On a Wicked Dawn

She looked about innocently. The assembled ladies exchanged glances. Neither Portia nor Penelope, Emily nor Anne was supposed to know…

Amelia asked, 'You mean for when the fireworks will be let off, and when the dancing will begin?'

'And when the food will be served and so on.' Portia frowned. 'I would think a list like that would be indispensable.'

Relief washed through the room; Portia and Penelope noticed, but when Phyllida and Amanda leapt in to agree with their suggestion, the moment slid away, along with their unvoiced questions.

When they were satisfied they'd identified all that needed to be done, and the four girls had gone out to stroll the lawns, Amelia relaxed in her chair, her gaze on Phyllida, on the chaise beside Amanda. 'I know you're eager to get back to Colyton. We can't ask you to delay—

Phyllida cut her off with a wave. 'Alasdair and I discussed it last night. I do want to get back, but…' She smiled wryly. 'I'd never forgive myself — and he certainly wouldn't — if we left and things went wrong for want of a few extra hands.'

'Still, it's an imposition. You've already done so much—

'Nonsense. You know we enjoy it. Besides, we've already sent messages. Alasdair sent his groom with dispatches to Devil in London, and Devil will send our news on to Papa and Jonas in Devon, so all's settled.' Phyllida leaned forward and squeezed Amelia's hand. 'Indeed, we feel so… incensed by this thief, so determined to have him caught, I doubt we'd leave even if you truly didn't need our aid.'

Helena nodded sagely. 'This thief, whoever he is, is beneath contempt. I do not believe he does not know that his actions will harm the innocent. I consider it an honor to have a part in arranging his downfall.'

Amanda murmured, 'Hear, hear.'

A moment later, they all smiled — at each other, at themselves — then they rose; skirts swishing, they headed upstairs to change.

Amelia took her lists to bed with her that night. Their bedroom was the only place she could be sure of meeting Luc alone, in absolute privacy.

The subject she had to broach demanded nothing less.

She waited until he stretched out beside her, large, lean and naked — she'd considered inquiring about nightshirts, but there was that old saying about one's nose and one's face, and the sight of Luc naked — lolling on the bed beside her naked — was not something she felt it incumbent on her to forgo — however, when he reached for the lists and filched them from her suddenly nerveless grasp, she discovered her mouth had dried, and her wits had wandered.

Clearing her throat, she focused on the lists — in his hands — and determinedly hauled her wits back to where they belonged. 'I tried to cut them down as much as I could, but that really is the least I think we need do.'

He glanced at her, then laid the lists on the covers over her stomach. 'Arrange for whatever you like. Whatever takes your fancy.'

He reached for her, drew her to him, found her lips with his. Kissed her longingly, lingeringly, until there was no doubt in her mind what his fancy was.

When he released her lips to tug the covers from between them, she clutched the lists, dragged in a breath. 'Yes, but—'

He kissed her again.

A minute later, she lifted the lists, reached back, blindly groping until she found the edge of the bed, then she opened her hand and let the precious lists fall to the floor. Safer there than on the bed. If they got tangled in the covers, who knew what state they'd be in come morning?

She reached for Luc's face, framed it as she kissed him back — let passion and desire flow through her to meet his.

His hands were everywhere, caressing, molding; his body flowed around and about hers. Then she was on her knees and he was behind her, his hands kneading her breasts as their loins came together and he slid deep within her.

She arched, heard her soft cry.

And they were caught in the heat, the power and the passion, their need, and the wonder that this, and the bliss it brought, was truly theirs.

Later, when they'd disengaged and were lying, slumped together beneath the covers once more, she moved her head and placed a kiss in the center of his chest. 'Thank you.' She smiled, realizing the ambiguity but seeing no need to be more specific. Settling deeper into his arms, reveling in the way they instinctively tightened about her, she sighed contentedly. 'I will try to keep the expenses down.'

Stillness swept him, like a curtain sweeping down his body. A reaction to the mention of money, an awkwardness she could understand.

'Amelia, there's—'

'No reason to stint.' She touched her lips to his chest again. 'I know. But there's also no reason to run the estate too close to the edge. I'll manage.' Sleep was dragging at her; she patted his chest, then settled her hand where she liked to leave it, spread over his heart. 'Don't worry.'

Her murmur was almost inaudible; Luc inwardly cursed. He debated shaking her awake, forcing her to listen while he told her the truth…

The soft huff of her breath stirred the hairs on his chest. Her hand grew heavier where it lay over his heart.

He drew a breath, let it out, and felt the stillness leave him. Felt her warmth wrap about him, sink through him.

Relaxing into the bed, he set himself to decide exactly where, when, and in what order he'd confess… and fell asleep.

He should have told her. If not last night, then certainly this morning. If not all the truth, then at least the fact she didn't need to watch her pennies, and why.

Instead…

Luc stood at the window of his study, staring out at the lawns while in his mind he relived that morning, when he'd woken and found Amelia gone.

Sheer panic had gripped him — she was never awake before him — then he'd heard her bustling in her dressing room. An instant later, she'd swept back into the bedroom, already dressed, ready to plunge into her day. Greeting him brightly, she'd rounded the bed and retrieved her lists.

She'd chatted happily about all she had to do; there'd been not the slightest trace of worry or reticence in her face, in her blue, blue eyes. She'd been genuinely on top of the world—their world — regardless of any monetary constraints. She'd barely paused for any response from him; he simply hadn't had the heart — the intestinal fortitude, the necessary steel — to cut through her bubbling busyness and force on her a confession that, in that instant, had not seemed so terribly urgent.

'These figures.'

He turned. Seated behind his desk, Martin tapped the report he was wading through. 'Are they accurate?'

'As far as can be ascertained. I had them confirmed by three independent sources.' Luc hesitated, then added, 'I usually bank on 50 percent of what I'm told to expect.'

Martin raised his brows, calculating, then gave a low whistle and returned to the report. Opposite him, seated before the desk, Lucifer was similarly engaged in plowing through the details of a number of investment opportunities Luc had assessed; absorbed, one hand sunk in his black locks, Lucifer didn't look up.

Luc returned to the vista beyond the window. And saw Penelope emerge from the direction of the kennels, a wriggling puppy — Galahad, Luc felt certain — in her arms. Stepping onto the lawn, she set Galahad down; he lived up to his name, immediately dashing around, nose to the ground, tracking something.

Penelope sank to the grass and watched him with, as in most things she did, serious and unwavering concentration. Behind her, following her onto the wide lawn, came a bevy of the younger hounds — those yet too young to run with the pack — with Portia and Simon supervising.

Portia was supervising the hounds. Simon, his hands sunk in his pockets, appeared to be supervising Penelope and Portia.