On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 4

The words reached Luc a second too late for him to grab Amelia back. Gaining the terrace, she plunged into the crowd; although he followed in a flash, by the time he located her she was part of a group, chatting animatedly with Lord Oxley, one hand on his lordship's arm.

The musicians chose that moment to strike up; the introduction to a cotillion had the guests quickly forming into sets. Jaw clenched, Luc retreated to where shadows draped the house wall; folding his arms, he leaned his shoulders against the wall, and watched Amelia — his bride-to-be — dip and sway through the figures.

That wretched gown floated about her, a fantasy of shimmering light. He saw at least two accidents caused by gentlemen getting distracted. The emotions that scored him were not familiar, the tension gripping him only partially so. Desire he was accustomed to, could deal with without effort, but this other…

His temper felt raked, rawly sensitive. Overactive, yet he was rarely that. How had she so easily provoked him to this state?

At least the damned dance wasn't a waltz.

That thought had him cursing. The next dance almost certainly would be — and he didn't trust himself to take her in his arms, not in public, not in that excuse for a gown. Yet he knew perfectly well what would happen if he tried to endure watching her waltz — in that gown — with some other man.

Comprehensively cursing all women — Cynster females especially — he watched and waited. And planned.

Amelia knew he was watching her; she only smiled more brightly, laughed and charmed Lord Oxley, but only so far. She had no intention of exchanging his lordship for one difficult viscount. Luckily, Luc couldn't be totally, incontrovertibly, sure of that.

At the end of the dance, she studiously avoided looking Luc's way, instead encouraged other gentlemen to gather around. She was watching Mr. Morley bow over her hand when Luc strolled up.

The instant Morley released her fingers, Luc appropriated them, directed a negligent, possibly bored nod her way, then wound her arm with his and set her hand on his sleeve-leaving his hard palm heavily over it.

She opened her eyes wide. "I wondered where you were."

His dark eyes met hers. "Wonder no more."

The four gentlemen who'd surrounded her looked from him to her, confusion in their faces. They would know she'd entered the house on Luc's arm, but would have assumed their association was as before — a convenient family connection, nothing more.

Nothing deeper.

The currents now surging between them, around them, spoke otherwise.

Wishing his eyes were easier to read, she smiled at Luc-then directed her delight at her cavaliers. "Have you heard about the balloon ascension?"

"Indeed, yes!" Lord Carmichael replied. "It's to be held in the park."

"Day after tomorrow," Mr. Morley supplied.

"Perhaps, my dear, I could offer my new phaeton as a conveyance." Lord Oxley puffed out his chest. "Quite seven feet off the ground, y'know — you'll have an excellent view."

"Indeed?" Amelia smiled at his lordship. "I—"Miss Cynster has already agreed to attend the spectacle in company with my sisters." She glanced at Luc, brows rising, faintly haughty. He met her gaze, added, "And me." She held his dark gaze for an instant longer, then let her lips curve and inclined her head. Turning back to Lord Ox-ley, she gestured helplessly, easing her rejection with a smile. "As I was about to say, I'm afraid I've already accepted an invitation to attend with the Ashfords."

"Ah, well — yes." Lord Oxley shot a puzzled glance at Luc. "I see." His tone suggested he hadn't the foggiest clue. A screech from a violin alerted the crowd to the upcoming waltz.

"My dear, if I might beg your indulgence—"

"If I might be so bold, Miss Cynster—"

"Dear lady, if you would do me the honor—" Mr. Morley, Lord Carmichael, and Sir Basil Swathe all broke off, glanced at each other, then looked at Amelia. She hesitated, waited — then lifted her chin. "I—" Luc pinched her fingers trapped under his hand. "My dear, I came to fetch you — Mama desires you to meet an old friend." She looked at him. "But the waltz…?" "I fear this old friend is quite elderly and must leave soon. He's rarely in London." He glanced at her four cavaliers. "If you'll excuse us."

