On A Wicked Dawn (14 page)

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

His lips curved spontanteously. “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 ruched 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 nonoverwhelming 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 curstied 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 of further provoking him.

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.