"Pace? What—"
"It can't go too fast." "Why not?"
Because that risked revealing far too much. He locked his gaze on her stubborn face. "Because going too fast will raise questions — questions we'd rather weren't asked. Like is there any reason for my sudden pursuit of you — I've only known you for how long? Twenty something years? Too fast, and people will wonder what's behind it. And my possible motives are the least of it. I told you from the start, this needs to be convincing, and that means slow. Four weeks. No shortcuts."
"I thought you meant we could take up to four weeks, not that it had to take four weeks."
"People need to see a steady progression from mild interest, to awareness, to decision, to confirmation. If they don't see any motive — if we don't give them a good show — they won't accept it."
All nonsense, of course. If she had any more gowns in her armoire like the one she was wearing, no one would wonder at his sudden decision.
On the thought, his gaze lowered; he frowned at the offending article. "Have you any more gowns like that?"
She glared, then looked down at her gown, spread the skirts. "What is it about this gown that so irks you?"
He had wisdom enough to know to keep his lips shut; instead, he heard himself growl, "It's too damned inviting."
She seemed taken aback. "Is it?"
"Yes!" He'd thought the effect bad enough in his hall, and even worse under the chandeliers. Yet the worst, most dizzying effect was now, in half-light. He'd noticed it under the trees; it had been partly to blame for his unwise words. In poor light, the gown made her skin shimmer, too, as if her bare shoulders and breasts were part of a pearl, rising from the froth of the sea. Offered, waiting for the right hand to recognize and seize, take, reveal the rest that the gown concealed…
Small wonder he could barely think.
"It's…" He gestured, struggling to find the right words to talk his way out of this morass.
She was looking down, considering. "Inviting… but isn't that how I should look?"
It was the way she lifted her head and met his gaze — head-on, direct — that shook his laggard wits into place. His eyes slowly narrowed as he considered — her words, and her. "You know." He took a menacing step toward her. She dropped her skirts and straightened, but didn't step back. He halted and glared down into her eyes. "You know damned well how you — in that damned gown — affect men."
Her eyes widened. "Well of course." She tilted her head, as if wondering at his thought processes. "Whyever did you imagine I'd worn it?"
He made a strangled sound — the remnants of the roar he refused to let her hear. He never lost his temper — except, these days, with her! He pointed a finger at the tip of her nose. "If you wish me to marry you, you will not again wear this gown, or any like it, unless I give you leave."
She held his gaze, then drew herself up, folded her arms—
"For God's sake, don't do that!" He shut his eyes against the sight of her breasts rising even higher above the rippling edge of her bodice.
"I'm perfectly decent."
Her tone was clipped, distinctly acid. He risked lifting his lids the veriest fraction; his gaze, predictably, locked on the ivory mounds flauntingly displayed by the distracting gown. Her nipples had to be just—
"Anyone would think you've never seen a lady's breasts before — you can't expect me to believe that." Amelia kept her delight at his susceptibility firmly in check. Not hard; she didn't like the direction this discussion was taking.
His gaze was unabashedly locked on her breasts; beneath the thick fringe of his sooty lashes, his dark eyes glittered. "At this point, I don't much care what you believe." There was a quality in his voice, in the slowly and precisely enunciated words, that made her still, that alerted every instinct she possessed. His gaze slowly rose, and fixed on her eyes. "I repeat: if you want me to marry you, you will not again wear this gown, or any like it."
She lifted her chin. "I'll need to some time — toward the end—"
"No. You won't. Need to. Or do so." She felt her jaw lock, could almost feel her will and his collide, but while hers was like a wall, his was like a tide — it flowed all around, surged, tugged, weakened her foundations. She knew him too well, knew she couldn't push him and didn't dare defy him at this point.
It didn't happen easily, but she forced herself to nod. "Very well." She drew in a breath. "But on one condition."
He'd blinked, his gaze lowering; he jerked it back up to her face. "What condition?"