No question, of course; he barely waited for her to murmur her good-byes before drawing her away. Not onto the dance floor, where she'd wanted to go — with him — but doggedly back into the house.

Inside the doors of the long reception room, she halted, refusing to be dragged farther. "Who is this old friend your mother wants me to meet?" Luc glanced at her. "A figment of my imagination." Before she could respond, he changed direction, urging her to a door. "This way." She was intrigued enough, hopeful enough, to let him steer her through, into a short passage that eventually joined a corridor running parallel to the reception room on the other side of the house. Rooms opened off it to both sides.

Her hand locked in his, Luc made for a door halfway along the corridor, on the side farthest from the reception room. Opening the door, he looked in, then stepped back and swept her before him — she had no real option but to enter the room. He followed on her heels.

She looked around. The room was a parlor boasting comfortable sofas, chairs, and low tables. Long curtains framed the windows, undrawn, allowing pale moonlight, faint but pervasive, to illuminate the scene.

One in which no other soul breathed, bar them.

She heard a muted click. She swung around in time to see Luc slide something into his waistcoat pocket. A glance at the door confirmed the lock was the sort that would normally have a key in it. It no longer did.

A most peculiar sensation flickered over her skin, slithered down her spine. She lifted her gaze to Luc's face as he closed the distance between them.

She was not going to let him fluster her, make her act like some mindless ninny he could manage with disgustingly arrogant ease. Folding her arms beneath her breasts, uncaring of the fact that pulled the ruffle forming her bodice tight, she lifted her chin. "What's this all about?"

He blinked, halted, apparently uncertain. Then she realized he wasn't looking at her face. A fact he quickly rectified, lifting his eyes to meet hers.

"This," he stated, through clenched teeth, "is about that."

She frowned. "That?"

His features grew grimmer; his eyes, so dark, burned. "We need to discuss our tactics. The steps we're going to take to manipulate the ton into believing our marriage is anything but arranged. We need to discuss the order in which we're going to take those steps. And we need — definitely need — to discuss the small matter of timing."

"Timing?" She widened her eyes. "Surely it's simply a matter of taking our agreed steps in their appropriate order, and if the opportunity presents to move faster—"

"No! That is where we disagree."

He was still speaking through his teeth. She frowned — pointedly — searching his face. "Whatever is the matter with you?"

Luc looked long and hard into her wide blue eyes, and couldn't tell if she was teasing. "Nothing," he ground out. "Nothing that any normal — no, never mind!" He raked back his hair, then realized what he was doing and let his hand fall. "The important thing we're going to discuss and agree on is the pace of our little charade."

"Pace? What—"

"It can't go too fast." "Why not?"

Because that risked revealing far too much. He locked his gaze on her stubborn face. "Because going too fast will raise questions — questions we'd rather weren't asked. Like is there any reason for my sudden pursuit of you — I've only known you for how long? Twenty something years? Too fast, and people will wonder what's behind it. And my possible motives are the least of it. I told you from the start, this needs to be convincing, and that means slow. Four weeks. No shortcuts."

"I thought you meant we could take up to four weeks, not that it had to take four weeks."

"People need to see a steady progression from mild interest, to awareness, to decision, to confirmation. If they don't see any motive — if we don't give them a good show — they won't accept it."

All nonsense, of course. If she had any more gowns in her armoire like the one she was wearing, no one would wonder at his sudden decision.

On the thought, his gaze lowered; he frowned at the offending article. "Have you any more gowns like that?"

She glared, then looked down at her gown, spread the skirts. "What is it about this gown that so irks you?"

He had wisdom enough to know to keep his lips shut; instead, he heard himself growl, "It's too damned inviting."

She seemed taken aback. "Is it?"

