A minute later, she lifted the lists, reached back, blindly groping until she found the edge of the bed, then she opened her hand and let the precious lists fall to the floor. Safer there than on the bed. If they got tangled in the covers, who knew what state they'd be in come morning?
She reached for Luc's face, framed it as she kissed him back — let passion and desire flow through her to meet his.
His hands were everywhere, caressing, molding; his body flowed around and about hers. Then she was on her knees and he was behind her, his hands kneading her breasts as their loins came together and he slid deep within her.
She arched, heard her soft cry.
And they were caught in the heat, the power and the passion, their need, and the wonder that this, and the bliss it brought, was truly theirs.
Later, when they'd disengaged and were lying, slumped together beneath the covers once more, she moved her head and placed a kiss in the center of his chest. "Thank you." She smiled, realizing the ambiguity but seeing no need to be more specific. Settling deeper into his arms, reveling in the way they instinctively tightened about her, she sighed contentedly. "I will try to keep the expenses down."
Stillness swept him, like a curtain sweeping down his body. A reaction to the mention of money, an awkwardness she could understand.
"Amelia, there's—"
"No reason to stint." She touched her lips to his chest again. "I know. But there's also no reason to run the estate too close to the edge. I'll manage." Sleep was dragging at her; she patted his chest, then settled her hand where she liked to leave it, spread over his heart. "Don't worry."
Her murmur was almost inaudible; Luc inwardly cursed. He debated shaking her awake, forcing her to listen while he told her the truth…
The soft huff of her breath stirred the hairs on his chest. Her hand grew heavier where it lay over his heart.
He drew a breath, let it out, and felt the stillness leave him. Felt her warmth wrap about him, sink through him.
Relaxing into the bed, he set himself to decide exactly where, when, and in what order he'd confess… and fell asleep.
He should have told her. If not last night, then certainly this morning. If not all the truth, then at least the fact she didn't need to watch her pennies, and why.
Instead…
Luc stood at the window of his stud
y, staring out at the lawns while in his mind he relived that morning, when he'd woken and found Amelia gone.
Sheer panic had gripped him — she was never awake before him — then he'd heard her bustling in her dressing room. An instant later, she'd swept back into the bedroom, already dressed, ready to plunge into her day. Greeting him brightly, she'd rounded the bed and retrieved her lists.
She'd chatted happily about all she had to do; there'd been not the slightest trace of worry or reticence in her face, in her blue, blue eyes. She'd been genuinely on top of the world—their world — regardless of any monetary constraints. She'd barely paused for any response from him; he simply hadn't had the heart — the intestinal fortitude, the necessary steel — to cut through her bubbling busyness and force on her a confession that, in that instant, had not seemed so terribly urgent.
"These figures."
He turned. Seated behind his desk, Martin tapped the report he was wading through. "Are they accurate?"
"As far as can be ascertained. I had them confirmed by three independent sources." Luc hesitated, then added, "I usually bank on 50 percent of what I'm told to expect."
Martin raised his brows, calculating, then gave a low whistle and returned to the report. Opposite him, seated before the desk, Lucifer was similarly engaged in plowing through the details of a number of investment opportunities Luc had assessed; absorbed, one hand sunk in his black locks, Lucifer didn't look up.
Luc returned to the vista beyond the window. And saw Penelope emerge from the direction of the kennels, a wriggling puppy — Galahad, Luc felt certain — in her arms. Stepping onto the lawn, she set Galahad down; he lived up to his name, immediately dashing around, nose to the ground, tracking something.
Penelope sank to the grass and watched him with, as in most things she did, serious and unwavering concentration. Behind her, following her onto the wide lawn, came a bevy of the younger hounds — those yet too young to run with the pack — with Portia and Simon supervising.
Portia was supervising the hounds. Simon, his hands sunk in his pockets, appeared to be supervising Penelope and Portia.
That seemed a trifle odd. Simon was nineteen, nearly twenty, and had already acquired a degree of social polish. Emily and Anne were much closer to his age, yet these days he more often than not gravitated to the environs of Portia and Penelope whenever they were out of the schoolroom… the explanation for that occurred to Luc even as the thought formed in his mind.
Given they suspected there was someone in the vicinity who was ill-disposed toward his family, his sisters in particular, and that Portia and Penelope were frequently out of doors, one step away from running wild, he could only be grateful for Simon's hovering presence.
As he watched the trio on the lawn, it became obvious Portia did not share his view; even from the study, he could see the haughtiness with which she stuck her nose in the air and said something — something cutting enough to make Simon scowl.
Penelope ignored the pair of them. They continued to snipe at each other over her head. Making a mental note to mention to Simon that arguing with either of his younger sisters was an activity best avoided, Luc turned and strolled to an armchair and the reports he'd yet to peruse.