On A Wicked Dawn (18 page)

He answered her challenge avidly, ready enough to take what ease they could. They'd attended tonight intending to spend the time in each other's company; there was nothing else they needed to do.

His hands roved her sleek body, roved her curves, possessing as he would. She kissed him with unfeigned delight, openly encouraging.

All too soon they were giddy, both of them, but not from Lady Cork's champagne. Their kisses grew headier, more evocative; she grew softer, he commensurately harder. He'd made a logical rational decision that indulging her with kisses and caresses was only fair; no sense in forgoing such simple pleasures. At no point had he entertained the notion that she could, no matter how hard she tried, overcome his determination not to seduce her.

And she didn't—he wasn't sure she even tried.

It wasn't she who tumbled them from the chair onto the leopardskin rug. It wasn't she who trapped herself beneath him. However, that done, breathless, dizzy, and expectant,
she willingly obliged him by dealing with the fiendishly tiny closures of her bodice, revealing her breasts, encouraging him to admire, caress, and taste, once he'd indicated that was his aim.

He'd touched her breasts before, viewed them, feasted on the soft flesh, but before she hadn't given herself to him—he'd simply taken, and she'd acquiesced.

Perhaps it was that, that sublime gesture of acceptance, that caused the change, the irresistible, irreversible alteration in the tenor of their exchange.

The switch caught him unawares, caught him with his defenses, if not down, then in temporary abeyance. Before he understood, before he saw the danger, his lips were on hers, hard and demanding, his hand on her breast, equally insistent, his body heated and hard holding her down, his intention brutally clear.

Before he could think, they both went up in flames.

He'd been there before, in desire's furnace; even though she hadn't, she showed no fear. He kissed her more ravenously, more explicitly than he ever had before; she met him and urged him on.

Her hands were frantic, clenched in his hair, then his shirt was undone and her palms spread across his chest, fingers flexing, sinking in as he rolled, then squeezed one pebbled nipple tight, tighter . . . until she broke the kiss with a gasp, her body arching under his.

A flagrant invitation—the need it evoked, primitive and unrestrained, slammed into him, rolled over and through him, and shook his laggard wits into place.

One instant of blind clarity was all he gained, but it was enough to realize their present situation was not her fault, but his. In his mind, he knew she was his—his to take whenever he wished, here, now, if that was what he wanted.

He wanted—with a need so acute it was a physical hurt. He hadn't expected his own instincts to betray him, delivering up to him that which was, here and now, his deepest desire.

He could have her now, here; even as his lips returned to
hers, even as his body moved over hers, one thought flashed through his mind: and what then? He wasn't ready to face it—this need she drew forth, and all that might flow from it. He didn't know enough yet to feel secure. Indulging it just once might condemn him to . . . what? He didn't know.

And while he didn't know . . .

He'd been a captive of the flames often enough to know how to manage them. Now he'd realized the danger, his will was still strong enough to escape the web his own talents had spun.

There was, of course, a price—one he set about paying unstintingly.

Amelia knew this had to be very close to the very last temple on their road. Beneath the staggering heat, an urgency had gripped them—both of them; it drove them on. Her senses could barely cope, yet seemed to have expanded, heightened; her skin was oversensitized, yet greedy for every touch.

She was acutely conscious of her tortured breathing, and his; it was as if their kisses were all that anchored them in the world—they clung to the exchanges as if their lives depended on it. As for their bodies, hers had melted, all resistance gone; his in contrast had only grown harder, as if the steely strength normally infusing his muscles had coalesced into rock-hard rigidity.

Hot, rock-hard rigidity. From the lips ravaging hers, to the hand kneading her naked breast, to the hard columns of his legs tangled with hers. His erection, as hard and hot as the rest of him and even more rigid, was a potent promise of all she hoped would come.

When his hand left her breast, slid over her hip and started to gather and lift her skirt, she stopped breathing entirely—caught in a vise of anticipation, excitement, and sheer overwhelming desire.

