On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 8

She'd come prepared. Even so, she would need to take him by surprise.

They'd arrived in good time — it was barely noon when, with Luc at her heels, she entered the drawing room where their hostess was entertaining those already present.

"Mama and Lady Calverton are yet on the road," Amelia replied to Lady Hightham's inquiry. "Luc drove me down in his curricle."

Her ladyship beamed, and patted the chaise beside her. "Do sit down, dear — you must tell me all your news!"

Amelia sat, hiding a grin as Luc coolly ignored her ladyship's archly teasing gaze; after bowing over her hand, he strolled off to join a group of similar gentlemen who'd taken refuge by the windows. Amelia let him go. She'd been to house parties aplenty; she knew the timetable as well as he.

The ladies chatted avidly while more guests arrived; the Calverton and Cynster coaches rolled up just in time for the customary late luncheon.

Following that came the period when the gentlemen sloped off to some masculine den to lie low while the ladies got themselves settled. This first afternoon was a time for feminine organizing — learning which room they'd been assigned, ensuring their gowns were properly shaken and their maids had found them and laid out their brashes. Also for learning who was quartered around them, and where chaperons and dangerous gossips were stationed.

Later that evening, those ladies intent on pursuing an illicit liaison would find some opportunity to divulge their whereabouts to their partners in desire. Whatever might transpire did so over the ensuing days; it was, therefore, the structured, accepted, and expected norm that nothing remotely scandalous ever occurred on the first afternoon of a house party.

Reaching the room assigned to her — a delightful bedchamber at the end of one wing, helpfully close by a secondary stair — Amelia found that her maid, Dillys, had obeyed her instructions to the letter. Her gowns were already hanging, her brashes neatly laid upon the dressing table. The garment she'd asked to be left out was draped upon the bed. In return for working like a Trojan ever since she'd set foot in the house, Dillys was to get the afternoon off — so she could cast her bright eyes over the footmen, stealing a march over the other maids.

Hands clasped, Dillys stood waiting at the end of the bed, eager for her thoroughness to be approved of so she could be off.

Closing the door, Amelia noted the other little touches she'd requested all in place. "Very good. Now — one last thing."

From her reticule, she drew out the note she'd scribbled in the parlor downstairs. "When the clocks strike three, give this to the butler. The direction's on the note — simply say I asked that it be delivered immediately."

"At three o'clock." Dillys took the note.

Amelia glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; the hands stood at two-forty. "Whatever you do, don't forget. I'll ring when next I need you."

Grinning, Dillys bobbed and departed, closing the door behind her. Amelia turned to the bed, and the garment laid out upon it.

The three heavy bongs emanating from the longcase clock in the corner of the library drew Luc from his absorption. He glanced at the other gentlemen slumped about the large room; except for two idly discussing some curricle race, the rest had their eyes closed. Some were even snoring.

Half their luck; he couldn't relax enough to nod off. Holding a news sheet before his face, he'd pretended to be catching up on events; in reality, his mind was engrossed with its now-habitual obsession.

Her image blossomed in his mind — that gentle smile that in recent days had flirted across her lips whenever he attempted to reinforce the line he'd drawn vis a vis herself and him. Every time that smile bloomed, he had to shackle an urge to kiss it from her lips. And then…

Inwardly cursing, he jerked his mind off the very track he'd insisted they would not follow. Yet. Sometime, definitely — just not yet. Unfortunately, ingrained habit was hard to break; simply being here, at a house party, a venue all but expressly designed to further the end he was so determined to delay only added to the already considerable strain of desisting. Resisting.

He shouldn't have come. Having done so amounted to self-flagellation with a very prickly scourge. Just how prickly he'd only realized when he'd held her between his hands in the forecourt — knowing they were here, in a venue he could so easily exploit to gain the ease his body longed for, in a house that was not his, not hers, and where she wasn't, courtesy of her mother's presence, specifically under his protection.

