Tied With a Bow

again.
    The other man was Lucien.
     
     
    To Lucien, she looked like an angel, a miracle spun of air and light.
    He wanted to snatch her up and run up with the stairs with her, to carry her to his room and tumble her onto his bed. He wanted to untie every silver ribbon, loosen every lace, uncover every delicious bit of flesh, every hint of pink, every inch of white.
    But of course if he did those things, it would defeat the purpose of his journey.
    Besides, Aimée might object. It had occurred to him on the long carriage ride back, as his trip met with delay after delay, that he might have explained to her why he was going. But he’d had no guarantee of success then. He’d wanted to come to her without conditions or reservations.
    He bounded up the steps and took her hand. She wore no gloves—part of her costume, he assumed. Her fingers were cool and slight and trembled in his grasp.
    Holding her gaze, he lifted her hand to his lips.
    Her eyes widened as he kissed her knuckles. “You are late,” she observed.
    Her admonition made him smile. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
    Still holding her hand, he walked with her down the stairs and led her to his companion. “My lord,” Lucien said proudly, “I have the honor of presenting Lady Aimée Blanchard. My love, this is the Earl of Amherst.”
     
     
    Aimée shivered in confusion and joy and the draft from the door. Lucien had brought the earl here? What did it mean?
    Amherst bowed. “I trust Lady Basing will pardon my instrusion.”
    Aimee pulled herself together enough to manage a curtsy. “My cousin will be honored, my lord.”
    An understatement. Lady Basing would be beside herself at snagging the Earl of Amherst’s attendance at her Christmas ball.
    “The honor is mine,” Amherst said politely. His eyes gleamed. “Hartfell is not the only one who struggles with impatience, it seems. I could not wait to meet the lady who has reconciled him to himself. And to me.”
    Aimée’s eyes widened. Her head whirled.
    Lucien squeezed her hand, his grip almost painful. “Speaking of impatience, my lord . . .”
    “Yes, yes.” The earl waved them away. “Go dance with the girl while I make my apologies to our hostess.”
     
     
    Aimée danced as if her feet, not her dress, had wings. Because it was Christmas, and the ballroom was alight with candles, and her heart was burning with love and happiness. Because Lucien had called her his love. Because tonight, when all the guests were gone or settled in borrowed beds, she would find her way back down the stairs to his room and . . .
    “You were right,” Lucien said as the movement of the dance brought them back together.
    She dragged her attention from his mouth, struggling to focus on what he was saying.
    “About Amherst,” he provided helpfully, a glint in his eyes that suggested he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Once I informed him I was actually funding another sort of rescue operation, all was forgiven.” His smile turned wry. “Of course, first he tore a strip off me for being too damn stiff-necked to tell him the truth to begin with. I told him he had you to thank for bringing me to my senses.”
    She didn’t know where to look or what to say. “I am glad you have made your peace with him.”
    Family was important.
    “So am I.” Their eyes met. “I could not speak to you until I had settled matters with him,” Lucien said quietly.
    Her heart stumbled and then soared. “I thought you had left me,” she whispered.
    Lucien clasped her hands in the figures of the dance. His lips quirked ruefully. “You have so little faith in me, then?”
    “Perhaps it was my own judgment I did not trust.” Her hands held his a little tighter. “I am glad you are back.”
    “I must go away again soon. Amherst has given me management of his estate at Leyburn,” he explained in response to her inquiring look. “I want you to go with me. As my wife.”
    Joy spread through her. The musicians had stopped playing, but inside her soul was singing.
    “But . . . You could have any woman. Especially now that you no longer need to marry for money,” she added pointedly.
    He grinned. “But I don’t want any other woman. Only you, mignonne .” His face turned suddenly serious. “It’s always been you.”
    Ignoring the couples around them leaving the dance floor, he knelt and took both her hands in his.
    Aimée held her breath. With part of her mind, she was conscious of the whispers flying around the ballroom,