On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 3

He led her onto the terrace, where numerous couples were strolling, taking advantage of the mild night. The moon, a silver half disc, rode high, bathing the scene in shimmering light.

Luc glanced around, then wound her arm in his and turned along the terrace. "It's customary," he said, as if in answer to the question in her mind, "for courting couples to spend time together in conducive surrounds."

Conducive to what? She glanced at him, but he said no more. She looked ahead. "Do you think anyone's noticed yet?"

"They have, but it'll take a few nights to convince them there's more to our interaction than mere socializing."

"So how do you propose advancing our script?"

She felt his glance. "All we need do is follow the age-old plot. The gossips will wake up soon enough."

Age-old plot. She was perfectly certain his version would differ significantly from hers. Not that she intended arguing with what she hoped his plan would be — not when it bade fair to fall in so well with hers.

They continued along the increasingly sparsely populated terrace; most couples remained within the area illuminated by the ballroom's light. At the terrace's end, Luc cast a swift glance about, then closed his hand hard over hers; three long strides, drawing her with him, and they were around the side of the mansion. Shallow steps led down, then the terrace continued beneath a loggia supporting a rioting white rose. Once beneath it, they were screened from above, and from anyone on the terrace. The garden beyond the loggia was deserted, the room that gave onto it dark, not in use. They were alone. Private.

Luc halted, drew her to face him. She looked up, caught only the briefest glimpse of his face as he bent his head and, one hand cradling her jaw, set his lips to hers. Gently.

The fact penetrated her whirling mind; she'd braced for an assault. She'd been kissed before; in her experience all men were greedy. Not Luc.

Not that she doubted, not for one instant, that he would want, and would take, more, but he didn't grab, seize, demand. He lured.

Touch by touch, caress by caress. It was she who moved into him, into the kiss. His hand shifted from her jaw to her nape, long fingers hard against her sensitive skin. His other hand still grasped hers, fingers twining, locking.

His lips moved on hers, subtly shifting, encouraging… unthinking, she parted her own; he surged in. Not aggressively, yet powerfully. His habit of slow grace seemed even more pronounced in this arena. Every movement was unhurried, languid, yet laced with absolute mastery.

She shivered, realized how completely he'd captured her — her wits, her senses. She couldn't see, couldn't hear — was distant from the world and had no wish to go back, no wish to be distracted from the sheer wonder of the kiss. As if he understood, he angled his head and pressed deeper, drew her with him.

Excitement shimmered through her. The intimacy touched her; she found herself eagerly, wantonly, surrendering her mouth — pleasure coursed through her when he took. Claimed.

That was what he'd wanted, intended to achieve with his advancing of their "script." He'd moved to set his mark on her, a first declaration, a preliminary statement of absolute intent.

She was in absolute agreement. He'd set the scene, pledged his troth — now it was her turn. If she would.

She wasn't sure how to do it. Tentatively, she stepped nearer; her bodice brushed his coat. The steely tension holding him increased; the fingers at her nape tightened… with an inward shrug, she boldly kissed him back.

And he froze.

Emboldened, she sent her free hand sliding up to his shoulder, then higher still to trace his lean cheek. She pressed another long, tempting kiss on him, then flicked her fingers free of his slackened grip. Lifting that arm, she draped it on his shoulder, slid her fingers into his silky hair — and stepped closer yet, kissed him more determinedly—

His arms closed around her. He didn't crush her, yet there was no disguising the possessiveness behind the act. She twined her arms about his neck, but she didn't need to hold him to her; she offered her mouth again and he took control, wrested it from her.

His next kiss curled her toes.

Heat flooded her. Not in a searing rush but in a steady relentless tide. It poured down her veins, filled her up, took her over… she clung, and drank, felt her senses slide beneath the heating waves. Let herself sink against him, hard as steel beneath his elegant clothes, felt the vise of his arms close in.

His languidness — always a veneer — had flown. Every kiss seemed deeper, stronger, like a current steadily eroding her ability to resist. Not that she was resisting, a fact he knew. He didn't demand — he asked for no permission at all — but simply took, claimed, opened her eyes, ripped aside the veils, and showed her how far a simple kiss could go.

She was with him every inch of the way.

It was the tensing of her fingers at his nape, the arching of her spine — the sudden, blinding need to take the kiss much further — that jerked Luc back to reality. To sanity.

What the hell were they doing?