Just how strong his desire to have her had grown, he'd only then fully comprehended.

Only to have her tease him.

Eyes narrowing, he replayed yet again all she'd said, heard again the tenor of her assurance.

He trusted her not one jot. He'd be watching her closely; from this evening on, he'd keep his guard high…

A moment later, he grimaced and surreptitiously shifted. His body was trapped in the most peculiar vise. On the one hand, he was champing at the bit to have her, on the other, he was desperately reining back, fighting to postpone the very moment he so desired. If anyone had suggested he was capable of contorting himself to this extent, he'd have laughed in their faces.

The door opened. The supercilious butler looked in, saw him, entered, and shut the door. Crossing the floor, the man offered his salver. "For you, my lord. I was told it was urgent."

Luc nodded his thanks and lifted the folded square. The man had spoken quietly; none of those resting had been disturbed. The two chatting glanced over, then resumed their discussion. The butler bowed and retreated. Luc laid aside the news sheet and opened the note.

Luc—Please come to my room at once.

A.

P.S. It's on the first floor at the very end of the west wing at the top of the stairs at the end.

He frowned, read the note again, then refolded it and slipped it into his pocket.

He might not trust her, yet… she couldn't have even settled in. Maybe the lock on her trunk had jammed — no, it had to be something more serious. Perhaps she'd mislaid her jewelry case. Perhaps… perhaps she was in some more dire trouble.

Stifling a sigh, he rose. Whatever was behind her summons, she presumably needed him specifically, and the note, hastily scribbled in pencil on a scrap of paper, bore little resemblance to an illicit invitation. With a nod to the two men still awake, he walked from the room.

He found the stairs at the end of the west wing. At this hour, there were few about whose notice he needed to avoid — all the ladies were in their rooms, fussing and unpacking and harrying their maids.

He climbed the stairs and found the right door. Very softly, he tapped.

And heard her call, "Come in."

He opened the door. The room was large. Sunlight streamed in through two sets of windows, both with their curtains wide. To the left stood the bed, a largish four-poster with diaphanous white curtains presently roped back. The counterpane was of sprigged ivory satin. A jumble of lace-trimmed pillows was massed welcomingly at the bed's head. A dressing table and stool were set against the wall beyond the bed. In the room's center a round table boasted a vase of white lilies, their scent perfuming the air. The area to his right, containing an armoire and dressing screen, the fireplace and a chair, was in relative dimness, the shadows darker in contrast with the brightness elsewhere.

His quick survey failed to locate Amelia. Hovering on the threshold was too dangerous; frowning, he stepped in and closed the door. He opened his mouth to say her name — a movement in the dimness caught his eye.

Caught his breath — every muscle he possessed froze, rigid with…

Not exactly shock yet something a long way beyond surprise.

She'd been standing by the edge of the screen, in the deepest shadows. He'd missed seeing her because of the brightness streaming in, the brightness into which, unhurriedly, she moved.

His mouth dried as he realized what she was — and wasn't — wearing. His gaze had locked on her; his wits, driven by instinct, had brutally focused. On the slender ivory goddess, her charms in no way concealed by the translucent silk robe hanging open from her shoulders.

She walked toward him; he couldn't move — couldn't drag his gaze from her. She wore not a stitch beneath the sheer robe, the delights of her body boldly and brazenly displayed.

For him.

The knowledge shook him. He knew he should turn and escape, now, yet he stood rooted to the spot as she neared, incapable of turning away, of refusing what she was so blatantly offering.

She didn't stop until her breasts met his chest, until her silk-screened thighs brushed his. Reaching up, she looped one all but bare arm about his neck; her other hand splayed on his chest, she met his gaze fearlessly. Expectantly.

His control quaked; he managed to draw enough breath to rasp, "You promised…"

Her lips curved gently — that sweet, understanding, patronizingly challenging smile. "I told you there was no reason to worry — and there isn't."

