On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 7

The evening of the next day loomed as a disaster; if Luc could have avoided the Countess of Cork's masquerade, he would have, but the old harridan was a longtime friend of the family — attendance for him was compulsory. That being so, there was no argument powerful enough to prevent Amelia attending, too; she was — and had made it perfectly clear she was — flown with high hopes for the evening.

Ascending the steps of the Cork mansion with Amelia, cloaked and masked, on his arm, he was uncomfortably aware of the irony; he'd never felt so torn in his life. At least his mother, and hers, and their cronies, would not be attending. Tonight was largely for those of his and Amelia's ilk, and those more youthful who aspired to similar status.

Handing their invitations to the butler, he ushered Amelia into the crowd thronging her ladyship's front hall. Those new to such entertainments had paused there; masked and unidentifiable in dominos, they were looking around, trying to recognize others. A hand at her back, he urged Amelia on.

"The ballroom," he said when she hesitated and glanced back at him. "It'll be less packed in there."

At one point, he had to take the lead and shoulder a way through, but his prophecy proved correct; in the ballroom, they could at least breathe.

"I'd no idea it would be such a crush. Not so late in the Season." Up on her toes, Amelia was craning her neck, trying to get her bearings.

"If masquerades aren't crowded, they tend to miss the mark."

She looked at him. "Because it's too easy to guess who everyone is?"

He nodded brusquely and took her arm. Not that anyone would have trouble identifying her regardless of the crowds; those cornflower blue eyes, wide behind her mask, were distinctive, especially when combined with the flash of golden curls beneath her domino's hood.

"Here." Halting, he tugged her hood forward, further shielding her face and hair.

She looked up at him. "It doesn't really matter if people guess who I am. I've already found my partner for the night."

True, but… "Given your hopes for the evening, it would be wiser to avoid drawing unnecessary attention our way."

She was wearing a half mask; he watched her face clear, saw a seductive smile curve her lips as she inclined her head. "On that I must bow to your greater experience."

Sliding her hand onto his arm, she came alongside — into the position where he now expected her to be; he felt most comfortable when she was there, beside him, her hand on his sleeve. Stifling a sigh, he consented to stroll down the ballroom.

In more normal circumstances, he would be assessing the room and the house for places to which he might later whisk the lady he had on his arm so they could indulge in private pleasures. Tonight, with the lady who currently commanded most of his waking thoughts, he was more concerned with, if at all possible, avoiding precisely those same pleasures.

"Amelia." Nothing for it but to take up the slack in her reins. And try to turn her. "Despite what you're thinking, we're still rolling too fast down our chosen road."

It was a moment before she looked up at him, and by then her chin had set. "You aren't, by any chance, going to suggest we backtrack?"

"No." He knew she'd never accept that. "But…" How to explain that despite what he'd led her to believe, there were only so many temples prior to intercourse at which it was possible to worship? At least while retaining his sanity. "Take it from me, we can't go much further than we've already gone. Yet."

To his surprise, she didn't stiffen, fix him with a glare, and argue. Instead, she halted, faced him; her eyes searched his, then she smiled — one of those smiles that every instinct he possessed distrusted — and stepped closer so they could converse without being overheard.

"Are you saying you won't seduce me yet?"

He felt his face harden; his eyes locked on hers, he thought carefully before confirming, "Yet."

Her smile deepened; she stepped closer still. Raised a hand and laid her fingers along his cheek. "Stop being so noble." She kept her voice low, a sirenlike murmur. "I'm perfectly ready to be seduced. By you." She studied his eyes, then tilted her head. "Is it because you've known me for so long?"

It was so tempting to say yes — to claim that as his excuse and trade on her empathy.

"It's got nothing to do with how long I've known you." He bit the words out, but she didn't take umbrage, instead simply waited, her eyes steady on his, her brows faintly rising in question.

Her hand had fallen to his chest; she was so close, she was almost in his arms. A quick glance around confirmed that, despite his distraction, his rake's instincts had been functioning normally; they were at the end of the ballroom in a shadowy alcove where a corridor joined the main room. In the circumstances, it seemed natural to slide his arms around her and keep her where she was.