Abruptly, he drew back, broke the kiss. Struggled to draw breath, to steady his whirling head.

Couldn't do it with her in his arms, with her slender, pliant, oh-so-feminine body pressed so invitingly to his. His heart thundered. He forced his arms to unlock, forced his hands to grip her waist and set her back from him.

She swayed; he steadied her as she blinked at him in surprise.

He dragged in a huge breath. "We—" The word came out as a strangled rumble. He cleared his throat — clogged with desire — managed to growl, "It's time we returned to the ballroom."

"Time?" She stared at him, then glanced about. "How do you know? There's no clock."

"Clock?" For one instant, he couldn't imagine… then he shook his head. "Never mind. Come on."

Grabbing her hand, he towed her along, then up the steps to the terrace. Hauling in another breath, he paused, feeling his wits slowly falling back into place.

Into working order, where they hadn't been for the past God-knew-how-many minutes.

There were still couples wandering. Setting Amelia's hand on his sleeve, he steered her toward the ballroom. She was breathing more rapidly than usual, but when they reached the area where light spilled out and he ran a critical eye over her, she seemed remarkably composed. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes huge and bright, and her lips, if one looked closely, were swollen, yet the image she projected — of a young lady mildly starry-eyed — would serve their purpose well.

They reached the ballroom doors; he stood back to let her precede him. She stepped past, then paused, looked back. Her eyes met his, briefly searched, then steadied.

He felt sure she was about to speak, but instead, she smiled. Not just with her lips, but with her eyes.

Then she turned and walked into the ballroom.

He stared, then silently swore and followed her. She'd smiled at him like that once before; as before, the hair at his nape had lifted.

He'd intended it to be a simple kiss. What it had turned into… memories of that had kept him awake half the night.

The clocks chimed twelve noon as Luc crossed his front hall. There were documents and reports awaiting him in his study; he'd make a start on them before lunch and get his mind off its obsession.

He was reaching for the study doorknob when he heard her laugh. He knew the notes well, could at any time make them ring in his mind. For one instant, he thought that was what he'd heard — his imagination teasing him. Then he heard the voice that went with the laugh, not precise words, but the tone, the cadence.

Glancing along the hall, he listened. Amelia, his mother, and his sisters. Fiona, too. He strained his ears but heard no one else. Not an at-home, then, but an informal morning visit by a friend of the family.

The documents on his desk called to him. Some orders he needed to deal with by that evening; others were urgent bills he could at last pay. Responsibility urged him to the study; a deeper, more primitive instinct pointed in a different direction.

Last night she'd gone along with his edict, acquiesced readily and let him steer their path — up until that kiss. Their supposedly simple first kiss. Then she'd overset his plans. It hadn't been he who'd turned the exchange into a flagrantly sensual prelude — and if it hadn't been he, it had to have been she.

That fact disturbed him not a little. If she could challenge his rule in that sphere, what else might she attempt?

Which led to the exceedingly pertinent question of what she was doing in his drawing room that morning.

Amelia glanced up as the drawing room door opened. She smiled delightedly, made no attempt to hide her approbation as Luc entered, saw them, then shut the door and strolled up the long room to where they sat before the windows.

Her companions looked and smiled, too, his mother on the chaise beside her, Emily, Anne, and Fiona on two chairs and an ottoman ranged before them. Her intended presented the sort of picture any lady would smile at. His blue coat of Bath superfine fitted him superbly, displaying his shoulders to advantage, drawing attention to his narrow hips. His long, muscled thighs were encased in buckskin breeches which disappeared into Hessians shined to a mirror gloss. The contrast between his pale skin and the absolute blackness of his hair and brows was dramatic even in daylight.

He nodded to the three girls; skirting them, reaching her side, he inclined his head to his mother as he held out one long-fingered hand.

Her heart thumped as she laid her fingers across his, felt his close strongly. He bowed. "Amelia."

Within their homes, they could use their given names; while his tone would not have alerted the others, not even his mother, she caught the warning note — saw it echoed in his eyes as he straightened and released her.

She let her smile brighten. "Good morning. Have you been riding?"

He hesitated, then nodded, stepping back to lean against the nearby mantelpiece. "Would you like some tea?" his mother asked. Luc glanced at the tray on the table. "No, thank you — nothing."

