Besieged, he had no option than to stand by Amelia's side and deflect the arch queries as best he could. His temper growled, but he reined it in, aware its irritation was entirely his own fault. The temptation to see her, to confirm that she was there, happy and content — that she'd recovered from being introduced to the concept that a desk could be used for activities other than writing — had crept up on him, niggling until it had seemed the easier of all evils simply to give in. Having surrendered to such weakness, this — coping with the avid interest of the matrons — was the price he had to pay.
Having appeared at all, he felt compelled to remain and escort Amelia and Louise home; his social mask anchored in place, he stoically remained by Amelia's side and refused to be drawn, refused to be tempted into any confirmation of what the Gazette would reveal tomorrow.
Tomorrow was soon enough for these harpies to learn of his fate. They could gloat then, out of his sight.
Amelia held to the same line, neither confirming nor denying what everyone suspected was the truth. Tomorrow they'd all know, and she'd have to share; tonight was her moment to hug the knowledge to herself, to savor her victory.
Incomplete though it was. Yet she'd never imagined that he'd fall in love with her just like that, purely because she suggested they marry. But they'd soon be wed, and she'd have time and opportunity aplenty to open his eyes, to lead him to see her as something more than just his bride.
She was used to social discourse, accustomed to the frequent need to slide around or ignore impertinent questions. Dealing with the inquiries of the many who flocked about them, those who'd spoken stepping back to let others take their place, was as easy as breathing. Under cover of the incessant conversation, she slanted a glance at her husband-to-be.
As usual, she could divine little, not now, not in public. Yet in those private moments they shared… she was becoming more adept at reading him then. The hour and more they'd spent that afternoon in his study had been one such moment. One thing she was now quite confident of: he had never given his heart to any other woman.
It was there, hers to claim if she was willing to brave the fates and seize it. She knew him well; at some instinctive level she sensed his mind, was already close enough to him to, sometimes, know what he felt. That afternoon, when he'd had her laid across his desk, his to savor and take as he wished, there'd been something in his eyes, some recognition that with her, between him and her, there was something more than the merely physical.
The suspicion that he might already have recognized some deeper link between them had intensified later, when, with her slumped, deliciously exhausted, on his lap, he'd slipped the pearl-and-diamond ring — the betrothal ring that had been in his family for generations — on her finger. The moment had, at least for her, shimmered with emotion; she was willing to wager he hadn't been immune.
A first glimmer of the ultimate victory she sought, or so she hoped.
Her gaze had remained on his face too long; he turned, met it, raised a brow. She only smiled and turned back to the matrons eager to extract her news. And let her mind dwell on that ultimate victory.
The evening was drawing to a close when Miss Quigley approached. Although as curious as the others, Amelia and Luc's putative relationship was not uppermost in her mind. "I wondered, Miss Cynster" — Miss Quigley lowered her voice, turning a little aside from the rest—"did you by any chance see Aunt Hilborough's lorgnettes lying about anywhere at Hightham Hall?"
"Her lorgnettes?" Amelia remembered them — anyone who'd met Lady Hilborough would; she wielded the item more to point than to look. "No." She thought back, then shook her head decisively. "I'm sorry. I didn't."
Miss Quigley sighed. "Ah, well — it was worth inquiring." She glanced around, then lowered her voice further. "Mind you, now I've learned Mr. Mountford is missing his snuffbox, and Lady Orcott her perfume flask, I have to say I'm beginning to wonder."
"Good heavens." Amelia stared. "But perhaps the items were misplaced…?"
Miss Quigley shook her head. "We sent back to Hightham Hall the instant we reached London. Lady Orcott and Mr. Mountford did the same. You can imagine — Lady Hightham must have been quite beside herself. Hightham Hall has been searched, but none of the missing items were found."
Amelia met Miss Quigley's serious gaze. "Oh dear." She looked to where Louise stood not far away, chatting to some others. "I must tell Mama — I doubt she's checked her jewelry case, let alone all those other little things one takes. And Lady Calverton, too." She looked back at Miss Quigley. "Neither she nor her girls are here tonight."
Miss Quigley nodded. "It appears we all need to be on our guard."
Their gazes met — neither needed to specify just what they needed to guard against. There was, it seemed, a thief among the ton.
At eight the next morning, Luc sat alone at his breakfast table and studied his copy of that morning's Gazette.
He'd deliberately risen early — long before his sisters would be up and about. He'd come down to see — to stare at, to ponder — his fate, his destiny, printed in black-and-white.
There it was — a short, sensible notice informing the world that Lucien Michael Ashford, sixth Viscount Calverton, of Calverton Chase in Rutlandshire, was to marry Amelia Eleanor Cynster, daughter of Lord Arthur and Lady Louise Cynster of Upper Brook Street, at Somersham Place on Wednesday, June 16.
Laying the paper down, he sipped his coffee, and tried to define what he felt. The primary emotion he could identify was a simple one: impatience. As for the rest…
There was a great deal more swirling inside him — triumph, irritation, anticipation, deprecation — even a faint lick of desperation, if he w
as truthful. And underneath them all ranged that unnamable force, grown stronger, more powerful — more compelling, more demanding.
Just where it would lead him — how far it would drive him — he didn't know.
His gaze fell to the paper, to the notice therein.
A moment later, he drained his mug, rose and strolled from the breakfast parlor. He paused in the front hall to collect his riding gloves.
It no longer mattered where the path led — he was committed, publicly and privately, and despite all uncertainties, he did not, not for a minute, question the rightness of his direction.
The future was his, to make of it what he pleased.