"So I've been told." They were talking of two different revelations, but one led inexorably to the other. He looked at Amelia. "I promise on my honor I will tell her. Just not yet."

He glanced at Minerva; again she shook her head, this time with a latent smile. Pressing his arm, she stepped away.

"You'll go to the devil in your own way. You always have."

He watched her walk away, then rejoined Amelia.

Early the next morning, Amelia left for Somersham Place in company with her father and mother, her brother Simon and her younger sisters Henrietta and Mary, their butler Colthorpe and various family servants. The latter were to lend their support to the staff at the Place, Devil's principal residence, a huge sprawling mansion that in many ways represented the heart of the ducal dynasty.

They arrived late in the morning to find other family members already in residence, among them Helena, the Dowager, Devil's mother, and old Great-aunt Clara, summoned from her home in Somerset. Lady Osbaldestone, a distant connection, rattled up in her coach on their heels; Simon dutifully went to help her into the house.

Honoria and Devil had come down the day before with their young family. Amelia's twin, Amanda, and her new husband, Martin, Earl of Dexter, Luc's cousin, were rushing down from their home in the north; they were expected later that day. Catriona and Richard had sent their regrets — coming down from Scotland at such short notice, with a new baby to boot, had simply been impossible.

Luc, his mother, Emily, and Anne were expected later in the afternoon. By dint of careful questioning, Amelia discovered that Luc had been given a room in the opposite wing to hers, as distant as possible. Which in a house the size of the Place, was distant indeed; any notion she might have entertained of visiting him that night was effectively quashed.

The company were just sitting down to luncheon when the rattle of wheels on gravel heralded another arrival. A few minutes later, two light voices were heard, earnestly, just a little nervously, greeting Webster.

Amelia set down her napkin and exchanged a smile with Louise. They both rose and went out to the hall; guessing the identity of the latest arrivals, Honoria also rose and followed more slowly in their wake.

"I do hope we were expected," a girl in a faded carriage dress, thick spectacles perched on her nose, told Webster.

Before Webster could reply, her companion, in a similarly faded dress, piped up, "Actually, you might not remember who we are — we have grown somewhat since we last visited."

Louise laughed and swept forward, saving Webster from potentially embarrassing assurances. "Of course you're expected, Penelope." She enveloped Luc's youngest sister in a fond embrace, then, passing Penelope to Amelia, turned to the other. "And as for you, miss, no one who lays eyes on you ever forgets who you are."

Portia, the third of Luc's sisters, wrinkled her nose as she returned Louise's embrace. "As I recall I was a grubby little squirt last time I was here, so I was hoping he might."

"Oh, no, Miss Portia," Webster assured her, his customary magisterial calm in place but with a twinkle in his eye. "I remember you quite well."

Emerging from a wild hug with Amelia, Portia pulled a face at him, then turned to greet Honoria.

"Indeed, my dear." Honoria's eyes danced over Portia's jet-black hair, not curly but falling naturally in deep waves, "I really don't think you can hope to be forgotten. Any crimes you commit will haunt you forever."

Portia sighed. "With these eyes as well as the hair, I suppose it's inevitable." The black hair and dark blue eyes that in Luc were so dramatically masculine, in Portia were startlingly feminine. A born tomboy, however, she'd never appreciated the fact.

"Never mind." With a smile, Amelia linked one arm in Portia's and slipped her other arm around Penelope's waist. "We're just sitting down to lunch, and I'm sure you must be starving."

Penelope pushed her spectacles up on her nose. "Oh, we're always interested in food."

Amelia spent the rest of the afternoon greeting arrivals and helping relatives to their rooms. She had little time to think of the wedding other than as a list of things to be done; even when, later in the afternoon, she tried on her wedding gown for a final fitting, with Amanda, Louise, and the rest of her aunts looking on, not the slightest hint of nervousness assailed her.

Later, she and Amanda retired to her room, to lie on the bed and talk — as they always had, as they always would, married or not. When, weary from traveling, Amanda dozed off, Amelia silently rose and crept from the room.

