On A Wicked Dawn (43 page)

Reluctantly, he let her.

She smiled and linked her arm in his. “Yes, I will tell you, and yes, we'd better go down.”

“We went to Astley's Amphitheatre and Gunter's, too. And the museum.” Portia twirled before the windows of the drawing room; her hours in the coach had in no way dimmed her boundless enthusiasm for life.

“We went to the museum twice,” Penelope informed them. The light glanced off her spectacles as she looked up from her seat on the chaise.

Luc glanced at the slight, frail-looking figure sitting beside Penelope. Miss Pink appeared exhausted, as well she might—it sounded as if she'd been dragged all over London several times in the few days his younger sisters had spent in the capital.

“We could hardly waste the opportunity to see all we could.”

Luc looked at Penelope; she gazed back at him, brown eyes steady—as usual, she'd read his mind. It was, in his opinion, one of her least attractive habits.

“We all thoroughly enjoyed our time at Somersham,” his mother put in, “and although the last days in town were busy with shutting up the house, it was a pleasant and eventful interlude.” Minerva sat in her customary armchair, sipping a cup of tea. Her gaze rested briefly on Emily, seated alongside Miss Pink, then she raised her eyes to meet Luc's.

He surmised he'd be hearing more about Lord Kirkpatrick shortly.

“I'm so glad you could all come to Somersham for the wedding.” Amelia sat in another armchair, likewise sipping tea.

“It was perfect—just
perfect
.” Portia continued to twirl. “And seeing everyone again—well, we've known them all
for years, but it was lovely to catch up and learn how people have got on.”

Luc leaned his shoulders against the mantelpiece—surrounded, as he'd been for the past eight years, by a sea of females. He was fond of them all, even Miss Pink, although they often laid seige to his sanity. And now he'd added another. One who threatened to be the most unnerving of the lot.

Portia was the most predictable. Ceasing her twirling, she swung to him. With her dark hair and deep blue eyes, she was the most physically like him; she'd also inherited the longer bones of his mother's family—she was taller than Emily, Anne, and Penelope. “I'm going to visit the puppies. They must have grown enormously in the past two weeks.”

She bobbed a curtsy, then headed for the French doors giving onto the terrace and lawns.

Luc inwardly grimaced, but felt compelled to say, “The largest male is already adopted—don't set your heart on him.”

Portia halted and looked back at him, brows high. “I thought he looked a potential champion—have you claimed him, then?”

“No.” Luc nodded at Amelia. “I gave him to Amelia.”

“Oh!” Portia's smile was genuinely delighted—in more ways than one. She beamed at Amelia. “What have you called him?”

Luc shut his eyes fleetingly, inwardly groaned.

“He seemed very set on questing.” Amelia returned Portia's smile. “He's Galahad of Calverton Chase.”

“Galahad!” Portia gripped the back of the chaise, her face alight. “And Luc agreed?”

Amelia shrugged. “The name hadn't been used before.”

Portia looked at Luc; from her expression she was busily making connections he'd much rather she didn't. Her eyes narrowed, sparkling with intelligent conjecture, but all she said was, “Capital! I'm off to see this phenomenon.”

She strode for the French doors.

Penelope set down her cup, swiped up two biscuits. “About time, brother dear. Wait for me, Portia—I have to see this, too.”

With a nod to their mother and Amelia, Penelope hurried out after Portia.

The energy level in the room subsided to more comfortable levels. Everyone smiled, relaxing a trifle more. Luc hoped Amelia, at least, imagined Penelope's comment referred to the puppy's name; he was fairly certain his irritating littlest sister had meant something more pointedly personal.

Minerva set down her cup. “Of course, there were a few other events of interest during the past week beyond Astley's and the museum.” Together with Emily and Anne, she filled Luc and Amelia in, passing on the good wishes of various hostesses. “When you return to London later in the year, you both, along with Dexter and Amanda, can expect to be besieged.”

“With any luck, some scandal will by then have reared its head, deflecting the interest of the fickle.” Luc straightened, adjusting one cuff.