A new feeling, that last—never before had she wanted this, not with any other man. With Luc, it was meant to be—she didn't question that; she knew it in her bones.

She felt the touch of cool air; shifting over her, he pushed
her skirts and chemise to her waist, leaving them bunched there, his hand sliding immediately to her curls, then farther. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth as he cupped her; the bold rhythm he set up distracted her for an instant—the instant in which he opened her body and slid one finger into her softness.

Her body, no longer hers, reacted, her hips lifting against him. But he didn't let her senses free, holding them to the steady thrusting rhythm of his tongue, echoed by that bold finger.

The heat within her built, and built, until she simply had to break free and breathe. He lifted his head, let her lie back, gasping, panting—she would have writhed but his weight held her down.

She felt him come up on his elbow and shift back. Cracking open her lids, she looked—and saw him looking down to where his hand rhythmically flexed between her naked thighs. His knee held them spread; as she watched, his gaze roamed over her hips, over her bare stomach, up over her midriff, over her rucked skirts to her breasts, still exposed, the peaks tight, pointed, their fine skin flushed.

His expression was hard, etched, driven, yet something in his gaze, in the line of his lips, suggested a softness, an intangible emotion she hadn't before seen in him. Then his gaze rose and touched her face, locked on her eyes.

Between her thighs, his hand shifted; slowly, deliberately, he probed deeper. Then his thumb caressed, circling that spot he'd so often teased.

She caught her breath, closed her eyes, tensed. Then forced her eyes open, forced her limp arms to obey as she reached for him. “Come to me—now.”

She caught his shoulders and tugged but he didn't shift. His lips twisted in a half smile. “Not yet.” He glanced down again to where his hand played between her thighs, then he slid from her grasp and shifted farther back. “There's one more altar at which I've yet to worship.”

What he meant she couldn't imagine, but as he immediately bent his head and set his lips to her navel, she didn't
have breath, wits, or inclination to ask. He planted kisses over her stomach, then wended his way lower, rendering the already hot skin more fevered.

The unanticipated caresses, unquestionably illicit, drugged her mind, tantalized her senses. But when he withdrew his hand from between her thighs and set his lips to her curls, she jerked, suddenly unsure. “Luc?”

He didn't answer.

The next touch of his lips made her shriek.

“Luc!”

He paid not the slightest heed—within seconds, she'd lost all hope of stopping him, lost all wish to do so—lost her mind, lost her wits into a maelstrom of physical sensation.

She'd never dreamed that such a thing could be, that a man would touch her like this, there, let alone that he would. She'd wanted him to make her his, and in all ways bar one, he did—in the end, she surrendered, let him take her as he wished, gave herself up to his expertise and floated on the tide of erotic delight he conjured.

Boneless, all resistance stripped away, she let him feast. As ever, his liking for the slow and deliberate, the deliberately thorough, held sway—he took all and more, wound her so tight she thought she would expire, then, at the last, when she could feel the bright glory she'd once before experienced bearing down, about to sweep her away, he entered her with his tongue, too slow, too knowing, and flung her into ecstasy.

Later, he simply held her, and when she tried to protest, kissed her deeply, letting her taste her essence on his lips and tongue.

“Not yet” was all he said.

Later still, they returned to the ballroom where he insisted they waltz and wait for the unmasking so all would know that yes, they were there, in the ballroom where they were supposed to be, then, very correctly, he escorted her home.

Luc called in Upper Brook Street the next morning, only to learn that Amelia had gone walking in the park with Reggie.
He debated for all of two seconds, then headed for the park. He had to talk with her. Privately, but preferably in a safe, public setting.

He saw her before she saw him. She was standing on the lawn with a group of ladies and gentlemen. Pausing under a tree, partially screened by its leafy branches, he considered—her, him, what he was doing there.

Trying to buy time. Time to learn, to understand. To find answers to questions like: when had having a woman become synonymous with commitment? And now it so very strangely was, what did that mean?

