On A Wicked Dawn (38 page)

For some moments, she simply stood, half in and half out of her jacket, staring unseeing at the window, then Dillys came fussing, and she shook aside her thoughts.

There was no reason Luc shouldn't have taken her dowry for granted, not after she'd offered to marry him and he'd
accepted. In their circles, that was all it took; from that moment on, short of her changing her mind and him agreeing to release her, her dowry had in effect been his.

And it had obviously been needed. Urgently. The foreman's words and the cramped cottages had confirmed that. The timber had been not only a sensible expenditure, but a responsible one.

As she stepped into a day gown and waited for Dillys to lace it up, she rapidly reviewed all she knew of Luc, and all she'd seen over the past few days—and concluded that he was as she'd always imagined him to be, a gentleman landowner who in no way shied from his responsibilities, not just to his family, but to all those he employed.

And of that, she thoroughly approved; there was nothing to upset her in that.

Nothing to account for the nebulous concern that something, somewhere, was not quite right.

The next morning they rode into Lyddington. The houses of the village lined the main street, with the inn, the bakery, and the church clustering around a neat green. An air of pleasant but sleepy prosperity hung about the place; although quiet, it was by no means deserted.

Leaving their horses at the inn, Luc took her arm and steered her toward the bakery, from which heavenly aromas wafted on the mild breeze. Amelia looked around, noting numerous little changes that had occurred since she'd last visited the village five years before.

Now, as then, the bakery made the most delicious, mouth-watering cinammon buns; Luc bought two while she chatted to Mrs. Trickett, who owned the shop and manned the counter. Mrs. Trickett had been quick with her congratulations, leaving little doubt that the fact of their marriage was widely known locally.

“Lovely to discover it was you, my lady, coming to be the new mistress of the Chase—well, it's almost like you were one of us already.”

Returning Mrs. Trickett's beaming smile, Amelia made
her farewells and let Luc lead her outside. Their eyes met as they went out of the door, but they only smiled and said nothing. If either of them had thought of it, they would have expected that reaction; she might not have lived hereabouts, but conversely she was no stranger.

They sat on a bench overlooking the green and gave their attention to the cinammon buns.

“Hmm,” Amelia eventually said, licking cinammon sugar from her fingers. “Delicious. Every bit as good as they ever were.”

“Not much changes around here.” Luc had wolfed down his bun, then stretched out his long legs and leaned back.

She glanced at him and found his gaze on her fingertips, on her lips. Her smile deepening, she gave one finger a last, long lick. After a second, he blinked, then lifted his gaze to her eyes; she met it innocently. “Should we wander and meet more people?”

They'd already met the innkeeper and his wife, but there were others in the village it would be polite to acknowledge.

Luc's gaze shifted past her. “No need.” Gracefully, he drew in his legs and sat up. “They're coming to meet us.”

She turned and saw the vicar's wife bustling up. Rising, she and Luc exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Tilby, then that good lady begged Amelia's support for the local almshouse.

“Lady Calverton—I mean the
Dowager
Lady Calverton—is our patroness, of course, and we hope she'll continue in that role for many years, but we would be honored if you would join us, too, your ladyship.”

Amelia smiled. “Of course. Lady Calverton will be returning from London shortly. I'll accompany her to your next meeting.”

The promise quite made Mrs. Tilby's day; she parted from them with flurries of farewells and an assurance she would pass their greetings on to her spouse. Finally leaving them, she paused to exchange nods with Squire Gingold, a large, bluff gentleman, before hurrying on her way.

Squire Gingold approached, eyes bright, a good-natured
smile on his ruddy face. “Felicitations, m'dear.” He bowed gallantly before Amelia; she smiled and bobbed a curtsy.

Turning to Luc, the Squire shook hands. “Always knew you weren't blind, m'boy.”

Luc raised his brows. “After all these years of following my leads, so I would suppose.”

The Squire laughed and asked after Luc's hounds. He and Luc shared numerous interests and responsibilities relating to the local hunt; Amelia wasn't surprised when their conversation veered in that direction.