"I want you to kiss me again." He stared at her. A moment passed. "Now?" She spread her hands, widened her eyes. "We're here — completely private. You locked the door." She gestured to her gown. "I'm wearing this. Surely our charade suggests a certain script?"
Luc looked into her eyes — he was perfectly sure he'd never felt so torn in his life. Every instinct, every urge, every demon he possessed wanted nothing more than to seize the slender body so provocatively displayed and feast. Every instinct bar one. Self-preservation was the only naysayer, but it was screaming.
Increasingly hoarsely.
There was no way he could argue his way out of her suggestion. Aside from anything else, his mind baldly refused to be a party to that much deceit.
He lifted his shoulders, making it look like a shrug, in reality trying to ease the tension that had already locked every muscle. "Very well." His voice was even, his tone commendably nonchalant. "One kiss."
One rigidly controlled, absolutely finite kiss.
He reached for her; she stepped toward him. Before he could catch her and hold her back, she was in his arms, her distracting gown shushing against his coat, her supple figure stretching against him as she reached up and twined her arms about his neck.
Bending his head, he found her lips, covered them — all without the slightest thought. His hands gripped her waist, but his arms were powerless to ease her away from him. Their lips melded and the compulsion to instead draw her closer grew.
She parted her lips under his, and he did.
Let his hands slide over the sumptuous silk, over the curves it concealed, then he deliberately drew her against him, molding her softness to his much harder frame. Drew her breath from her, then gave it back, took her mouth slowly, thoroughly.
He sensed not the slightest hesitation through their increasingly explicit exchange; her tongue boldly met his with a ladylike eagerness that was unfeigned and oddly tempting. Enticing. As if she and she alone could offer him something his experienced senses had never encountered before.
As if she was confident of that, knew it with a sureness that left no room for doubt.
Her body remained pliant yet vibrant in his arms; not passive, yet limited in her ability to script their interaction purely by lack of experience. He could sense through her lips, through her responses, an unfettered commitment to the pleasures inherent in the kiss. To inciting, as she had before, subsequent delights.
That he'd expected; that was where he drew his line. This time, he was prepared for her pushy nature — for her attempts to lure him into rushing headlong into a situation his finely honed instincts were strongly warning would not be one he was accustomed to. This woman was to be his wife; nothing — no temptation — would ever be sufficient to make him forget that, and all its connotations.
For all his experience, his instincts urged caution. In this arena, he was no more experienced than she — and he had more to lose.
As she returned his kisses avidly, Amelia had no thought of winning or losing; she'd demanded the kiss purely to enjoy it, and to leam more. More of the dizzying delight he so effortlessly conjured, that seemed to warm her from her bones to her skin.
Their second kiss was indeed living up to her expectations. He seemed to have accepted holding her close; her senses purred at the pleasure inherent in having all that hard muscle and heavy bone surrounding her, pressed to her breasts and the swells of her thighs, his arms banding her shoulders and back. She was tem
pted to wriggle closer still.
He hadn't even tried to turn the kiss into a single peck, as she'd suspected he might. She had absolutely no doubt he was, instead, enjoying the exchange — the succession of caresses, him to her, her to him — every bit as much as she.
So what came next? The thought floated through her mind; she followed it. Mentally caught her breath, then kissed him back even more flagrantly — distracted him long enough to press closer still, to sink against him, her breasts flush against his chest.
The pressure eased the ill-defined ache that seemed to be burgeoning in her breasts; she shifted slightly, seeking further relief. His arms had instinctively tightened, supporting her. As the tide of the kiss shifted, he kissed her back — with greater fire, with the promise of flames. She inwardly gasped, felt his arms ease, his hands slide… suddenly knew what next she wanted, what next she needed from him.
His hands rose, palms tracing upward from her hips to her waist, then higher, sliding to her sides…
Where they stopped.
And reversed direction.
Before she could think, he ravaged her mouth, briefly, thoroughly, then he eased back from the kiss and lifted his head. Set her back from him, his hands at her waist, steadying her.
