Amelia laughed and halted, watching as Luc patted them, and they slavishly adored him. Once they'd quieted, she offered her hands for them to sniff. She remembered them both. Patsy, Patricia of Oakham, was the matron of the pack and utterly devoted to Luc; Morry, Morris of Lyddington, was her oldest son and a reigning champion of the breed.

Patsy wuffed welcomingly and rubbed her head into

Amelia's hand; not to be outdone, Morry wuffed louder and went to jump up — Luc spoke and Morry subsided, instead wagging his tail and rump so vigorously their poor handler was nearly brushed off his feet.

"Kennels," Luc declared in a tone that brooked no argument, canine or otherwise. Both dogs seemed to sigh and desist; with a grateful look, the boy turned them away.

Luc held out his hand.

Amelia looked up, met his gaze — then smiled, and slid her fingers into his. They closed firmly; with a flourish, he turned her to their assembled staff.

"I give you your new mistress — Amelia Ashford, Viscountess Calverton!"

The roar that answered was deafening; Amelia blushed, smiled, waved, then turned and let Luc lead her on, over the threshold into their home.

The staff followed quickly, streaming past as they stood in the wide front hall listening to Mrs. Higgs's arrangements.

"I've held dinner back to eight-thirty, my lord, my lady, not being sure of when you would arrive. If that's all right?"

Luc nodded. He glanced at Amelia, then raised the hand he still held to his lips. "I'll let Higgs show you up." He hesitated, then added, "I'll be in the library — join me when you're ready."

She smiled, inclined her head; he released her.

He stood in his hall and watched her climb the stairs, already deep in discussion with Higgs; when she finally disappeared from his sight, he turned and strode for the library.

He would have preferred to show her up to their suite himself, but then Higgs's dinner would have gone to waste, and his servants would have had a field day with their nods, winks, and knowing chuckles.

Not that any of that had deterred him.

A glass of brandy in his hand, Luc stood before the long windows of the library and watched the western sky turn black. A summer storm was rolling in; his tenant farmers would be rejoicing. A flash of lightning, still distant, caught his eye.

He raised his glass and sipped, his gaze on the turbulent mass of thunderheads, evidence of a tempestuous force that mirrored the one roiling within him. The force of emotions, passions, and unslaked desire that, suppressed, had steadily escalated throughout the day until every muscle he possessed was rigid, locked in the fight to contain, to restrain, to keep the violence trapped, inside him. For now.

Turning from the window, he crossed to the hearth and dropped into an armchair before it. He didn't want to think of later. The sense, not of being out of control, but of not being fully in control haunted him. As if some part of him he'd never met before, some part he didn't recognize, was driving him. And he was helpless to resist.

He could control his actions, but not change the result; he could dictate the path, but not the ultimate goal.

While his intellect resisted, some deeply buried part of his mind rejoiced, metaphorically threw back his head and laughed at the danger, eager to taste the unexplored, the implicit, untamable wildness, to pit his wits and strength against it, to experience the promised thrill.

He took a long sip, then lowered his glass. "Thank God she's no longer a virgin."

He was still sitting, sprawled in the chair, when the door opened and she entered. He turned his head, forced himself to remain still as he watched her cross the long room.

She'd changed into a gown of pale green silk, as delicate as a budding leaf seen through spring dew. The silk clung to her curves lovingly, the low, scooped neckline showcasing her breasts, the fine skin over her collarbones, the delicate arch of her throat. Her golden curls were piled high; wisps bounced by her ears. She wore no jewelry bar the wedding band he'd placed on her finger earlier that day. She didn't need more. As she halted before the other armchair, facing him across the hearth, the light from the candelabra on the mantelpiece fell across her; her skin glowed like pearl.

She was his wife — his. He could barely believe it, even now. He had known her for so long, had considered her untouchable for years, yet now she was his to do with as he pleased — the primitive possessiveness the thought evoked was startling. Not that he would hurt her, physically, emotionally, or in any other way. Pleasure was his currency, and had been for a long time — long enough to know how broad a field physical pleasure truly was.

