She’d come to that conclusion, made the resolution, by the time she climbed into their bed that night. Snuffing out the candle, she lay back, and considered the hurdles she’d decided to face with a welling sense of rightness.
One of those hurdles was gaining his agreement, his understanding, his acceptance of her help, but she was too wise, when he joined her half an hour later, to mention the matter.
He himself brought it up; halting in the dimness by the side of the bed, he reached for the tie of his robe. “Did Anne give you any indication of how she felt about the Season—the ton?”
Eyes and the better part of her mind fully absorbed as he loosened the robe, then shrugged out of it, she murmured, “If you mean how she feels about the subject of a husband, I don’t think she does.”
He frowned, knelt on the bed, then slumped down beside her, propped on one shoulder on top of the silk sheet that covered her to her shoulders. “Does what?”
“Have any real thoughts of a husband.” She twisted to face him. “She’s only what? Just seventeen?”
He raised his brows at her. “You think she’s too young?”
She met his gaze. “Strange though the thought may be to you, not every girl dreams of being wed as soon as she’s out.”
A moment passed, then, his gaze steady on her face, one dark brow arched higher. “Didn’t you have girlish dreams of being wed?”
She wondered if she dared tell him that the only dreams of marriage she’d ever entertained had transformed into reality. He was the only gentleman she’d ever dreamed of marrying. Nevertheless, as she felt between them the inexorable rise of the compulsion that now ruled them here, in their bed, where neither any more pretended otherwise, she was very glad—gave thanks to the gods—that she’d waited until she was twenty-three to tackle him.
“I’d be surprised if Anne doesn’t have dreams of marriage, of what she wants her marriage to be. But I sincerely doubt—no, I know—that she’s not yet thinking specifically about stepping into that sphere. She will when she’s ready, but it won’t be yet.”
He studied her face, then lightly shrugged. “There’s no need for her to do anything in that arena until she wishes to.”
She smiled. “Precisely.”
She lay still, watching, waiting, letting her gaze roam his face while heat and desire welled and swelled and grew between them. Waited for him to make the first move, confident that whatever route he chose to take, the outcome would be novel, and as exciting, fascinating, and enthralling as she wished. In this sphere, his imagination had, she suspected, no bounds. His understanding of what she would find thrilling and pleasurable had proved, thus far, to be one hundred percent reliable.
After a long moment, his lips curved; his teeth flashed as he smiled. Then he leaned closer, bent his head, and set his lips to hers.
He didn’t touch her in any other way, simply kissed her—while they both lay naked with only the flimsiest barrier of silk between their heating bodies.
And the temperature steadily escalated. Rose as he demanded her mouth, then took rapaciously when she offered. Yet with not so much as a finger did he touch her.
His body was like a flame, a source of pure heat beside her; she could feel that heat, warm, alive and so well remembered, all down the length of her. Her skin itself seemed to yearn—to burn with the need to touch, and be touched.
A yearning that only grew.
Then he drew back, looked down. Hooked one long finger into the sheet, now tight about her swollen breasts; crooking his finger between her breasts, he didn’t so much as graze her skin as he drew the sheet down, easing it down to her waist.
His gaze touched her face, then he bent his head. And set his lips to her nipple. He didn’t touch the soft skin of her aching breasts, but only the aureole—tortured the tightly budded peak until she arched and gasped.
The instant he released her, she slumped onto her back, giving him access to her other breast. He bent his head and repeated the exquisite torture until she cried out and reached for him.
He caught her hands before she touched him, locked them both in one of his. Anchored them above her head as he reached again for the sheet, and tugged it still lower.
To her hips.
This time, when he bent his head, his tongue touched her navel. Probed, circled, probed again.
She’d never truly considered that one of those spots that could make her weep with need; with her skin on fire, with her body burning with the need to feel him against her, with that confined, restricted caress, he proved her wrong.
When he next raised his head, he drew the sheet all the way down and away. Releasing her hands, he grabbed two pillows, simultaneously moving down the bed.
“Lift your hips.”
She did, knowing full well what was coming when he stuffed both pillows beneath her. She expected him to run his hands up her legs, to caress them. Instead, he grasped her knees—lifted them up and wide as he settled between, and bent his head to her.
Covered her with his mouth, caressed her with his tongue.
She smothered her cry, suddenly unsure.
He lifted his head to murmur, “No one can hear.”
She hauled in enough breath to ask, “Even if I scream?”
Dark satisfaction rumbled in his voice. “Even then.”
He bent to his task; she lay back, and let the fire wash over her. Her skin was aflame, her nerves leaping, even though he was only caressing her there, at her core. He held her knees so wide her thighs didn’t touch him; she could have reached the top of his head, but it seemed more important to close her fists tight in the sheet beneath her, as if she could thus cling to her wits, to the world as he wound her tighter and tighter.
Notch by steady, knowing notch . . . until she fractured.
She saw stars, felt the heat and the force swirl through her body. Felt his satisfaction in the way his mouth worked on her, the way his tongue filled her.
Then the pillows were gone and he surged over her.