While his mind raced, trying to formulate a reason she'd accept for delaying her seduction until he'd come to grips with what said seduction now meant — would mean — to him. "I've only been openly wooing you for ten days. Full-scale seduction at this point would be distinctly precipitate."

She laughed and settled against his chest, her face tilted up to his. "Why? How long do you usually take to inveigle a lady into bed?"

"That is not the point."

"True." Her smiling eyes remained on his. "But if we did indulge, who would know? I'm not going to come out in spots, or convert into a simpering ninny, or do anything else to alert anyone to the fact."

He wasn't worried about her changing — he was worried about him. About his lack of understanding, potential lack of control, of the primitive need she evoked in him. That need was even now driving him to fall in, immediately if not sooner, with her plans. That need wanted her beneath him, wanted her surrender — wanted her.

But it was a need unlike any he'd ever known — infinitely more powerful, more compelling. It was a need that drove him as no desire ever had.

He looked into her eyes. "Believe me, we need to put off your seduction, for at least another ten days."

Amelia listened to the words, even more listened to his tone. Hard, ruthless — decided. Yet he'd said the words, discussed the point — he hadn't just tried dictatorially to force her to fall in with his plans. That, she was well aware, was his more customary mode of dealing with females. Explaining himself, even as poorly as he had — hardly surprising given he got so little practice — had never been his style. Yet he'd tried. Tried to gain her cooperation rather than insisting on her obedience.

So she continued to smile at him. "Another week and more?" She couldn't imagine it, didn't believe it would happen. After their recent interactions, especially in Georgina's orchard, especially that last, unexpectedly revealing kiss on the path back to the villa, she was confident matters between them were progressing precisely as she'd hoped. As she'd dreamed. He certainly viewed her as a woman — a woman he desired — but there was more to their interaction than that.

As a loving future husband, he was coming along perfectly — far more so than she'd expected at this relatively early stage. Which suggested she should treat his current vacillation with some degree of magnanimity.

Letting her lips curve more definitely, she reached up and wound her arms about his neck. "Very well. If you wish."

The suspicion that flashed into his dark eyes made her smile even more; she drew his head down, drew his lips to hers. "For the present, let's leave things to develop as they will."

Their lips met, sealing the agreement; Luc could barely believe his luck. Indeed, as their lips clung, then parted, only to come together again, driven by mutual need, one part of his mind was viewing his relief with cynical skepticism.

Which continued when they lifted their heads and, by unvoiced agreement, joined the couples on the dance floor for the first waltz. As he whirled her down the room, aware to his bones that she was simply enjoying the moment, enjoying the sensation of being in his arms, swept away by the music, he couldn't but suspect her acquiescence.

The last time he'd tried to deny her, to slow their slide into intimacy, she'd stuck her nose in the air and swanned off to flirt with other men. Luckily, at a masquerade, while the possibilities to do the same were theoretically unlimited, in practice, she was already in his arms — and at a masquerade, there was nothing to stop him from keeping her there.

He was an accomplished rake; holding a lady's attention, fixing it, not on him but on the illicit ruffling of her senses that a masquerade so lent itself to, was all but second nature. Sliding into the habit — touching her, caressing her beneath her voluminous domino, stealing kisses in the shadows — required no thought. And when they both grew too hungry to be satisfied with what could be accomplished in the ballroom, he saw no danger in finding a quiet nook in which to further indulge their senses.

He didn't see the danger at all.

Habit had him leading her to a small study — a room so small no one else would consider it. Even better, a room with a lock, one he turned. A desk sat to one side of the narrow room; in the room's center stood a large admiral's chair with a black leopardskin spread before it.

With a laugh of pure expectation, Amelia put back her hood and flipped the sides of her domino back over her shoulders. Stepping past her, he dropped into the admiral's chair. Tugging his mask free, he tossed it aside and reached for her.

She came onto his lap, into his arms in a froth of slippery silks, eagerly reaching for his face to bring it to hers. His lips on hers, he found the ties of her domino and quickly undid them; the heavy cloak slid down and away to pool on the floor at his feet. She dispensed with her half mask, flinging it blindly away, then she wriggled closer yet, sank against him, her hands on his chest, her lips teasing and taunting — flagrantly tempting.

