Then Cottsloe bent and tried to heft Luc to his feet.
Amelia suddenly realized there might be reasons Cottsloe, kind old Cottsloe, who doted on Luc and the whole family, might not want to summon help, might not want it known that Luc was drunk. But it was ludicrous — Cottsloe was in his fifties, shortish and tending toward rotund. He managed to get Luc half-upright, but there was no way he could support such a heavy and unwieldy body far, especially not up the stairs.
Not alone.
With an inward sigh, Amelia opened the door. "Cottsloe?"
With a hiss, he turned, wide-eyed. Slipping through the door, she waved him to silence. "We had a private meeting — we were talking, and he collapsed."
Even in the dimness, she saw the old man's blush.
"I'm afraid he's a touch under the weather, miss."
"Indeed, he's quite drunk. If I help, do you think we can get him upstairs? His room's on the first floor, isn't it?"
Cottsloe was nonplussed, uncertain of the proprieties, but he did need help. And Luc had first call on his loyalty. He nodded. "Just along from the top of the stairs. If we can get him that far…"
Amelia ducked under Luc's dangling arm and hauled it across her shoulders. She and Cottsloe staggered until they'd hefted Luc upright; supporting him like a sack of meal between them, they turned toward the stairs. Luckily, Luc regained some degree of consciousness; when they reached the first stair, he got his feet under him and started, with their assistance, to climb, albeit in a sagging, lurching way. Amelia tried not to think of what might happen if he fell backward. Pressing against him, steadying him, brought home just how solid and muscled he was underneath his elegant clothes.
Guessing which way his stagger would send him next, and countering his tipping weight, became a game that left both her and Cottsloe purring by the time they gained the top of the stairs. Their charge remained oblivious, his lips gleefully curved, his brow unfurrowed under his midnight black hair. His eyes hadn't opened. Amelia was sure that if she and Cottsloe both let go, Luc would crumple in a heap once more.
Between them, they steered him down the corridor, then Cottsloe reached ahead and flung open a door. Her hands sunk in Luc's coat, Amelia pulled, then shoved, and sent him reeling into the room; she hurriedly followed, hauling to keep him from sprawling facedown on the floor.
"This way." Cottsloe tugged Luc toward the huge four-poster bed. Amelia pushed. They got him to the bed, then had to shuffle him about. Finally, he stood with his back to the bed.
They both let go; he stood there, swaying. Amelia placed her palm against his chest and pushed. Like a felled tree he toppled, landing flat on his back on the silk counterpane.
The counterpane was quite old, but looked comfortable; as if to illustrate, Luc sighed and turned, snuggling his cheek into the midnight blue softness.
On another sigh, every last remnant of tension left his body. He lay relaxed, lips curved as if hugging some pleasant memory close.
Despite all, Amelia felt her lips lift. He was so atrociously handsome, the silky locks of his jet-black hair feathering his pale cheeks, his long-fingered hands relaxed by his face, his long body lying boneless in oddly innocent slumber.
"I can manage now, miss."
She glanced at Cottsloe, nodded. "Indeed." She turned to the door. "I'll let myself out. Don't forget to bolt the front door on your way down."
"Of course, miss." Cottsloe followed her to the door; with a bow, he saw her out.
As she descended the stairs, Amelia wondered what poor old Cottsloe thought. Regardless, he wasn't the sort to spread rumors, and he'd learn the truth soon enough.
When she and Luc announced their betrothal.
That thought was stunning — even though it had been her goal, she still hadn't assimilated the fact she'd attained it, and so easily. Collecting the footman she'd left waiting by the area steps, she headed home through the quiet streets.
Dawn was not far off when she slipped into her parents' house in Upper Brook Street. The footman was an old friend who, having a lady friend himself, quite understood — or at least thought he did; he wouldn't give her away. By the time she reached her room she was so buoyed by her success she could have danced.
Undressing quickly, she slid between her sheets, lay back — and grinned widely. She could barely believe it, yet she knew it was true. Luc and she would marry, and soon.
To be his wife, to have him as her husband — even though she'd only faced the fact recently, that had been her unacknowledged dream for years. At the beginning of this Season, she and her twin, Amanda, despairing of fate ever handing them the right mates, had decided to take matters into their own hands. They'd each formed a plan. Amanda's had been straightforward and direct; she'd followed her path to Dexter; last week she'd married him.
She, Amelia, had had her own plan. Luc had been in her mind from the outset, a nebulous yet recognizable shadow, but she'd known the difficulties she would face with him. Having known him all her life, she was well aware that he had no thoughts of marriage — no positive ones, anyway. And he was smart, clever — far too quick, too mentally resistant, to be easily manipulated. Indeed, he was unquestionably the last gentleman any sane lady would set her heart upon.
That being so, she'd determinedly divided her plan into stages. The first had been to establish beyond all doubt who was the right gentleman for her — which of all the eligibles within the ton, regardless of whether they were thinking of marriage or not, was the one she wanted above all others.
Her search had brought her back to Luc, left her with him and only him in her sights. The second stage of her plan involved getting what she wanted from him.
That was not going to be easy. She knew what she wanted — a marriage based on love, on sharing, a partnership that extended further and reached deeper than the superficialities of married life. Ultimately, a family — not just the amalgam of his and hers, but theirs, a new entity.
All that she wanted, with a desire that was absolute. How to persuade Luc to fall in with her plans, how to bring him to share her aspirations…
A novel strategy — one he wouldn't immediately see through and counter — had clearly been necessary. She'd realized that getting him to marry her first and fall in love with her subsequently was the only way forward, yet how to accomplish the former without the latter had initially stumped her. Then she'd noticed the oddity of Emily's and Anne's gowns. After that, alerted, she'd noticed any number of minor details, until she was sure beyond all doubt that the Ash-fords needed money.
Money she had in abundance; her considerable dowry would pass to her husband on her marriage.
She'd spent hours rehearsing her arguments, laying out the salient facts, reassuring him that theirs would be a marriage of convenience, that she wouldn't make unwanted emotional demands, that she was prepared to let him go his own way as long as she could similarly go hers. All lies, of course, but she had to be hardheaded; this was Luc she was dealing with — without those lies, she could see no chance of getting his ring on her finger, and that had to be her first goal.
A goal she'd almost realized. Outside her window, the world was stirring. Her heart light, buoyed by a feeling of lightness, of satisfaction and triumph, she closed her eyes. And tried to rein in her joy. Gaining Luc's agreement to their wedding was not an end, but a beginning, the first active step in her long-range plan. Her plan to translate her most precious dream into reality.
She was one step — one big step — closer to her ultimate goal.