"Yes!" He'd thought the effect bad enough in his hall, and even worse under the chandeliers. Yet the worst, most dizzying effect was now, in half-light. He'd noticed it under the trees; it had been partly to blame for his unwise words. In poor light, the gown made her skin shimmer, too, as if her bare shoulders and breasts were part of a pearl, rising from the froth of the sea. Offered, waiting for the right hand to recognize and seize, take, reveal the rest that the gown concealed…

Small wonder he could barely think.

"It's…" He gestured, struggling to find the right words to talk his way out of this morass.

She was looking down, considering. "Inviting… but isn't that how I should look?"

It was the way she lifted her head and met his gaze — head-on, direct — that shook his laggard wits into place. His eyes slowly narrowed as he considered — her words, and her. "You know." He took a menacing step toward her. She dropped her skirts and straightened, but didn't step back. He halted and glared down into her eyes. "You know damned well how you — in that damned gown — affect men."

Her eyes widened. "Well of course." She tilted her head, as if wondering at his thought processes. "Whyever did you imagine I'd worn it?"

He made a strangled sound — the remnants of the roar he refused to let her hear. He never lost his temper — except, these days, with her! He pointed a finger at the tip of her nose. "If you wish me to marry you, you will not again wear this gown, or any like it, unless I give you leave."

She held his gaze, then drew herself up, folded her arms—

"For God's sake, don't do that!" He shut his eyes against the sight of her breasts rising even higher above the rippling edge of her bodice.

"I'm perfectly decent."

Her tone was clipped, distinctly acid. He risked lifting his lids the veriest fraction; his gaze, predictably, locked on the ivory mounds flauntingly displayed by the distracting gown. Her nipples had to be just—

"Anyone would think you've never seen a lady's breasts before — you can't expect me to believe that." Amelia kept her delight at his susceptibility firmly in check. Not hard; she didn't like the direction this discussion was taking.

His gaze was unabashedly locked on her breasts; beneath the thick fringe of his sooty lashes, his dark eyes glittered. "At this point, I don't much care what you believe." There was a quality in his voice, in the slowly and precisely enunciated words, that made her still, that alerted every instinct she possessed. His gaze slowly rose, and fixed on her eyes. "I repeat: if you want me to marry you, you will not again wear this gown, or any like it."

She lifted her chin. "I'll need to some time — toward the end—"

"No. You won't. Need to. Or do so." She felt her jaw lock, could almost feel her will and his collide, but while hers was like a wall, his was like a tide — it flowed all around, surged, tugged, weakened her foundations. She knew him too well, knew she couldn't push him and didn't dare defy him at this point.

It didn't happen easily, but she forced herself to nod. "Very well." She drew in a breath. "But on one condition."

He'd blinked, his gaze lowering; he jerked it back up to her face. "What condition?"

"I want you to kiss me again." He stared at her. A moment passed. "Now?" She spread her hands, widened her eyes. "We're here — completely private. You locked the door." She gestured to her gown. "I'm wearing this. Surely our charade suggests a certain script?"

Luc looked into her eyes — he was perfectly sure he'd never felt so torn in his life. Every instinct, every urge, every demon he possessed wanted nothing more than to seize the slender body so provocatively displayed and feast. Every instinct bar one. Self-preservation was the only naysayer, but it was screaming.

Increasingly hoarsely.

There was no way he could argue his way out of her suggestion. Aside from anything else, his mind baldly refused to be a party to that much deceit.

He lifted his shoulders, making it look like a shrug, in reality trying to ease the tension that had already locked every muscle. "Very well." His voice was even, his tone commendably nonchalant. "One kiss."

One rigidly controlled, absolutely finite kiss.

He reached for her; she stepped toward him. Before he could catch her and hold her back, she was in his arms, her distracting gown shushing against his coat, her supple figure stretching against him as she reached up and twined her arms about his neck.

Bending his head, he found her lips, covered them — all without the slightest thought. His hands gripped her waist, but his arms were powerless to ease her away from him. Their lips melded and the compulsion to instead draw her closer grew.

She parted her lips under his, and he did.