Without conscious direction, his hands fastened about her waist, his intention to put her from him immediately corrupted by the feel of her — the warmth of her skin reaching through the delicate silk, the suppleness, the reality of her body under his hands, so nearly skin to skin.

Sheer seduction.

He knew it — saw the truth, and her understanding, in her face, in the brightness of her blue eyes, in the inherently feminine set of her lips.

Felt the reality rise through him in response, a desire infinitely stronger than any that had come before, a passion immeasurably more compelling.

He made one last attempt to cling to reason, to whatever the reason was that had made him deny this. He could no longer recall what it was, from where or what it sprang.

Her gaze fell to his lips. He dragged in another breath. Opened his lips—

She stretched up, drew his head down, brought her lips close to his — murmured, "Stop thinking. Stop resisting. Just—"

He covered her lips with his, stopped her last entreaty; he didn't need to hear it. He kissed her voraciously, deliberately let the reins he'd been gripping so desperately slide — simply let go. Could do nothing else. Hands splaying, sliding over the fine silk, he closed his arms about her, pulling her close, molding her to him.

Let his senses exult — let them free.

She was right — there was no point trying to resist, not this. Any chance he'd had of escaping had died the instant he'd set eyes on her, on all she was so set on offering him. All but naked in his arms, she clung, and returned his kisses greedily, avidly — flagrantly encouraged him to seize, take, and claim.

Her heart soaring, Amelia felt his arms lock tight, felt, in the lips bruising hers, hard and demanding, his decision. His surrender. He straightened, locking her to him; without interrupting the kiss, he lifted her and walked to the side of the bed.

Halting, he let her down, sliding her body down his, his hands cupping her bottom, pressing her to him, molding her softness against his erection while his tongue plundered her mouth, wreaking havoc with her senses. Within her, heat bloomed, burgeoned, grew — but this time she wanted more.

This time, she wanted it all.

She drew back from the kiss, found breath enough to gasp, "Your clothes."

Hands on his chest, she pushed his coat wide, trapping his arms. With a curse, he let her go, stepped back, wrenched the coat off and flung it aside.

The violence behind the movement had her blinking. He noticed, and stilled. His eyes, dark, burning, narrowed on hers, then he reached for her; palm curving about her jaw, he tipped up her face, drew her close. He studied her eyes — she didn't try to mask her curiosity. He bent his head, murmured, "You should beware of what you ask for. You might get it."

She met his lips brazenly, hoping she would — hoping she would meet the wildness she'd glimpsed so fleetingly a moment before. It was a part of him she'd always known was there, lurking behind his facade, a part he kept most deeply hidden — a vibrant, ruthless vital part she suspected was closest to his real nature.

A nature she'd always found fascinating — something different, illicit, veiled. At base, it was why she found him so attractive, why he and only he would do for her.

That revelation was simply there, its truth resonant and clear. She acted on it, grappled with the buttons of his shirt and yanked the halves apart, splayed her hands and touched, searched, grasped — purred with satisfaction. The skin under her palms was hot, the muscles beneath it rigid and locked. His chest was a wonder of rasping black hair and male hardness; her lips, her mouth, flagrantly welcoming, urgently inciting, she filled her hands and filled her senses.

He stripped off his shirt, but made no move to take charge; taking that as acquiescence, she moved on.

Spreading her hands wide, reaching around to hold him to her as he plundered her mouth, his hands closing about, then provocatively kneading the globes of her bottom. The long muscles framing his back flexed like steel beneath her wandering hands. She ran them down, marveling, then followed the heavy line of his ribs forward to caress the rippling bands across his abdomen. They flickered at her touch; he sucked in a breath as she sent her fingers questing lower. Held that breath as she lightly traced the line of his erection. His attention shifted — she sensed it. He stilled, but didn't stop her when she reached for the buttons at the waistband of his breeches. The tenor of their kiss changed; he was breathing more shallowly, his senses distracted…

Inwardly smiling, she slid one hand inside the opened flap, and found him. Rigid, as she'd expected, yet so hot, and with skin so very fine…

They both held to their kiss, yet their attention was not there, but on her questing fingers as she explored, and learned. Solid, as wide as her wrist, he more than filled her hand. Closing her fingers, she circled him, and felt him shudder.

