A small voice whispered that he had thought of Amelia — not as a wife, but as a woman he'd expected to have to stand by and see married to some other gentleman. As always, the thought left him uncomfortable. Arms over his head, he stretched full length, deliberately shifted his mind, and felt the constriction about his chest dissolve.
Thanks to some peculiar quirk of fate, she wasn't going to marry another — she was going to marry him.
That prospect was very much to his liking. He hadn't considered the fact that yesterday's victory left him free to pursue marriage if and when he wished, until she'd suggested it. But now she had… now she'd offered…
He wanted to marry her. The impulse that had risen last night at her words — the instinct to seize and claim her — had diminished not one whit in the intervening hours. If anything, it had grown more definite, an amorphous urge solidifying into conviction and rocklike resolution. Now he was debt-free, now he was rich, marrying her was, at least as far as his instincts were concerned, not just permissible but highly desirable. He felt no aversion, but rather an unexpected degree of impatience.
Mind racing, he mentally constructed the future as he would have it, Amelia centrally featured as his wife, then turned his mind to achieving that goal. The hows, whys, wherefores…
Accustomed as he was to checking every action for potential ramifications, the problem was immediately apparent. If he told her he no longer needed her dowry, what reason could he give for wanting to marry her?
His mind simply stopped, remained stubbornly blank, refused to countenance the reason by even thinking it. He grimaced, changed tack, tried to see his way forward…
Correcting her mistake, thus freeing her from their verbal contract, and then attempting to win her back was a fool's agenda. He knew how she'd react; she'd be mortified, and would very likely avoid him for the next several years, something she was perfectly capable of doing. Yet at some primal level, he already thought of her as his, already seized if not yet claimed; the concept of releasing her, lifting his paw and letting her go…
No. He couldn't — wouldn't — do it. He knew where they stood at the moment — he needed to find a way forward from there, toward their wedding, and had no intention of taking a single step back. When it came to her, his instincts were unequivocal in their refusal to be lenient; she'd offered, he'd accepted, ergo she was his.
Could he tell her the truth but decline to release her? Confess he no longer needed her dowry but insist they marry anyway?
She wouldn't accept that. No matter how insistent he was, how hard he argued — no matter what he said — she'd feel he was only being kind, sparing her the pain of rejection…
He grimaced again, folded his arms behind his head. There was enough truth to that to make it impossible to argue — not with her, she knew him too well. He would indeed do much — given his heretofore lack of interest in marriage, possibly even that — to avoid hurting her. Females such as she, females he cared about, needed to be protected — that was one of his most fundamental beliefs. The fact they might argue, rail, and disagree was beside the point; such resistance held no power to sway him.
The only way he might convince her he wasn't being kind was to admit and explain his desire to have her as his wife.
Once again, his mind seized. He couldn't even explain that desire to himself, did not understand whence its power sprang; the idea of admitting to the type of desire that of itself impelled a man to marriage, in words, to her — the object of said desire — evoked a resistance every bit as rock-solid as his intention to wed her.
He knew her, and the females in her family, very well; such an admission would be tantamount to handing over the reins to her, not something he would willingly do this side of hell. He wanted and would have her to wife, but he was implacably opposed to giving her any unnecessary hold over him.
The fact that others of his kind had ultimately succumbed and done so, most recently Martin, floated through his mind; he ignored it. He had never been inclined to let emotions or desires rule him; if anything, the last eight years had forced him to master them even more rigidly. No woman was capable of overriding his will; no woman would ever control him.
Which left him staring up at the canopy, toying with his remaining option. He considered, analyzed, extrapolated, predicted. Formulated a plan. Searched for and found the flaws, the hurdles; evaluated them, devised the means to counter them.
It was not an easy or straightforward path, yet it was one that led to his desired destination. And the price was one he was prepared to pay.
He hesitated only long enough to run one last mental assessment; he saw nothing to deter him. Knowing Amelia, he had no time to lose. If he wanted to retain control of their interaction, he needed to act immediately.
Throwing back the covers, he rose. Dragging a sheet off the bed, he wound it around his hips as he crossed to the desk before the window. Sitting, he drew a sheet of fine paper from one pigeonhole and picked up his pen.
He was sanding the note when a footman entered with his washing water. Luc glanced up, then turned back to the note. "Wait a minute."
He folded the note's corners, then dipped the pen in the inkstand and wrote her name. Waving the note to dry the ink, he turned to the footman. "Deliver this immediately to 12 Upper Brook Street."
Chapter 2
"Why the museum?" Amelia asked as she approached him.
Reaching out, Luc closed his fingers about her elbow and turned her around. "So we can converse in reasonable privacy, in public, and anyone seeing us will imagine we've simply and innocently come upon each other. No one ever imagines assignations occur in the museum. I'm here, clearly under duress, escorting my sisters and Miss Ffolliot—no! Don't wave. They're going to wander and meet me later."
Amelia glanced at the three girls at the other end of the room, staring wide-eyed at a display. "Does it matter if they see us?"
"No. But having seen you, they'll expect to join us, and that would be counterproductive." He urged her through an archway into a room devoted to Egyptian artifacts.
Transferring her gaze to his face, she noted his expression was, as usual, uninformative. His dark hair, black as pitch, was perfectly groomed; not a trace of dissipation marred the beauty of his classical features. Impossible to guess that ten hours before he'd been drop-at-her-feet drunk.
How to frame her question? Why are we assignating?
Looking ahead, she mentally girded her loins. "What did you want to talk about?"
The glance he threw her was sharp and dark. He drew her to a halt by the side of the room, in front of a case filled with pottery. "I would have thought, after our meeting last night, that the subject would be obvious."
He'd changed his mind — woken up, realized what he'd said, and was going to take it back. Hands clasped, fingers gripping tightly, she raised her chin, fixed her eyes on his. "There's no point telling me that you were so drunk you didn't know what you were saying. I heard you, and you heard yourself. You agreed — and I intend holding you to it."
He blinked, frowned — then his frown grew blacker. "I've no intention of claiming diminished responsibility. I wasn't so drunk I didn't know what I was doing."
"Oh." His acid tones left little doubt he was in earnest.
"That's not what we need to talk about." His frown still lingered.
Hugely relieved, she fought to hide the fact, schooling her features to simple interest. "What, then?"
He glanced about, then took her arm and urged her on, strolling slowly. Because of his height, he had to look down to speak to her, rendering their conversation private regardless of the public setting. "We've agreed to marry, now we need to take the next steps. Decide on how and when."