"Devoted?" Louise's smile grew; she glanced away. "Yes, I daresay you might call it that."
Arthur shot her a glance. "And you? Are you happy with them?"
"With Dexter, yes. With Luc… I have absolutely no qualms — I never did. They seem to be settling together nicely, quite as well as I expected, but there's something not quite straight yet. However, I'm sure it, whatever it is, will sort itself out." Louise faced forward. "I asked Helena to keep an eye on them — I'm sure she will."
Arthur studied her profile, then, as the coach turned up the long incline crossing the opposite face of the valley, he looked out at the Chase, basking in the sunshine. Wondered if he should write and warn Luc. Wondered where his own true loyalties now lay.
Louise glanced at him, then made a dismissive sound and patted his hand. "Stop worrying — they'll do."
Arthur humphed, settled back, closed his eyes. And decided they probably would — either fate or Helena would make sure of it.
They'd decided on the following Saturday evening for their Summer Ball. That gave them five days in which to prepare — possible, but only just. The first item that needed to be dealt with was the invitations; immediately after lunch, the ladies knuckled down and wrote them out, then co-opted every stableboy and groom to deliver them.
That done, they spent the next three hours disposed about the drawing room discussing and deciding and making lists. Portia and Penelope convinced Miss Pink that their education in ladylike endeavors could best be served by their attendance; their novel suggestions often induced much hilarity, but occasionally were incorporated into the various lists.
A list for entertainment, one for food, another for furniture, yet another for implements — crockery, cutlery, and glassware.
"We should have an Order of Ceremony," Penelope stated.
When Minerva smiled, Portia weighed in, "No — Pen's right. We need to make sure certain things get done by certain times, don't we?"
She looked about innocently. The assembled ladies exchanged glances. Neither Portia nor Penelope, Emily nor Anne was supposed to know…
Amelia asked, "You mean for when the fireworks will be let off, and when the dancing will begin?"
"And when the food will be served and so on." Portia frowned. "I would think a list like that would be indispensable."
Relief washed through the room; Portia and Penelope noticed, but when Phyllida and Amanda leapt in to agree with their suggestion, the moment slid away, along with their unvoiced questions.
When they were satisfied they'd identified all that needed to be done, and the four girls had gone out to stroll the lawns, Amelia relaxed in her chair, her gaze on Phyllida, on the chaise beside Amanda. "I know you're eager to get back to Colyton. We can't ask you to delay—
Phyllida cut her off with a wave. "Alasdair and I discussed it last night. I do want to get back, but…" She smiled wryly. "I'd never forgive myself — and he certainly wouldn't — if we left and things went wrong for want of a few extra hands."
"Still, it's an imposition. You've already done so much—
"Nonsense. You know we enjoy it. Besides, we've already sent messages. Alasdair sent his groom with dispatches to Devil in London, and Devil will send our news on to Papa and Jonas in Devon, so all's settled." Phyllida leaned forward and squeezed Amelia's hand. "Indeed, we feel so… incensed by this thief, so determined to have him caught, I doubt we'd leave even if you truly didn't need our aid."
Helena nodded sagely. "This thief, whoever he is, is beneath contempt. I do not believe he does not know that his actions will harm the innocent. I consider it an honor to have a part in arranging his downfall."
Amanda murmured, "Hear, hear."
A moment later, they all smiled — at each other, at themselves — then they rose; skirts swishing, they headed upstairs to change.
Amelia took her lists to bed with her that night. Their bedroom was the only place she could be sure of meeting Luc alone, in absolute privacy.
The subject she had to broach demanded nothing less.
She waited until he stretched out beside her, large, lean and naked — she'd considered inquiring about nightshirts, but there was that old saying about one's nose and one's face, and the sight of Luc naked — lolling on the bed beside her naked — was not something she felt it incumbent on her to forgo — however, when he reached for the lists and filched them from her suddenly nerveless grasp, she discovered her mouth had dried, and her wits had wandered.
Clearing her throat, she focused on the lists — in his hands — and determinedly hauled her wits back to where they belonged. "I tried to cut them down as much as I could, but that really is the least I think we need do."
He glanced at her, then laid the lists on the covers over her stomach. "Arrange for whatever you like. Whatever takes your fancy."
He reached for her, drew her to him, found her lips with his. Kissed her longingly, lingeringly, until there was no doubt in her mind what his fancy was.
When he released her lips to tug the covers from between them, she clutched the lists, dragged in a breath. "Yes, but—"
He kissed her again.