Minerva gracefully relaxed against the chaise. "We've just been discussing the latest invitations. Despite the Season winding down, there seem quite a few interesting events planned for the last weeks." Luc raised a disinterested brow. "Indeed?" Amelia looked up at him. "Even though there are only three or so weeks to go, I doubt we'll be short of diversions." He looked down at her, into unbelievably innocent blue eyes.

"It's all so exciting!" Fiona, bright as a button, bobbed in her chair, distracting him. Her brown curls were caught up in the same style Anne favored — she looked more than just familiar… then he realized she'd borrowed one of Anne's spencers.

"At least the balls aren't quite so crowded anymore," Anne put in.

Fiona swung to face her. "Not as crowded?"

"Definitely not," Emily confirmed. "They were much worse — truly crushes in every sense — at the height of the Season."

"So was your come-out a crush?" Fiona asked.

Minerva smiled. "Indeed — it was a very well attended affair."

She glanced up at him; Luc met her gaze and shared her proud smile. He still inwardly shuddered at the disruption and effort his sisters' come-out had entailed, but at least he could now pay for it.

"It was such a pity you missed it." Anne caught Fiona's hand. "So odious of your aunt to insist you go to visit your cousins instead."

"Now, now, girls," Minerva intervened. "Fiona is staying with her aunt, and Mrs. Worley has been very kind in sparing her to us so often?

Anne and Fiona accepted the rebuke, meekly, but it was clear their poor opinion of Fiona's aunt choosing to take her to visit relatives in Somerset during the critical week had not altered.

"I heard there's to be a balloon ascension in the park the day after tomorrow."

Emily's information distracted the girls; Minerva sat back, watching with fond affection as they discussed the event.

Luc paid their ramblings little heed; his gaze on Amelia's golden head, he wondered… she was watching the younger girls, smiling at their excitement. "Would you like to view the spectacle?"

She looked up, met his eyes — read them, and colored delicately. She glanced at the girls. "Perhaps we could make a party?"

Luc inwardly grimaced, but gracefully nodded when his sisters looked eagerly his way. "Why not?" It would serve as a reasonable first outing to which he could publicly squire Amelia.

Fiona whooped; Anne smiled. Emily laughed. They fell to discussing the details.

Under cover of their excited chatter, Amelia glanced up and met his gaze, a certain consciousness in her eyes…

"Actually, we've just been discussing…" His mother captured his attention before he could fathom the reason behind that particular look. Minerva smiled and held his gaze. "As Amanda has gone north and won't return this Season, and as I've got to escort these giddy girls about, then it makes eminent sense for Amelia to join us, especially when Louise has clashing engagements."

He managed to keep his expression impassive, then he looked again at Amelia. She met his gaze over the rim of her cup, then lowered it and smiled brightly. "It seemed the most obvious idea."

"Indeed. So Amelia will be joining us here tonight, then we'll all go on to Lady Carstairs's rout." His mother raised a brow at him. "You hadn't forgotten, had you?"

He straightened, "No."

"I'll order the carriage for eight, then — we should all be able to fit."

Amelia set down her cup and spoke to Minerva. "Thank you. I'll be here before eight." She smiled, then extended the gesture to the girls. "But now I really must go."

Luc waited, suppressing his impatience while she farewelled his mother and sisters. When she turned to him, he waved to the door. "I'll see you out."

With brief nods to his mother and the girls, he stalked after her to the door, reached around her and opened it, then followed her into the hall. A quick glance showed no footmen about; shutting the door, he caught her gaze. "You agreed to follow my lead."

She opened her eyes wide. "Weren't you intending for me to join your mother and sisters at some point?" Turning toward the front door, she started pulling on her gloves. "It seemed an opportunity waiting to be grasped."

"Quite." He prowled by her side as she headed for the door. "But at some point."

She halted, looked at him. "Which point?"

He frowned. "Possibly after the balloon ascension."

She raised her brows, then shrugged. "Tonight was sooner. Anyway" — glancing down, she struggled with one of the tiny buttons closing her gloves—"it's done now."

Impossible to argue that. Luc told himself it didn't really matter. They reached the front door; he opened it. She was still struggling with her glove.

"Here — let me." He grasped her wrist, sensed more than heard the quick intake of her breath. Felt the frisson that sheered through her as his sliding fingertips found the gap in the cuff of her recalcitrant glove, found her bare skin.

He met her gaze, then, gripping, slowly raised her hand and looked at the difficult button.

