On A Wicked Dawn (58 page)

Five minutes later, Luc climbed the main stairs and headed down the corridor to their rooms. As he walked, he loosened
his cravat, leaving it hanging about his throat. Outside, dawn was tinting the sky; he assumed Amelia would be asleep, exhausted . . . he'd have to wait until tomorrow to talk to her. But he would; hopefully she'd be sufficiently curious over his “somethings” to stay in bed long enough for him to confess.

Reaching for the doorknob, he made a silent vow that he wouldn't leave their apartments before he'd told her all.

He opened the door and entered, pushing it shut as he walked in, glancing down at a stubborn cuff button.

Belatedly registering that a candle was still burning . . . and that Amelia wasn't in bed but standing by the window—

He looked up.

Ducked.

Something crashed on the floor far behind him, but he didn't look back. Amelia had a heavy paperweight clutched in her fist when he grabbed her, wrestled her back against the wall and pinned her there.

Her eyes, narrowed, blazed with blue fire. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Furious, but far from cold, her tone gave him hope. “Tell you what?”

The unwise words were out before he'd thought.

“That you're
filthy
rich!” Eyes spitting fury, she heaved against him. “That you were even before we wed.” She struggled like a demon. “That you weren't marrying me for my money! You let me believe you were, while all the while you—
oooof!
”

“Stand
still!
” Locking his hands about each of hers, he forced them back against the wall, one on either side of her head, leaned into her enough to subdue her—to keep her from damaging herself. Or him. He looked down into her furious eyes, her stubborn face. “I've been
meaning
to tell you.” Not like this. “I told you I had things to confess. That was one.”

Amelia narrowed her eyes to shards. Pinned him with her gaze. Refused to let her elation show—
refused
to let him off the hook—the hook he'd caught himself so wonderfully on. “And the other?”

He narrowed his eyes back. “You
know
.” After a moment, he added, “Despite all you said to Kirby, you damn well know.”

She lifted her chin. “I might guess, but with you that's plainly not the same as knowing. You'll have to tell me.” She held his gaze. “Spell it out. In simple words. Crystal-clear phrases.”

His jaw set. Trapped between the wall and him, she'd never been more aware—of him, of herself—of the physical and ephemeral powers that flowed between them. The blatantly sexual and the flagrantly emotional—both had always been there, but only now were they fully revealed. Only now fully acknowledged.

So powerful now that anything else was unthinkable.

He'd come to the same conclusion. His eyes still locked on hers, he drew breath. Spoke, his tone deep, low, intense.

“I let you believe I was marrying you for your dowry—that that was my reason. That was the first confession I wanted to make—that that wasn't true.”

He paused. She clung to his gaze, willed him to go on, curled her fingers and when he permitted it, twined them with his.

His gaze dropped to her lips, then returned to her eyes. “My second confession was the real reason I agreed to marry you.”

When he said nothing more, his gaze lowering again, she prompted, “What was it—your real reason?” The most important question in the world to her—the one she'd finally realized fifteen minutes ago actually existed to be asked.

He drew breath, lifted his gaze once more to her eyes. “Because I love you—as you very well know.” The muscle along his jaw shifted, but he spoke the words clearly, his midnight blue eyes locked on hers. “Because you are and always have been the only woman I ever wanted as my wife. The only woman I wanted to see here, ruling this house—the only woman I ever imagined finding in my nursery, holding my child.”

His lashes fell, hiding his eyes. He moved perceptibly—
distractingly—closer. “Incidentally, once we've dealt with Kirby, perhaps we should make some announcement—“

“
Don't
try to distract me.” She was well and truly wise to his ways. She tugged her hands and he freed them, simultaneously removing the paperweight. He reached to the side and set it on the dresser; she stretched up and wound her arms about his neck. Touched her lips to his chin. “You'd just got to the best part of your confession. Telling me how much you love me.”

Invitingly drawing him nearer, she kissed him, long, lingeringly, knowing, now, just how to incite but keep the flames at bay. He leaned into her, let her have her way, let their fires ignite . . .

She drew back, but not far. “Tell me again.” Her eyes locked on his as he straightened. His hands slid down, around.

His long lashes lifted; he met her gaze. Let her see what burned in his eyes. Then he looked at her lips; his quirked. “I'd rather show you.”

She laughed. Let him bend his head and take her lips, take her mouth.

Let him lift her in his arms and carry her to their bed.

Let him love her. Loved him back.

With all her heart, as unreserved as he.

They needed no words—they spoke a language that required no words to communicate, to touch, to give, to open their hearts and share—yet at the last, as the silvery radiance of dawn poured through their windows and bathed their bed, as she lay beneath him, overburdened with sensual bliss, watched him above her, watched the sheer pleasure that washed through him as he savored her and all she gave him, and all he gave her, she reached up, drew his head down, lifted her own to whisper against his lips, “I love you.”

His eyes flashed; he took her lips, her mouth hungrily, drank deep as he took her. Released her lips only when she arched, her body rising, clenching, senses flying high over the edge of the world as his words, deep, guttural, reached
through the glory, “And I'll always love you. Yesterday, tonight, tomorrow—
always
.”

“You'll never escape.”

As if to illustrate that point, Luc wrapped his long fingers in the strand of pearls interrupted by diamonds that he'd draped an hour before around Amelia's neck, and drew her to him for a long kiss.

She obliged most readily, sighed happily when he released her, sank deeper into the comfort of their bed.

It was midafternoon; outside their drawn curtains, the sleepy hum of a hot summer's day held sway. She'd retired after lunch to rest; he'd followed not long after, ostensibly to check on her. In reality to join her, but not to rest.