And he was inside her, all around her, surrounding her with heat, fire and flaming passion. He drove into her and she ignited; her skin, so long denied, like white-hot lava merging with his, her entire body hungry and greedy to touch, to take, to consume and be consumed.
She grabbed him, held him tightly.
Luc felt her nails bite as she writhed beneath him, riding the wave of ecstasy he’d conjured, as she strove as passionately, as desperately as he to reach the next pinnacle of promised delight.
Their bodies knew each other deeply, completely; they merged and fused, unrelenting in their need.
Consumed, consummating in that moment of absolute trust, of abject surrender.
And then they were there, at the highest peak of earthly delight, and the inferno took them. They gave themselves up to it, bathed in the flames, and let the glory fill them.
The moment stretched, held, then slowly faded as, locked together, they tumbled back to reality. The fire waned, until it was nothing more than glowing embers, buried inside them.
It would never be anything less—their shared hearth would never be cold, never lonely; the fire that now smoldered within would always keep them warm.
Chapter 18
The next morning saw the first of the visitations customary in county circles when welcoming a new bride into their midst. Squire Gingold and his wife led the charge, somewhat surprisingly accompanied by their two sons, both gangly youths, painfully shy.
Luc took one look at them, then sent a message summoning Portia and Penelope. Amelia, chatting with Mrs. Gingold, wondered . . . yet although the Gingolds were pleasant, both bluffly good-natured, she couldn’t believe Luc would encourage his sisters in that direction. The Ashfords were, regardless of any difficulties, of the haut ton.
Mrs. Gingold put her right. When Portia and Penelope appeared and curtsied to the company, the looks on her sons’ faces made her sigh. She exchanged a meaningful glance with Minerva, then, lowering her voice,
confided, “Besotted, the pair of them. No more nous than helpless puppies, but it’ll pass soon enough, no doubt.”
Not soon enough for Portia and Penelope—Amelia read their thoughts with ease. While she, Mrs. Gingold, Minerva, Emily, and Anne comfortably conversed, exchanging the London news as well as local tales, and Luc and the Squire, sitting apart, were deep in plans for new plantings and repairs to fences, she kept a watchful eye on Portia and Penelope, holding exceedingly reluctant court by the terrace doors.
They appeared every bit as arrogantly superior as their eldest brother, and had tongues to match.
She couldn’t hear what was said, but when Portia, brows high, spoke haughtily to one of the young men, cuttingly enough to make his face fall, Amelia inwardly winced.
Luckily, before she felt compelled to rescue the poor youths from the torture they’d brought upon themselves, the Squire concluded his business with Luc and rose. Mrs. Gingold exchanged a resigned smile with Minerva, extended it to Amelia, and heaved herself up from the chaise. “Come, boys. It’s time we left.”
Despite all they’d suffered, the boys were reluctant to leave. Fortunately for them, their parents paid them no heed. The entire company swept out to the portico. Portia and Penelope peppered the Squire with questions, showering on him the eager interest they’d denied his sons. Mrs. Gingold climbed into her gig; one son took the reins while the other joined his father on horseback.
The Ashfords waved their guests away, then turned back inside. Minerva went off with Emily and Anne in tow; Luc disappeared into the shadows of the front hall. As Portia and Penelope were about to follow, Amelia looked toward the kennels. “I’m going to walk around and check on Galahad. He and his brothers and sisters could probably do with a gambol.” She glanced at the girls. “Why don’t you come with me? I’m sure Miss Pink will excuse you for another half hour.”
“She will if we tell her we were with you.” Penelope changed directions. “Anyway, you shouldn’t take all the puppies out by yourself. There are too many to watch over all at once.”
“Indeed.” Portia swung away from the door. “And they’re still so helpless.”
Amelia grabbed the opening. “Speaking of helpless puppies . . .” She waited until both girls glanced at her. Held their gazes until comprehension dawned and they shifted and looked away.
“Well, they’re just so irritating. And soppy about it, too.” Penelope scowled in the direction the Gingolds had gone.
“Perhaps, but they don’t mean to be. And there’s a difference between being civilly discouraging and actively taking slices out of their hides.” Amelia glanced at Portia; she was looking down the valley, her lips compressed. “You could try being a little more understanding.”
“They’re both older than us—you’d think they’d have more sense than to moon about us the way they do.” Portia’s chin firmed; she glanced at Amelia. “They can’t seriously imagine we’re flattered by such fawning.”
Neither had had a younger brother; both Edward and Luc were much older. When it came to youthful males, Amelia had considerably more experience than they. She sighed, linked arms with Penelope, then with Portia, and drew them toward the gravel walk leading around the house. “They may be older in years, but in the arena of male-female relationships, boys, indeed, even men, are always backward. It’s something you need to remember.
“In the Gingold boys’ case, a little understanding now—and no, I don’t mean being encouraging or even acquiescing but just dealing with them gently—may work to your later advantage. They’ll likely always live in this area and may later be perfectly reasonable acquaintances; there’s no need to give them poor memories of you. Furthermore, a little practice in dealing with male devotion, however misplaced, won’t come amiss. When it comes your turn to make your bows to society, knowing how to deal with besotted young men . . .”
