On A Wicked Dawn (22 page)

Amelia couldn't remember a single thing about the first night's dinner.

After Luc left her bedchamber, first checking that no one was about to see him flit down the stairs, she'd bestirred herself. Discovering a number of unexpected aches and twinges in muscles she hadn't known she possessed, she'd decided on a bath—a nice long soak during which she could dwell on what her twin had once confirmed as a magical moment.

Magical indeed—she'd fallen asleep in the tub. Luckily, Dillys had roused her and bundled her into her gown, dressing her hair high before directing her to the drawing room; if left to herself . . .

A curious, delightfully pleasant aura had suffused her, making thought, or indeed any exertion seem unnecessary. She'd had to fight to keep a silly, far too-revealing smile from her face. Up until, joining the assembled guests in the drawing room, she'd set eyes on her soon-to-be betrothed.

Rising from curtsying to their hostess, she'd moved to join Emily, speaking earnestly with Lord Kirkpatrick, and immediately felt Luc's gaze. She'd followed it to its source; he was standing chatting with a lady and three gentlemen on the other side of the room.

He met her gaze; despite the distance, she sensed the frown in his. Knew for a fact that he wasn't attending to the comments bandied before him. Then he seemed to recollect himself, hesitated, then addressed himself to the conversation about him.

That glimpse of uncharacteristic uncertainty left her wondering—raised questions in her mind, very quickly left her uncertain, too.

“We're planning on walking to the edge of the Downs tomorrow morning.” Lord Kirkpatrick looked at her hopefully. “It's not all that far, and the views are said to be magnificient. Perhaps you'd like to join us?”

“Tomorrow?” She glanced at Emily, and saw a similar hope in her eyes. “I hadn't really thought . . .” Another glance confirmed that his lordship and Emily both wanted her, a supporter of their blossoming romance, to accompany them so they could spend the time together without a bevy of others looking on. “That is . . . yes, I would like to get out, weather permitting.”

“Of course—weather permitting.”

Both his lordship and Emily beamed with gratitude.

Amelia inwardly sighed, resigning herself to a morning of bucolic pleasures tramping through fields and meadows. There were other pleasures she would have preferred, but . . . she had no idea what Luc was thinking, much less what he was planning for tomorrow.

She felt the touch of his gaze and turned, only once again to sense his brooding frown. Not that such an expression was permitted to mar his Byronic beauty, but she could feel its leaden weight. Again, once their gazes had touched for a moment, he looked away—supposedly distracted by those he was standing with, in reality. . . .

What was he thinking? Emily and Lord Kirkpatrick didn't need her assistance, so she could safely stand beside them and try to work it out. Reviewing all that had occurred through the lazy afternoon, and trying to see it through Luc's eyes, she was assailed by a sinking feeling.

Should she have screamed? Or was the boot on the other foot and, on reflection, had he not liked her forwardness? Had she been
too
accommodating? Was that even possible with a man—a rake—like him?

Had she, through sheer inexperience, done something he hadn't appreciated?

Was that why he'd left, surely earlier than necessary? He'd been adamant—immovably so—over not indulging with her again, yet he'd been perfectly capable. That wasn't the sort of behavior she'd expected, not from a man of his
reputation. She was well aware that since his late teens, he'd had his pick of women, and had never been averse to taking his choice.

Her stomach had tightened, not pleasantly; an even more horrible thought flitted through her mind. Was his dark brooding an indication that he regretted coming to her—regretted all that had occurred that afternoon?

The thought caught, took root, blossomed, blocking out all else. She tried to catch Luc's eye, but he didn't again glance her way. Indeed, he kept his distance. The gong sounded, and the company transferred to the dining room. As one of the more senior peers present, Luc had to escort one of the
grandes dames
in; she found herself half a table away from him.

She had to laugh, converse, and put on a gay face—everyone, especially her sharp-eyed mama, expected her to be happy and carefree. She hoped she made a good job of it, but in truth had little idea—all through the meal, her heart was steadily sinking, her mind engrossed with the questions of where they were now, and if he would come to her room that night so she could rid herself of her uncertainties.

Small wonder she remembered not one bite, not one word.

The ladies rose and repaired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen—a goodly company—to pass the port. Smiling, she joined the younger girls, Anne, Fiona, and three others, letting their chatter wash over her as she waited for the gentlemen to return, waited for Luc to come to her—to speak, to make arrangements to meet again, privately or otherwise.

The gentlemen returned; Luc did not.

She forced herself to behave normally, to take tea and continue to chat, while inwardly considering and discarding all thoughts of seeking him out. Hightham Hall was huge and rambling; she had no idea where he might be, nor yet where his room was situated. Impossible for her to find him.

He, of course, could find her.

When the youthful crew were encouraged to retire, she stifled a yawn and, citing the drive down as the cause of her
tiredness, seized the chance to retreat to her room.

Once there, she changed into a long, lawn nightgown. After shooing Dillys off to her own rest, she blew out her candle and went to the window. Drawing the curtains wide, she waited, watching the wash of moonlight move slowly across the floor.

It finally occurred to her that no matter how early she retired, he wouldn't risk coming to her room until much later—until all the
grandes dames
along the corridor retired, too, and fell asleep. Muttering a curse, she marched to the bed and climbed in. Pulling the covers up over her shoulders, she wriggled and fussed with the pillows, then settled her head on them.

If she fell asleep, Luc would just have to wake her—she was quite sure he would.

Closing her eyes, she sighed, and settled down to wait.