He answered her challenge avidly, ready enough to take what ease they could. They'd attended tonight intending to spend the time in each other's company; there was nothing else they needed to do.

His hands roved her sleek body, roved her curves, possessing as he would. She kissed him with unfeigned delight, openly encouraging.

All too soon they were giddy, both of them, but not from Lady Cork's champagne. Their kisses grew headier, more evocative; she grew softer, he commensurately harder. He'd made a logical rational decision that indulging her with kisses and caresses was only fair; no sense in forgoing such simple pleasures. At no point had he entertained the notion that she could, no matter how hard she tried, overcome his determination not to seduce her.

And she didn't — he wasn't sure she even tried.

It wasn't she who tumbled them from the chair onto the leopardskin rug. It wasn't she who trapped herself beneath him. However, that done, breathless, dizzy, and expectant, she willingly obliged him by dealing with the fiendishly tiny closures of her bodice, revealing her breasts, encouraging him to admire, caress, and taste, once he'd indicated that was his aim.

He'd touched her breasts before, viewed them, feasted on the soft flesh, but before she hadn't given herself to him — he'd simply taken, and she'd acquiesced.

Perhaps it was that, that sublime gesture of acceptance, that caused the change, the irresistible, irreversible alteration in the tenor of their exchange.

The switch caught him unawares, caught him with his defenses, if not down, then in temporary abeyance. Before he understood, before he saw the danger, his lips were on hers, hard and demanding, his hand on her breast, equally insistent, his body heated and hard holding her down, his intention brutally clear.

Before he could think, they both went up in flames.

He'd been there before, in desire's furnace; even though she hadn't, she showed no fear. He kissed her more ravenously, more explicitly than he ever had before; she met him and urged him on.

Her hands were frantic, clenched in his hair, then his shirt was undone and her palms spread across his chest, fingers flexing, sinking in as he rolled, then squeezed one pebbled nipple tight, tighter… until she broke the kiss with a gasp, her body arching under his.

A flagrant invitation — the need it evoked, primitive and unrestrained, slammed into him, rolled over and through him, and shook his laggard wits into place.

One instant of blind clarity was all he gained, but it was enough to realize their present situation was not her fault, but his. In his mind, he knew she was his — his to take whenever he wished, here, now, if that was what he wanted.

He wanted — with a need so acute it was a physical hurt. He hadn't expected his own instincts to betray him, delivering up to him that which was, here and now, his deepest desire.

He could have her now, here; even as his lips returned to hers, even as his body moved over hers, one thought flashed through his mind: and what then? He wasn't ready to face it — this need she drew forth, and all that might flow from it. He didn't know enough yet to feel secure. Indulging it just once might condemn him to… what? He didn't know.

And while he didn't know…

He'd been a captive of the flames often enough to know how to manage them. Now he'd realized the danger, his will was still strong enough to escape the web his own talents had spun.

There was, of course, a price — one he set about paying unstintingly.

Amelia knew this had to be very close to the very last temple on their road; Beneath the staggering heat, an urgency had gripped them — both of them; it drove them on. Her senses could barely cope, yet seemed to have expanded, heightened; her skin was oversensitized, yet greedy for every touch.

She was acutely conscious of her tortured breathing, and his; it was as if their kisses were all that anchored them in the world — they clung to the exchanges as if their lives depended on it. As for their bodies, hers had melted, all resistance gone; his in contrast had only grown harder, as if the steely strength normally infusing his muscles had coalesced into rock-hard rigidity.

Hot, rock-hard rigidity. From the lips ravaging hers, to the hand kneading her naked breast, to the hard columns of his legs tangled with hers. His erection, as hard and hot as the rest of him and even more rigid, was a potent promise of all she hoped would come.

When his hand left her breast, slid over her hip and started to gather and lift her skirt, she stopped breathing entirely — caught in a vise of anticipation, excitement, and sheer overwhelming desire.

A new feeling, that last — never before had she wanted this, not with any other man. With Luc, it was meant to be — she didn't question that; she knew it in her bones.