Let his hands slide over the sumptuous silk, over the curves it concealed, then he deliberately drew her against him, molding her softness to his much harder frame. Drew her breath from her, then gave it back, took her mouth slowly, thoroughly.

He sensed not the slightest hesitation through their increasingly explicit exchange; her tongue boldly met his with a ladylike eagerness that was unfeigned and oddly tempting. Enticing. As if she and she alone could offer him something his experienced senses had never encountered before.

As if she was confident of that, knew it with a sureness that left no room for doubt.

Her body remained pliant yet vibrant in his arms; not passive, yet limited in her ability to script their interaction purely by lack of experience. He could sense through her lips, through her responses, an unfettered commitment to the pleasures inherent in the kiss. To inciting, as she had before, subsequent delights.

That he'd expected; that was where he drew his line. This time, he was prepared for her pushy nature — for her attempts to lure him into rushing headlong into a situation his finely honed instincts were strongly warning would not be one he was accustomed to. This woman was to be his wife; nothing — no temptation — would ever be sufficient to make him forget that, and all its connotations.

For all his experience, his instincts urged caution. In this arena, he was no more experienced than she — and he had more to lose.

As she returned his kisses avidly, Amelia had no thought of winning or losing; she'd demanded the kiss purely to enjoy it, and to leam more. More of the dizzying delight he so effortlessly conjured, that seemed to warm her from her bones to her skin.

Their second kiss was indeed living up to her expectations. He seemed to have accepted holding her close; her senses purred at the pleasure inherent in having all that hard muscle and heavy bone surrounding her, pressed to her breasts and the swells of her thighs, his arms banding her shoulders and back. She was tempted to wriggle closer still.

He hadn't even tried to turn the kiss into a single peck, as she'd suspected he might. She had absolutely no doubt he was, instead, enjoying the exchange — the succession of caresses, him to her, her to him — every bit as much as she.

So what came next? The thought floated through her mind; she followed it. Mentally caught her breath, then kissed him back even more flagrantly — distracted him long enough to press closer still, to sink against him, her breasts flush against his chest.

The pressure eased the ill-defined ache that seemed to be burgeoning in her breasts; she shifted slightly, seeking further relief. His arms had instinctively tightened, supporting her. As the tide of the kiss shifted, he kissed her back — with greater fire, with the promise of flames. She inwardly gasped, felt his arms ease, his hands slide… suddenly knew what next she wanted, what next she needed from him.

His hands rose, palms tracing upward from her hips to her waist, then higher, sliding to her sides…

Where they stopped.

And reversed direction.

Before she could think, he ravaged her mouth, briefly, thoroughly, then he eased back from the kiss and lifted his head. Set her back from him, his hands at her waist, steadying her.

He met her wide, blinking stare, searched her eyes, then raised one brow, as ever faintly arrogant. "Enough?"

She could barely breathe; her head was whirling, her pulse thudding. But she understood what she saw in his face; his implacability was no news to her. Letting her lips curve, she boldly drew one finger down his cheek, then stepped back. "For now."

With that, she turned toward the door. "We'd better get back, don't you think?"

Luc did, but it took a moment to get his body to obey. He felt buoyed, reassured; he'd set himself to walk an extraordinarily fine line, one she was clearly intent on dragging him over, yet he'd triumphed — a not inconsiderable feat, considering the provocation. Joining her, he hunted out the key, opened the door, and held it wide.

Head high, a satisfied smile on her lips, his temptress swept past him; he let his gaze assessingly travel her slender length, then followed, closing the door, making a mental note to send around to Celestine regarding any similar gown she might produce. Marriage, after all, lasted a long time-only sensible to ensure he enjoyed it.

Deep in the gardens close by the river, a young lady slipped through the trees. Reaching the river wall, high and built of stone, she followed it to the corner of the property.

There, beneath a large tree, a gentleman waited, a denser shadow in the gloom. He turned as the young lady came up.

"Well? Do you have them?"