The morning sun slanting through the uncurtained windows woke her. She had plenty of time to join Emily and Lord Kirkpatrick on their excursion to the Downs.

They were returning to the house, the sun high in the sky, hot and somewhat exhausted from what had proved an adventurous ramble, when she saw Luc—on the back terrace, hands on his hips, clearly waiting for them.

More precisely, waiting for her; when Emily and his lordship went up the steps, Luc merely nodded distantly. With a wide-eyed glance back at her, now trailing in the rear, the younger couple escaped. Leaving her to cope with a hardened rake who was giving a very good imitation of an aggravated Zeus.

With a jaunty, positively saucy smile, she climbed the steps, swinging her hat by its ribbons. His lips thinned, his expression grew grimmer as he took in her disheveled appearance, the flush in her cheeks, the curls clinging to her brow and throat. She had a fairly good idea of the picture she presented, but was in no mood to pander to his thoughts, whatever they might be.

“Where the devil have you been?”

The inquiry was growled through gritted teeth.

She waved with her hat. “Up on the Downs. The views are quite breathtaking. You should go and take a look.”

“Thank you, but no—I'll take your word for it. It might have been wise to mention your little expedition—why the hell didn't you tell me you were swanning off?”

She met his gaze. “Why should I?” The “you're not my keeper” she left unsaid.

He heard it, however; his jaw clenched. She wasn't close enough to be certain, but she thought his eyes had gone black. They did when he was angry; also when he was . . .

“I wanted to speak with you.” The words were even, their tone one of considerable temper severely restrained.

She raised her brows. “About what?” Nose elevating, she turned along the terrace.

He swung across her path. “I would have thought—“

The lunch gong clanged. With a not very well suppressed oath, he glared at the house, then at her. “There are one or two matters I want to get straight with you. After lunch,
don't
disappear.”

She wasn't of a mind to be dictated to, but she kept her eyes innocently wide and carefully stepped around him so he was no longer between her and the house. Then she shrugged. “As you wish.”

With a swish of her skirts, she turned haughtily away.

His fingers shackled her wrist. He didn't move, didn't speak, just held her immobile and waited for her to turn back to him.

After a long moment, she did; her own temper had flown—she could feel it—and more—simmering just beneath her skin.

Her eyes flashed, clashed with his; their gazes locked, held.

“Don't.”

It was a primitive, fundamental, all-encompassing warning; he made not the slightest effort to veil its nature.

She felt her breasts swell, felt their wills collide—and knew, had absolutely no doubt, that his was the stronger.
She'd never crossed his temper before, but she knew it existed—the other side of that wildness she coveted; she couldn't have one without the other.

But if she had to take him as he was, he would need to reciprocate.

Lifting her chin, she twisted her wrist—he released her, but slowly, enough to underscore that he did so only because he wished it.

“If you'll excuse me, I must change.” With a nod, she turned to the house. “I'll see you after lunch.”

An hour after the company had quit the luncheon tables, Luc halted at the bottom of the central stairs and silently and comprehensively cursed. Where in all Hades was she? He'd quartered the house, checking every last reception room, inadvertently surprising a number of other couples; he'd then spent a heated half hour combing every likely spot in the gardens. All to no avail.

Dragging in a breath—shackling his temper, suppressing it so he could think—he backtracked. She'd been at luncheon, arriving late after changing her limp walking dress for a fresh and cool apple green muslin gown. Seeing it, he'd wished he'd gone with her—followed her from the terrace and peeled the walking dress from her damp flesh . . . instead of feasting on cold meats and strawberries, he could have been feasting on fruits more to his taste . . .

Suppressing the resulting mental images, he forced his mind back to the luncheon party under the trees. He'd watched Amelia from afar, not daring in his present mood, and hers, to get within sniping distance—God only knew what she might provoke him to say. Or worse, do. Then, just as the party started to break up, old Lady Mackintosh had collared him. She'd insisted on introducing him to her niece—a flashy, overconfident young lady very aware of her charms. Charms she'd clearly intended to use to capture him.

He'd been tempted to tell her she had no chance; he'd never been attracted by unsubtle women. To his cost.

The thought had made him glance around—only to realize
Amelia had gone. He'd forced himself to disengage with an appearance of civility, then had set out to hunt her down.

So here he was, an hour later, and no further forward.

She'd known he wanted to speak with her—she'd promised not to disappear. He considered the possibility that she might have set out to flout him deliberately—and reluctantly dismissed it. She wasn't stupid.

So . . . if she was patiently waiting for him somewhere . . .

He closed his eyes and quietly groaned. Surely not? It was the last place he'd think of—demonstrably so—yet given the direction in which her mind had so consistently been working . . .

Visiting her bedchamber last night had, to his mind, figured as too dangerous. Not only had he been laboring under the weight of unwelcome surprise over how easily she'd seduced him, how easily his need of her had overridden his will, as well as the fact she'd planned and committed the deed without a blink, against his expressly stated wishes, he'd also been grappling with the unexpected and unsettling emotions she'd stirred to life. He'd had no wish to speak with her before he'd had time to think. And only a cad would have gone to her so soon with anything more than conversation on his mind.

The notion of having a cozy chat in her room without laying a hand on her, without her laying a hand on him, had been laughable. Yet a whole night of thinking had got him precisely nowhere.

Five minutes this morning had changed that, crystallized his thoughts wonderfully—the five minutes after breakfast during which he'd realized, then confirmed, that she wasn't in the house.

Not even the discovery, much later, that she'd gone off to play gooseberry for his sister had improved his mood.