To surrender to it. To ride its wild tide regardless of all else.
Condemned to madness if he resisted; insane if he gave in. With her locked in his arms, he lay flat on his back, stared at the sky, and wondered how he'd come to this.
Midnight came and went, and if he hadn't definitively identified the answer, he was starting to suspect what it was. Amelia lay slumped beside him, sound asleep; knowing that — where she was, exactly what she was doing — freed his mind from its obsession with her, left him free to think.
That evening he'd let her retire without him, feigning a properly cool husbandly discretion. Her eyes had touched his, her lips had quirked as she'd turned and left him. At least she hadn't laughed.
He'd forced himself to wait for half an hour, then climbed the stairs to their bedroom.
She'd been waiting in the darkened room, clothed in moonlight and nothing else.
He'd taken her then and there, had her kneeling naked on the bed before him, gasping as he filled her and drove them both to ecstasy. Then he'd stripped and joined her on the bed, and made love to her thoroughly, to the depths of his soul, to the very limits of his expertise.
And there it was, the little word he was avoiding. Shying away from. Even thinking that much had him shifting restlessly. Made him aware of her hand on his chest, of how she habitually slept with it there, spread over his heart. He lifted her hand, placed a kiss in her palm, then replaced it and covered it with his.
Love. That was the simple truth. He could hardly go on denying it, unexpected though it was. For himself, he couldn't see that it would alter very much. It wouldn't alter his behavior, wouldn't change how he dealt with her. It might alter his perceptions, and his motivations, but that wouldn't show in the consequent actions. He'd always been able to conceal what he thought, and he'd been born with arrogance enough to do whatever he wished, whenever he wished, without any need for explanations.
Being under the sway of that dangerous emotion wasn't the end of the world. He could cope, and easily conceal the truth.
At least until he was sure enough of her to let her guess it, as she assuredly would when he confessed about her dowry.
Meanwhile… there was her game to be endured. It had taken him some time to discern her direction. She didn't know he loved her, but she knew he desired her. Lusted after her to a highly uncomfortable degree. Given she was a Cynster female and as managing as they came, given she believed she'd arranged their marriage, given he was certain he'd hidden his secret well, she wouldn't be expecting to tie him to her with love.
She did, it seemed, expect to tie him to her with lust. With desire.
He had to admit her line of attack was sound.
Provoking him in venues more associated with forbidden lust than marital connubiality was a sure way to heighten the desire that flared between them. The surest way to stoke the fire. And no matter the actual outcome of her daytime plans, when they repaired to this room, she would reap her reward.
Every day, every night, saw the sexual stakes raised higher. Today, he'd accepted that he was, regardless of his wariness, along for the ride. In whatever interpretation.
Aside from his damningly weak resistance, ultimately her game might work to his advantage. He wanted — needed — her to love him; he was too experienced to imagine lust or desire would do. It had to be love, openly acknowledged, freely given. Only that would be strong enough to allay his fears, soothe his vulnerability, allow him to confess his deception, to feel safe in doing so. To feel safe in acknowledging the reality of what he felt for her.
He didn't think she loved him yet, had seen no sign that she did. However much he lusted for her, she returned the passion, but that wasn't love — none knew that better than he. Once, he might have been gullible enough to imagine that for a woman, a lady like her, giving herself, her body, as she now did to him, unreservedly, was an indication of love. The experience of the last ten years had burned such innocence out of him.
Women, especially ladies, could be as lustful as any man. Even him. All it needed was a certain sense of trust, and unreserved surrender could come into play.
That wasn't, however, a bad place to start. The more frequently she gave herself to him like that, the more trusting she became, the closer they drew, the more emotionally attached; even he could sense that, and he was hardly an emotional being.
Her game could further his cause, too.
Her goal might be to bind him to her with lust, hers to command forevermore — his goal was to evoke love to keep her his, now and always.
Amelia had no real proof her plan was working, but there was a look in Luc's eyes when they rested on her when he didn't realize she knew he was watching that set her heart soaring.
Like now. From his chair at the end of the dining table, he watched as she snipped off a bunch of grapes and laid it on her plate. Luncheon today had been a light meal in deference to the heat outside. It looked set to be a long hot summer.
She popped a grape between her lips and glanced at Luc.
He shifted, looked away, reached for his wineglass.
Hiding a smile, she looked down at her plate. Selected another grape. 'How do the hounds fare in such weather?'
'They just lie around, tongues lolling. No runs or training in such heat.' After a moment, he added, 'Sugden and the lads will probably take the pack down to the stream later, once the worst of the heat's passed.'
She nodded, but declined to help him out with another question. Decided that her plan would be better served by silence, and by eating her grapes delicately, one by one.
Her plan was simplicity itself. Love existed between them — she recognized it in her, had always believed she could find it in him. But to evoke it, call it forth, not once but again and again until, stubborn male that he was, he acknowledged and accepted it, too — to do that, she needed his emotional shields down.
But they never were down, not ordinarily.
Only when they were physically entwined — only then could she sense the emotions that drove him, the power behind his desire, behind the tumultuous passion. By whipping passion to new heights, she'd hoped to weaken his shields so she could connect with those emotions he otherwise kept so hidden.
And she'd been right. It wasn't only that look in his eyes that had grown stronger by the day. Interlude by interlude, the emotional surge when they came together grew stronger, clearer, more powerful. It hadn't yet broken free, hadn't yet flattened his defensive walls and forced itself on his consciousness, but victory seemed only a matter of time.
It still amazed her that a man could be so hard, so ruthless, so passion-driven, so dominant and dictatorially inclined, yet when he touched her, there was care, protection, and a devotion in him not even the most ruthless passion could disguise.
That last made her shiver; she didn't try to suppress it. She glanced at him, saw he'd noticed; she smiled. 'Higgs told me the grapes are grown here, in succession houses. I never knew you had any.'
He met her gaze, watched her take another grape between her lips, then replied, 'They're to the west, between the house and the home farm.'
Her eyes steady on his, she asked, 'Perhaps you could show me?'
One black brow rose. 'When?'
She raised her brows back. 'Why not now?'
He looked at the windows, out at the lawns drowsing under the sun. He sipped his wine, then looked back at her. 'Very well.' He gestured to her plate. 'When you've finished.'
His eyes held hers — challenge accepted, another issued in return.
She smiled, and applied herself to her grapes.
They left the dining room; she linked her arm with his, and they headed down the corridor and through the west wing. He opened the door at the end and she stepped outside; a warm breeze stirred her curls. She glanced at him as he joined her. He met her gaze; rather than offer his arm, he took her hand, and they set out, strolling across the lawn.
'The most direct route is through the shrubbery.'
He led her through the archway cut in the first hedge. Beyond lay a series of green courtyards opening one to the next. The first held a fountain in a central garden, the second a sunken pool in which silver fish flashed. The last played host to a large magnolia, its trunk thick, its branches twisted with age. A few late blooms remained, pale
