She sensed, through the fine barrier of her silk robe, when he settled close behind her, knees widespread, when he reached out toward her head.
With one hand, he gathered the wild jumble of her curls, the thick fall that lay covering her nape. He gathered, then, slowly, deliberately, wound his hand in the massed locks.
Gently drew her up, back, until she was kneeling almost but not quite upright. Releasing her hair, his palm slid beneath, cupping her nape, his long fingers cruising, caressing, up and down the slender column of her neck.
He reached around her, ran his other hand, possessively assessing, from the base of her throat to the damp curls between her thighs. Although the fall of her robe covered her back, in front, she was naked, exposed to the night, to his touch.
His hand rose, to explore, to possess. To trace, tweak, knead her breasts until they were swollen and aching anew, until her nipples were so tight any touch was close to painful. His hand drifted down to splay across her stomach, to knead evocatively until she moaned, then, his other hand lightly gripping her nape, he sent his questing fingers sliding down, spearing through her curls to find her, pressing between her thighs to expose and circle the throbbing flesh, to stroke and probe until she arched, gasped.
"Please."
His hands left her.
The sudden loss of his touch left her reeling. Disoriented.
"Bend down."
She did, eagerly, sinking down over her knees, heart thundering, pulse hammering. Wanting.
Simply wanting.
He lifted the back of her robe to her hips, exposing her bottom. Both hands spread, touched, reverently traced. Firmed, became more possessive as he stroked, fondled, caressed, lit fires beneath her already dewed skin. The contrast of heat against the cool air sent shivers up her spine while poised behind her he surveyed her as if she was his slave.
She wished she could see his face, wondered if he'd chosen this position so she wouldn't be able to. Wondered, fleetingly, why.
Then his fingers traced her cleft, slid down between her thighs.
Her thoughts fled; her lungs seized. She closed her eyes, nerves tightening with expectation.
He found her swollen softness and opened her. Probed, then he shifted, muscled thighs surrounding her, trapping her. His hands closed about her hips, holding her, anchoring her; the broad head of his erection nudged into her.
Then he sank home. Deep. Then deeper still. Filling her body, filling her senses.
Her sigh shivered through the night. Pure relief. She closed her eyes, laid her head on her forearms.
Prepared to be ravished.
And she was.
Fundamentally, elementally, profoundly. He demanded her body and she gave it, surrendered it without reserve. Without reserve he claimed her, every inch of her, his hands tracing, possessing even while he rode her.
Hard, fast, deep. Into an oblivion so all-consuming long before they reached the crest there was no sense of him and her, no separation of their souls as they traversed the sensual landscape, as, uninhibited, they flew higher and higher.
The end, when it came, was beyond even glory, steeped in much more than sensation. It was as if, together, they'd reached some place, some plane they hadn't before attained — that hadn't before been open to them.
When finally he withdrew from her, turned her into his arms and slumped back on the bed, they were still there, still floating in that blessed peace.
In that place where the world couldn't touch, and only fused souls could reach.
Gasping for breath, chests heaving, they both simply lay, touching, hands searching, fingers twining, struggling, both of them, to understand.
To comprehend.
A declaration without words, unspoken but absolute. When, at last, they turned to each other, when, at last, their gazes met, they didn't need words to assure themselves of that.
Just a look, a touch, a kiss.
A trust. Given, taken, reciprocated.
Amelia curled into Luc's arms; they closed about her. Closing their eyes, they slept.
The sleep of the exhausted. Luc might have suspected he was growing old — Amelia was once again awake and out of bed before he'd stirred — except he remembered, very clearly, all that had happened in the night.
Lying back on the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, he stared unseeing at the canopy. About him, the bed lay in utter disarray, vivid testament to the physicality of their union.
But it wasn't that — not only that — that colored his memories of the night.
She'd given herself to him, joyously surrendered, not just physically, not even just emotionally, but in some deeper, more profound way. And he'd taken, accepted, claimed. Knowingly. With the same unswerving commitment.
Because she and all she offered was all and everything he would ever want.
That much was clear. What was less easy to assimilate was the conviction, based on no logical earthly fact, that the past night had been scripted, that it was part of some ceremony, part of their marriage, and would have needed to occur at some point.
As if their actions — her offering, his accepting — just as they had at the very start, in that moment in his front hall in London when those same actions had sealed their fates, were the true underlying reality of their relationship.
And she knew it. Even though he'd said not a word, she understood…
Had she taken the lead again?
Voices reached him — Amelia talking to her maid. Grimacing, he threw the sheets back, rose, found his robe, then stalked to his dressing room.
His impatience to tell her what he needed more than ever now to say had scaled new heights, but the day was going to be a long one — there was no way he could wring from it time to tell her, not properly, not until all the rest was settled.
She — and he — deserved better than a distracted, "Incidentally, I love you," while hurrying down the stairs.
Dressed, he returned to the bedroom just as she, ready for the day, came through from her rooms. She smiled, met his eyes. He waited by the door as she approached. Held her gaze when she halted before him. Saw blazoned in the blue of her eyes a serenity, a confidence.
Her decision, her commitment — her understanding of him.
The certainty rocked him; he drew a tight breath.
The chatter of maids in her rooms, clearly waiting to tidy the bedroom, reached him; he glanced toward the connecting door, then looked down, met her eyes. "Once this is over, we need to talk." He lifted a hand, briefly traced her cheek. "There're things I need to tell you, things we need to discuss."
Her smile held the essence of happiness. She caught his hand; her eyes on his, she touched her lips to his palm. "Later, then."
The brief contact sent heat racing through him. Her smile widened and she turned to the door. He opened it; she stepped out into the corridor.
He watched her hips sway beneath her blue day gown, then drew breath, took a firm grip on his impulses, and followed her.
Chapter 22
The day flew. No one stopped for luncheon; Higgs set out a cold collation in the dining room and people helped themselves when they could. Restrained pandemonium reigned, yet when six o'clock struck and the first of the guests arrived in the forecourt, everything was in place. Higgs, beaming, hurried to the kitchens while Cottsloe strode proudly to the door.
Amelia rose from the chaise on which she'd only just sat. She'd been on her feet the entire day, yet the excitement in the air, which had laid hold of the whole household — the look in Luc's midnight blue eyes as she took up her stance by his side before the fireplace — were more than worth the effort, quite aside from trapping the thief.
The guests rolled in, guided through the front hall and into the drawing room to greet Luc and herself, and then be introduced to the rest of the family, both immediate and extended, standing and sitting about the huge room. Minerva, Emily, and Anne were primed to take over the introductions so Amelia and Luc could concentrate on welcoming the steady stream of their neighbors and tenants. Phyllida stood near Emily, ready to lend assistance should the younger girl encounter any difficulties, while Amanda did likewise with Anne, shy but determined to carry her role.