He was more than “ready” when he climbed into the carriage; he was uncomfortably hard. A situation that grew considerably worse when he realized that the space they’d left for him was next to Amelia, between her and the carriage’s side. There was only just enough space sitting three to each seat; the girls, crowded on the forward seat, already had their heads together, chattering animatedly. Impossible to make them change places—what excuse could he give? Instead, gritting his teeth, he sat—and endured the sensation of Amelia’s hip riding against his, of her slender, distinctly feminine thigh pressing against his, that godforsaken gown shifting, discreetly tantalizing, between them.
All the way to the Carstairs house down by the river at Chelsea.
The Carstairses owned a large house in Mayfair, but had elected to use their smaller property with its long gardens reaching down to the river for this summer night’s entertaining.
They greeted their hostess in the hall, then joined the other guests in a long reception room running the length of the house. The room’s rear wall was comprised of windows and a set of doors presently open to the gardens. Said gardens had been transformed into a magical fairyland with hundreds of small lanterns hung in the trees and strung between long poles. A light breeze off the river set the lanterns bobbing, sent the shadows they cast swaying.
Many guests had already yielded to the invitation of the softly lit night; turning from surveying the company, Luc looked at Amelia—and immediately determined to do the same. She’d appeared stunning enough in the even light of his front hall. Under the glare of the chandeliers she looked like . . . the most delectable delight any hungry wolf could dream of.
And there were plenty of hungry wolves about.
Inwardly swearing, he gripped her elbow, cast a cursory glance at his sisters. Ever since their come-out, successful as it had been, he’d become, if not less protective, then at least less overtly so. Emily had found her feet; Anne, naturally quiet, remained so. He felt comfortable leaving them to their own devices, and Fiona would be safe in their company.
He’d check on them later.
“Let’s go into the garden.” He didn’t look at Amelia, but sensed her glance, sensed her underlying amusement.
“If you wish.”
He did glance at her then, sideways, briefly; the smile in her voice was manifest on her lips, lightly curved. The temptation to react—to kiss that teasing smile from those luscious lips—was frighteningly strong. He quelled it. With a curt nod for his mother, already settled with her bosom-bows, he grimly steered Amelia down the room.
To reach the doors giving onto the gardens they had, perforce, to travel the length of the room. It took them half an hour to manage it; they were constantly stopped by ladies and gentlemen, the ladies to comment on her gown, some genuinely complimenting, others ingenuously exclaiming over her daring in wearing it, the gentlemen to flatter and compliment, albeit largely in nonverbal vein.
When they finally won free and gained the terrace doors, Luc’s jaw was set, his expression unrelentingly grim—at least to Amelia’s eyes. She could sense the breadth and depth of his temper, could sense his increasingly strained control.
Considered ways to further exacerbate it.
“How pretty!” She stepped onto the terrace flags.
Luc’s fingers slid from her elbow—where they’d been locked ever since they’d arrived—to her wrist, then he grasped her hand and came up alongside, placing her hand on his sleeve—trapping it there. “I hadn’t realized their gardens were so extensive.” He scanned the shadowy walks leading down and away. “You can barely hear the river from here.”
“Just a faint lapping and the occasional splash of oars.” She was looking around herself. “It appears they’re having the dancing out here.” She nodded to a group of musicians, resting with their instruments at one end of the wide terrace.
“Let’s stroll.”
If they didn’t, others would soon join them; she had no interest in conversing with anyone but Luc. Even with him, she’d prefer to exchange something other than words, and the garden promised to be the best venue for that. She went down the terrace steps at his side.
The gravel walks spread in numerous directions; they took the least frequented, leading away under the leafy branches of a grove. They walked through successive bands of moonlight and shadow; she held her tongue, aware of Luc’s gaze, aware that it returned as if against his will to her bare shoulders, to the bared upper curves of her breasts.
She wasn’t surprised when he eventually growled, “Where the devil did you find that gown?”
“Celestine had it brought in from Paris.” She glanced down, fluffed up the ruffle that formed the bodice, supremely conscious that his gaze followed her every move. “Different, but hardly outrageous. I like it, don’t you?”
She glanced up; even in the dim light she saw his lips thin.
“You know damned well what I—and every other male present this side of senility—think of that gown. Think of you in that gown.” Luc bit his tongue, stifling the words: Think of you out of that gown. Narrow-eyed, he glared at her. “As I recall, we’d agreed that you would follow my lead.”