She'd wandered this house from her earliest years; slipping out through a secondary door into the grounds without being seen was easy. Under the welcoming cover of the thickly leaved oaks, she crossed the lawns to the one place she was sure of being alone, of finding a moment of blessed peace.

The sun was sinking, but still shone strongly between the trees as she crossed the clearing before the small church. Built of stone, it had stood for centuries, and seen scores of Cynster marriages, all of which, so the story went, had lasted through time. That wasn't why she'd chosen to marry beneath its ancient beams. Her parents had been married here; she'd been christened here. It had simply seemed right, the right place to end one phase of her life and embark simultaneously on the next.

She paused in the tiny porch and felt the peace reach for her, the heavy sense of timelessness, of grace and deep joy, that permeated the very stones. Reaching out, she pushed the door; it swung soundlessly open and she stepped in. And realized she wasn't the only one who had come seeking peace.

Luc stood facing the altar; hands in his breeches pockets, he looked up at the oriel window high above. The jeweled colors were magnificent, but it wasn't them that filled his mind.

He couldn't put his finger on what did, couldn't sort one feeling from another, pull one strand free of the turbulent whole — they'd all merged, all subsumed beneath, feeding into, one overriding compulsion.

To have Amelia as his wife.

It would happen here, tomorrow morning. All he had to do was wait, and she would be his.

The violence of his need rocked him, even more so when examined in a place such as this, where there was nothing and no one to distract him from seeing the whole, from acknowledging the frightening truth.

Even more, this place, silent witness to the unions of centuries, steeped in their aura, at some level resonant with the power that flowed through those unions, connecting the past with the present, flowing on to touch the future — facing the fundamental reality of life seemed natural, even necessary, here.

He'd always felt there was something about Somersham Place; he'd visited intermittently over the years, always dimly aware of that special something, but only now did he see it clearly. Only now, with his mind — and if he was honest, his heart and his soul — attuned to the same drumbeat, the same driving need, the same warrior's desire.

Quite when it had grown so important to him, he didn't know. Perhaps the potential had always been there, just waiting for the right circumstance, the right woman, to give it life, to set it free.

To rule him.

He drew breath, refocused on the altar. That was what, when he married her tomorrow, he would be accepting. When he made his vows, they would not be just to her, not just to himself, but to something beyond them both.

Air stirred behind him; he looked around, and saw Amelia closing the door. Smiling gently, calmly, she came toward him; he turned and faced her.

She halted before him, close, but with space yet between them. She studied his eyes, her composure unruffled. Curious, but not demanding.

"Thinking?"

He'd been drinking in the sight of her face; he brought his gaze to her eyes, then nodded. Forced himself to raise his head and look around. "It's a wonderful old place." He looked back at her. "You were right to choose it."

Her smile deepened; she, too, looked around. "I'm glad you think so."

He didn't want to touch her — didn't want to risk it; he could feel desire humming through his veins, feel need prickling his skin. "I'd assumed we wouldn't meet, at least not alone."

"I don't think anyone imagined we would."

He met her gaze, knew what she was thinking. For one instant, he considered telling her the truth, all of it. Getting it off his chest before tomorrow…

But she still had to say "I do." Tomorrow.

He grimaced, gestured to the door, "We'd better get back to the house, or some bright soul is going to realize we're both missing, and imaginations will run riot."

She grinned, but turned and preceded him up the aisle. He reached past her to open the door — she stayed him, one hand on his arm.

Their eyes met, held — then she smiled, stretched up, and touched her lips to his. Kissed him gently, lightly; the battle to suppress his reaction left him reeling.

Before he lost the fight, she drew back, met his eyes again.

"Thank you for agreeing to my proposal, and for changing your mind."

Amelia held his gaze — black as night — then smiled and turned to the door. After an instant's hiatus, he opened it. She went out, waited for him to follow and close the door, then, very correctly, side by side, they walked back to the house.

Chapter 12

The next morning dawned fine; a playful breeze wafted about the lawns and set the tone for the day. It flirted with curls and ribbons, ruffled ladies' gowns, teased flounces and frills. People laughed; the breeze caught their mirth and dispersed it impartially over the richly dressed throng — the relatives and close connections invited to witness the ceremony.