She experimented, taking her time even though instinct warned that commodity would be limited, that the surge of heated passion she could feel rising through him, evoked, provoked by her touch — even though he ruthlessly held it back, soon, the dam would break.

And he'd let the tide loose, let it sweep her up, sweep her away.

He proved strong enough to give her the moment, to take advantage himself, despite her continuing ministrations. She was only dimly aware when he stripped her robe from her, releasing her prize to free her arms from the silk only to take him in hand again. Only to set her mind to provoking him further.

Luc clenched his jaw and endured, while his control grew more brittle by the second. She was still a novice, thank the gods, but even so, her instincts were sound, and her hands pure heaven. Yet her body promised ecstasy, and that was his fell aim. That, and more.

He couldn't fault her arrangements; the light was a boon, letting him see her, all of her, now, and later, when he finally had her beneath him. When he finally took her.

The thought sent another surge of heat, of pure unadulterated desire rising through him, hardening and lengthening that part of his anatomy that was currently the object of her fascination even more. She noticed, hesitated; he looked down as she sent her thumb stroking over his aching head.

He didn't need to look to know she'd found a latent drop. Before she could think further, let alone act, he caught his breath, nudged her face up and found her lips again, drew her into a drugging kiss, then ruthlessly, deliberately, let the walls fall, seized and devoured, claimed her mouth, her lips, and sent her senses spinning.

Capturing her wrist, he drew her hand from him, then drew her close, then closer, reveling in the sensation of her silken skin caressing his chest, his arms, his erection, while he plundered her mouth, holding her and her senses captive. She couldn't break free, and wouldn't. From here on, their script was his to dictate.

Amelia knew it; she was helpless against not just his strength, but the power he controlled. She didn't fight it — had no intention of doing so, now or ever. This was what she wanted — for him to make her his. Far from resisting, she sank into his arms, gave herself up to the commanding kiss, surrendered and waited, nerves tight with anticipation, for him to claim her.

He seemed to know; he wasted no more time. Breaking the kiss, he lifted her, placing her on her knees on the edge of the bed. Before she could even wonder, he ducked his head and set his lips to her breast. Set his hot mouth to one peak and suckled fiercely.

Her head fell back; her gasp shivered through the room. He feasted like a king, knowing her his slave. His hands, tight about her waist, held her steady, then one hand released and left her; the other slid to her hip and closed, hard, anchoring her, pressing her down so she sat on her ankles.

He laved her breasts, suckled, nipped — tortured the tightly pebbled peaks, his hot mouth pressing heat again and again beneath her skin. Her hands closed on his skull, holding him to her; it was only when he drew back and straightened that she realized he'd pulled off his boots and stripped off his breeches.

As naked as she, he was suddenly there, standing before her. She felt her eyes go round as she took in the sight, drank in the glory. She started to reach for him but he reached for her; gripping her waist, he raised her on her knees, drew her to him and found her lips again. Drew her once more into the heat of his embrace, into the flames and the fire, the heated, dizzying game of conquest and delight.

He conquered while she rode the wave of delight he evoked. She was with him, matching him kiss for kiss, breath for gasping breath as the kiss dissolved into an expression of raging needs, an inferno of unfettered desire. His hands roamed her curves, brutally explicit, no facade, no veneer, to mute his driving need. A need she gloried in, without thought or inhibition wantonly incited.

The feel of his hard body, hot and urgent about her, against her, the evidence of his desire never more real, shredded the last vestiges of modesty, swept away the last primitive restrictions, all remaining reservations.