They were now completely naked, slumped on the rumpled bed, both at peace. One hand lazily ruffling Luc's hair, with the other, Amelia toyed with the fabulous necklace he'd had made for her before they'd wed—and then had to hide until he'd confessed and could give it to her. It matched her “betrothal” ring, and the earrings he'd left on her dressing table yesterday, after Kirby had been taken away and Martin and Amanda, as well as Lucifer and Phyllida, had left.

She smiled. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm not running.”

He glanced at her. “I had noticed, but I'd thought I'd make the situation quite plain.”

His
situation
was as plain as she would ever need it to be. She couldn't stop her smile deepening, couldn't hold back the happiness that welled and overflowed her heart.

Before any family members had left, they'd announced their impending good fortune, adding their own hope for the future to Amanda and Martin's. Everyone was delighted; Helena had nodded wisely, her eyes filled with something more profound than mere joy.

As for Kirby and poor Fiona, all had been revealed, and all, as far as possible, put right.

Amelia sighed. “Poor Fiona. I still can't believe Edward could be so unfeeling as to exploit her in such a way. He delivered her into Kirby's hands, and he must have known what Kirby was like.”

“We'll never understand Edward.” Luc stroked her cheek. “He saw and encouraged Fiona's infatuation purely for his own selfish ends. When we banished him, she became a ready tool for revenge. That's all he would have cared about—not her.”

Amelia shivered. “I can barely believe he's your brother.”

“Nor can I. But he is. Don't hold it against me.”

She grinned and hugged him—all of him she could reach. “I don't.”

Given Kirby had stashed almost all Fiona had stolen in his lodgings in London, allowing the items to be retrieved and returned to their owners, and given that it was summer and the
ton
were not gathered in sufficient numbers to make sensationalizing worthwhile, the combined resources of the Ashfords, the Fulbridges, and the Cynsters had been sufficient to smooth the entire episode over. The tale had been cast as merely an endnote to Edward's earlier, already weathered disgrace; the story had quickly acquired the patina of “old news.”

Kirby, however, hadn't been allowed to escape.

Any leniency they might have shown was slain when, the morning after his capture, they'd seen the bruising around Anne's throat. Anne had been right; Kirby had intended to kill, as he thought, Fiona.

It had taken careful management on the assembled ladies' parts to keep Kirby alive long enough to be carted away from the Chase, but he had been, and their evidence had been heard by one of the circuit judges; Kirby was now in London awaiting his trial.

Now the house had settled into peaceful harmony, driven by the subtle heartbeat of country house life. The best of the summer stretched before them, and after that, the rest of their lives.

“The Kirkpatricks will be here tomorrow.” Luc glanced at her. “Does Emily want us to host a ball?”

“From what I gather, Emily will be quite content if we simply leave her and Kirkpatrick alone.” Amelia grinned. “They'll be here for a week—we can talk to his parents when they arrive and see what they think.”

Luc accepted her wisdom and lay back, his long body alongside hers, one hand splayed across her stomach.

They both simply lay there, quiet but not sleepy, content, sated—at peace.

Outside, a door opened. A second later, they heard voices. One male, grumbling, the other female, sharp and decisive. Dismissive.

Luc frowned.

Seeing it, Amelia murmured, “I gather Simon is of the firm opinion that it's not safe for Portia to take the dogs out rambling in the woods. Not alone.”

After a moment, Luc murmured, “But she'll have the dogs with her.”

“I don't think Simon believes dogs are protection enough.”

Luc choked on a laugh. “If he thinks to persuade Portia to that end, I wish him luck.”

The altercation outside rose to a high enough pitch to confirm his reading of his sister—and Amelia's reading of her brother. The voices faded as Portia strode toward the kennels, no doubt with her nose in the air, and Simon stalked after her, equally without doubt, grimly determined.

They exchanged glances, then relaxed and let contentment lap about them. Savored it, gloried in it.

“There's one thing you never did reveal,” Luc murmured.

Amelia hesitated. “What?”

“Why you chose me, out of all the others you might have had, to be the recipient of your outrageous proposal.”

She heaved a heavy sigh, and rolled onto her hip, sliding one leg across his thigh, sliding one hand, fingers splayed, across his chest. She located one nipple under the black thatch, started to play as she lifted her face and smiled.

“I chose you because I'd always wanted you—why else?”

He shifted; one hand slid down her back to curve about her bottom. “Ah, I see. Because you lusted after me.”

“Precisely.” She wriggled higher, brushing her breasts across his chest.

He closed his hand, lifted her, framed her jaw and brought her lips, willing and eager and loving, to his.

A minute slid by, then he released her, met her gaze. “You're a terrible liar.”

She looked into his dark eyes, then sighed and snuggled down on him. Lifting the pearls, she let them slide through her fingers. “The truth, then.” She felt him glance down, around at her face. “I plotted and planned to marry you.”

Glancing up, she met his eyes. “I was always sure that if I could just get you to marry me, we'd have—find—“ She gestured.

“This?”

“Yes.” She resettled her head on his chest, spread her hand over his heart. “
This
is what I always wanted.”

After a moment, he murmured against her curls. “You were more farsighted than I—I'd never imagined such a state could exist.”

She hesitated, then asked, “You don't mind that I stalked you and trapped you?”

“Had I known it was a trap, I would have sprung it anyway.
You
were what I wanted, and I didn't truly care how I got you.”

She grinned, looked up. “So we both succeeded in our plans.”

His hand shifted, stroking her bottom. “I think we've both proved there's victory in surrender.”

She laughed, then stretched up and kissed him. “Yours, mine—and ours?”

His lips curved; he kissed her back. “The ultimate triumph.”

New York Times
best-selling author Stephanie Laurens began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science. Her hobby quickly became a career, and her series about the masterful Cynster cousins has captivated readers, making her one of the romance world's most beloved and popular authors. She lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia with her husband and two teenage daughters.

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