On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 5

The surest way to manage Amelia was, not just to keep the reins in his hands, but to use them. To drive her, distract her, so she didn't have time to filch said reins from his grasp.

That established, Luc escorted her, together with his sisters and Fiona, to the balloon ascension, and through judicious dalliance kept her on tenterhooks the entire time — kept her attention riveted on him. She didn't even notice the other gentlemen who unsuccessfully vied for her smiles.

The following day, confident he now had her measure, confident he could keep her distracted sufficiently to draw out their unexpected courtship until the ton yawned, nodded, and thought no more of it, he agreed to escort his mother and sisters, Fiona, Amelia, and her mother, to the Hartingtons' al fresco luncheon in the grounds of Hartington House.

After counting heads, he sent a note to Reggie, inviting him, too, to make one of their party. Reggie arrived in Mount Street just as the ladies, young and old, chattering like starlings, descended the front steps of Ashford House. By the curb, the Cynster landau stood waiting, along with Luc's curricle.

Following his female responsibilities down the steps, he smiled at Reggie. Who could count as well as he.

Reggie met his gaze as he strolled up. "You owe me for this." Reggie had already bowed to Minerva and Louise, both friends of his mother's. He nodded, a touch resignedly, at the younger girls. The footman handed them up. Reggie turned to Amelia as she halted beside him.

She'd only just realized Luc's strategy.

Reggie caught her eye. "Have fun. But think twice before agreeing to anything he says."

She grinned and pressed Reggie's hand, then watched as he climbed into the landau, taking the last seat beside Louise. Luc gave the coachman directions, then returned to her side as the landau rumbled off.

It was replaced at the curb by Luc's curricle. He handed her up. She shuffled along, then he joined her. Taking the reins, he nodded to his groom. The pair of matched greys were released; they tossed their heads — Luc calmed them, then, with a flick of his wrist, set them trotting in the wake of the landau.

She had to smile. "Poor Reggie."

"He'll enjoy himself hugely being the undisputed center of attention while he regales them with the latest gossip."

"True." She glanced at Luc's chiseled features. "But if you find escorting us such a trial, why did you suggest it?"

He turned his head; his eyes met hers. His message was quite clear: don't be daft. The glint in the midnight blue depths clearly stated that he had plans for Lady Hartington's alfresco luncheon, plans that had nothing to do with food.

When he looked back at his horses, her heart was beating faster, her mind awash with fanciful imaginings, her nerves tensing with a blend of excitement and anticipation she'd never felt with anyone but him. The effect left her pleasantly expectant, sunnily confident, as they rolled through the streets.

Indeed, as she cast a surreptitious glance over her companion, negligently handsome in a drab, many-caped driving coat thrown over a dark blue morning coat, his long legs encased in tight-fitting buckskin breeches and glossy Hessians, long fingers firm on the reins as he expertly guided the frisky greys through the crowded thoroughfares, she couldn't think of anything she needed to make her day more complete. She had the right man and, if she'd read that glance correctly, his promise of pleasure to come. Smiling, she sat back and watched the houses go by. Hartington House lay to the west amid gently rolling fields. The house stood in an extensive park with large trees, a lake, and many pleasing vistas. Lady Hartington was delighted to welcome them; Luc assumed his customary bored expression, projecting the image that, in view of the number of females attending from his family, he'd felt obliged to lend them his escort.

They joined the other guests on the wide terrace overlooking the lawns, passing through the crowd, nodding, and exchanging greetings. Although Luc remained by her side, his expression, and that air of a man condemned to an afternoon of polite boredom, remained, too.

Amelia glanced at him as they emerged at one side of the crush, in relative if temporary privacy. "I hesitate to mention it, but if you want the ton to believe you've fixed your eye on me, shouldn't you be looking rather more interested in spending time by my side?"

She pretended to admire the distant lake; from the corner of her eye, she saw his lips twitch, felt the weight of his gaze as it rested on her face.

"Actually, no — that might, I feel, be stretching the bounds of the believable. Not" he smoothly continued as she swung to him, eyes flashing, lips parting on an incensed retort, "because my wishing to spend time in your company is not believable" — he captured her gaze—"but because the idea I would allow it to show, like some smitten puppy lolling at your dainty feet, is just a touch incredible." He raised one black brow. "Don't you think?"