She opened her eyes wide. “Isn’t this”—slipping her hand from beneath his, she spread her shimmering skirts—“along the path we’re supposed to walk—that society expects us to tread?” Halting, she faced him. They were far enough from the terrace, and there were no other guests in the vicinity; they could speak without restraint. “Isn’t it expected that I’d wish to dazzle you?”
His eyes couldn’t get any narrower; he gritted his teeth, spoke through them. “You’re dazzling enough without the gown.” What was he saying? “I mean an ordinary, usual gown would have sufficed. That”—with one finger, he indicated the scintillating garment—“is going too far. It’s too dramatic. It doesn’t suit you.”
He meant that things dramatic didn’t suit her; Amanda was dramatic, Amelia was . . . whatever she was, it was something else.
Courtesy of the overhead branches, her face was in shadow, even when she lifted her chin. “Oh?”
There was nothing in the syllable to suggest she’d taken offense; indeed, her tone seemed light. It was the set of her chin that sent a warning snaking down his spine, sent him rushing into speech, disguising his disquiet behind an exasperated grimace. “I didn’t mean—“
“No, no.” She smiled. “I quite understand.”
That smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Amelia—“
He reached for her hand, but with a silken swish, she turned back along the path.
“I really think, if that’s the tack you believe we should take, that we ought to get back to the terrace.” She continued in that direction. “We wouldn’t want any of the gossipmongers to overinterpret our state.”
He caught up with her in two strides. “Amelia—“
“Perhaps you’re right and we should take this more slowly.” A note had crept into her voice, one that gave him pause. “That being so . . .”
They’d reached the terrace; she stopped before the steps in a patch of light cast by the lanterns. He halted beside her, saw her scan the platoon of guests waiting on the flags for the orchestra to start up. Then she smiled—not at him. “Indeed.” Glancing his way, she inclined her head in dismissal. “Thank you for the walk.” Turning, she started up the steps. “Now I’m going to dance with someone who does appreciate my gown.”
Chapter 4
The words reached Luc a second too late for him to grab Amelia back. Gaining the terrace, she plunged into the crowd; although he followed in a flash, by the time he located her she was part of a group, chatting animatedly with Lord Oxley, one hand on his lordship’s arm.
The musicians chose that moment to strike up; the introduction to a cotillion had the guests quickly forming into sets. Jaw clenched, Luc retreated to where shadows draped the house wall; folding his arms, he leaned his shoulders against the wall, and watched Amelia—his bride-to-be—dip an
d sway through the figures.
That wretched gown floated about her, a fantasy of shimmering light. He saw at least two accidents caused by gentlemen getting distracted. The emotions that scored him were not familiar, the tension gripping him only partially so. Desire he was accustomed to, could deal with without effort, but this other . . .
His temper felt raked, rawly sensitive. Overreactive, yet he was rarely that. How had she so easily provoked him to this state?
At least the damned dance wasn’t a waltz.
That thought had him cursing. The next dance almost certainly would be—and he didn’t trust himself to take her in his arms, not in public, not in that excuse for a gown. Yet he knew perfectly well what would happen if he tried to endure watching her waltz—in that gown—with some other man.
Comprehensively cursing all women—Cynster females especially—he watched and waited. And planned.
Amelia knew he was watching her; she only smiled more brightly, laughed and charmed Lord Oxley, but only so far. She had no intention of exchanging his lordship for one difficult viscount. Luckily, Luc couldn’t be totally, incontrovertibly, sure of that.
At the end of the dance, she studiously avoided looking Luc’s way, instead encouraged other gentlemen to gather around. She was watching Mr. Morley bow over her hand when Luc strolled up.
The instant Morley released her fingers, Luc appropriated them, directed a negligent, possibly bored nod her way, then wound her arm with his and set her hand on his sleeve—leaving his hard palm heavily over it.
She opened her eyes wide. “I wondered where you were.”
His dark eyes met hers. “Wonder no more.”
The four gentlemen who’d surrounded her looked from him to her, confusion in their faces. They would know she’d entered the house on Luc’s arm, but would have assumed their association was as before—a convenient family connection, nothing more.
Nothing deeper.
The currents now surging between them, around them, spoke otherwise.
Wishing his eyes were easier to read, she smiled at Luc—then directed her delight at her cavaliers. “Have you heard about the balloon ascension?”
