

The younger children stared, curious, bright-eyed. One of their elders, hanging back by the door, turned, and shouted, “Ma! Her new ladyship's here!”

The information caused a minor panic. By the time Amelia had reassured the three young mothers that she wasn't expecting to be specially entertained, and had accepted a glass of lemonade and spoken to two old crones huddled by the hearth, a half hour had passed. Surprised Luc hadn't summoned her, she went back out to the stoop and looked around. The horses were under the tree, placidly grazing, but there was no sign of Luc. Then she heard his voice and looked up.

Her lord and master had dispensed with his hacking jacket; with his shirtsleeves rolled up, his kerchief loose
about his neck, he was balancing on a crossbeam of the new roof. Hands on hips, he bounced, checking the beam, clearly caught in some discussion about the structure. Outlined against the blue sky, his black hair ruffling in the breeze, he looked sinfully beautiful.

Someone tugged timidly at her sleeve. Amelia looked down and discovered a moppet with curly brown hair and big brown eyes gazing up at her. The girl must have been about six, maybe seven.

The girl cleared her throat, cast a glance at her fellows; she appeared to be the ringleader. Drawing a deep breath, she looked up at Amelia. “We wondered . . . are all your dresses as pretty as this one?”

Amelia glanced down at her summer riding habit; it was, she supposed, pretty enough but hardly in the league of her ball gowns. She debated her answer, remembered how precious dreams were. “Oh, I have prettier dresses than this.”

“You do?”

“Yes. And you'll be able to see some when you come to the big house for the party later in the year.”

“Party?” One of the boys edged closer. “The Autumn Gathering?”

Amelia nodded. “I'll be running it this year.” She glanced down at the moppet. “And we'll be having lots more games than before.”

“You will?”

The other children crowded around.

“Will there be bobbing?”

“And archery?”

“Horseshoes? What else?”

Amelia laughed. “I don't know yet, but there'll be lots of prizes.”

“Do you have dogs for pets like he does?” The moppet slipped a hand into Amelia's. Her nod indicated Luc, still climbing about the roof. “They sometimes come with him, but not today. They're big but they're friendly.”

“I do have a dog, but he's just a baby—a puppy. When he
grows, I'll bring him to visit. You'll be able to see him at the party.”

The girl looked trustingly up at her. “We have pets, too—they're 'round the back. Would you like to see?”

“Of course.” Amelia glanced at the small crowd about her. “Let's go around and you can show me.”

Surrounded by the children, all now eagerly asking questions, she was led around the house to the small clearing at the back.

Luc found her there fifteen minutes later, peering into a chicken coop.

“We save the feathers for pillows,” her newfound best friend informed her. “That's important.”

Amelia knew Luc was waiting—she'd known the instant he'd walked around the house—but she couldn't simply desert the children. So she nodded solemnly at little Sarah, then glanced at Luc. “Do we have any contests for best—most handsome—chicken on the estate?”

Luc strolled forward, nodding to the children. He'd known them all from the cradle, had watched them grow; they were unafraid of him. “Not that I know of, but I see no reason why we can't begin one.”

“At the Autumn Gathering?” Sarah asked.

“Well if I'm in charge,” Amelia said straightening, “then things have to be as I say. So if I say there'll be a most handsome chicken contest, then you'd best start grooming Eleanor and Iris, don't you think?”

The suggestion gave rise to considerable discussion; glancing around, Luc noted the bright eyes, the gazes fixed on Amelia—the way the children listened and watched. She was completely at ease with them, and they with her.

It took him another five minutes to extricate her, then they were on their way. As they rode back to the Chase, he pointed out the other tenant farms they passed, but they didn't stop. The image of Amelia, not just with the children but also their mothers when they'd taken their leave, stayed in his mind.

An ability to communicate with servants was one thing,
the ability to interact with farmers and their families, especially the children, on such an easy level was quite another. It wasn't one he'd thought of in respect of his wife, yet it was indeed essential. While Amelia might not have had a permanent home in the country, she did come from a large family, as did he. From birth, they'd always been with other children, older, younger—there'd always been someone's babies about.

Dealing with people of all ages was a knack he took for granted in himself; he couldn't imagine not having that sort of confidence. Assisting a wife who wasn't similarly endowed would have been difficult; as they trotted back into the Chase's stables with the lunch gong clanging in the distance, he was thanking his stars that he had, by sheer luck, chosen Amelia.

Only as he followed her into the cool of the house did he remember that she had chosen him.

And why.

The foreman's opening words replayed in his head; he hoped she hadn't heard. As they went upstairs to change, she chatted in her customary cheerful way. He concluded that she hadn't, and let the matter—and the niggle of guilt—slide from his mind.

Amelia recalled the foreman's words while she was stripping off her riding habit. There was something in what he'd said that had caught her attention, but she couldn't remember quite what. . . .

Afore—
before
—June. That was it. Luc had authorized the critical order for timber at the end of May. From what she'd understood of his circumstances . . . it had to be her dowry, or the promise of her dowry, that had enabled him to do so.