He urged her back, one knee rising and pushing between hers, parting her thighs. His muscled thigh, raspy with crinkly hair, rode against her curls; her breath caught, tangled in her throat. He deliberately shifted, pressing against that sensitive spot, knowingly winding her tight…

Until she gasped and let her head fall back, struggling to ride the sensual tide. Her skin was flaming, her body melting, her nerves tightening unforgivingly, her senses in disarray. Something else, something beyond all her experience, was filling her, driving her; a hot fire was consuming her from within. He pressed her back to the bed and she went eagerly, wanting, wanting… he followed her down, his other knee joining the first in forcing hers apart, spreading her thighs so he could settle between.

The touch of his thighs, crinkly hair abrading the sensitive inner faces of hers, made her force her lids up. He held himself over her, arms braced. He was glancing down to where they would join; the set of his face, angular planes stripped by desire to those of a ruthless conqueror, hard, unrelenting, elementally male, sank into her mind.

He shifted fractionally; between her thighs she felt the touch, the pressure of the broad blunt head she'd earlier admired, felt its inherent strength and heat as it parted her swollen, slippery folds. He glanced at her face, caught her gaze. Turning fully back to her, braced above her, her gaze trapped in his, he flexed his hips and pressed in.

Just a little way. Then he smoothly withdrew — she clutched his sides. He uttered a gravelly laugh. "This is where, I believe, I'm supposed to tell you not to worry."

He reversed direction on the words, but again halted only a little way in. Just enough to tantalize, to drive her insane. She sucked in a breath, let it out as he again withdrew. "I'm not worried."

One black brow arched, then he lowered his head; she lifted her lips to meet his. In the instant before they made contact, he murmured, "You should be." Then he covered her lips, took her mouth, but kept the caress light, leaving her senses open and aware, trapped prey for the mesmerizing sensations he pressed on her, flexing his hips, gliding in, then back, just inside the entrance to her body.

Until she writhed and lifted, her body arching, wanting more. Until she couldn't stand any more of his teasing, until she was wet and open and so hungry with desire, so aware of the yawning emptiness inside her that she tried to break from the kiss, sank her nails into his sides when he refused to let her.

Abruptly she found herself kissed so ravenously she lost all touch with the world. His tongue deep in her mouth, he plundered, ruthlessly shackling her. She felt his strength gather, felt his hips shift, settling more heavily between hers. Then he thrust powerfully.

She cried out, the sound smothered in their kiss. He didn't stop but drove on, all the way in, steadily pushing deep, stretching her, impaling her. She couldn't breathe except through him; her mind struggled to take in what seemed impossible, the sensation of him hard and strong, embedded deep within her, filling her fuller than she'd imagined could be.

Before she caught her breath, he drew back, then pressed in again; she tensed, expecting the same sharp pain, but it didn't eventuate. Yet she still found herself struggling — tensing against the welling pressure inside, the inherent force as he filled her again.

He repeated the exercise, then released her lips; his eyes, ebony under his lashes, glinted down at her as, the weight of his lower body holding her immobile, he again withdrew and slowly, even more powerfully, entered her.

She felt every inch, every last fraction as he filled her, felt her body tighten until she arched.

"Relax." Bending his head, he touched his lips to the corner of hers. "Lie back and let it happen. Let your body learn."

Despite the words, it was a growled command, one she had little choice but to obey. He continued to move above her, within her; gradually, her defensive tension unwound.

And the intimacy of the moment caught her. Slid into her mind as he slid more and more easily into her body, as the hair at his groin tangled with her curls. As she felt the first stirrings of submerged passion, a frisson of reawakening desire.

She glanced up, caught his eye — it was the wrong moment for awareness to strike, yet it did. Full awareness of her nakedness, her vulnerability, of how essentially helpless she was in the face of his strength, trapped beneath him, her thighs wide.

What he saw in her face, she had no idea, yet although the harsh, set planes of his face never softened, the line of his lips did.

"Stop thinking." He quoted her words back at her, then withdrew from her completely, only to return in the same heartbeat, more forcefully than before, until he was fully seated, jerking her slightly, sending a streak of sensation through her, giving notice of his intention, and the pleasure to come.