A callow youth, an eager puppy — she couldn't remember him ever being like that. Throughout his career, he'd always been as he was now — arrogantly distant, aloof — cool. As if there was steel beneath his elegant clothes, concealing and distancing the flesh-and-blood man.

She had to agree; she didn't have to like it. Haughtily inclining her head, she looked away.

Luc fought not to grin knowingly. Sliding his fingers around her wrist, he stroked, then set her hand on his sleeve. "Come — we should circulate."

While they talked to first this group, then that, he cataloged the company. There were few of his ilk present. One or two older men, like Colonel Withersay, intent on bending a pretty widow's ear, and many youthful pups attending in their mothers' trains, still rosy-cheeked, stammeringly eager to hold a girl's reticule while she adjusted her shawl. No husbands — none would have been expected. Given that the Season was drawing to a close, the wolves' attention was also elsewhere; Luc doubted many of his peers were yet awake. Certainly not out of bed, whoever's beds they were gracing.

When Lady Hartington rang a bell, summoning them down to the lawns, where an array of culinary delights was set forth on trestle tables, he led Amelia down and, with his habitual distant grace, assisted her in assembling a plate of select morsels, simultaneously piling his own plate high. Preserving his attitude of resigned boredom — gaining a narrow-eyed, remarkably suspicious look from Reggie — he remained beside Amelia, exchanging mild comments with those who joined them.

Giving all the matrons who, driven by instinct, invariably watched such as he no inkling that he harbored any intention of working his wiles on any of the sweet innocents present certainly not on the fair beauty by his side.

The sun rose higher; the day grew warmer. Her ladyship's culinary offerings were consumed with relish, as was her wine cup.

As he'd expected, once their visceral hunger was satisfied, all the young things developed a longing to explore the famous grotto by the lake. Their mothers wanted nothing more than to stay seated in the shade and exchange desultory conversation. It consequently fell to Reggie and a host of bright-eyed youths to escort the bevy of giggling girls across the lawns, through the trees, and around the lake to the grotto.

He didn't have to say a word; all he had to do was wait for the moment his mother and Louise looked across to where he and Amelia remained seated at a table to one side of the lawn. The giggling girls had gathered into a brightly hued pack and were bustling across the lawns, parasols bobbing, a few dark coats amid the crush.

His mother caught his eye, raised her brows. Louise merely looked amused.

As if responding to a maternal hint, he assumed his most weary expression and glanced at Amelia. "Come — we should follow."

She was the only one close enough to read his eyes, to gain any sense that acting as overseeing gooseberry was not his goal. Her gaze fixed on his face, she gave him her hand. "Indeed — I'm sure the grotto will be fascinating."

Luc didn't reply, but rose and drew her to her feet. The sun was beaming down; he had to let her put up her parasol, then, side by side, some distance in the rear, they set off to follow the chattering horde.

He wondered whether anyone bar Louise had correctly interpreted his mother's questioning look. Minerva wasn't the least worried about her daughters; her question had more to do with what he was about. She couldn't fathom his tack, and was wondering…

He had every intention of leaving her guessing. There were some things mothers didn't need to know.

The lawns ended in a belt of parkland; beyond, the lake lay flat and reflective under a cerulean sky. Once in the trees' shade, he slid his hands into his pockets and slowed his pace, his gaze on the group ahead.

Amelia glanced at him and slowed, too. "I've never been to the grotto. Is it worthwhile?"

"It won't be today." Luc nodded at the gaggle ahead. "They'll be there."

The distance between them and the group was steadily increasing.

"However, if you've a mind to be adventurous…" He slanted her a glance. "There's somewhere else we might go."

She met his gaze calmly. "Where?"

He took her hand and drew her away, through the trees, through a stand of shrubs onto a narrow path that twisted and turned, eventually climbing the man-made hill into the base of which the grotto had been carved. The hilltop formed part of the created landscape; a stone seat with a thyme cushion was placed to give a superb view over the fields to the west. Laurels had been groomed to shade the bench; with an appreciative sigh, Amelia sat and furled her parasol.

From far below came a distant giggle, carried on the updraft from the lake. After surveying the landscape, Luc turned; his dark eyes briefly surveyed her, then he sat beside her, leaning back, at ease, one arm along the back of the seat.