The thought of exploring that field with her… he stopped trying to block the thought. His gaze on her, on her face, then slowly traveling down her body, he let his mind imagine… and plan.

She remained standing before him, her gaze steady, her color even, no hint of any panic showing. Yet he was aware of her accelerating heartbeat as if it were his own, could sense her skin heating, saw her lips part fractionally.

Returning his gaze to her eyes, he tried to read them, but the distance defeated him. He'd kept his expression impassive, his eyes hooded. After an instant, she tilted her head, faintly raised one brow.

There was nothing he could tell her — wished to tell her — no words, no warning. He raised his glass to her, and sipped.

The door opened; they both looked.

Cottsloe stood in the doorway. "Dinner is served, my lord. My lady."

Impatience sank its claws deep; ignoring it, Luc smoothly rose, set his glass down, and offered Amelia his arm. "Shall we?"

The glance she threw him was curious, as if she wasn't entirely sure what he was truly asking. But there was a smile on her lips as she set her fingers on his sleeve and let him lead her to the door.

Chapter 13

He had absolutely no idea what Mrs. Higgs and Cook had prepared; he paid no attention to the food Cottsloe laid on his plate. He must have eaten, but as the storm gathered and built beyond the windows, he felt increasingly distanced, the violence outside calling to all he'd suppressed throughout the day until it — sating it — dominated his thoughts and his mind.

From the end of the table, shortened as much as possible but still able to seat ten, Amelia watched, and wondered. Over the years, she'd seen Luc in all his many moods — this one was new. Different.

Charged.

She could feel his intensity, crackling between them, feeding her own welling anticipation. An anticipation further buoyed by relief. His unexpected reserve, his eschewing of all loverlike gestures, had left her uncertain. Wondering if, now she was his wife, he was no longer as physically interested in her as he once had seemed. Wondering if that earlier interest had in truth been as potent as she remembered it. Wondering if it hadn't in some measure been feigned.

Glancing up the table, she watched him sip from a crystal goblet, his gaze fixed on the windows, on the storm brewing outside. He'd always been enigmatic, cool, reserved; she'd assumed as they drew closer, his barriers would fall. Instead, the closer they grew, the more impenetrable his shields, the more of an enigma he became.

She wouldn't put it past him to pretend to a pretty passion as the easiest way to deal with her, to satisfy her within their marriage. She was not such an innocent as to think he couldn't, or wouldn't, do so if it suited him.

Cottsloe approached with the wine bottle; Luc glanced at her plate of poached figs, then shook his head. He went back to staring at the storm.

While the intensity between them, stoked by that brief, dark impatient glance, surged even higher.

Suppressing a smile, she set herself dutifully to dispense with the figs. She couldn't leave them untouched — Mrs. Higgs said Cook had slaved over every dish, and indeed, the quality had been excellent. Given that the cook's master had paid not the slightest heed, it behooved her to make the effort.

She'd probably need the strength.

The wayward thought popped into her mind, and nearly made her choke. But it was an indication of her underlying thoughts, and her expectations.

Ever since joining Luc in the library, she'd realized that, whatever else he might fabricate, this intensity — the attraction flaring between them — was not feigned. Not a construct created by a master seducer to dazzle her; the truth was, the master seducer wasn't thrilled.

That realization had sent her heart — and her hopes — soaring. He was giving an excellent imitation of a man driven, compelled, not by lust, but by something more powerful. Neither the direction nor his goal discomposed him, but rather the degree of his compulsion; he was a man who controlled all things in his life — being driven…

That was why, at least in part, he'd been so keen to leave the Place, why he was now so impatient to have her to himself. To…

She stopped her mind at that point, refused to think further. Refused to dwell on the heady mix of curiosity and excitement rising within her.

The clang of her cutlery as she laid it on the plate had Luc glancing around.

Cottsloe immediately whipped away the plate; two footmen whisked away the covers. Cottsloe returned to offer Luc an array of decanters; he dismissed them with a brusque shake of his head. His gaze on her, he drained his goblet, set it down with a soft clack. Then he rose, walked down the table, took her hand, and drew her to her feet.