Amelia’s voice faded as the trio walked along the path; from where he’d been waiting inside the front door, Luc risked looking out. The three were walking slowly, heads bent close—black, blond, and brown—Amelia lecturing, his sisters listening—perhaps reluctantly, but listening.
He’d been waiting to try to make precisely the same points, but he would not have been been anywhere near as successful.
Aside from anything else, he would never have admitted to being backward in the arena of male-female relationships.
Even if it were true.
He stood in the hall, the tension that had gripped him over the prospect of verbally wrestling with Portia and Penelope over their unacceptable behavior dissipating. With that fading, his mind returned to its usual obsession—that other female he’d yet to adequately deal with.
Suppressing a resigned grimace, he headed for the Office.
A week of long sunny days rolled by, punctuated by more visits as the families around about called to offer their felicitations and welcome Amelia. As she was already known to all, such visits passed in comfortable style, with easy familiarity. Outside such social interludes, a steady murmur of life filled the Chase—something Luc also found comfortable and familiar.
It was the way his home had always been, as long as he could remember it—the long corridors filled with the steady thrum of a large household, the laughter and whispers of his sisters, his mother’s more measured tones, giggling from the maids, Higgs’s brusque edicts, Cottsloe’s deeper voice. To him, that murmurous sound—a sound containing so many other sounds—represented much of what he’d struggled for the past eight years to preserve.
The sounds of the Chase in midsummer embodied the essence of family, the essence of home.
And now there was another thread in the symphony, another player. Time and again, he found himself listening for Amelia’s voice, listening as she interacted with, interjected, corrected and encouraged his sisters.
In company with Minerva, Emily, and Anne, Amelia returned their neighbors’ visits, satisfying the social expectations. Both Emily and Anne watched and learned, taking more notice of Amelia’s behavior than they ever had of their mama’s.
The expected letter from Kirkpatrick arrived. Minerva was simply pleased; with the confidence of one experienced in such things, she assumed everything would go smoothly. And there was no reason it wouldn’t.
Emily, however, was understandably keyed up; she started worrying over things that didn’t need worrying about. Luc steeled himself to speak with her, to somehow allay her feminine fears—Amelia got there first, relieving him of the problem of dealing with something he didn’t truly understand.
Emily responded to Amelia’s calming comments, smiling and returning to her usual self almost immediately. Luc felt cravenly grateful.
He was likewise happy when he discovered Amelia encouraging Anne, not pushing, but supporting, which was exactly what he himself wished to do but couldn’t easily manage. He was a male, after all; his sisters all had him pegged, although the manner in which each regarded him differed.
Which was why, when one night over the dinner table, Amelia stepped directly between him and Portia, he found himself reacting, not gratefully, but with a quite different emotion.
A dark glance, a flash of tension that flowed through him—although she now sat at the other end of the table, Amelia noticed. One brown brow rose faintly, but she kept control of the conversational reins she’d filched from his grasp.
However, later that night, as soon as they were alone, even before he’d brought up the subject, she did, explaining her reasoning, asking—outright—for his approval. He’d given it, for she’d been, as usual when it came to his sisters, right. Her insight with respect to them was more acute than his, yet when she explained, he saw what she saw and agreed with her tack.
Reluctantly, he stepped back and let her handle them, reassured when she grasped private moments here and there to keep him informed.
Gradually, in such small increments that at first he didn’t notice, the burden of dealing with his sisters lifted from his shoulders. He rel
axed—and then he noticed. That he was less tense in their presence, that relaxed, he took greater joy in their company. He didn’t love them any the less, but from one step back, his view of them was clearer, less clouded by his instincts, by the fraught knowledge they were solely his responsibility.
Legally, they still were; in reality, that responsibility was now shared.
The realization made him pause, again evoked a reaction, a concern he couldn’t easily shrug aside.
When he walked into their bedroom later that night, Amelia was already abed, lying back on the pillows, her curls a gilded frame for her face. Calmly expectant, she watched him approach. He halted by the side of the bed, caught her gaze.
Reached for the tie of his robe. “You’ve been very helpful with my sisters—all of them.” He shrugged out of the robe, let it fall. Watched her gaze drift down from his face. “Why?”
“Why?” Her gaze didn’t leave his body as he joined her on the bed, then she reached for him and lifted her eyes to his. “Because I like them, of course. I’ve known them all their lives, and they need, perhaps not help, but guidance.”
She watched while he slid down beside her, and skin met skin, then she lifted a hand and brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his brow. “Your mother . . . it’s been a long time since she had to deal with such things, and such things have changed with the years in many cases.”
“So you’re doing it for them?”
She smiled, settled invitingly back, her fingers trailing down his cheek. “For them, for you, for us.”
He hesitated; the “for you” he’d hoped for, hoped he understood. Wasn’t about to ask. “Us?”
She laughed. “They’re your sisters, we’re married—that makes them my sisters-in-law. They’re family, and they need advice—advice I can give. So of course I’ll do what I can to ease their way.”
Her hand slid into his hair, firmed as she drew his head to hers. “You worry about them too much. They’re clever and bright—they’ll do perfectly well. Trust me.”
On A Wicked Dawn Page 33