Amelia waited, then turned her head and studied him, relaxed, outrageously handsome with the breeze feathering his dark hair, a potent and dangerous attraction in the long lines of his sprawled limbs. After a moment of considering the view, he looked at her. Met her gaze, searched her eyes.

She was about to say something — very likely something caustic — when he lifted his free hand. He reached for her face, but didn't touch. Instead, his fingers twined with a ringlet bobbing by her ear. He wound the lock taut, then, very gently, tugged.

Captured her gaze as he drew her closer, and closer, until those long fingers slid about her nape, urging her nearer, until she drew so close her lids lowered, her lips parted, her gaze fell to his lips. Until at the last his thumb slid beneath her jaw and tipped her face up, and those long, lean lips met hers.

He hadn't moved but had encouraged her to come to him; it was the same with the kiss. His lips moved on hers, hard, assured; he lured her with promises, with teasing glimpses of all she could have, all the pleasures he could give her, and would. If she wished it.

If she made the decision and came into his arms, parted her lips, and offered him her mouth. Gave herself to him…

She shifted nearer, her parasol sliding from her lap as she raised her hands to his chest, leaned nearer yet, and let the kiss deepen, encouraged him further. A thought flitted through her brain — this was why he was so successful with the ton's ladies, why they flocked to him, vying for his attention.

He knew he didn't need to press, that all he had to do was invite, raise the possibility, and any lady who had ever got close enough to sense the sheer virility of his body, to feel his fingers stroke her wrist, to experience the sensation of his lips on hers, would accept.

Unlike other ladies, she knew him well, knew the image of lazy, undriven sensuality was a facade. Even as he drew her deeper into the giddy pleasures of their kiss, his fingers sliding free of her curl, his hands stroking down to her waist, gripping and lifting her more definitely to him so she was all but lying atop him as he eased back against the seat, she was well aware that that facade was wafer-thin, that he was perfectly capable of pressing, of demanding, commanding a surrender, of ultimately taking all he wished.

The power was there, the power to compel any woman to be his — to want to be his. She could feel it in the shifting muscles of his chest as his arms closed around her, locking her lightly to him, could feel it in the lips that continued to hold hers — effortlessly. An inherently male power, primitive, a touch frightening — scarifying, given that that very power was one she would have to contend with, deal with, treat with, every day for the rest of her life.

She shivered at the thought. He sensed it. A fractional hiatus was all the warning she got, then his hands firmed on her back, his lips and tongue hardened, and he ravished her mouth, ripped her senses from her — and she could think no more.

Could only follow mindlessly where he led, into a whirlpool of sensation, of steadily increasing desire. She gasped, tried to pull back and find her mental feet; his hand left her back to slide once more along her throat, cupping her nape, tangling in her curls as he ruthlessly drew her back into their kiss, into the rising flames.

Their heat was insidious, beckoning, tempting… she sank into them. Relaxed, let go…

Sighing softly into his mouth, she gave up any thought of managing the moment, settled, instead, simply to let herself feel. Experience the too-knowing caress of his fingertips down her throat, down over the exposed skin above her neckline, down over the curve of one breast. Those wandering fingers traced, teased, then returned to flirt with the tiny ruffle edging her bodice. A longing was growing inside her, unfulfilled; she shifted, murmured, the sound trapped between their lips.

He understood. His fingers returned to the swell of her breast, and traced again, more slowly. Again, then again; each time his touch grew heavier with intent while her flesh firmed and her skin heated. Then his fingers curved, and he cupped her softness.

Sensation flashed through her, immediately melting into a warm tide that spread like warmed honey through her. His wicked fingers tensed, flexed — he closed his hand, then kneaded; nerves she didn't know she possessed came alive. Pure pleasure washed through her when his other hand left her back to minister to her other breast. Eyes closed, her mouth all his, still captured in the drugging sensuality of a slow, deep kiss, she gave herself up to the sensation of his hands on her breasts, to the heat and the fire slowly building, to the tightness, the ache he both evoked and appeased.

It was a revelation that anything could feel quite so good, quite so satisfying, yet there was more, she knew, more she yet wanted, more her awakening body yearned for. Within minutes, she was very certain — more she had to have.