She didn't have time to get bored. A carriage drew up outside the inn; its door opened and three young ladies tumbled out, shaking their skirts, unfurling their parasols. Their mother, descending more leisurely, gathered them up, then the flock descended.

That was only the beginning. In the next hour, simply by dint of standing on the green, Amelia found herself introduced to the majority of their neighbors. Or, more accurately, reintroduced, for she'd met all of them previously; indeed, thanks to the numerous house parties she'd attended over the years at the Chase, she was even more familiar with the local gentry than she was with the villagers.

They all welcomed her warmly, familiarity lending an ease to the situation, making the wives even more eager to invite her to tea. She was a known quantity, one they found unthreatening.

When the impromptu gathering eventually dispersed, and she and Luc reclaimed their horses and mounted to ride home to the Chase for luncheon, Amelia noted his gaze resting on her. She caught his eye, smiled. “That went even more easily than I'd expected.”

He hesitated, some thought, some consideration lurking in his dark eyes, then he wheeled his hunter. “Indeed. But now we'd better hurry.”

She laughed. “Why? Are you hungry?”

Luc watched as she brought her mare alongside. “Ravenous,” he ground out, then tapped his heels to his hunter's sides.

* * *

She fitted so well it was frightening. Fitted his household, fitted his life—fitted him. She was like a natural complement, a lock to his key.

He hadn't foreseen it—how could he have? It had never occurred to him that married life—their married life—would be like this.

A ridiculously easy slide into relaxed contentment.

They lunched; they had already fallen into an easy camaraderie. They already knew each other's likes and dislikes, were accustomed to each other's everyday habits. Although they didn't know each other completely—and that unknowing lent an edge, an uncertainty to an old family friendship converted into marriage—yet the familiarity, the ease . . . the simple comfort of being able, already, to expect and receive routine understanding . . .

He felt like he was being pulled into a whirlpool that was simply too good to be true.

He pushed back from the luncheon table. “I need to check on the dogs.”

She smiled, and wriggled back her chair. “I'll come, too—I want to see my puppy.” She paused, her eyes on his. “Were you truly serious about that?”

Rising, he rounded the table to draw out her chair. “Of course.” The champion puppy would serve as a substitute wedding gift until he could give her his real one—the necklace and earrings he'd had designed to match the pearl-and-diamond betrothal ring. But he couldn't give her the set until he confessed, or she'd think he was simply giving her part of her dowry back, a scenario he wasn't capable of stomaching.

She rose; he offered her his arm. “I'm sure you won't begrudge him to the pack when he's needed.”

“You mean when they run? But they love to run, don't they?”

“It would kill a champion not to run when the scent's high.”

She continued asking questions about the care of hounds;
when they reached the kennels, she made her way immediately to the litter pen. Her pup was at the front again; from where he'd stopped in the aisle to talk to Sugden, Luc watched her lift the pup out, crooning.

Amelia held the puppy, who seemed quite content in her arms, and talked to him. When Luc eventually came up, she turned. “You said I could name him.”

Luc scratched the pup's head. “You can, but he has to have a proper name for registering, one we haven't used before.” He nodded to the office at the end of the kennels. “Sugden has the registration book—ask him to show it to you. You'll need to check the name hasn't already been used.”

She nodded.

Luc crouched and patted Belle, then checked over the other puppies. Then he stood. “There are business matters I need to deal with—I'll be in my study. Check with Sugden, but your pup and the others can probably do with a little time outside.”

She glanced at him. “Playing?”

He grinned, a little evilly. “What else do pups do?” With a salute, he swung away.

Amelia turned back to her pup. Once Luc was out of earshot, she whispered, “Galahad. He never was all that impressed with King Arthur, so he won't have used that name before.”

He'd been in his study for twenty minutes, poring over investment reports, when he rose to retrieve a ledger from the other side of the room—and saw her, on the lawn, puppies gamboling at her feet. Sugden and Belle watched from a distance; Amelia, golden ringlets dancing, the blue of her gown mirroring the blue of the sky, held center stage as, laughing, she mock-fought with the puppies over a length of knotted rope.