She remained absolutely immobile — he didn't think she even breathed — while he dealt with the tiny closure. The button slipped into place. He looked up, caught her gaze — deliberately rubbed the fine leather, smoothing the button into place, his thumb riding slowly back and forth over the sensitive inner face of her wrist.

Her eyes sparked; she twisted her wrist — he released her. She looked down, gathering her skirts.

Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he lounged against the doorframe. "I'll see you tonight then. Before eight."

"Indeed." She inclined her head, but didn't meet his gaze. "Until then."

Head rising, she stepped out and descended the steps. Reaching the pavement, she turned for her home and waved one hand; her footman came quickly up the area steps, nodded to Luc, then fell in behind her.

Luc dispelled the frown that had been about to form; straightening, he shut the front door — only then did he let his lips quirk. She might have taken it upon herself to initiate the next step, but he still held the whip.

Satisfied, he headed for his study. Passing the side table at the back of the hall, he paused, contemplated the polished surface. Where was his grandfather's inkstand? It had stood there as long as he could recall… perhaps Higgs in her annual spring cleaning frenzy had taken it for polishing and put it somewhere else. Making a mental note to ask her sometime, he strode on — to the business still waiting behind his study door.

"Are you sure Minerva has room for you in her carriage?"

Amelia glanced across her bedroom and smiled at her mother. "She said she'd use her traveling carriage. There'll be just the six of us."

Louise considered, then nodded. "None of you is stout, after all. I have to say it'll be a relief to have a quiet night at home. I still haven't recovered from the rush of Amanda's wedding." After a moment, she murmured, "I suppose I can trust Luc to keep an eye on you."

"Indeed. You know what he's like."

Louise's lips quirked. Then she straightened. "No, no!" Amelia had grabbed up her reticule and shawl and was hurrying toward her — she waved her back. "Stop and let me see."

Amelia grinned and halted. She slid the cords of her reticule over one wrist, draped her shimmering shawl about her shoulders, then she stood straight, head high, and pirouetted. Then she glanced at Louise.

Louise nodded approvingly. "I was wondering when you were going to wear that. That shade becomes you."

Amelia broke from her pose and hurried to the door. "I know." She kissed her mother's cheek. "Thank you for buying it for me." Stepping on down the hall, she smiled over her shoulder. "I have to rush — I don't want to be late. Good night!"

Louise watched her go, a smile on her lips, a softness in her eyes. When Amelia had disappeared down the stairs, she sighed. "You don't want to miss the chance of setting him back on his heels — I know. Good night, my dear, and good luck. With that one, you'll need it."

Decked out in black coat and black trousers, ivory cravat and silk waistcoat, Luc was standing in the front hall looking up the stairs at the head of which his mother and sisters, and Fiona, all dressed for the evening, were finally congregating, when he heard Cottsloe open the front door. Assuming Cottsloe was checking to see if the carriage had arrived, he didn't glance around.

Then he heard Cottsloe murmur, "Good evening, miss," heard Amelia's light reply.

He swung around, mentally thanking the gods she'd arrived—

His mind stopped, literally seized, in the instant his gaze touched, locked on her.

She was a vision to confound not just his senses but his wits. His mind's slate remained blank, as blank as his expression, as his eyes devoured. As every instinct he possessed hungered.

Wanted…

She turned from greeting Cottsloe and glided toward him, head rising, golden ringlets tumbling down her back, brushing her shoulders. His fingers curled. She lifted her gaze to his, smiled with easy familiarity — as if she always appeared in his front hall in the guise of a sea goddess, some acolyte of Venus Aphrodite given flesh, blood, and cornflower blue eyes.

Ringlets, eyes, and face he knew, but as for the rest… had he ever truly seen her before? He'd certainly never seen her dressed as she now was.

Her gown was fashioned from shimmery silk gauze so light it shifted with every breath, so sensuous it draped every curve lovingly, outlining the lushness of breast and hip, of sleek thigh and curvaceous derriere. The color was a pale, silvery blue-green. A ruffle of the same material formed the bodice; another ruffle rippled around the hem. Expertly cut, the gown emphasized the indent of her waist, pouring over her like water, clinging, coruscating…

For one fanciful moment, she appeared to be clothed in nothing more substantial than sea foam, as if, at any moment, the waves would retreat, the breeze sigh, the foam melt…

An illusion, but such a good one he found he was holding his breath.