Luc broke their kiss, but only to skate his lips along her jaw to find the delicate hollow beneath her ear. He didn't need to think to know what she wanted — to know that he could take as he wished. Beyond a distant watching brief to ensure their privacy, which, given the composition of Lady Hartington's company, he was certain would remain undisturbed, his senses were focused on the woman in his arms, on the tantalizing promise of the svelte body beneath his hands.

He'd had women aplenty, yet this one… he put the difference he was too experienced not to notice in the strength of his own desire down to the fact she had for so long been a forbidden delight. A forbidden delight he could now sample, and subsequently savor whenever he wished. However he wished. That thought, barely conscious, fueled his need, but he shackled it, played to hers instead, confident in the knowledge that ultimately he would have all he wanted, all he wished — every wicked dream completely and thoroughly satisfied.

Her shallow breaths stirred the hair at his temple, caressed his skin with tendrils of temptation, evocative as sin. He sent his lips lower, cruising the length of her throat, along skin like ivory silk, delicate and fine. Pressing his lips to the base of her throat, he found her pulse beating under that fine skin, a speeding tattoo that urged him on, as did the small fingers that clenched on his chest, creasing his shirt, the rake of her nails just enough to awake a need of his own, to have her hands on his bare skin.

The thought of naked skin sent his attention to the mounds that filled his hands. Full and firm, heated, swollen. The buttons of her bodice were straining, easy to slip free; the ribbon straps of her chemise were fastened with tiny bows that unraveled at a tug.

A quick shuffle of fingers and hands, and her naked breasts were in his palms. She gasped; her lashes fluttered, but she didn't open her eyes. Didn't look down.

Lips curving, he raised his head, found her lips again, unsurprised when she kissed him ravenously. Riding the tide, he waited, then slid deep and took command, once again sent her senses whirling while his hands played, and learned her. Found the peaks of her breasts, niched tight, tweaked gently, then slowly squeezed… until she gasped again, until she broke the kiss and lifted her head, struggling for breath.

He ducked his head, let his lips trail down her throat, over the fine skin covering her collarbone, then lower still to the soft upper curve of her breast. The heat of his lips touched her and she stilled, quivering… he didn't pause but licked, then laved, then opened his mouth and took the peak in, curled his tongue about the tip, and gently rasped.

The sound she made was neither gasp nor sob but pure shocked surprise. Pleased surprise. He continued to feast, holding her steady over him, watching her face from beneath his lashes as he pleasured her — and himself. His first taste of her flesh would remain blazoned in his mind — the piquancy of knowing no other had ever tasted her, touched her, like this.

He'd gradually urged her upward; her hip now rode against his stomach, one slender, decidedly feminine thigh caressing his rampant erection. She could not be unaware of his state, yet he sensed no retreat, no sudden maidenly reserve — no panic.

A fact that only sharpened his desire, a desire that flared when he caught a glimpse of bright sapphire beneath her lids, and realized she was watching. Watching him pay homage to her breasts, watching him feast on her bounty.

He caught her gaze, held it.

Deliberately curled his tongue about one tight bud, deliberately, and slowly, rasped — just hard enough to shatter her composure — then he suckled, and she caught her breath on a gasp. Closed her eyes. Slid one hand from his chest to his nape; head bowing, she held him to her, a surrender as explicit as the quiver that raced through her when he drew her flesh deeper still.

His hand left her breast, sliding down, over her hip, pausing to caress her derriere before sliding around, along her thigh, reaching for her skirt—

She sank against him, soft, pliant, urgent — a flagrant invitation.

Between them, he splayed his hand over her upper thigh, tensed to slide his fingers inward, searching—

He stopped. Remembered.

Where they were — what they were supposed to be doing.

Taking things one step further.

Not ten.

He lifted his head, found her lips, and kissed her — took a dark pleasure in ravaging her mouth, taking from her in that way what he would not yet take from her more explicitly.

Yet.

He stifled his groan, his body's protest, with that promise. This was only a temporary state — a tactic in his greater campaign. A campaign he was determined to win without granting her any concessions.

Forcing his hands from their absorption, he gripped her hips and held her to him, stealing a moment to glory in her suppleness, in the evidence of how well she would, when the time came, suit him, taking in the womanly warmth that ultimately, when the time came, would ease his pain.