She felt the touch of cool air; shifting over her, he pushed her skirts and chemise to her waist, leaving them bunched there, his hand sliding immediately to her curls, then farther. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth as he cupped her; the bold rhythm he set up distracted her for an instant — the instant in which he opened her body and slid one finger into her softness.

Her body, no longer hers, reacted, her hips lifting against him. But he didn't let her senses free, holding them to the steady thrusting rhythm of his tongue, echoed by that bold finger.

The heat within her built, and built, until she simply had to break free and breathe. He lifted his head, let her lie back, gasping, panting — she would have writhed but his weight held her down.

She felt him come up on his elbow and shift back. Cracking open her lids, she looked — and saw him looking down to where his hand rhythmically flexed between her naked thighs. His knee held them spread; as she watched, his gaze roamed over her hips, over her bare stomach, up over her midriff, over her rucked skirts to her breasts, still exposed, the peaks tight, pointed, their fine skin flushed.

His expression was hard, etched, driven, yet something in his gaze, in the line of his lips, suggested a softness, an intangible emotion she hadn't before seen in him. Then his gaze rose and touched her face, locked on her eyes.

Between her thighs, his hand shifted; slowly, deliberately, he probed deeper. Then his thumb caressed, circling that spot he'd so often teased.

She caught her breath, closed her eyes, tensed. Then forced her eyes open, forced her limp arms to obey as she reached for him. "Come to me — now."

She caught his shoulders and tugged but he didn't shift. His lips twisted in a half smile. "Not yet." He glanced down again to where his hand played between her thighs, then he slid from her grasp and shifted farther back. "There's one more altar at which I've yet to worship."

What he meant she couldn't imagine, but as he immediately bent his head and set his lips to her navel, she didn't have breath, wits, or inclination to ask. He planted kisses over her stomach, then wended his way lower, rendering the already hot skin more fevered.

The unanticipated caresses, unquestionably illicit, drugged her mind, tantalized her senses. But when he withdrew his hand from between her thighs and set his lips to her curls, she jerked, suddenly unsure. "Luc?"

He didn't answer.

The next touch of his lips made her shriek.

"Luc!"

He paid not the slightest heed — within seconds, she'd lost all hope of stopping him, lost all wish to do so — lost her mind, lost her wits into a maelstrom of physical sensation.

She'd never dreamed that such a thing could be, that a man would touch her like this, there, let alone that he would. She'd wanted him to make her his, and in all ways bar one, he did — in the end, she surrendered, let him take her as he wished, gave herself up to his expertise and floated on the tide of erotic delight he conjured.

Boneless, all resistance stripped away, she let him feast. As ever, his liking for the slow and deliberate, the deliberately thorough, held sway — he took all and more, wound her so tight she thought she would expire, then, at the last, when she could feel the bright glory she'd once before experienced bearing down, about to sweep her away, he entered her with his tongue, too slow, too knowing, and flung her into ecstasy.

Later, he simply held her, and when she tried to protest, kissed her deeply, letting her taste her essence on his lips and tongue.

"Not yet" was all he said.

Later still, they returned to the ballroom where he insisted they waltz and wait for the unmasking so all would know that yes, they were there, in the ballroom where they were supposed to be, then, very correctly, he escorted her home.

Luc called in Upper Brook Street the next morning, only to learn that Amelia had gone walking in the park with Reggie.

He debated for all of two seconds, then headed for the park. He had to talk with her. Privately, but preferably in a safe, public setting.

He saw her before she saw him. She was standing on the lawn with a group of ladies and gentlemen. Pausing under a tree, partially screened by its leafy branches, he considered — her, him, what he was doing there.

Trying to buy time. Time to learn, to understand. To find answers to questions like: when had having a woman become synonymous with commitment? And now it so very strangely was, what did that mean?

He knew very well that the equation would not add up that way with any other woman, yet with Amelia… that's the way it was. No matter what he tried to pretend, no matter what he wished. He'd spent half the night forcing himself to face that truth. And trying to see beyond it.

The first thing he'd seen was the Hightham Hall house party he, Amelia and their mothers and his sisters were committed to attend — three days of unfettered summer entertainments starting tomorrow. At this stage, such a house party was the last thing he needed.