He met her wide, blinking stare, searched her eyes, then raised one brow, as ever faintly arrogant. "Enough?"
She could barely breathe; her head was whirling, her pulse thudding. But she understood what she saw in his face; his implacability was no news to her. Letting her lips curve, she boldly drew one finger down his cheek, then stepped back. "For now."
With that, she turned toward the door. "We'd better get back, don't you think?"
Luc did, but it took a moment to get his body to obey. He felt buoyed, reassured; he'd set himself to walk an extraordinarily fine line, one she was clearly intent on dragging him over, yet he'd triumphed — a not inconsiderable feat, considering the provocation. Joining her, he hunted out the key, opened the door, and held it wide.
Head high, a satisfied smile on her lips, his temptress swept past him; he let his gaze assessingly travel her slender length, then followed, closing the door, making a mental note to send around to Celestine regarding any similar gown she might produce. Marriage, after all, lasted a long time-only sensible to ensure he enjoyed it.
Deep in the gardens close by the river, a young lady slipped through the trees. Reaching the river wall, high and built of stone, she followed it to the corner of the property.
There, beneath a large tree, a gentleman waited, a denser shadow in the gloom. He turned as the young lady came up.
"Well? Do you have them?"
"Yes." The young lady sounded breathless; she raised her reticule, a larger than usual affair, and opened it. "I managed to get both pieces."
The items she drew forth glinted as she handed them to the gentleman. "You will send all you can get for them to Edward, won't you?"
The gentleman didn't answer, but turned the objects in his hands, holding up first one, an ornate gold inkstand, then the other, a gold-and-crystal perfume flask, to the fitful light filtering through the leaves.
"They'll fetch a few guineas, but he'll need more than that."
"More?" Lowering her reticule, the young lady stared. "But… those were the only pieces Edward mentioned…"
"I daresay. But poor Edward…" The gentleman slid the two objects into the capacious pockets of his driving coat and sighed. "I fear he's trying to be brave, but you can imagine, I'm sure, what it's like for him. Banished by his family, cast into a foreign gutter and left to starve, forgotten, with not a friend in the world—"
"Oh, no! Surely not. I can't imagine… I'm sure…" The young lady broke off. She stared through the dimness at the gentleman.
Who shrugged. "I'm doing all I can, but I don't move in these circles." He looked through the dark garden to where the fairy lights began, and farther, to where the elegant throng was dancing and laughing on the terrace.
The young lady drew herself up. "If I could help more… but I've already given all the money I have. And there aren't that many precious little objects lying about Ashford House, not ones that rightly might be Edward's."
The gentleman was silent for sometime, his gaze on the dancers, then he turned to the young lady. "If you really want to help — and I'm sure Edward would be eternally grateful — then there's plenty more items like these two that could help him, and that they" — with his head, he indicated the faraway crowd—"would like as not never miss."
"Oh, but I couldn't..." The young lady stared at him.
The gentleman shrugged. "If that's the way it is, then I'll tell Edward he'll have to manage on his own, that no matter what rat-infested, flea-ridden hovel he's now forced to live in, despite all the blunt his family and their friends have, there's no help for him here. He can give up all hope—"
"No! Wait." After a moment, the young lady sighed, a whispering surrender. "I'll try. If I see any little things that might suit—"
"Just pick them up and bring them to me." The gentleman glanced at the house. "I'll be in touch about where we can next meet."
He turned to leave — the lady put out a hand and caught his sleeve. "You will send the money to Edward straightaway — and tell him that / at least care?"
The gentleman studied her earnest expression, then nodded. "It will mean a lot to him, I'm sure."
With a bow, he turned and walked away through the trees. The young lady sighed, looked up at the distant terrace, then lifted her skirts and headed back to the house.
"Your pardon, ma'am, but Lord Calverton, the Misses Ash-ford, and Miss Ffolliot have called."
Louise looked up. Amelia blinked. They were sitting at their ease in the morning room at the back of the house, Louise reading a book, Amelia on the chaise perusing the latest issue of La Belle Assemblee.