Sensing him drawing away through their kiss, she broke it herself, lifting her head to look down at him. She frowned. "What's the matter? Why have you stopped?" He debated the wisdom of suggesting that, all things considered, she should be thanking him he had. Lying beneath her, he studied her face, taking in the fact that fate was having a hearty laugh at his expense. She didn't want him to stop — she'd be quite happy if he drew her back down, kissed her swollen cherry red lips, and — It took serious willpower to drag in a breath. "Timing." The flash in her eyes jerked his wits into action. "As in" — he lowered his gaze to the tempting white mounds inches from his face—"we wouldn't want to rush things to such an extent that you were overwhelmed."

Settling one arm across her hips, anchoring her to him, he sent the fingers of his right hand dancing across the edge of her gown, teasing, tantalizing, flirting anew.

She shivered, watching through downcast eyes. "Overwhelmed?"

The frown in her eyes was fading, but hadn't yet disappeared.

Surreptitiously watching her face, he chose his words carefully. "There's so much to experience, so much I could show you, and after the first time, it's never quite the same. Never so… excruciating in its novelty."

The frown remained.

Hooking a finger into her loosened bodice, he drew the fabric down, reexposing one pert nipple. With the pad of his thumb, he circled the aureole, applying just the right degree of pressure.

Her lids fell; she caught a shaky breath. "Oh. I see."

"Hmm. Given our situation, I thought you might prefer to take the long road, see all the sights, visit all the temples along the way" — he caught her gaze—"so to speak."

Huge, ever-so-slightly dazed cornflower blue eyes blinked at him. "Are there a lot of… temples?"

His lips curved spontaneously. "Several. Many are missed because people rush." He shifted his hand to her other breast and repeated the subtle torture, holding her gaze all the while, intensely aware of the ripples of sensual tension he was sending spiraling through her. "We have three weeks yet… it seems only sensible to see all we can. Visit as many temples as we can. As many places of worship."

Her eyes held his. He was aware to his bones of every breath she took, of the rise and fall of the soft flesh beneath his fingers, of the throb of her heartbeat against his chest, and that deeper throb between her thighs, in the heated spot above his abdomen.

Her lashes fluttered down and she sighed. On the exhalation she went all but boneless, sinking against him, all resistance flown. Her hips shifted, the inner faces of her thighs quite deliberately caressing him.

He managed not to react, but one part of his anatomy was beyond his control. She peeked at his face, ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. "I would have thought you'd be more urgent."

He managed not to grit his teeth. "It's a matter of control."

"Well, you're the expert, I suppose…"

He couldn't manage any reply. She glanced down, and he realized his thumb had seized — he set it sliding again, around and around.

"Is there really that much more to savor?"

"Yes." Not a lie. His gaze had fixed once more on one tightly niched nipple; it was an effort to draw enough breath to sigh. "But we've run out of time today."

He tweaked her chemise back up. With a resigned sigh of her own, she helped him set her gown to rights. But when he reached for her waist and gripped, intending to lift her from him, she stayed him, sliding one hand past his jaw, curling her fingers into his hair.

She looked down into his eyes, studied them, her gaze direct, then she smiled. "Very well — we'll do it your way."

Leaning down, she kissed him — long, lingering, and sweet. As she lifted her head, she whispered against his lips, "Until next time… and the next temple on our way."

He was a man it was impossible to manipulate or drive; she'd known that for years. The only way to deal with him was to take whatever he offered, and work it to her own ends.

Thus Amelia concluded. Consequently, she reassessed Luc's insistence on a courtship of four weeks, focusing, this time, on the opportunities such an undertaking might afford her. Opportunities she hadn't, prior to Lady Hartington's al fresco luncheon, realized existed.

Those opportunities were not inconsequential.

What price a gentleman — one as experienced as Luc Ashford — promising to open a lady's eyes — slowly? Step by step. In a nonovenvhelming way.

Her attitude to his stipulation of four weeks underwent a dramatic change.

He'd agreed to marry her, to make a June bride of her; she knew he would. With her primary goal secured, there was no reason she couldn't participate in extracurricular developments — and the prospect he'd laid before her was beyond her wildest dreams.