Minerva shot him a cynical look. “Don't wager on it. Given Martin and Amanda took refuge in the north, and you married at Somersham and headed immediately up here, the hostesses will be waiting for their moment.”

Luc grimaced; Amelia smiled.

Miss Pink, sufficiently restored from the rigors of the journey, rose and quietly excused herself; Emily and Anne, having finished their tea, decided to retire to their rooms.

“I've set dinner for six,” Amelia said, as they bobbed to her.

“Oh, good!” Emily said. “We'll be famished by then.”

Anne smiled softly. “It's so good to be home.”

The instant they'd quit the room, Minerva glanced at Luc. “You may expect a letter from Kirkpatrick—by my guess, within the week.”

Luc raised a brow. “He's that serious?”

Minerva's lips twitched. “Impatient, my dear, as I would have thought you'd appreciate.”

He let that comment lie.

Minerva added, more seriously, “An invitation to visit here would be appropriate, but I didn't want to say anything until I'd consulted with you.”

Her gaze had shifted to Amelia—who suddenly realized the implication; she waved. “Of course.” She glanced at Luc. “Late July or early August, perhaps?”

He met her gaze. “Whatever you decide. We'll be here until late September.”

Amelia looked back at Minerva.

Who relaxed in her chair. “We can decide once he writes—he definitely will.” Her lips curved. “So that's Emily all but settled.” Minerva glanced at Luc, then back at Amelia, her smile deepening. “I won't ask how you two are getting on—I'm sure you've been settling in and finding your feet without any great difficulty. Has it been very warm up here?”

Cursing her memory, which immediately focused on that long afternoon she and Luc had spent rolling on their bed, Amelia prayed she wouldn't blush. “We did have a day or two when it was quite hot.” She fought not to glance at Luc.

Minerva rose. “The chaos must have subsided by now. Time for me to go up and rest for an hour or so. Six, you said?”

Amelia nodded.

Minerva inclined her head to them both. “I'll see you in the drawing room.”

She glided toward the door, then halted. Turned back, frowning. “Actually, while we're alone . . .” She glanced briefly at the door, then continued, her tone serious, “While I was packing, I found I was missing two items. A
grisaille
snuffbox—you know it, Luc—and a perfume flagon with a gold collar. They're both small things, but old and quite valuable.” She looked at Luc. “Both were in my sitting room, and yes, they're definitely gone, not misplaced. Do you have any ideas?”

Luc frowned. “We haven't taken on any new staff.”

“No. That was my first thought, too, but what with running shorthanded for years, everyone still with us has been with us all those years. It seems inconceivable it could be anyone within the house.”

Luc nodded. “I'll check with Cottsloe and Higgs—it's possible we had someone through for the chimneys, or something similar.”

Minerva's face cleared. “Of course—you're quite right. That's sure to be it. Still, it's a sad day when one has to guard such items every time someone unknown steps over the threshold.”

“I'll look into it,” Luc said.

Minerva nodded and left.

Amelia set aside her empty cup and rose. Both she and Luc remained standing, watching until his mother had passed out of sight beyond the open drawing room door.

Then they glanced at each other; their gazes met, held. They stood a foot apart. Luc reached out, sliding his fingers down over her wrist to twine with hers.

This close, in this light, and because he let her see, the desire that prowled behind his dark eyes was impossible to mistake.

Again she sensed his welling need to kiss her, to touch her—to take her in his arms; like a wash of heat against her skin, it awakened her, drew her to him. A shimmering aura, desire hung between them until, once again, she sensed him rein it in, suppress it.

His gaze still locked with hers, he lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I'd better go and check what's going on in the kennels. Portia and Penelope have their own ideas about everything, and they're both termagants at heart. And then I really have to do some work in the Office.”

She accepted what he was telling her with an easy smile, but when he released her hand, she linked her arm with his and turned toward the French doors. “I'll come to the kennels with you—I want to make sure your sisters don't spoil Galahad.”

When they stepped onto the terrace, she murmured, “Let's go via the shrubbery.”

It was the longer way to the kennels; Luc hesitated, but acquiesced.