Time was what he needed — time to come to grips with his need for her, to understand it well enough to manage it, to control it. Instincts warred whenever he was close to her — he wanted her, now, yet on another plane knew that was dangerous. It wasn't she who was dangerous, but what she made him feel, and what that feeling might do to him. Being controlled by his emotions was not something that had ever threatened before — and he was adamant he wouldn't allow even this to develop to that extent.

So he was here to sue for mercy. Temporarily.

He sauntered out of concealment just as the group broke up. Lady Collins and Mrs. Wilkinson were late for a luncheon; he greeted them only to bid them farewell, using the distraction of their leaving to greet Amelia and appropriate her hand.

Reggie, on Amelia's other side, noticed, but pretended not to; as the two ladies departed, he tugged down his waistcoat. "Don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind stretching my legs. How about a stroll to the Serpentine?"

The others — Mrs. Wallace, Lady Kilmartin, Lord Humphries and Mr. Johns — greeted the suggestion favorably; as a group, they turned down the graveled path leading to the water.

It wasn't difficult to drop back, to slow their steps until there was sufficient distance between them and the others to talk freely.

Amelia cocked her head, lifted a questioning brow. "I presume there's something on your mind."

The smile that flirted about her lips, the glint in her blue eyes, suggested she knew very well what thought had leapt into his brain the instant he had her to himself again, a soft, female body by his side. Ruthlessly, he squelched it, but didn't take his eyes from hers. "Indeed."

His tone made her blink. Before she could start speculating, he continued, "The Hightham Hall house party. Tomorrow."

The light that leapt into her eyes had him hurrying on, "We need to be careful. I know what you're thinking, but while the venue might appear at first glance to be greatly amenable, in reality, such a crowded and cramped house poses dangers all its own."

Head tilted, she'd listened, her gaze steady on his face. Now she looked ahead. "I had thought that the house party was all but fated in terms of our direction." She glanced at him. "Are you telling me that view is incorrect?"

He nodded. Somehow, he had to convince her not to take advantage of the amenities afforded by a major house party to tempt him further — he felt certain she would try. His aim was to prevent that, in case she succeeded. "The prospect seems ready-made, I grant you, but—"

The others strolled ahead; luckily the Serpentine Walk was quite long. Amelia held her tongue and listened — to what anyone knowing Luc would instantly recognize as a plethora of nervous excuses. From him, given the subject of their conversation, the fact was astonishing.

"I can assure you the outcome risks being far less satisfactory than you might hope." He glanced at her, saw her rising brows, mentally replayed his words, hurriedly amended, "Not in terms of immediate enjoyment, but—"

That he didn't want to take advantage of the house party to further their interaction, to take what surely had to be the ultimate step, was crystal clear. Why was less so.

She let him talk without interruption, hoping to learn more. The situation, his reaction, was so unlike what she'd been expecting — what, knowing him, she had every reason to expect — she was more puzzled than dismayed. This was the man she wanted to marry; he was proving to have more layers than she'd imagined — it behooved her to pay attention.

"Ultimately, we have to consider the fact that any action likely to result in rumors besmirching your name must be avoided at all costs."

He sounded so pompous, she had to fight to keep her lips straight. They reached the end of the Serpentine's banks; the others had turned back toward the lawns. Luc halted, and drew her to face him. His eyes searched hers. "You do see, don't you?"

She studied his dark eyes, confirmed he was indeed worried, but about what she couldn't be sure. Nevertheless, she knew how to respond. She smiled reassuringly. "You know perfectly well I would never do anything to besmirch my name."

He wasn't so sure of her that he jumped to conclusions; his eyes searched hers for confirmation that she meant what he hoped she did. She let her smile deepen and patted his arm, then glanced up the Walk. "Now you'd better take me back before Reggie starts wondering if he did the right thing in allowing us to be alone."

Their mothers had decreed their party would set out for Hightham Hall at nine o'clock the next morning. Reggie's mother was feeling unwell, so he, too, was joining them. To

Luc's mind, that still left him in charge of too many females with insufficient male support — every one of those females could twist Reggie around her little finger.

Together with Reggie, he stood on the pavement and resignedly watched the two traveling carriages sink on their axles as box after box was added to their loads.