She spent the next day in a pleasant daze — reliving, planning, wondering… by the time she curtsied to Lady Orcott that evening, then, on Luc's arm, followed his mother into her ladyship's crowded ballroom, she was biting her tongue against the urge baldly to ask which particular temple lay on their immediate horizon.

"There's Cranwell and Darcy." Luc steered her toward the group containing those two gentlemen, cronies of sorts.

Amelia acknowledged the introductions. Miss Parkinson, a serious but wealthy bluestocking, was also present; she nodded, her gaze lingering disapprovingly on Amelia's gown of apricot silk.

The same gown incited Cranwell's and Darcy's immediate if unspoken approbation, possibly accounting for Miss Parkinson's disaffection.

"Daresay," Cranwell drawled, dragging his gaze from the gown's low neckline and the expanse of her upper breasts it revealed, "that like us, you're finding the tail end of the Season fatiguing?"

She smiled sunnily. "Not at all. Why, just yesterday I spent a delightful afternoon discovering new landscapes at Hartington House."

Cranwell blinked. "Ah." He would know to a rock what amenities Hartington House afforded. "The grotto?"

"Oh, no." Laying her hand fleetingly on his arm, she assured him, "These were much more interesting, much more novel and enticing vistas."

"Indeed?" Darcy shifted nearer, clearly intrigued. "Tell me — were these vistas to your liking?"

"Very much so." Her eyes full of laughter, she let her gaze slide to Luc. He was wearing his bored social mask, but his eyes… she let the curve of her lips deepen, then looked back at Darcy. If Luc insisted on dawdling through the evening chatting with friends before consenting to show her the next temple along their way, he would have to bear the consequences. "Indeed, I fear I'm addicted — I'm eager to experience my next revelation."

Noting shrewdly speculative glints in both Cranwell's and

Darcy's eyes, she smiled at Miss Parkinson. "New landscapes are so fascinating when one has the time to examine them, don't you think?"

Without a blush, Miss Parkinson replied, "Indeed. Especially when in the right company."

Amelia brightened. "Quite. That goes without saying, I believe."

Miss Parkinson nodded, her lips perfectly straight. "Only last week, I was at Kincaid Hall — have you visited the folly there?"

"Not recently, and definitely not in the right company."

"Ah, well — you should be sure to take advantage should the opportunity arise." Miss Parkinson rearranged her shawl. "Like you, my dear Miss Cynster, I'm quite looking forward to the upcoming house parties — so many opportunities to further one's appreciation of nature."

"Oh, unquestionably." Delighted to have found such a ready wit with whom to spar, Amelia was happy to further their game, one that was making all three gentlemen decidedly uncomfortable. "It's a pleasure to be able to further develop one's understanding of natural phenomena. All ladies should be encouraged to do so."

"Assuredly. While it used to be thought that only gentlemen had the required understanding to appreciate such matters, we are lucky to live in enlightened times."

Amelia nodded. "These days, there's no impediment to any lady's broadening her horizons."

How long they might have continued in such vein, discomfiting their male listeners, none of whom dared interject, they were destined never to learn; the orchestra chose that moment to start the introduction to a cotillion. All three men were eager to end the conversation; intrigued by the possibilities suggested, Lord Cranwell solicited Miss Parkinson's hand.

Lord Darcy bowed to Amelia. "If you would do me the honor, Miss Cynster?"

She smiled and gave him her hand, at the last throwing an innocent smile at Luc. He wasn't enamored of cotillions, and as they could still only dance twice with each other in one night, he'd wait for the waltzes.

His eyes, very dark, met hers briefly; he nodded a crisp acknowledgment as Darcy led her to join one of the rapidly forming sets.

While she danced, twirled, smiled, and chatted, Amelia considered that nod — or rather, its underlying quality. A certain tension now lay between them, a nuance of emotion not previously present. By the end of the cotillion, she'd decided she approved.

Darcy was perfectly ready to monopolize her, but Luc reappeared and, with smooth arrogance and not a single word, reclaimed her hand, setting it on his sleeve. Darcy's brows rose fleetingly, but he was too wise to press; Luc's actions spoke of an as-yet-unannounced understanding.

She smiled and chatted, but after a few minutes, Luc excused them and drew her away. They ambled through the crowd; glancing at his profile, she hid a smug smile and patiently waited.

