While they waited for the thunder in their ears to subside.

Eventually, he murmured, "I've seen your father, and Devil, too."

Her eyes opened wide. "Both?"

He nodded. "We discussed things…" He touched his lips to hers, savored their warmth, their clinging softness. "We went over all the points that needed to be addressed." Angling his head, he nudged her chin up, and set his lips cruising the sensitive skin beneath her jaw.

"And?"

"And there's nothing — no one — standing in the way of our wedding."

He felt the tension — pure anticipation — tighten her spine.

"They agreed to Wednesday?"

He nodded. "Wednesday." Raising his head, he looked into her bright eyes, then bent his head again. "On Wednesday next, you'll be mine."

Chapter 11

That evening, Amelia and her mother at tended Lady Hogarth's musicale. On the list of social events Luc most hated, musicales ranked at the top. Consequently, he went to dinner with friends, then ambled around to Watier's.

An hour later, inwardly disgusted, he handed his cane to Lady Hogarth's butler. The man bowed, silently indicating the long corridor that led to the music room. Hardly necessary; a pained cauterwauling emanated from that direction. Suppressing a wince, Luc strolled toward the screeching.

Reaching the arched doorway, he paused and reconnoitered; the room was packed with ladies, mostly matrons, some of Amelia's age but few of the younger set. There were other balls on tonight; his mother and sisters had planned to attend two. Lady Hogarth's event had attracted those who considered themselves musical aficionados or who were, like Amelia and Louise, in some way connected.

There were few gentlemen present. Grimly accepting he'd stand out like a crow among seagulls, Luc waited until the soprano was well launched, then strolled nonchalantly to where Amelia was seated along one wall.

She saw him, blinked, but managed not to gawp. Louise, beside her, glanced around to see what had distracted

Amelia; her gaze fell on him — her eyes narrowed.

He'd been a tad late — an hour late to be precise — in returning her daughter that afternoon. Amelia had slipped straight upstairs; he hadn't waited to exchange words with Louise. Her expression stated she had no difficulty guessing precisely what to make of that.

Bowing, first to Louise, then Amelia, he stepped into the space beside Amelia's chair, resting his hand on its back.

And pretended to listen to the music.

He hated sopranos.

Luckily, the recital lasted only another ten minutes. Just long enough for him to fabricate an answer to the fraught question of what had possessed him to appear.

As the applause died, Amelia twisted in her chair and looked up at him. "What…?" Her hand rose to grip his on the chair back.

He'd met her gaze, but her touch distracted him. He looked at their hands, after a frozen instant managed to catch his breath, then smoothly turned his hand, closing his fingers around hers. Beneath his fingertips, the feel of the ring he'd placed on her finger that afternoon elicited a primitive jolt of satisfaction.

"There's no difficulty — no problem." He answered the question he'd seen flaring in her eyes. Meeting them again, he bent closer. "I wanted to warn you I've placed a notice in the Gazette—it'll appear tomorrow morning."

Glancing at the female crowd about them, most only just noticing his presence, knowing the hiatus that had permitted him even this much private speech would continue for mere seconds, he added, "I didn't want you to be taken by surprise when half the ton descends on Brook Street in the morning."

She studied his eyes, then smiled — a natural, artless smile, yet behind it he sensed a lingering trace of that other smile that never failed to tease him.

"I'd assumed you'd do something of the sort, but thank you for the confirmation." She rose, shaking out her turquoise silk gown.

He caught her slipping shawl, draped it over her shoulders. She looked back at him, smiled again — this time, in commiseration. "I'm afraid we're for it."

They were; those who'd attended the Hightham Hall house party had had a whole day to spread their news. Expectations were running high; his appearance tonight had only fanned the flames.

Besieged, he had no option than to stand by Amelia's side and deflect the arch queries as best he could. His temper growled, but he reined it in, aware its irritation was entirely his own fault. The temptation to see her, to confirm that she was there, happy and content — that she'd recovered from being introduced to the concept that a desk could be used for activities other than writing — had crept up on him, niggling until it had seemed the easier of all evils simply to give in. Having surrendered to such weakness, this — coping with the avid interest of the matrons — was the price he had to pay.