He knew very well that the equation would not add up that way with any other woman, yet with Amelia . . . that's the way it was. No matter what he tried to pretend, no matter what he wished. He'd spent half the night forcing himself to face that truth. And trying to see beyond it.

The first thing he'd seen was the Hightham Hall house party he, Amelia and their mothers and his sisters were committed to attend—three days of unfettered summer entertainments starting tomorrow. At this stage, such a house party was the last thing he needed.

Time was what he needed—time to come to grips with his need for her, to understand it well enough to manage it, to control it. Instincts warred whenever he was close to her—he wanted her, now, yet on another plane knew that was dangerous. It wasn't she who was dangerous, but what she made him feel, and what that feeling might do to him. Being controlled by his emotions was not something that had ever threatened before—and he was adamant he wouldn't allow even this to develop to that extent.

So he was here to sue for mercy. Temporarily.

He sauntered out of concealment just as the group broke up. Lady Collins and Mrs. Wilkinson were late for a luncheon; he greeted them only to bid them farewell, using the distraction of their leaving to greet Amelia and appropriate her hand.

Reggie, on Amelia's other side, noticed, but pretended not
to; as the two ladies departed, he tugged down his waistcoat. “Don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind stretching my legs. How about a stroll to the Serpentine?”

The others—Mrs. Wallace, Lady Kilmartin, Lord Humphries and Mr. Johns—greeted the suggestion favorably; as a group, they turned down the graveled path leading to the water.

It wasn't difficult to drop back, to slow their steps until there was sufficient distance between them and the others to talk freely.

Amelia cocked her head, lifted a questioning brow. “I presume there's something on your mind.”

The smile that flirted about her lips, the glint in her blue eyes, suggested she knew very well what thought had leapt into his brain the instant he had her to himself again, a soft, female body by his side. Ruthlessly, he squelched it, but didn't take his eyes from hers. “Indeed.”

His tone made her blink. Before she could start speculating, he continued, “The Hightham Hall house party. Tomorrow.”

The light that leapt into her eyes had him hurrying on, “We need to be careful. I know what you're thinking, but while the venue might appear at first glance to be greatly amenable, in reality, such a crowded and cramped house poses dangers all its own.”

Head tilted, she'd listened, her gaze steady on his face. Now she looked ahead. “I had thought that the house party was all but fated in terms of our direction.” She glanced at him. “Are you telling me that view is incorrect?”

He nodded. Somehow, he had to convince her not to take advantage of the amenities afforded by a major house party to tempt him further—he felt certain she would try. His aim was to prevent that, in case she succeeded. “The prospect seems ready-made, I grant you, but—“

The others strolled ahead; luckily the Serpentine Walk was quite long. Amelia held her tongue and listened—to what anyone knowing Luc would instantly recognize as a
plethora of nervous excuses. From him, given the subject of their conversation, the fact was astonishing.

“I can assure you the outcome risks being far less satisfactory than you might hope.” He glanced at her, saw her rising brows, mentally replayed his words, hurriedly amended, “
Not
in terms of immediate enjoyment, but—“

That he didn't want to take advantage of the house party to further their interaction, to take what surely
had
to be the ultimate step, was crystal clear. Why was less so.

She let him talk without interruption, hoping to learn more. The situation, his reaction, was so unlike what she'd been expecting—what, knowing him, she had every reason to expect—she was more puzzled than dismayed. This was the man she wanted to marry; he was proving to have more layers than she'd imagined—it behooved her to pay attention.

“Ultimately, we have to consider the fact that any action likely to result in rumors besmirching your name must be avoided at all costs.”

He sounded so pompous, she had to fight to keep her lips straight. They reached the end of the Serpentine's banks; the others had turned back toward the lawns. Luc halted, and drew her to face him. His eyes searched hers. “You do see, don't you?”

She studied his dark eyes, confirmed he was indeed worried, but about what she couldn't be sure. Nevertheless, she knew how to respond. She smiled reassuringly. “You know perfectly well I would never do anything to besmirch my name.”