"Yes." The young lady sounded breathless; she raised her reticule, a larger than usual affair, and opened it. "I managed to get both pieces."

The items she drew forth glinted as she handed them to the gentleman. "You will send all you can get for them to Edward, won't you?"

The gentleman didn't answer, but turned the objects in his hands, holding up first one, an ornate gold inkstand, then the other, a gold-and-crystal perfume flask, to the fitful light filtering through the leaves.

"They'll fetch a few guineas, but he'll need more than that."

"More?" Lowering her reticule, the young lady stared. "But… those were the only pieces Edward mentioned…"

"I daresay. But poor Edward…" The gentleman slid the two objects into the capacious pockets of his driving coat and sighed. "I fear he's trying to be brave, but you can imagine, I'm sure, what it's like for him. Banished by his family, cast into a foreign gutter and left to starve, forgotten, with not a friend in the world—"

"Oh, no! Surely not. I can't imagine… I'm sure…" The young lady broke off. She stared through the dimness at the gentleman.

Who shrugged. "I'm doing all I can, but I don't move in these circles." He looked through the dark garden to where the fairy lights began, and farther, to where the elegant throng was dancing and laughing on the terrace.

The young lady drew herself up. "If I could help more… but I've already given all the money I have. And there aren't that many precious little objects lying about Ashford House, not ones that rightly might be Edward's."

The gentleman was silent for sometime, his gaze on the dancers, then he turned to the young lady. "If you really want to help — and I'm sure Edward would be eternally grateful — then there's plenty more items like these two that could help him, and that they" — with his head, he indicated the faraway crowd—"would like as not never miss."

"Oh, but I couldn't..." The young lady stared at him.

The gentleman shrugged. "If that's the way it is, then I'll tell Edward he'll have to manage on his own, that no matter what rat-infested, flea-ridden hovel he's now forced to live in, despite all the blunt his family and their friends have, there's no help for him here. He can give up all hope—"

"No! Wait." After a moment, the young lady sighed, a whispering surrender. "I'll try. If I see any little things that might suit—"

"Just pick them up and bring them to me." The gentleman glanced at the house. "I'll be in touch about where we can next meet."

He turned to leave — the lady put out a hand and caught his sleeve. "You will send the money to Edward straightaway — and tell him that / at least care?"

The gentleman studied her earnest expression, then nodded. "It will mean a lot to him, I'm sure."

With a bow, he turned and walked away through the trees. The young lady sighed, looked up at the distant terrace, then lifted her skirts and headed back to the house.

"Your pardon, ma'am, but Lord Calverton, the Misses Ash-ford, and Miss Ffolliot have called."

Louise looked up. Amelia blinked. They were sitting at their ease in the morning room at the back of the house, Louise reading a book, Amelia on the chaise perusing the latest issue of La Belle Assemblee.

From the comfort of her armchair, Louise shrugged. "Show them in here, Colthorpe." As the butler bowed and retreated, Louise smiled at Amelia. "Given it's the Ashfords, we may as well relax."

Amelia nodded absentmindedly, her gaze on the door. Luc had said nothing about calling this morning. After they'd returned to Lady Carstairs's reception room, he'd remained by her side, subtly but definitely there, until the end of the night. The Ashfords had dropped her at her parents' door; Luc had escorted her up the steps, bowed with his usual bored languor — and said not a word about any future engagement.

The door opened; Emily, Anne, and Fiona gaily bustled in. Amelia shut the periodical and laid it aside. Luc strolled in, impeccably turned out in a dark blue coat, breeches, and Hessians, as always darkly, dangerously handsome. The girls very correctly greeted her mother; Amelia tried to catch Luc's eye, but beyond a swift glance as he'd entered, he didn't look her way.

Then he was bowing over Louise's hand, greeting her mother with his usual polished grace. Alert, Louise waved him to the chaise; instead, he misinterpreted the gesture — purposely, Amelia was sure — and bowed. "Amelia."