Through innumerable encounters with friends, through the first waltz, and supper. By the time Luc drew her into his arms for their second, and last, waltz of the night, she'd lost all touch with patience.

"I thought," she said, as they whirled down the floor, "that we agreed to start exploring new vistas."

He raised a brow — as usual, wearily. "This venue is somewhat restricting."

She wasn't that innocent. "I would have thought an expert in the field, such as you are so widely purported to be, would be up to the challenge."

The subtly emphasized words rang warning bells. Luc met her eyes, something until then he'd avoided; he had no need to see the irritation sparking in the blue. There was no evidence of stubbornness in her face — no set jaw, no tight lips — no change at all in the expectant tension that from the moment he'd met her in his hall earlier that evening had invested the supple body now supported in his arms; nevertheless, he could sense that steely strength of purpose he knew she possessed burgeoning by the instant.

Lifting his head, he scanned the room. "The opportunities are limited." Orcott House was not large; the ballroom was of simple design.

"Be that as it may…"

He looked at her, again met her eyes. Confirmed that the threat he'd thought he'd heard beneath her words was intentional. Instinctively replied, "Don't be foolish."

If he could have called back the words, he would have — instantly. But she'd surprised him — left him inwardly blinking at the preposterous notion that she might cross swords with him—him of all men — her goal being to force him to indulge her in some shameless dalliance…

The idea was crazy — upside down and inside out. Totally contrary to how the world operated — his world, at least.

The sudden flash of blue fire that lit her eyes suggested he prepare himself for upside down. Inside out. And worse.

Amelia smiled sweetly as the waltz ended. "Foolish? Oh, no." She stepped out of his arms as they halted, registering the fact that his fingers started to flex, wanting to seize her, that he had to force himself to let her go. Her eyes on his, she let her smile linger as his hands fell from her; she turned away, holding his gaze to the last. "I've something more potent in mind."

Outrageous provocation was what she intended, what she served up in lavish degree. She was twenty-three, and in this arena thoroughly experienced — there was little she dared not do. Especially with Luc on her heels.

She flirted and teased to the top of her bent — and watched his temper rise. It was never easy to provoke it, or him — he was far too controlled, even to his emotions. But he didn't like seeing her smiling and laughing, inviting the attention of other men. He definitely didn't approve of her leaning close, letting her natural charms invite inspection — an invitation other gentlemen saw no reason to refuse.

After six years in the ballrooms, she knew exactly which men to choose, which she could incite and tease with abandon and a clear conscience. The same males were the best for her purpose in another sense — they were the most likely to step in and pick up the gauntlet she made no bones about throwing down.

She was courting no risk — that she knew. There was not a chance Luc would allow any other man to seize that which he considered his.

The only question that remained was how long it would be before he capitulated.

And seized her himself.

Twenty minutes was the answer. Deserting one group of stunned rakes with an openly seductive laugh, she stepped back, ignored Luc at her shoulder, and set off through the crowd. An instant later, she heard a muttered curse — not a polite one — as Luc, on her heels, saw the group she now had in her sights. The gathering included Cranwell, Darcy, and Fitcombe, another of his peers.

He said not a word, just seized her hand, hauled her to the nearest wall, flung open a door she hadn't even noticed — one used by the servants — and stalked through, towing her behind him. Two shocked footmen carrying trays dodged about them, then Luc threw open another door, one leading into a normal corridor, dark and unlighted. He stepped through, pulled her after him, then slammed the door shut, spun her about, and backed her against it.

She blinked into his face, now devoid of any polite mask — or indeed, any politeness at all. His eyes were narrow, dark shards boring into hers; his lips were set in a thin line. Stripped of all softness, the chiseled planes were forbidding, shadowed, harsh in the gloom.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The words were hard, incisive, his voice deep and menacing.

She held his gaze, calmly replied, "Getting us here."

With one forearm braced on the door, his other hand at her waist, holding her immobile, he leaned closer, his face intimidatingly inches from hers, a bare inch between their bodies.

Intimidated was not what she felt, a fact she allowed him to see.

His expression grew grimmer. "What the hell do you imagine you'll experience in a dim corridor?"

She held his gaze, slid her hands up, curled her fingers into his lapels, then raised her brows, and evenly stated, "Something I haven't experienced before."

A blatant challenge, one he answered so swiftly her head spun.

