For a full ten minutes, she stared, unseeing, across the room, while all the pieces of the jigsaw settled into place, and she finally saw the full picture, the real truth of their marriage and what had brought it about, then, determined, she rose and went into their bedroom.
Five minutes later, Luc climbed the main stairs and headed down the corridor to their rooms. As he walked, he loosened his cravat, leaving it hanging about his throat. Outside, dawn was tinting the sky; he assumed Amelia would be asleep, exhausted… he'd have to wait until tomorrow to talk to her. But he would; hopefully she'd be sufficiently curious over his "somethings" to stay in bed long enough for him to confess.
Reaching for the doorknob, he made a silent vow that he wouldn't leave their apartments before he'd told her all.
He opened the door and entered, pushing it shut as he walked in, glancing down at a stubborn cuff button.
Belatedly registering that a candle was still burning… and that Amelia wasn't in bed but standing by the window—
He looked up.
Ducked.
Something crashed on the floor far behind him, but he didn't look back. Amelia had a heavy paperweight clutched in her fist when he grabbed her, wrestled her back against the wall and pinned her there.
Her eyes, narrowed, blazed with blue fire. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Furious, but far from cold, her tone gave him hope. "Tell you what?"
The unwise words were out before he'd thought.
"That you're filthy rich!" Eyes spitting fury, she heaved against him. "That you were even before we wed." She struggled like a demon. "That you weren't marrying me for my money! You let me believe you were, while all the while you—oooof!"
"Stand still!" Locking his hands about each of hers, he forced them back against the wall, one on either side of her head, leaned into her enough to subdue her — to keep her from damaging herself. Or him. He looked down into her furious eyes, her stubborn face. "I've been meaning to tell you." Not like this. "I told you I had things to confess. That was one."
Amelia narrowed her eyes to shards. Pinned him with her gaze. Refused to let her elation show—refused to let him off the hook — the hook he'd caught himself so wonderfully on. "And the other?"
He narrowed his eyes back. "You know." After a moment, he added, "Despite all you said to Kirby, you damn well know."
She lifted her chin. "I might guess, but with you that's plainly not the same as knowing. You'll have to tell me." She held his gaze. "Spell it out. In simple words. Crystal-clear phrases."
His jaw set. Trapped between the wall and him, she'd never been more aware — of him, of herself — of the physical and ephemeral powers that flowed between them. The blatantly sexual and the flagrantly emotional — both had always been there, but only now were they fully revealed. Only now fully acknowledged.
So powerful now that anything else was unthinkable.
He'd come to the same conclusion. His eyes still locked on hers, he drew breath. Spoke, his tone deep, low, intense.
"I let you believe I was marrying you for your dowry — that that was my reason. That was the first confession I wanted to make — that that wasn't true."
He paused. She clung to his gaze, willed him to go on, curled her fingers and when he permitted it, twined them with his.
His gaze dropped to her lips, then returned to her eyes. "My second confession was the real reason I agreed to marry you."
When he said nothing more, his gaze lowering again, she prompted, "What was it — your real reason?" The most important question in the world to her — the one she'd finally realized fifteen minutes ago actually existed to be asked.
He drew breath, lifted his gaze once more to her eyes. "Because I love you — as you very well know." The muscle along his jaw shifted, but he spoke the words clearly, his midnight blue eyes locked on hers. "Because you are and always have been the only woman I ever wanted as my wife. The only woman I wanted to see here, ruling this house — the only woman I ever imagined finding in my nursery, holding my child."
His lashes fell, hiding his eyes. He moved perceptibly — distractingly — closer. "Incidentally, once we've dealt with Kirby, perhaps we should make some announcement—"
"Don't try to distract me." She was well and truly wise to his ways. She tugged her hands and he freed them, simultaneously removing the paperweight. He reached to the side and set it on the dresser; she stretched up and wound her arms about his neck. Touched her lips to his chin. "You'd just got to the best part of your confession. Telling me how much you love me."
Invitingly drawing him nearer, she kissed him, long, lingeringly, knowing, now, just how to incite but keep the flames at bay. He leaned into her, let her have her way, let their fires ignite…
She drew back, but not far. "Tell me again." Her eyes locked on his as he straightened. His hands slid down, around.
His long lashes lifted; he met her gaze. Let her see what burned in his eyes. Then he looked at her lips; his quirked. "I'd rather show you."
She laughed. Let him bend his head and take her lips, take her mouth.
Let him lift her in his arms and carry her to their bed.
Let him love her. Loved him back.
With all her heart, as unreserved as he.
They needed no words — they spoke a language that required no words to communicate, to touch, to give, to open their hearts and share — yet at the last, as the silvery radiance of dawn poured through their windows and bathed their bed, as she lay beneath him, overburdened with sensual bliss, watched him above her, watched the sheer pleasure that washed through him as he savored her and all she gave him, and all he gave her, she reached up, drew his head down, lifted her own to whisper against his lips, "I love you."
His eyes flashed; he took her lips, her mouth hungrily, drank deep as he took her. Released her lips only when she arched, her body rising, clenching, senses flying high over the edge of the world as his words, deep, guttural, reached through the glory, "And I'll always love you. Yesterday, tonight, tomorrow—always."
"You'll never escape."
As if to illustrate that point, Luc wrapped his long fingers in the strand of pearls interrupted by diamonds that he'd draped an hour before around Amelia's neck, and drew her to him for a long kiss.
She obliged most readily, sighed happily when he released her, sank deeper into the comfort of their bed.
It was midafternoon; outside their drawn curtains, the sleepy hum of a hot summer's day held sway. She'd retired after lunch to rest; he'd followed not long after, ostensibly to check on her. In reality to join her, but not to rest.
They were now completely naked, slumped on the rumpled bed, both at peace. One hand lazily ruffling Luc's hair, with the other, Amelia toyed with the fabulous necklace he'd had made for her before they'd wed — and then had to hide until he'd confessed and could give it to her. It matched her "betrothal" ring, and the earrings he'd left on her dressing table yesterday, after Kirby had been taken away and Martin and Amanda, as well as Lucifer and Phyllida, had left.
She smiled. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not running."
He glanced at her. "I had noticed, but I'd thought I'd make the situation quite plain."
His situation was as plain as she would ever need it to be. She couldn't stop her smile deepening, couldn't hold back the happiness that welled and overflowed her heart.
Before any family members had left, they'd announced their impending good fortune, adding their own hope for the future to Amanda and Martin's. Everyone was delighted; Helena had nodded wisely, her eyes filled with something more profound than mere joy.