On A Wicked Dawn (17 page)

She didn't take his explanation well, but grudingly forebore to argue; she seemed to have accepted that at least in this arena, she couldn't dictate to him.

The afternoon was mild; they had plenty of time. He slumped back and rearranged her so she lay atop him, her back to his chest, cradled in his arms as her skin cooled and her wits lazily drifted. A moment of blessed peace he seized for himself. Placed as she was, she couldn't see his face—couldn't see the glances he slanted at hers.

He was trying to regain his bearings, and didn't want her to know he'd lost them. Didn't want her to guess, as she might if she saw him looking uncertain, that he was ever so slightly at sea.

Even on this sea, one he'd successfully navigated more times than he could count.

Women, the having of them, had never truly mattered—not in any specific way—in the past. He'd assumed having Amelia would be, if not precisely the same, then not seriously different.

Yet the blind need that had gripped him only moments past was new. Blind lust, blind desire—those he was familiar with—but blind need? That was something else. Something that had never before afflicted him. He couldn't logically explain why the need to possess her and only her had suddenly become so acute. So absolutely necessary.

He didn't know how deep this unfamiliar emotion ran. He didn't know if he could control it—or if, ultimately, it would control him.

That thought left him wary, even more wary than before, yet as the minutes ticked past and the afternoon waned, the
soft warm body, so elementally feminine, in his arms, in spite of all, soothed him.

She'd lost all physical distance; she was utterly content in his arms, even though her bodice was still open, her breasts delightfully exposed. He felt his lips curve; he definitely approved of her this way. The temptation to raise a hand to the soft mounds and play was real, yet . . . the end of the day was not that far away.

Eventually, they stirred and after righting their clothes, headed back to the villa. She led the way, as she so often did. Just before they reached the main walk, he stopped her; close behind her, he bent his head and pressed his lips briefly to the curve of her throat.

She said nothing, but looked around, her eyes meeting his as he straightened. Then she smiled—that odd, glorious, womanly smile that always left him suspicious—and blithely turned and headed on.

They reached the lawns a few minutes before the others straggled back, tired and weary but smiling. They all piled back into the carriages. Although the girls' chatter had died, Reggie begged for relief so Luc took him up behind them in his curricle. The faster equipage soon left the carriages far behind.

They were trotting into London when Reggie yawned and stirred. Luc grinned. “Did you hear anything worth learning?”

Reggie humphed. “Only some tale about a snuffbox gone missing at Lady Hammond's and some precious bud vase that Lady Orcott's misplaced. You know what it is, though—it's the end of the Season and things have got moved and people have forgotten where they put them.”

Luc thought of his grandfather's inkstand. Reggie was undoubtedly right.

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.