finances. I imagine you didn't want to burden yourself with a wife who might have expensive expectations, quite aside from not wanting to burden yourself with a wife and any associated demands at all. That's point three and the reason I needed to speak with you privately.'
Gathering herself, she tipped her chin higher. 'I believe that we — you and I — could reach a mutually beneficial agreement. My dowry's considerable — more than sufficient to resuscitate the Ashford family fortunes, at least by enough to get by. And you and I have known each other forever — it's not as if we couldn't rub along well enough, and I know your family well, and they know me, and—'
His thunderstruck tones had her glaring.
'Yes! And before you start on about how nonsensical a notion it is, just consider. It's not as if I expect —'
He missed whatever she wasn't expecting. He stared at her through the dimness. Her lips continued to move; presumably she was talking. He tried to listen, but his mind refused to cooperate. It had frozen — seized — on the one vital, crucial, unbelievable fact.
She was offering to be his wife.
If the sky had fallen he couldn't have been more shocked. Not by her suggestion — by his reaction.
He wanted to marry her — wanted her as his wife.
A minute ago, he hadn't had a clue. Ten minutes ago, he would have laughed the idea to scorn. Now… he simply
He refocused on her, truly let himself look at her, something he now realized he'd not previously done. Previously, she'd been an irksome distraction — a female to whom he was physically attracted but could not, given his then lack of fortune, ever conceivably approach. He'd consciously set her aside, to one side, one woman he knew he could never touch. Forbidden, and even more so because of their families' close ties.
'— and there's no need to imagine—'
Golden ringlets, rosebud lips, and the lithe, sensual figure of a Greek goddess. Cornflower blue eyes, brown brows and lashes, skin like the richest cream; he couldn't see in the dimness but his memory supplied the image. And reminded him that behind the feminine delicacy lay a quick mind and a heart he'd never known to be at fault. And a spine of pure steel.
For the first time, he let himself see her as a woman he could take. Have. Possess. To whatever degree he wished.
His reaction to the mental image was ruthlessly decisive.
She was right about one thing — he'd never wanted a wife, never wanted the emotional ties, the closeness. He did, however, want her — of that he entertained not the slightest doubt.
'— any reason to know. It'll work perfectly well — all we need do—'
She was right there, too — the way she'd framed her proposition, it could indeed work. Because she was offering, and all he had to do was…
Her tone jerked his mind from the primitive plane on which it had been wandering. She'd folded her arms. She was frowning. He couldn't see, but he wouldn't have been surprised if she was tapping her toe.
He was suddenly very aware that she stood within arm's reach.
Her eyes narrowed, glittering in the weak light. 'So what's your considered opinion — do you think our marrying is a good idea?'
He met her gaze, then raised one hand, lightly traced her jaw, tipped up her face. Openly, unhurriedly, studied her features, wondered what she would do if he simply… he fixed his gaze on her eyes. 'Yes. Let's get married.'
Wariness stole into her eyes. He wondered what she'd seen in his face; he reassembled his social mask. Smiled. 'Marrying you' — his smile deepened—'will be entirely my pleasure.'
Releasing her, he swept her a magnificient bow—
A mistake. One he had only the most fleeting inkling of before his vision went black.
He collapsed on the floor at her feet.
Amelia stared at his crumpled form. For one moment, she was completely at a loss — half expected him to rise and make some joke. Laugh…
He didn't move.
'Luc?'
No answer. Wary, she edged around until she could see his face. His long lashes were black crescents smudged over his pale cheeks. His brows, the planes of his face, looked oddly relaxed; his lips, long, thin, so often set in a severe line, were gently curved…
She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss. Drunk!
In the instant before her temper took flight, she remembered he'd agreed. Perfectly lucidly. He might have been giddy, but he hadn't been incapable — indeed, until he'd fallen, she'd had no idea, hadn't been able to tell from his manner or his speech. Drunks slurred their words, didn't they? But she knew his voice, his diction — he hadn't sounded the least bit odd.
Well, the fact he'd kept quiet and let her talk without interruption had been odd, but it had worked to her advantage. If he'd made his usual barbed comments, picked at her arguments, she'd never have got them all out.
And he'd agreed. She'd heard him, and, more importantly, she was sure he'd heard himself. He might be all but unconscious now, but when he awoke, he'd remember. And that was all that mattered.
Euphoria — a sense of victory — seized her. She'd done it! Staring down at him, she could hardly believe it — but she was here, and so was he; she wasn't dreaming.
She'd come to his house and made her proposition, and he'd accepted.
Her relief was so great it left her giddy. A chair stood nearby, against the wall; she sank onto it, relaxed back, and studied his recumbent form.
He looked so peaceful, slumped on the tiles. She decided it was a good thing he'd been drunk — an unexpected bonus; she was perfectly certain he didn't normally imbibe to excess. The concept was so un-Luc-like; he was always so rigidly in control. It must have been some special occasion — some friend's great good fortune or some such — to have resulted in his present state.
His long limbs were tangled; his face might look peaceful, but his body… she sat up. If she was going to marry him, then presumably she should ensure he didn't wake with a cricked neck or a twisted spine. She considered him; shifting, even dragging him, wasn't an option. He was over six feet tall and broad-shouldered and while he was rangy and lean, his bones were typical of men of his background — heavy. The remembered thud as they'd hit the floor assured her she'd never manage to meaningfully move him.
With a sigh, she stood, gathered her cloak, and walked into the drawing room. The bellpull was by the mantelpiece; she tugged it, then returned to the door. Almost closing it, she stood in the dark drawing room and watched.
Minutes ticked by. She was about to go back and tug the bellpull again when she heard a door squeak. A glimmer of light appeared down the corridor leading to the kitchens; it steadily grew brighter. Then its bearer halted, gasped, then with a muttered exclamation hurried forward.
Amelia watched as Cottsloe, Luc's butler, bent over his master, checking the pulse at his throat. Relieved, Cottsloe straightened and stared; she hoped he imagined Luc had been in the drawing room, rung for assistance, then staggered into the hall and collapsed. She waited for Cottsloe to summon a footman. Instead, the old man shook his head, picked up Luc's cane, and set it on the hall table along with his candle.
Then Cottsloe bent and tried to heft Luc to his feet.
Amelia suddenly realized there might be reasons Cottsloe, kind old Cottsloe, who doted on Luc and the whole family, might not want to summon help, might not want it known that Luc was drunk. But it was ludicrous — Cottsloe was in his fifties, shortish and tending toward rotund. He managed to get Luc half-upright, but there was no way he could support such a heavy and unwieldy body far, especially not up the stairs.