She returned his nod, then watched in bemusement as he chose the armchair alongside her mother's and sat. The three girls fluttered over to perch around her. Luc turned to Louise; the girls turned to her.

"It's a lovely day outside."

"So very pleasant. Just a light breeze."

"We'd thought to take the air in the park, but Luc suggested—"

What Amelia wanted to know was what Luc was suggesting to her mother.

Smiling at the tableau of her daughter surrounded by the younger girls, all chattering, Louise looked at Luc and raised her brows. "I take it you don't find keeping an eye on Amelia as well as your sisters and Miss Ffolliot in the evenings too much of a trial?"

Luc met her gaze, succinctly replied, "No." Amelia was a trial, but he would manage. "Your daughter does, however, have a stubborn streak, and a tendency to go her own road, as you're doubtless aware."

"Naturally." Louise looked intrigued. He directed his gaze across the room, to where Amelia was listening to his sisters' and Fiona's entreaties. "She gets on well with my sisters, and my mother, too, of course, which makes things easier."

"Indeed?" The faint amusement in Louise's voice assured him she'd followed his change of tack; she knew quite well what "things" he was referring to.

"I had hoped," he returned his gaze to Louise, "that you would approve." He paused, then smoothly continued, "I thought a jaunt to Richmond, given the weather is so clement, would be a welcome diversion. We're taking the open carriage, of course."

He awaited Louise's verdict. She regarded him for a disconcertingly long time, but eventually smiled and inclined her head. "Richmond, then, if you think it will serve."

That last comment had him inwardly frowning, but he got no chance to probe for an explanation — he wasn't even sure he wanted one; Louise turned and spoke to the girls, who'd already outlined their plans to Amelia.

Louise indicated her approval. Amelia stood, shooting a sharp glance his way. "I'll have to change."

He rose. "We'll wait."

Crossing the room, he opened the door and held it for her. Pausing in the doorway, she looked up at him, suspicion in her eyes. He smiled. Screened from the others, he flicked her cheek. "Hurry up." After a fractional pause, he added, "I guarantee you'll enjoy it."

Her eyes searched his, then she elevated her nose and left.

Ten minutes later, she returned, in a gown of sprigged muslin, cherry red against white. Three flounces adorned its hem; the bodice fitted snugly, and the sleeves were tiny puffs. A bright red ribbon was threaded through her curls, a wider ribbon of the same shade was wound about the handle of the parasol tucked under her arm. Luc gave silent thanks that she didn't favor bonnets; he'd make sure that when they walked, she kept the parasol shut.

She was pulling on red kid gloves; half boots of the same shade were on her feet. She looked delectable — good enough to eat.

He rose. The two younger girls were by the window, examining the small ornaments laid out on the wide sill; he collected them with a glance and turned to where Emily was chatting with Louise. "We'd better make a start."

They made their farewells, then he waved his charges on, closing the door as he followed them into the hall. The girls bustled on, beaming at Colthorpe as he opened the front door for them. Reaching out, Luc captured Amelia's hand, twined her arm with his. Glanced down as she looked up at him. "You'll enjoy the drive."

She raised a skeptical brow. "And the hours at Richmond spent following those three?"

He smiled and looked ahead. "Those you'll enjoy even more."

This time, he dictated where they would all sit. The three girls dutifully took the seat behind the coachman, facing Luc and Amelia. As the coach rolled off, Amelia cast him a suspicious glance, then opened her parasol, deploying it to shade her face.

The girls chatted and looked about, exclaiming at the sights as the carriage turned south, crossed the river at Chelsea, then rumbled west past villages and hamlets. Although the girls were only a foot away, seated as she was with Luc, Amelia felt no compelling need to listen to their conversation.

Luc said nothing, looking about idly, elegantly at ease beside her. He had to keep his distance to avoid her parasol; compensating, he'd spread his arms, one along the carriage's side, the other along the back of the seat.

