Luc broke their kiss, but only to skate his lips along her jaw to find the delicate hollow beneath her ear. He didn’t need to think to know what she wanted—to know that he could take as he wished. Beyond a distant watching brief to ensure their privacy, which, given the composition of Lady Hartington’s company, he was certain would remain undisturbed, his senses were focused on the woman in his arms, on the tantalizing promise of the svelte body beneath his hands.
He’d had women aplenty, yet this one . . . he put the difference he was too experienced not to notice in the strength of his own desire down to the fact she had for so long been a forbidden delight. A forbidden delight he could now sample, and subsequently savor whenever he wished. However he wished. That thought, barely conscious, fueled his need, but he shackled it, played to hers instead, confident in the knowledge that ultimately he would have all he wanted, all he wished—every wicked dream completely and thoroughly satisfied.
Her shallow breaths stirred the hair at his temple, caressed his skin with tendrils of temptation, evocative as sin. He sent his lips lower, cruising the length of her throat, along skin like ivory silk, delicate and fine. Pressing his lips to the base of her throat, he found her pulse beating under that fine skin, a speeding tattoo that urged him on, as did the small fingers that clenched on his chest, creasing his shirt, the rake of her nails just enough to awake a need of his own, to have her hands on his bare skin.
The thought of naked skin sent his attention to the mounds that filled his hands. Full and firm, heated, swollen. The buttons of her bodice were straining, easy to slip free; the ribbon straps of her chemise were fastened with tiny bows that unraveled at a tug.
A quick shuffle of fingers and hands, and her naked breasts were in his palms. She gasped; her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t look down.
Lips curving, he raised his head, found her lips again, unsurprised when she kissed him ravenously. Riding the tide, he waited, then slid deep and took command, once again sent her senses whirling while his hands played, and learned her. Found the peaks of her breasts, ruched tight, tweaked gently, then slowly squeezed . . . until she gasped again, until she broke the kiss and lifted her head, struggling for breath.
He ducked his head, let his lips trail down her throat, over the fine skin covering her collarbone, then lower still to the soft upper curve of her breast. The heat of his lips touched her and she stilled, quivering . . . he didn’t pause but licked, then laved, then opened his mouth and took the peak in, curled his tongue about the tip, and gently rasped.
The sound she made was neither gasp nor sob but pure shocked surprise. Pleased surprise. He continued to feast, holding her steady over him, watching her face from beneath his lashes as he pleasured her—and himself. His first taste of her flesh would remain blazoned in his mind—the piquancy of knowing no other had ever tasted her, touched her, like this.
He’d gradually urged her upward; her hip now rode against his stomach, one slender, decidedly feminine thigh caressing his rampant erection. She could not be unaware of his state, yet he sensed no retreat, no sudden maidenly reserve—no panic.
A fact that only sharpened his desire, a desire that flared when he caught a glimpse of bright sapphire beneath her lids, and realized she was watching. Watching him pay homage to her breasts, watching him feast on her bounty.
He caught her gaze, held it.
Deliberately curled his tongue about one tight bud, deliberately, and slowly, rasped—just hard enough to shatter her composure—then he suckled, and she caught her breath on a gasp. Closed her eyes. Slid one hand from his chest to his nape; head bowing, she held him to her, a surrender as explicit as the quiver that raced through her when he drew her flesh deeper still.
His hand left her breast, sliding down, over her hip, pausing to caress her derriere before sliding around, along her thigh, reaching for her skirt—
She sank against him, soft, pliant, urgent—a flagrant invitation.
Between them, he splayed his hand over her upper thigh, tensed to slide his fingers inward, searching—
He stopped. Remembered.
Where they were—what they were supposed to be doing.
Taking things one step further.
Not ten.
He lifted his head, found her lips, and kissed her—took a dark pleasure in ravaging her mouth, taking from her in that way what he would not yet take from her more explicitly.
Yet.
He stiffled his groan, his body’s protest, with that promise. This was only a temporary state—a tactic in his greater campaign. A campaign he was determined to win without granting her any concessions.
Forcing his hands from their absorption, he gripped her hips and held her to him, stealing a moment to glory in her suppleness, in the evidence of how well she would, when the time came, suit him, taking in the womanly warmth that ultimately, when the time came, would ease his pain.
Sensing him drawing away through their kiss, she broke it herself, lifting her head to look down at him.
She frowned. “What’s the matter? Why have you stopped?”
He debated the wisdom of suggesting that, all things considered, she should be thanking him he had. Lying beneath her, he studied her face, taking in the fact that fate was having a hearty laugh at his expense. She didn’t want him to stop—she’d be quite happy if he drew her back down, kissed her swollen cherry red lips, and—
It took serious willpower to drag in a breath. “Timing.”
The flash in her eyes jerked his wits into action. “As in”—he lowered his gaze to the tempting white mounds inches from his face—“we wouldn’t want to rush things to such an extent that you were overwhelmed.”
Settling one arm across her hips, anchoring her to him, he sent the fingers of his right hand dancing across the edge of her gown, teasing, tantalizing, flirting anew.
She shivered, watching through downcast eyes. “Overwhelmed?”
The frown in her eyes was fading, but hadn’t yet disappeared.
Surreptitiously watching her face, he chose his words carefully. “There’s so much to experience, so much I could show you, and after the first time, it’s never quite the same. Never so . . . excruciating in its novelty.”
The frown remained.
Hooking a finger into her loosened bodice, he drew the fabric down, reexposing one pert nipple. With the pad of his thumb, he circled the aureole, applying just the right degree of pressure.
Her lids fell; she caught a shaky breath. “Oh. I see.”
“Hmm. Given our situation, I thought you might prefer to take the long road, see all the sights, visit all the temples along the way”—he caught her gaze—“so to speak.”
Huge, ever-so-slightly dazed cornflower blue eyes blinked at him. “Are there a lot of . . . temples?”
His lips curved 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 . . .”
“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.
On A Wicked Dawn Page 10