Still holding her gaze, he came down on his elbows, letting his body down atop hers. "Stop resisting."

She did; the feel of him, so close, so real, reassured her — the warmth of his body, the contradictory comfort she drew from his muscled strength, washed through her and swept away the last of her maidenly fears. In truth, she was a maiden no longer. She was his.

She would have smiled but her face felt too tight; instead, she sent her hands sliding around to spread on his back. Holding tight, she lifted her face to his, breathed against his lips, "Show me then. Now."

His lips quirked in the instant before they met hers. The kiss was long, deep — undisguised. "Stay with me then," he murmured, and took her mouth, then took her body again.

And again.

And again. The relentless repetition fed a whirlwind inside them, a hungry, compelling tide of need. It combined with the restless flames of desire, flaring anew, stronger, more powerful, now unrestrained, unrestricted, then the power coalesced.

And erupted.

Into a firestorm.

A raging, uncontrollable conflagration where the physical, sensual, and emotional swirled, where lips melded, tongues tangling, hands gripping, their bodies merged and came together, locked and fused, driven to give, driven to take, driven to be one.

The force was frightening, thrilling, utterly compelling. She moaned; he gasped. She sank her nails into his back and arched wildly, taking him deeper, wanting him deeper, satisfied only when he thrust harder, faster, ever more powerfully.

He sank one hand into her hair and held her down, ravaged her mouth as he plundered her body. Beneath him, she squirmed, hot, urgent — wild to provoke him further.

It wasn't a game, but a fiery dance of desire, the recognition of a need beyond desperate, a need beyond her knowledge, a need that had to be fulfilled.

A need he seemed to share, equally driven, equally susceptible.

That welling need pulled them down, out, away from the world, onto a plane on which nothing beyond them and that need existed. On which nothing bar the fusion of their bodies was real, their senses held, locked, overwhelmed by the slickness, the heat, the gasping urgency, the spiralling tension. The steadily escalating excitement.

She would have given anything to grasp the bright triumph, the pinnacle of fulfillment that hovered and beckoned, just out of sensual reach. He drove her on, and she sobbed; he thrust deeper yet and her body closed hungrily, holding him, tightening yet more…

And she suddenly felt it — let go, let herself ride the tide, joyously let it sweep her up, let it claim her soul and take her to the stars. Her body imploded in heat and glory, shards of sensation flashing down every nerve to melt in satiation just under her skin. Golden joy suffused her; the wave crested and she held tight — felt him thrust deep and hold still, holding her there, in glory, then the wave slowly ebbed.

Luc dragged in a breath, eyes closed tight as he felt the last spasms of her completion fade, then his body took charge, no longer his to command, driven by a need he couldn't control, a need he had to slake.

A need to make her his, to bind her to him — to have her and know her to a degree beyond the carnal. To command her surrender. Complete and absolute.

With his.

He couldn't stop himself from reaching for the gilded fruit, even though enough of his mind yet functioned to warn that, once tasted, he'd crave it again and again. Not even the certainty of lifelong addiction could turn him from his goal — bracing his arms, lifting above her, he watched as he loved her, watched her body take him in, cradle him, hold him. Watched her sumptuous, pearlescent curves lift and ease as she rode his thrusts, felt her acceptance as he spread her thighs wider and filled her deeper yet.

Release came on a long wave, a tsunami of feelings that built and rose and finally broke, pouring about him, crashing through him as he shuddered and filled her, spilled his seed deep inside her, then slumped, exhausted, wrung out beside her — more deeply sated, more deeply at peace, than he'd ever been in his life.

They were both exhausted. The sun sank low, slanting through the windows, illuminating their tangled limbs as they lay wrapped together, too drained to stir, and waited for life to reassert itself, waited for the world to start turning.

Slumped on his back, Amelia a warm silken bundle beside him, her head cradled on his chest, Luc idly played with her curls, and tried to think.