"Dashed if they'll wear the half of it." Reggie glanced at the four horses harnessed to the Cynster carriage, which had arrived fifteen minutes earlier already burdened with Amelia's and Louise's trunks and boxes. "Just hope the cattle're up to it."

Luc humphed. "No danger there." Both his and the Cynster stables contained only the best. "But it's going to add at least an hour to the journey." Hightham Hall was in Surrey, on the banks of the Wey.

Reggie watched a footman hand another bandbox up to the Ashford coachman. "Assuming we make it at all."

A flurry of activity drew their eyes to the front door; excitedly chattering, Luc's sisters and Fiona, as usual one of the party, eagerly descended the steps. Luc looked beyond them, caught Cottsloe's eye. The butler stepped back into the house to speed the summons for Luc's curricle.

Reggie was counting bodies; Luc broke the news that he and Amelia would travel separately. Reggie looked surprised. "Wouldn't have thought you'd bother — there'll be plenty of room."

Luc met his eyes. "You've forgotten to count the maids."

Reggie blinked, then groaned.

As she followed her mother and Luc's onto his front steps, Amelia saw Reggie's pained expression, so typical of fashionable males embarking on a trip with female relatives that she had no difficulty guessing his thoughts. Luc's expression was equally typical, but of himself — hard, impassive, impossible to read.

But then he glanced up and saw her, and hesitated, as if suddenly uncertain. She brightened; smiling, calm, and assured, she continued down the steps to his side.

The next moments were filled with orders and — organization, with the questions of who would go where debated and decided, then all the others were handed up to the coaches; Luc shut the last door and stepped back.

"We'll be ahead of you before the river," he told Reggie, who nodded and saluted.

Luc signaled to his coachman; the man swung his whip, the horses leaned into the traces, and the heavy coach ponderously rolled forward. The Cynster carriage followed just as Luc's groom appeared, driving his curricle. The curricle drew up alongside them. Luc watched the coaches until they'd turned the corner, then glanced at her.

She was waiting to catch his eye, to raise her brows, faintly challenging. Stepping close, she murmured, "Stop worrying — everything will be perfectly all right."

He was a full head taller; his shoulders were so broad, standing this close, he shielded her completely. This close, she could feel the sheer male strength of him all but vibrating around her, like a humming in the air she could feel. This close, and the potent sexuality that lurked beneath his elegant facade was rawly apparent, just short of a physical threat.

And despite all of that, there she was, reassuring him over their intimate relationship. Over the pace of said intimate relationship.

Did irony get any more delicious?

Her smiling assurance had the opposite of its intended effect; his dark eyes — still difficult to decipher, but she was getting much better at it — grew even more wary. His brows lowered in more obvious suspicion.

Valiantly resisting an urge to laugh, she smiled into those watchful eyes and patted his arm. "Do stop scowling — you'll scare your horses."

That got her a grim look, but he did stop frowning and handed her up to the curricle. She settled her skirts, decided the sun was not yet high enough to warrant opening her parasol. After exchanging last-minute words with Cottsloe, Luc joined her; in short order, they were away.

He was an excellent whip, an instinctive driver, but she knew better than to chatter and distract him while he tacked through the morning traffic. As he'd predicted, they passed the two coaches just past Kensington; so much heavier and less maneuverable, the latter had to stop frequently and wait for their way to clear.

Thankful she was in the curricle, in the open air, she let her gaze drink in the myriad sights; although she'd seen them many times, now, with Luc beside her, poised on the threshold of her dearest dream, every view, every detail her eyes beheld seemed more alive, brighter, more heavily imbued with meaning.

They reached Chiswick and turned south, crossing the river to Kew, then journeyed on, heading south and west, into the countryside. As the houses fell behind, the brightness of the summer morning enveloped them, and there still seemed no need for talk — for idle chatter to fill the moments.

That was one thing that had changed. She'd counted the days — fourteen had elapsed since the dawn on which she'd taken her courage in her hands and bearded him in his front hall. Before then, she'd have felt compelled to converse, to keep some measure of social contact between them.

Much had changed in the past days; they no longer needed conversation as a bridge between them.