“Indeed, yes!” Lord Carmichael replied. “It’s to be held in the park.”
“Day after tomorrow,” Mr. Morley supplied.
“Perhaps, my dear, I could offer my new phaeton as a conveyance.” Lord Oxley puffed out his chest. “Quite seven feet off the ground, y’know—you’ll have an excellent view.”
“Indeed?” Amelia smiled at his lordship. “I—
“Miss Cynster has already agreed to attend the spectacle in company with my sisters.”
She glanced at Luc, brows rising, faintly haughty.
He met her gaze, added, “And me.”
She held his dark gaze for an instant longer, then let her lips curve and inclined her head. Turning back to Lord Oxley, she gestured helplessly, easing her rejection with a smile. “As I was about to say, I’m afraid I’ve already accepted an invitation to attend with the Ashfords.”
“Ah, well—yes.” Lord Oxley shot a puzzled glance at Luc. “I see.” His tone suggested he hadn’t the foggiest clue.
A screech from a violin alerted the crowd to the upcoming waltz.
“My dear, if I might beg your indulgence—“
“If I might be so bold, Miss Cynster—“
“Dear lady, if you would do me the honor—“
Mr. Morley, Lord Carmichael, and Sir Basil Swathe all broke off, glanced at each other, then looked at Amelia.
She hesitated, waited—then lifted her chin. “I—“
Luc pinched her fingers trapped under his hand. “My dear, I came to fetch you—Mama desires you to meet an old friend.”
She looked at him. “But the waltz . . . ?”
“I fear this old friend is quite elderly and must leave soon. He’s rarely in London.” He glanced at her four cavaliers. “If you’ll excuse us.”
No question, of course; he barely waited for her to murmur her good-byes before drawing her away. Not onto the dance floor, where she’d wanted to go—with him—but doggedly back into the house.
Inside the doors of the long reception room, she halted, refusing to be dragged farther. “Who is this old friend your mother wants me to meet?”
Luc glanced at her. “A figment of my imagination.”
Before she could respond, he changed direction, urging her to a door. “This way.”
She was intrigued enough, hopeful enough, to let him steer her through, into a short passage that eventually joined a corridor running parallel to the reception room on the other side of the house. Rooms opened off it to both sides.
Her hand locked in his, Luc made for a door halfway along the corridor, on the side farthest from the reception room. Opening the door, he looked in, then stepped back and swept her before him—she had no real option but to enter the room. He followed on her heels.
She looked around. The room was a parlor boasting comfortable sofas, chairs, and low tables. Long curtains framed the windows, undrawn, allowing pale moonlight, faint but pervasive, to illuminate the scene.
One in which no other soul breathed, bar them.
She heard a muted click. She swung around in time to see Luc slide something into his waistcoat pocket. A glance at the door confirmed the lock was the sort that would normally have a key in it. It no longer did.
A most peculiar sensation flickered over her skin, slithered down her spine. She lifted her gaze to Luc’s face as he closed the distance between them.
She was not going to let him fluster her, make her act like some mindless ninny he could manage with disgustingly arrogant ease. Folding her arms beneath her breasts, uncaring of the fact that pulled the ruffle forming her bodice tight, she lifted her chin. “What’s this all about?”
He blinked, halted, apparently uncertain. Then she realized he wasn’t looking at her face. A fact he quickly rectified, lifting his eyes to meet hers.
“This,” he stated, through clenched teeth, “is about that.”
She frowned. “That?”
His features grew grimmer; his eyes, so dark, burned. “We need to discuss our tactics. The steps we’re going to take to manipulate the ton into believing our marriage is anything but arranged. We need to discuss the order in which we’re going to take those steps. And we need—definitely need—to discuss the small matter of timing.”
“Timing?” She widened her eyes. “Surely it’s simply a matter of taking our agreed steps in their appropriate order, and if the opportunity presents to move faster—“
“No! That is where we disagree.”
He was still speaking through his teeth. She frowned—pointedly—searching his face. “Whatever is the matter with you?”
Luc looked long and hard into her wide blue eyes, and couldn’t tell if she was teasing. “Nothing,” he ground out. “Nothing that any normal—no, never mind!” He raked back his hair, then realized what he was doing and let his hand fall. “The important thing we’re going to discuss and agree on is the pace of our little charade.”
“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 ha
d 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.”
On A Wicked Dawn Page 7