He couldn't see any sleeves or straps, then realized they were there but transparent; her bare shoulders and the delectable upper swells of her breasts seemed to rise out of the froth of the bodice, for all the world as if it would be a simple matter to peel the gown down…

She reached him, stopped before him, screened from the others; from behind came exclamations from his sisters and the clattering of their now-eager descent.

He dragged his gaze up to Amelia's eyes.

She met it, a teasing smile on her lips. Raised one delicate brow. "Are you ready?"

Her voice was low, sirenlike…

Ready?

He stared — into eyes that were nowhere near as angelic as he'd expected. Before he could narrow his, her smile deepened, and she stepped past him to greet his mother and sisters.

Leaving him to grapple — to wrestle back under control — a veritable horde of instincts he'd been only dimly aware he possessed. He swung around, hands rising to his hips as he considered her. His mother and sisters would read his stance as impatience; they were already late. Amelia would know better, but…

He didn't, in that instant, care what she knew or guessed. If he'd had any chance of being obeyed, he'd have ordered her home to change. No matter how late it made them. But the enthusiastic approbation that… gown for want of a better word was receiving from his assembled female relatives made it clear they didn't view the ensemble as he did.

It was scintillating, but in his opinion better suited to a boudoir than a damned rout. And he was supposed to squire her around for the rest of the evening? And keep his hands to himself?

Keep every other man's hands off her?

Him and half the Guards.

He scowled, and was about to ask pointedly where her shawl was, in a growl to go with the scowl, when he realized it was draped over her elbows. A shimmering, glimmering fantasy that, as she flipped it up over her shoulders and turned with his mother, ready to depart, only added to the allure of that gleaming gown.

Ruthlessly shackling his temper, and more, he waved them all to the front door. "We'd better get going."

His sisters and Fiona grinned forbearingly at him as they trooped past, imagining his black mood to be occasioned by their tardiness. His mother swept after them, an amused look in her eyes, taking care not to meet his.

Amelia glided in Minerva's wake; drawing level with him, she smiled, and continued on.

He stood for a moment, watching her hips sway under the shimmering gauze, then inwardly groaned and followed.

If he'd been thinking — thinking at all — he'd have got down the steps faster; when he stepped onto the pavement, the three girls had already piled into the carriage and taken their seats. He handed his mother up, then gave Amelia his hand, supporting her as she stepped up to the carriage, by long habit looking down at the right moment to glimpse the flash of bared ankle before she let her skirts fall.

He was more than "ready" when he climbed into the cariage; he was uncomfortably hard. A situation that grew considerably worse when he realized that the space they'd left for him was next to Amelia, between her and the carriage's side. There was only just enough space sitting three to each seat; the girls, crowded on the forward seat, already had their heads together, chattering animatedly. Impossible to make them change places — what excuse could he give? Instead, gritting his teeth, he sat — and endured the sensation of Amelia's hip riding against his, of her slender, distinctly feminine thigh pressing against his, that godforsaken gown shifting, discreetly tantalizing, between them.

All the way to the Carstairs house down by the river at Chelsea.

The Carstairses owned a large house in Mayfair, but had elected to use their smaller property with its long gardens reaching down to the river for this summer night's entertaining.

They greeted their hostess in the hall, then joined the other guests in a long reception room running the length of the house. The room's rear wall was comprised of windows and a set of doors presently open to the gardens. Said gardens had been transformed into a magical fairyland with hundreds of small lanterns hung in the trees and strung between long poles. A light breeze off the river set the lanterns bobbing, sent the shadows they cast swaying.

Many guests had already yielded to the invitation of the softly lit night; turning from surveying the company, Luc looked at Amelia — and immediately determined to do the same. She'd appeared stunning enough in the even light of his front hall. Under the glare of the chandeliers she looked like… the most delectable delight any hungry wolf could dream of.

And there were plenty of hungry wolves about.

Inwardly swearing, he gripped her elbow, cast a cursory glance at his sisters. Ever since their come-out, successful as it had been, he'd become, if not less protective, then at least less overtly so. Emily had found her feet; Anne, naturally quiet, remained so. He felt comfortable leaving them to their own devices, and Fiona would be safe in their company.

He'd check on them later.

"Let's go into the garden." He didn't look at Amelia, but sensed her glance, sensed her underlying amusement.

"If you wish."