The pups fell over her feet as well as their own; they jumped up, pawed her gown, dug at her hem . . . she didn't seem to mind.

After a moment, Sugden called; Amelia looked up, then waved, and Sugden left. Belle put her nose on her paws and closed her eyes, like Sugden, convinced her puppies were safe.

Ledger in hand, Luc hesitated. Perhaps he should—

A knock on the door had him turning. “Come.”

McTavish entered. “Those estimates we were waiting on have arrived, my lord. Do you want to go over them now?”

He wanted to say no—wanted to put aside all work and join his new wife on the lawn and play with the puppies. He'd already spent all morning in her company; the revelation that he'd happily spend all afternoon with her, too, was damning.

“By all means.” He waved McTavish to the chair before his desk; carrying the ledger, he returned to his seat behind it. “How much are they asking?”

It had all been so easy. So surprisingly straightforward.

Two mornings later, Amelia lolled in bed, smiling inanely at the ripples of sunlight dancing across the ceiling. There was a small pool at the end of the terrace outside the window; every morning, indeed, throughout most of every day, the sun reflected off the water, filling the main bedroom with shimmering light.

The main bedroom—hers and Luc's. The bed in which she lay was the one they shared, every night, and every morning.

Her smile deepened at the memories—of the nights, of the mornings. Only five had passed since they'd wed, yet in that respect she felt confident and assured. Just as in the wider sphere of his household, of the estate and their neighbors, she felt secure in her position as the new Lady Calverton; in all those arenas, their interaction, their relationship, was precisely as she'd wanted it, exactly what she'd wished to achieve.

As a first step.

She'd achieved that first step much sooner than she'd expected.
Which left her facing the question of what next far earlier than she'd imagined. She could lie back and simply wallow, enjoy her achievement before girding her loins and broaching the next, far more difficult stage. However, she was twenty-three, and her impatience to have the marriage she wanted hadn't abated. She knew what she wanted—that and nothing less. Just the thought of it was enough to make her restless.

There was an underlying sense, not of dissatisfaction, but of something still missing from the equation of their marriage. Yet it wasn't simply a case of introducing the missing element.

It was there, already in existence; she was sure of that, at least with respect to her. She loved Luc, even though she hadn't yet made that plain. It was as yet too risky to make such a declaration; if he didn't love her in return—or wasn't yet willing to admit he did—a declaration from her would only create awkwardness. Worse, being him, he might dig in his heels and doggedly resist the notion completely.

Yet that had to be her next step—she needed to bring love—hers initially, his in response—into the open, lower her veil, persuade him to lower his shield. She needed to draw love up from where it lurked, unacknowledged, beneath the fabric of their interactions, and weave it into their lives, into their relationship so it became a vibrant part of the whole.

So it could contribute its strength and support.

She needed to coax, to convince, to cajole, to make him recognize it, and want it, too.

The question was: how? How did one encourage a man like him to deal with an emotion like love? An emotion he almost certainly would prefer to avoid.

She knew all about the way gentlemen like Luc, like her cousins, tried to slide around love. And Luc was unmanipulable; she'd always known the battle she now faced would be the most difficult.

So what was her best strategy?

Lying amid the rumpled sheets, the scattered pillows, she applied her mind to the question. Sifted through her memories, through all she'd learned of him in the past weeks . . .

A plan took shape—a plan to educate Luc as to the full potential of their union using the only form of argument to which, on such a subject, he would listen. The only language guaranteed to capture his attention.

A wicked plan. Even a trifle underhanded—she was sure he would think so. Yet when a lady had to deal with a gentleman like him . . . it was said all was fair in love as well as war.

And the perfect opportunity had just presented itself. To pursue such a plan, they had to be alone, without family or friends in the house. Once Minerva returned with Luc's sisters, the visits from their wider families would start, but she had four days before the others arrived.