Tried to define just what had happened, and what it meant.

The most frightening thing was he couldn't even define what "it" was — the force that had risen out of nowhere and driven him — he suspected them, but couldn't be sure. She, of course, thought it only normal; he knew better. The point that exercised him most was that it had felt like it belonged, as if such a force was a natural part of him and her — a natural element in their physical interactions. An element that had elevated the latter to heights sufficient to stun even him.

He closed his eyes, tried not to think of the moment he'd first slid into the heat of her, or the moment he'd finally been able to thrust as deep inside her as he'd wished, and feel her close lovingly about him. She'd been so damned tight — easing her into letting him ride her freely had taxed his will, yet the result had been worth every iota of restraint…

Swallowing a groan, he opened his eyes and stared at the canopy. He was hard and throbbing, but he couldn't have her again, not with dinner drawing near…

The thought focused his mind on where they were, on the hour, the house. The company. All things he could define. Lifting his head, he glanced across the room — at the door he hadn't locked. Now he was listening, he heard the shuffles and scrapes of distant footfalls.

"Mmm…" She stirred drowsily. Then her hand drifted from his chest, down over his torso—

He caught her wrist, manacled it. "We haven't time." Folding back her arm, he hefted her up, then brushed back her tangled hair. Met her gaze, brilliantly blue, lazily sensual, noted her lips, swollen and red. "I'll have to leave before the other ladies start emerging. One thing — there's blood on the coverlet."

She smiled smugly. "It's all right — it's mine. I brought it. I'll just take it home again."

Lips compressing, he narrowed his eyes, remembered her transparent wrap — not something her mother had bought her for Christmas. She'd planned, and planned well — witness his current position. "Very well." He rolled, taking her, too, pinning her beneath him — not that she struggled. He caught her hands, raised them, pressed them back to the bed on either side of her head, and kissed her — deeply, thoroughly, as he wished.

She undulated beneath him, sinuously sirenlike. Ending the kiss, he lifted his head and used his weight to hold her still. "Not now."

"Surely we have time—"

"No." He hesitated, looking down at her, then bent his head, trailed a kiss to her ear, and whispered, "Next time I

have you, I plan on taking at least an hour, and we'll have to gag you, because I promise you'll scream."

Drawing away, he studied her face. She simply stared back at him, thoughts whizzing behind her eyes.

He smiled — wolfishly. Then he lifted from her and left the bed.

Amelia couldn't remember a single thing about the first night's dinner.

After Luc left her bedchamber, first checking that no one was about to see him flit down the stairs, she'd bestirred herself. Discovering a number of unexpected aches and twinges in muscles she hadn't known she possessed, she'd decided on a bath — a nice long soak during which she could dwell on what her twin had once confirmed as a magical moment.

Magical indeed — she'd fallen asleep in the tub. Luckily, Dillys had roused her and bundled her into her gown, dressing her hair high before directing her to the drawing room; if left to herself…

A curious, delightfully pleasant aura had suffused her, making thought, or indeed any exertion seem unnecessary. She'd had to fight to keep a silly, far too-revealing smile from her face. Up until, joining the assembled guests in the drawing room, she'd set eyes on her soon-to-be betrothed.

Rising from curtsying to their hostess, she'd moved to join Emily, speaking earnestly with Lord Kirkpatrick, and immediately felt Luc's gaze. She'd followed it to its source; he was standing chatting with a lady and three gentlemen on the other side of the room.

He met her gaze; despite the distance, she sensed the frown in his. Knew for a fact that he wasn't attending to the comments bandied before him. Then he seemed to recollect himself, hesitated, then addressed himself to the conversation about him.

That glimpse of uncharacteristic uncertainty left her wondering — raised questions in her mind, very quickly left her uncertain, too.

"We're planning on walking to the edge of the Downs tomorrow morning." Lord Kirkpatrick looked at her hopefully. "It's not all that far, and the views are said to be magnificent. Perhaps you'd like to join us?"