He did glance at her then, sideways, briefly; the smile in her voice was manifest on her lips, lightly curved. The temptation to react — to kiss that teasing smile from those luscious lips — was frighteningly strong. He quelled it. With a curt nod for his mother, already settled with her bosom-bows, he grimly steered Amelia down the room.

To reach the doors giving onto the gardens they had, perforce, to travel the length of the room. It took them half an hour to manage it; they were constantly stopped by ladies and gentlemen, the ladies to comment on her gown, some genuinely complimenting, others ingenuously exclaiming over her daring in wearing it, the gentlemen to flatter and compliment, albeit largely in nonverbal vein.

When they finally won free and gained the terrace doors, Luc's jaw was set, his expression unrelentingly grim — at least to Amelia's eyes. She could sense the breadth and depth of his temper, could sense his increasingly strained control.

Considered ways to further exacerbate it.

"How pretty!" She stepped onto the terrace flags.

Luc's fingers slid from her elbow — where they'd been locked ever since they'd arrived — to her wrist, then he grasped her hand and came up alongside, placing her hand on his sleeve — trapping it there. "I hadn't realized their gardens were so extensive." He scanned the shadowy walks leading down and away. "You can barely hear the river from here."

"Just a faint lapping and the occasional splash of oars." She was looking around herself. "It appears they're having the dancing out here." She nodded to a group of musicians, resting with their instruments at one end of the wide terrace.

"Let's stroll."

If they didn't, others would soon join them; she had no interest in conversing with anyone but Luc. Even with him, she'd prefer to exchange something other than words, and the garden promised to be the best venue for that. She went down the terrace steps at his side.

The gravel walks spread in numerous directions; they took the least frequented, leading away under the leafy branches of a grove. They walked through successive bands of moonlight and shadow; she held her tongue, aware of

Luc's gaze, aware that it returned as if against his will to her bare shoulders, to the bared upper curves of her breasts.

She wasn't surprised when he eventually growled, "Where the devil did you find that gown?"

"Celestine had it brought in from Paris." She glanced down, fluffed up the ruffle that formed the bodice, supremely conscious that his gaze followed her every move.

"Different, but hardly outrageous. I like it, don't you?" She glanced up; even in the dim light she saw his lips thin.

"You know damned well what I — and every other male present this side of senility — think of that gown. Think of you in that gown." Luc bit his tongue, stifling the words: Think of you out of that gown. Narrow-eyed, he glared at her.

"As I recall, we'd agreed that you would follow my lead."

She opened her eyes wide. "Isn't this" — slipping her hand from beneath his, she spread her shimmering skirts—"along the path we're supposed to walk — that society expects us to tread?" Halting, she faced him. They were far enough from the terrace, and there were no other guests in the vicinity; they could speak without restraint. "Isn't it expected that I'd wish to dazzle you?"

His eyes couldn't get any narrower; he gritted his teeth, spoke through them. "You're dazzling enough without the gown." What was he saying? "I mean an ordinary, usual gown would have sufficed. That" — with one finger, he indicated the scintillating garment—"is going too far. It's too dramatic. It doesn't suit you."

He meant that things dramatic didn't suit her; Amanda was dramatic, Amelia was… whatever she was, it was something else.

Courtesy of the overhead branches, her face was in shadow, even when she lifted her chin. "Oh?"

There was nothing in the syllable to suggest she'd taken offense; indeed, her tone seemed light. It was the set of her chin that sent a warning snaking down his spine, sent him rushing into speech, disguising his disquiet behind an exasperated grimace. "I didn't mean—"

"No, no." She smiled. "I quite understand." That smile didn't reach her eyes. "Amelia—" He reached for her hand, but with a silken swish, she turned back along the path.

"I really think, if that's the tack you believe we should take, that we ought to get back to the terrace." She continued in that direction. "We wouldn't want any of the gossipmongers to overinterpret our state." He caught up with her in two strides. "Amelia—"

"Perhaps you're right and we should take this more slowly." A note had crept into her voice, one that gave him pause. "That being so…"

They'd reached the terrace; she stopped before the steps in a patch of light cast by the lanterns. He halted beside her, saw her scan the platoon of guests waiting on the flags for the orchestra to start up. Then she smiled — not at him. "Indeed." Glancing his way, she inclined her head in dismissal. "Thank you for the walk." Turning, she started up the steps. "Now I'm going to dance with someone who does appreciate my gown."