From the comfort of her armchair, Louise shrugged. "Show them in here, Colthorpe." As the butler bowed and retreated, Louise smiled at Amelia. "Given it's the Ashfords, we may as well relax."
Amelia nodded absentmindedly, her gaze on the door. Luc had said nothing about calling this morning. After they'd returned to Lady Carstairs's reception room, he'd remained by her side, subtly but definitely there, until the end of the night. The Ashfords had dropped her at her parents' door; Luc had escorted her up the steps, bowed with his usual bored languor — and said not a word about any future engagement.
The door opened; Emily, Anne, and Fiona gaily bustled in. Amelia shut the periodical and laid it aside. Luc strolled in, impeccably turned out in a dark blue coat, breeches, and Hessians, as always darkly, dangerously handsome. The girls very correctly greeted her mother; Amelia tried to catch Luc's eye, but beyond a swift glance as he'd entered, he didn't look her way.
Then he was bowing over Louise's hand, greeting her mother with his usual polished grace. Alert, Louise waved him to the chaise; instead, he misinterpreted the gesture — purposely, Amelia was sure — and bowed. "Amelia."
She returned his nod, then watched in bemusement as he chose the armchair alongside her mother's and sat. The three girls fluttered over to perch around her. Luc turned to Louise; the girls turned to her.
"It's a lovely day outside."
"So very pleasant. Just a light breeze."
"We'd thought to take the air in the park, but Luc suggested—"
What Amelia wanted to know was what Luc was suggesting to her mother.
Smiling at the tableau of her daughter surrounded by the younger girls, all chattering, Louise looked at Luc and raised her brows. "I take it you don't find keeping an eye on Amelia as well as your sisters and Miss Ffolliot in the evenings too much of a trial?"
Luc met her gaze, succinctly replied, "No." Amelia was a trial, but he would manage. "Your daughter does, however, have a stubborn streak, and a tendency to go her own road, as you're doubtless aware."
"Naturally." Louise looked intrigued. He directed his gaze across the room, to where Amelia was listeni
ng to his sisters' and Fiona's entreaties. "She gets on well with my sisters, and my mother, too, of course, which makes things easier."
"Indeed?" The faint amusement in Louise's voice assured him she'd followed his change of tack; she knew quite well what "things" he was referring to.
"I had hoped," he returned his gaze to Louise, "that you would approve." He paused, then smoothly continued, "I thought a jaunt to Richmond, given the weather is so clement, would be a welcome diversion. We're taking the open carriage, of course."
He awaited Louise's verdict. She regarded him for a disconcertingly long time, but eventually smiled and inclined her head. "Richmond, then, if you think it will serve."
That last comment had him inwardly frowning, but he got no chance to probe for an explanation — he wasn't even sure he wanted one; Louise turned and spoke to the girls, who'd already outlined their plans to Amelia.
Louise indicated her approval. Amelia stood, shooting a sharp glance his way. "I'll have to change."
He rose. "We'll wait."
Crossing the room, he opened the door and held it for her. Pausing in the doorway, she looked up at him, suspicion in her eyes. He smiled. Screened from the others, he flicked her cheek. "Hurry up." After a fractional pause, he added, "I guarantee you'll enjoy it."
Her eyes searched his, then she elevated her nose and left.
Ten minutes later, she returned, in a gown of sprigged muslin, cherry red against white. Three flounces adorned its hem; the bodice fitted snugly, and the sleeves were tiny puffs. A bright red ribbon was threaded through her curls, a wider ribbon of the same shade was wound about the handle of the parasol tucked under her arm. Luc gave silent thanks that she didn't favor bonnets; he'd make sure that when they walked, she kept the parasol shut.
She was pulling on red kid gloves; half boots of the same shade were on her feet. She looked delectable — good enough to eat.
He rose. The two younger girls were by the window, examining the small ornaments laid out on the wide sill; he collected them with a glance and turned to where Emily was chatting with Louise. "We'd better make a start."
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