His lips claimed hers, hard, forceful. She expected to be crushed against the door, but although his hand remained, pinning her against the panel, keeping her precisely where he wished, he didn't close the distance between them, didn't use his hard body to trap hers.

He didn't have to, didn't need to — just the kiss, blatantly sexual, unforgivingly explicit, was enough to rip her wits away, to shred any thought of escape. Likewise any thought

Appeasing him — she hadn't intended to, yet quickly found herself doing precisely that, driven to it by the unrelenting demand of his lips, his tongue, of his unquestioned expertise. He knew precisely what he was doing — even more, he knew what he was doing to her. He gave no quarter but quickly, efficiently, ruthlessly drove her to the point where surrender was her only option.

She tried to slide her arms up and wind them about his neck, but his hand at her waist, braced to preserve the small distance between them, prevented that. Instead, she spread her fingers and slid them into his thick hair, marveling at the feel of the heavy silky locks tumbling through her digits. Drew him deeper into their kiss — gave him all he wished. Invited him to take more.

She didn't even feel his fingers on her laces, only registered the fact he'd been busy when he shifted and the hand that had risen to cradle her face drifted down, hard fingertips trailing down her throat, down to the low neckline of the gown — only then did she realize her bodice was gaping. His knowing fingers didn't hesitate, but slid beneath the silk seeking and finding, then he eased one breast free, his fingers already tight about the pebbled tip.

His touch was possessive and sure. He tweaked, rolled, kneaded, until she was inwardly gasping, reeling, the sensations aroused by his hand at her breast clashing with those evoked by his ceaseless, devastatingly persistent possession of her mouth. Of her lips. Of her breath.

She was close to fainting when he lifted his head, only to duck lower and take the sensitive bud he'd tortured into the hot wetness of his mouth. To lick, lave, suckle — until, head back against the door, she could no longer mute her cries.

He stirred then; the hand cradling her breast slid away. Then he rested it, palm flat, fingers splayed, on her stomach. Kneaded in a way she hadn't expected — hadn't expected to make her knees weak.

Eyes closed, her fingers clenched in his hair, she gasped as his lips tugged at her nipple. Then his fingers slid lower; her legs quaked.

Suddenly, it was only the iron grip of his hand at her waist that was keeping her upright, pinned against the door.

Through two layers of silk, his questing fingers found her curls. Stroked, teased, in some odd way taunted. Parted them. Heat pooled within her, deep between her thighs. His fingers didn't pause but continued their gentle probing, touching soft flesh that no other had ever touched, albeit through the screen of silk.

He didn't part her thighs, didn't press his hand between. His mouth was still hot, greedy on her breast, distracting her. Then, with one fingertip, he touched her — touched some spot she hadn't known she possessed — gently, knowingly. Persistently.

The sharp sensation of his mouth at her breast, the novel, wholly unexpected, shockingly intimate caress of that marauding fingertip all but brought her to her knees.

Her skin felt afire, her lungs had long seized. Then his finger slowed, and he pressed — breathless, she gasped his name.

To her surprise, he lifted his head — not to look at her, but to stare down the corridor.

Then he cursed softly, straightened, drew his hands from her. She started to slide down the door.

He cursed again and grabbed her. "There's someone coming."

The words were a low hiss; he was almost as quick setting her bodice to rights as he had been disarranging it. That done, he spun her around, held her to him, hauled open the door, and bundled her through before him. He shut the door carefully, silently…

They stood in the now dark and deserted servants' corridor, his arm around her waist, holding her against him. She clung to his arm even though she no longer needed the support.

From beyond the door came voices, footsteps — a group of people passed by in the corridor where less than a minute ago they had been.

The footsteps faded; Luc heaved a relieved sigh. Close — too close. He glanced at Amelia, silent and alert; without a word, he urged her on toward the door into the ballroom.

"Wait." He stopped her just before the door. They could hear the sounds of the ball still in full swing. It seemed like eons since they'd left.

She'd halted before him. Even in the darkness, he had no trouble redoing her laces, neatly tying them off.

When he lowered his hands, she glanced at him, then turned and stepped nearer. One hand touching his cheek, she stretched up and kissed him lightly. "No more?" she murmured as their lips parted.

He didn't attempt to mute his growl. "That was more than enough for one night."