Having appeared at all, he felt compelled to remain and escort Amelia and Louise home; his social mask anchored in place, he stoically remained by Amelia's side and refused to be drawn, refused to be tempted into any confirmation of what the Gazette would reveal tomorrow.

Tomorrow was soon enough for these harpies to learn of his fate. They could gloat then, out of his sight.

Amelia held to the same line, neither confirming nor denying what everyone suspected was the truth. Tomorrow they'd all know, and she'd have to share; tonight was her moment to hug the knowledge to herself, to savor her victory.

Incomplete though it was. Yet she'd never imagined that he'd fall in love with her just like that, purely because she suggested they marry. But they'd soon be wed, and she'd have time and opportunity aplenty to open his eyes, to lead him to see her as something more than just his bride.

She was used to social discourse, accustomed to the frequent need to slide around or ignore impertinent questions. Dealing with the inquiries of the many who flocked about them, those who'd spoken stepping back to let others take their place, was as easy as breathing. Under cover of the incessant conversation, she slanted a glance at her husband-to-be.

As usual, she could divine little, not now, not in public. Yet in those private moments they shared… she was becoming more adept at reading him then. The hour and more they'd spent that afternoon in his study had been one such moment. One thing she was now quite confident of: he had never given his heart to any other woman.

It was there, hers to claim if she was willing to brave the fates and seize it. She knew him well; at some instinctive level she sensed his mind, was already close enough to him to, sometimes, know what he felt. That afternoon, when he'd had her laid across his desk, his to savor and take as he wished, there'd been something in his eyes, some recognition that with her, between him and her, there was something more than the merely physical.

The suspicion that he might already have recognized some deeper link between them had intensified later, when, with her slumped, deliciously exhausted, on his lap, he'd slipped the pearl-and-diamond ring — the betrothal ring that had been in his family for generations — on her finger. The moment had, at least for her, shimmered with emotion; she was willing to wager he hadn't been immune.

A first glimmer of the ultimate victory she sought, or so she hoped.

Her gaze had remained on his face too long; he turned, met it, raised a brow. She only smiled and turned back to the matrons eager to extract her news. And let her mind dwell on that ultimate victory.

The evening was drawing to a close when Miss Quigley approached. Although as curious as the others, Amelia and Luc's putative relationship was not uppermost in her mind. "I wondered, Miss Cynster" — Miss Quigley lowered her voice, turning a little aside from the rest—"did you by any chance see Aunt Hilborough's lorgnettes lying about anywhere at Hightham Hall?"

"Her lorgnettes?" Amelia remembered them — anyone who'd met Lady Hilborough would; she wielded the item more to point than to look. "No." She thought back, then shook her head decisively. "I'm sorry. I didn't."

Miss Quigley sighed. "Ah, well — it was worth inquiring." She glanced around, then lowered her voice further. "Mind you, now I've learned Mr. Mountford is missing his snuffbox, and Lady Orcott her perfume flask, I have to say I'm beginning to wonder."

"Good heavens." Amelia stared. "But perhaps the items were misplaced…?"

Miss Quigley shook her head. "We sent back to Hightham Hall the instant we reached London. Lady Orcott and Mr. Mountford did the same. You can imagine — Lady Hightham must have been quite beside herself. Hightham Hall has been searched, but none of the missing items were found."

Amelia met Miss Quigley's serious gaze. "Oh dear." She looked to where Louise stood not far away, chatting to some others. "I must tell Mama — I doubt she's checked her jewelry case, let alone all those other little things one takes. And Lady Calverton, too." She looked back at Miss Quigley. "Neither she nor her girls are here tonight."

Miss Quigley nodded. "It appears we all need to be on our guard."

Their gazes met — neither needed to specify just what they needed to guard against. There was, it seemed, a thief among the ton.

At eight the next morning, Luc sat alone at his breakfast table and studied his copy of that morning's Gazette.

He'd deliberately risen early — long before his sisters would be up and about. He'd come down to see — to stare at, to ponder — his fate, his destiny, printed in black-and-white.