"Tomorrow?" She glanced at Emily, and saw a similar hope in her eyes. "I hadn't really thought…" Another glance confirmed that his lordship and Emily both wanted her, a supporter of their blossoming romance, to accompany them so they could spend the time together without a bevy of others looking on. "That is… yes, I would like to get out, weather permitting."

"Of course — weather permitting."

Both his lordship and Emily beamed with gratitude.

Amelia inwardly sighed, resigning herself to a morning of bucolic pleasures tramping through fields and meadows. There were other pleasures she would have preferred, but… she had no idea what Luc was thinking, much less what he was planning for tomorrow.

She felt the touch of his gaze and turned, only once again to sense his brooding frown. Not that such an expression was permitted to mar his Byronic beauty, but she could feel its leaden weight. Again, once their gazes had touched for a moment, he looked away — supposedly distracted by those he was standing with, in reality…

What was he thinking? Emily and Lord Kirkpatrick didn't need her assistance, so she could safely stand beside them and try to work it out. Reviewing all that had occurred through the lazy afternoon, and trying to see it through Luc's eyes, she was assailed by a sinking feeling.

Should she have screamed? Or was the boot on the other foot and, on reflection, had he not liked her forwardness? Had she been too accommodating? Was that even possible with a man — a rake — like him?

Had she, through sheer inexperience, done something he hadn't appreciated?

Was that why he'd left, surely earlier than necessary? He'd been adamant — immovably so — over not indulging with her again, yet he'd been perfectly capable. That wasn't the sort of behavior she'd expected, not from a man of his reputation. She was well aware that since his late teens, he'd had his pick of women, and had never been averse to taking his choice.

Her stomach had tightened, not pleasantly; an even more horrible thought flitted through her mind. Was his dark brooding an indication that he regretted coming to her — regretted all that had occurred that afternoon?

The thought caught, took root, blossomed, blocking out all else. She tried to catch Luc's eye, but he didn't again glance her way. Indeed, he kept his distance. The gong sounded, and the company transferred to the dining room. As one of the more senior peers present, Luc had to escort one of the grandes dames in; she found herself half a table away from him.

She had to laugh, converse, and put on a gay face — everyone, especially her sharp-eyed mama, expected her to be happy and carefree. She hoped she made a good job of it, but in truth had little idea — all through the meal, her heart was steadily sinking, her mind engrossed with the questions of where they were now, and if he would come to her room that night so she could rid herself of her uncertainties.

Small wonder she remembered not one bite, not one word.

The ladies rose and repaired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen — a goodly company — to pass the port. Smiling, she joined the younger girls, Anne, Fiona, and three others, letting their chatter wash over her as she waited for the gentlemen to return, waited for Luc to come to her — to speak, to make arrangements to meet again, privately or otherwise.

The gentlemen returned; Luc did not.

She forced herself to behave normally, to take tea and continue to chat, while inwardly considering and discarding all thoughts of seeking him out. Hightham Hall was huge and rambling; she had no idea where he might be, nor yet where his room was situated. Impossible for her to find him.

He, of course, could find her.

When the youthful crew were encouraged to retire, she stifled a yawn and, citing the drive down as the cause of her tiredness, seized the chance to retreat to her room.

Once there, she changed into a long, lawn nightgown. After shooing Dillys off to her own rest, she blew out her candle and went to the window. Drawing the curtains wide, she waited, watching the wash of moonlight move slowly across the floor.

It finally occurred to her that no matter how early she retired, he wouldn't risk coming to her room until much later — until all the grandes dames along the corridor retired, too, and fell asleep. Muttering a curse, she marched to the bed and climbed in. Pulling the covers up over her shoulders, she wriggled and fussed with the pillows, then settled her head on them.

If she fell asleep, Luc would just have to wake her — she was quite sure he would.

Closing her eyes, she sighed, and settled down to wait.