She glanced at him, swiftly took in his expression before looking away; he was absorbed in his driving — she didn't want to draw his attention. She didn't want him thinking about her, brooding about their relationship and how that should or should not progress. How and when the next step should occur. They would both do much better if he left that to her.

Their peculiar discussion in the park the previous day had given her a great deal to think about. The amazing fact that he wished to delay their intimacy in the teeth of his desire — and hers — had been initially so incomprehensible that she'd had to think long and hard before she'd felt confident she'd correctly identified all the reasons behind it.

Once she had… once she'd realized there could only be two reasons, and that neither was, in her opinion, sufficient to justify another week of dallying, far from feeling downhearted, she'd felt buoyed — with expectation, with a determination to bring their no-longer-necessary wooing to an end.

He'd denied being influenced by having known her for so long, and to some extent she accepted that as true. However, he'd always viewed her as he did his sisters and other gently reared females; they were to be protected from all danger. The wolves of the ton always featured as a prominent danger; given Luc now expected her to become his wife — and had had fourteen days to accustom himself to the notion — then it was hardly surprising if his definition of danger now extended to himself, and his wolflike, in other circumstances reprehensible, desires.

Poor dear, he was simply confused — caught in the proverbial cleft stick by his inherent, intrinsic warrior-male instincts. She understood; she could recall some of her cousins being similarly torn. Hoist with their own petard, indeed.

It wouldn't do to laugh — they all took such matters so seriously. And besides, if she was to succeed in getting him to put aside his chivalrous scruples, provoking his temper was the last thing she should do.

His second reason was one she understood even better — a simple case of stubborn male will. He'd decreed from the first that for social acceptance they would need four weeks of public courtship; the fact they'd patently succeeded in two weeks — as evidenced by the encouraging reactions of all the senior matrons over the past week — was not going to change his mind.

She wasn't, in fact, intending to argue that point; as long as they married in June, she would gain what she wished from their wedding.

Their wedding, however, was not in her mind equated with their intimacy. The latter could precede the former, as in truth it so often did. They had made their decision, and society approved; as long as they did not flaunt the fact, neither society nor their families would bat an eyelid.

That, she had no doubt, Luc knew — or would if he allowed himself to consider the matter impartially. But with both his instincts and his will driving him, impartiality was clearly beyond him.

It therefore fell to her to take matters in hand. To bring their stalled wooing to a satisfactory end, to advance his script through the last scene — the one he'd unexpectedly balked at. If she hadn't been so sure he desired her — wanted her as she wanted him — she would not have been able to face the task with the calm certainty presently infusing her.

"There it is."

Luc's words jerked her from her thoughts; looking ahead, she saw the twin towers of Hightham Hall rising above the trees. A stone fence bordered the lane; a little way along, they came to a pair of open gates. Luc turned his horses in, then they were bowling along the graveled drive, watching the large sprawling house draw near.

The butler, grooms, and footmen were waiting; a coach had just disgorged its occupants — as they drew up, it rumbled away. A groom ran to the greys' heads; Luc threw the reins to another, then stepped down.

He turned and lifted her from the carriage. For one moment, while Lady Hightham's minions scurried about them, unstrapping the bags from the curricle's boot and carting them indoors, Luc held her fast between his hands, a fraction closer than propriety allowed — close enough for her to sense the very physical response that flared between them. To which he was paying not the slightest attention; his features a touch grim, he searched her face.

"You do agree, don't you?" His eyes held hers. "No further advances for at least the next week."

She smiled gloriously up at him; if they'd been alone she'd have pressed herself to him and kissed his worries away — perhaps it was as well they were surrounded. Raising a hand, she caressed his cheek. "I told you — stop worrying." Turning toward the house, she held his gaze. "You have absolutely nothing to fear."

Stepping out of his hold, she headed for the house. He watched her for a long moment, then she heard the scrunch of his boots as he followed her, felt his gaze on her back. The curve of her lips deepened; he didn't — wouldn't — believe her; unfortunately, he knew her too well.

Lifting her head, she went up the front steps, wrestling with the one burning question that yet remained: How was she to seduce a man who, given his legendary career, must have seen it all?