She let him lead her into the courtyards surounded by the high hedges. Let him lead her past the fountain, to the courtyard where the pool lay limpid under the last of the day's sunshine, where fish flickered and swished, silver flashes in the water.

Convinced him that taking her in his arms and kissing her—just for a little while—was something that despite the advent of his sisters could, with a little determination, still be squeezed into his schedule.

That evening, the magnitude of what Luc faced within his family became clear.

Sitting at the end of the long table, now comfortably filled, Amelia watched, and learned, and, despite having to struggle to keep her lips straight, felt for him.

He was out of his depth.

She'd never imagined seeing him like that—that such a situation could ever be—yet here he was, manfully trying to cope with four very different females, all of whom were under his protection. He was their guardian.

And his evening had got off to an unsettling start.

Handing a platter of beans to Emily, seated on her right, Amelia noted again the abstracted quality of Luc's eldest sister's gaze. Emily's thoughts were very definitely elsewhere, dwelling on exceedingly pleasant memories.

She'd had her suspicions of just what such memories might be; a nonchalant question when they'd gathered in the drawing room earlier and she'd drawn Emily a little apart, concerning Lord Kirkpatrick and Emily's feelings for him, had elicited such a glow in Emily's eyes, and her words, as to confirm just how definite matters had become between Emily and his lordship. Hardly a problem given Minerva was expecting an offer any day.

Squeezing Emily's hand, she'd smiled with feminine
comprehension, then turned—to find Luc's dark blue gaze fixed on them. He'd excused himself to his mother and Miss Pink, and come prowling over; she'd been ready to step in should he attempt to interrogate Emily, but that damsel, a light blush to her cheeks, simply put her nose in the air and refused to be meek.

Instead, greatly daring, Emily had confessed that she found his lordship quite manly, indeed, all she could wish for in a husband.

Amelia saw Luc clench his jaw, probably wisely biting back a demand to be told all. She doubted he'd enjoy hearing it.

Emily's comment, and the fact she'd looked at Luc in its wake, evoked the inevitable comparison. Kirkpatrick was well enough, well set up and decently handsome, but to rhapsodize him when one had grown up with Luc—that was a clear demonstration of Emily's state.

It was Luc who was masculine beauty personified—grace, elegance and aristocratic polish doing nothing to hide the hard, sharp, darkly menacing qualities of steely strength and inflexible, arrogant will. It was Luc who had always sent a shiver down her spine.

And still did.

He'd noticed—his gaze had swung to her, sharpened.

“Dinner is served, my lord, my ladies.”

Cottsloe had bowed in the doorway, struggling not to beam. The whole family bar Edward was here, at home once more, and all was perfect in Cottsloe's world.

She'd been grateful for the interruption. Placing her hand on Luc's sleeve, she'd let him lead her in. Let him seat her at the end of the table, at the place she hadn't occupied since their wedding night.

The touch of his fingers trailing over her bare arm evoked a memory of past thrills; she'd considered sending him a frowning glance—instead, she got distracted, wondering . . .

Luckily, the meal provided a diversion, especially with Portia and Penelope present. Portia, fourteen, was a hedonist, bright, cheery, and sharply intelligent. With her looks
and her tongue, and her quick wits, she was so much like Luc that of the four, he found her most difficult to deal with.

Portia tied him in knots. At every opportunity.

Despite that, the affection that flowed between them was apparent. It took Amelia most of the meal to realize that Portia had set herself to play the role of Luc's nemesis, at least within the family, making sure her eldest brother never got too arrogant, too above himself with masculine condescension.

No one else would dare, at least not to the extent Portia did. She herself would never have opposed Luc so definitely as did Portia—not in public. In private . . . in reality, she had more power than Portia over Luc, more chance of altering his entrenched behaviors where they needed adjustment. She wondered how, given that Portia was only fourteen, she might explain, might suggest that Portia could now leave her brother's arrogance in the delicate hands of his wife.

For unknowingly—Amelia was quite sure unintentionally—Portia was also grating on something else in Luc—the very thing that made him what he was, but which also gave rise to the worst instances of what appeared to be his masculine high-handedness.