She wondered what he was up to, but as the miles rumbled uneventfully by, she relaxed. Only then did she realize how tense she'd become — how intense she'd been for the past several months, doggedly pursuing her plan. Her plan, which had landed her here, where she wished to be.

With the right gentleman beside her.

She'd just come to that realization and let a small smile curve her lips, when Luc's fingertips brushed the soft tendrils exposed at her nape. She froze, couldn't quite hide her reactive shiver. As usual, she'd worn her hair pulled into a topknot, but it was naturally curly, so tiny locks sprang loose, feather-light, sensitive to the touch.

Turning her head, she intended to frown, but the look in Luc's eyes distracted her. Intent, he watched her; his fingertips shifted, stroked again.

"What are you smiling at?"

The light in those dark eyes wasn't teasing; he wanted to know. She looked forward, would have shrugged but… she didn't want him to take his hand away. "I was just thinking…" She gestured to the bucolic scenery through which they were rolling. "I haven't been out to Richmond for years. I'd forgotten how restful the drive can be."

She glanced back at him, again found herself trapped in his eyes.

"You gad about too much." His eyes remained on hers, his fingers firmed. "From now on, you won't have to."

She had to smile; trust a man to imagine that the only reason ladies "gadded about" was in pursuit of them. "There'll still be the Season, and making appearances. More or less obligatory, after all."

The girls were engrossed with their own topics; he and she could converse freely.

"Only up to a point." He paused, then coolly stated, "In the coming months I think you'll discover there's other activities more to your taste than whirling around ballrooms."

She had absolutely no doubt to what activities he was alluding; his gaze was anything but cool. Meeting it, she arched one brow. "Such as?"

The look in his eyes stated very clearly: that's for me to know and you to learn.

"Oh, look! Is that Richmond village?"

They both turned to see Fiona pointing; Amelia inwardly cursed. She glanced at Luc, but he retrieved his arm and turned away. The moment was gone.

Or so he led her to believe. Only when they were strolling in the girls' wake under the spreading oaks and beeches did she realize he had another agenda beyond entertaining his sisters — one that involved only them.

They were under a large oak that hid them from view, the girls ahead, already clear of the shadows, when Luc tugged her to a halt, spun her to him, and kissed her, swift, hard and all too sure.

Then he released her, resettled her hand on his arm, and strolled on.

She stared at him. "What was that for?"

He looked at her, eyes glinting from beneath his lashes as they passed into the sunshine. "I didn't think I needed a reason."

She blinked, faced forward. He didn't, of course. Not to kiss her, or… anything else.

He had a fertile imagination — the rest of the day passed in giddy absorption in what became a lighthearted game. At first, when his long fingers found the gap in her glove cuffs, and stroked, toyed, with caresses that were so innocent it was hard to comprehend why they felt so illicit, she couldn't see any reason to discourage him; she was more concerned with trying to predict just what he would be at next — what sensitive spot he would choose to tease — with a breath, with a touch, with a kiss.

Later, after they'd lunched at the Star and Garter, then, as the afternoon waxed glorious, started down the hill, she concluded that, for propriety's sake, she had to at least protest. The sliding, glancing passage of his hand over her hip, over the curve of her bottom, covered only by a thin layer of muslin and a silk chemise, was explicit enough to make her blush. She knew perfectly well no one else could see, however…

Yet when she grasped the moment as they passed under another useful tree and turned to him, lips opening on a rebuke — she found herself in his arms being thoroughly kissed. Kissed witless; when he released her, she'd forgotten what she'd wanted to say.

Lips curving wickedly, he tweaked a curl, and, one hand on her bottom, turned her toward the carriage.

She kept her parasol up all the way home to hide her blush from his sisters. The man was a rake! His fingers now rested not at her nape but even more possessively, heavy at the curve where her shoulder met her neck.

The most amazing discovery was that she liked his fingers there — liked feeling his touch, the weight of his hand. The sensation of skin to skin.

The realization kept her silent — occupied — all the way home.