On A Wicked Dawn (15 page)

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.”

More than enough torture. He doubted she realized the effect she had on him, especially when he had her under his hands, his to do with as he pleased. He had absolutely no intention of telling her, or of letting her guess.

He wasn't that foolish.

Inwardly wincing at the memory of what had transpired the last time he'd uttered that word, he watched his torment trip down Lady Hammond's dance floor in a country dance. Her partner was Cranwell; ever since Lady Orcott's ball five nights ago, Cranwell and the others with whom she'd flirted had grown overtly attentive. They were watching to see if he'd lose interest and walk away, then they'd pounce.

Stifling a dismissive humph, he focused on Amelia. She was enjoying herself as she always did these days—bright-eyed and expectant, anticipating the moment when he'd whisk her off somewhere private, and they would grab as many minutes of illicit indulgence as they could.

Compounding frustration wasn't his idea of fun, yet he wasn't about to invite another display of her talents like the one she'd staged at the Orcotts'. He'd capitulated as soon as he'd realized she'd found a real chink in his armor and taken the necessary steps to deal with her, albeit under duress.

Subsequently, he'd accepted that he had, at least in part, to dance to her tune. By letting her believe he was, he remained in control of their interludes, specifically how far those interludes went.

Which, thus far, was no further than at Lady Orcott's.

Self-preservation was a wise and sensible goal.

Feminine fingers touched his sleeve; knowing who it was, he turned, drawing his mother's hand into the crook of his arm.

She smiled. “Come, my son—let's stroll a little way.”

He raised his brows faintly but complied; simultaneously, he scanned the room, checking on Emily, Anne, and Fiona. Amelia might claim the best part of his attention, but he hadn't forgotten his responsibilites.

“No, no—they're well. Indeed, very creditably engaged. It's you—and the lady you've been watching—I wanted to speak with you about.”

“Oh? Why?”

“I've been approached by no less than three of the senior hostesses, as well as any number of the lesser gossips. Speculation is rising that the relationship that in the past existed between you and Amelia has undergone a fundamental transformation.”

His lips twitched; that was an accurate way of describing it. “On what evidence do the good ladies base such speculation?”

“It's been noted that you're both spending an unusual amount of time together, that you, especially, have gone out of your way to facilitate that, and, of course, it's been noted that you both have a tendency to disappear from the central venue, to return within a reasonable time, admittedly, yet that frequent fact is viewed with suspicion.”

“That sounds as it should at this point.” Luc glanced at Minerva. “What have you said?”

She opened her eyes wide. “Why, that you've known each other for years and have always been close.”

He nodded. “It's possible you might actually start wondering yourself . . .”

Minerva raised her brows. “Just what date are you aiming for?”

There was a note in her voice that had him temporizing, “Well, not just me—“

“Luc.” Minerva fixed him with a straight look. “When?”

He knew when to capitulate; he'd had recent practice. “About the end of the month.”

“And the ceremony?”

He set his jaw. “
By
the end of the month.”

Her eyes opened wide, then a thoughtful expression swept her face. “Ah. I see. That does explain a few things.” She refocused on his face, then patted his arm. “Very well. At least I now know what to expect—and how to manage the gossips. You may leave them to me.”

“Thank you.”

She caught his eye, then smiled and shook her head. “You'll go your own road, I know, but beware, my son. Marriage for you will not be as easy as you think.”

Still smiling, she left him. Luc watched her go, a frown in his eyes, one question in his mind.
Why?

Women. A necessary evil, or so he'd come to accept. He could define precisely what the necessary parts were. As for the rest, one simply had to learn to deal with them—it was that or be driven insane.

To enliven the next day, they'd organized a picnic at Merton. A picnic—he knew what that meant. Bucolic delights—like rocky or marshy ground, or trees with unhelpfully rough bark, or inquisitive ducks—all obstacles he'd met with in his callow youth.

He was long past those days—long past picnics.

“I'll take a decent chaise in a conservatory any day.”

“What was that?”

He glanced at Amelia, beside him on the curricle's seat. “Nothing. Just muttering.”

Amelia grinned and looked ahead. “I haven't been to Cousin Georgina's in years.”

She was looking forward to it, to the chance of spending
more than a few rushed minutes with Luc. She wanted—very definitely—to take their interaction further, to learn more of the magic he conjured, to wallow in the sensations he knew so well how to invoke. Ultimately, to travel further down their road and visit the next temple.

Since Lady Orcott's dim corridor, progress had been minimal, primarily due to lack of time. At least, that's how it seemed, although in truth, she never had the slightest idea of time passing once Luc's lips were on hers.

Let alone his hands on her body, clothed or otherwise.

Nevertheless, she'd learned one or two things. Such as, despite the fact he physically desired her, that iron will of his stubbornly intervened and left him firmly in control, not just of her but of himself, too. Even when he'd reduced her to a gasping, witless, boneless heap, he could still hear and function as if he were merely out riding. Indeed, that was a very apt analogy—he loved riding, but never lost control.

Undermining that control, seeing him in the throes of a passion as hot and mindless as what he induced in her, was a very tempting proposition.

She glanced at him, studied the strong line of his jaw, then smiled and looked ahead.

The drive leading to Georgina's villa lay around the next bend. Luc turned the curricle in between the gateposts; the drive led to a circular court before the villa's front door.

Georgina was waiting to greet them. “My dears.” She enveloped Amelia in a scented embrace and kissed her cheek. Then she smiled, and gave Luc her hand. “The last time you were here, you fell out of the plum tree. Luckily, you didn't break any bones.”

Luc straightened from his bow. “Did I break any branches?”

“No, but you did eat a great many of the plums.”

Amelia slipped her arm in Georgina's. “The others are following in the carriages. Can we help with anything?”

The answer was no, so they sat outside on the terrace and sipped cool drinks until the others arrived. As well as Luc's sisters and Fiona, and Minerva and Louise to keep Georgina company, young Lord Kirkpatrick and two of his friends had
been invited, along with Reggie, and Amelia's brother Simon. And three of their cousins, Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, together with a few of their friends.

The carriages rolled up, the occupants joined them on the shady terrace, and the picnic party swelled to a sizable group, full of laughing, chattering good cheer.

Luc viewed the gathering with mixed feelings. He was thankful his two youngest sisters, Portia and Penelope, had remained at home in Rutlandshire. They hadn't come to London with the family primarily because of the cost; after his recent windfall, he'd toyed with the idea of sending for them, but at fourteen and thirteen, they were supposed to be attending their lessons. Penelope would be, her nose buried in some tome, but on a day like this, Portia would be out with his prize pack of hounds. If they'd been here, at this party, he'd have been forced to keep a strict eye on them both—and endure their incessant and often pointed teasing. Just as well those two sharp-eyed nuisances were safely far away.

“Luc?”

Amelia's voice drew him back to Merton; he blinked, and saw her silhouetted against the glare of the sunlight washing over the lawns. She was wearing a thin muslin gown, perfect for the warm day; the bright light behind her turned the fabric translucent, revealing the shapely curve of one breast, the indentation of her waist made all the more definite by the delectable swell of her hips, followed by the long, slender lines of her legs.

He had to draw breath before he succeeded in dragging his gaze back up to her face. She tilted her head, studying him, a light smile on her lips. She gestured with a plate. “Come and eat.”

With a nod, he got to his feet—slowly—using the instant to shackle his hunger, sudden, rampant, unexpectedly vital. He hadn't realized it had grown to this extent, to the point where its spurs had real bite, driving him to seize.