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.”
He wasn’t so sure of her that he jumped to conclusions; his eyes searched hers for confirmation that she meant what he hoped she did. She let her smile deepen and patted his arm, then glanced up the Walk. “Now you’d better take me back before Reggie starts wondering if he did the right thing in allowing us to be alone.”
Their mothers had decreed their party would set out for Hightham Hall at nine o’clock the next morning. Reggie’s mother was feeling unwell, so he, too, was joining them. To Luc’s mind, that still left him in charge of too many females with insufficient male support—every one of those females could twist Reggie around her little finger.
Together with Reggie, he stood on the pavement and resignedly watched the two traveling carriages sink on their axles as box after box was added to their loads.
“Dashed if they’ll wear the half of it.” Reggie glanced at the four horses harnessed to the Cynster carriage, which had arrived fifteen minutes earlier already burdened with Amelia’s and Louise’s trunks and boxes. “Just hope the cattle’re up to it.”
Luc humphed. “No danger there.” Both his and the Cynster stables contained only the best. “But it’s going to add at least an hour to the journey.” Hightham Hall was in Surrey, on the banks of the Wey.
Reggie watched a footman hand another bandbox up to the Ashford coachman. “Assuming we make it at all.”
A flurry of activity drew their eyes to the front door; excitedly chattering, Luc’s sisters and Fiona, as usual one of the party, eagerly descended the steps. Luc looked beyond them, caught Cottsloe’s eye. The butler stepped back into the house to speed the summons for Luc’s curricle.
Reggie was counting bodies; Luc broke the news that he and Amelia would travel separately. Reggie looked surprised. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d bother—there’ll be plenty of room.”
Luc met his eyes. “You’ve forgotten to count the maids.”
Reggie blinked, then groaned.
As she followed her mother and Luc’s onto his front steps, Amelia saw Reggie’s pained expression, so typical of fashionable males embarking on a trip with female relatives that she had no difficulty guessing his thoughts. Luc’s expression was equally typical, but of himself—hard, impassive, impossible to read.
But then he glanced up and saw her, and hesitated, as if suddenly uncertain. She brightened; smiling, calm, and assured, she continued down the steps to his side.
The next moments were filled with orders and organization, with the questions of who would go where debated and decided, then all the others were handed up to the coaches; Luc shut the last door and stepped back.
“We’ll be ahead of you before the river,” he told Reggie, who nodded and saluted.
Luc signaled to his coachman; the man swung his whip, the horses leaned into the traces, and the heavy coach ponderously rolled forward. The Cynster carriage followed just as Luc’s groom appeared, driving his curricle. The curricle drew up alongside them. Luc watched the coaches until they’d turned the corner, then glanced at her.
She was waiting to catch his eye, to raise her brows, faintly challenging. Stepping close, she murmured, “Stop worrying—everything will be perfectly all right.”
He was a full head taller; his shoulders were so broad, standing this close, he shielded her completely. This close, she could feel the sheer male strength of him all but vibrating around her, like a humming in the air she could feel. This close, and the potent sexuality that lurked beneath his elegant facade was rawly apparent, just short of a physical threat.
And despite all of that, there she was, reassuring him over their intimate relationship. Over the pace of said intimate relationship.
Did irony get any more delicious?
Her smiling assurance had the opposite of its intended effect; his dark eyes—still difficult to decipher, but she was getting much better at it—grew even more wary. His brows lowered in more obvious suspicion.
Valiantly resisting an urge to laugh, she smiled into those watchful eyes and patted his arm. “Do stop scowling—you’ll scare your horses.”
That got her a grim look, but he did stop frowning and handed her up to the curricle. She settled her skirts, decided the sun was not yet high enough to warrant opening her parasol. After exchanging last-minute words with Cottsloe, Luc joined her; in short order, they were away.
He was an excellent whip, an instinctive driver, but she knew better than to chatter and distract him while he tacked through the morning traffic. As he’d predicted, they passed the two coaches just past Kensington; so much heavier and less maneuverable, the latter had to stop frequently and wait for their way to clear.
Thankful she was in the curricle, in the open air, she let her gaze drink in the myriad sights; although she’d seen them many times, now, with Luc beside her, poised on the threshold of her dearest dream, every view, every detail her eyes beheld seemed more alive, brighter, more heavily imbued with meaning.
They reached Chiswick and turned south, crossing the river to Kew, then journeyed on, heading south and west, into the countryside. As the houses fell behind, the brightness of the summer morning enveloped them, and there still seemed no need for talk—for idle chatter to fill the moments.
That was one thing that had changed. She’d counted the days—fourteen had elapsed since the dawn on which she’d taken her courage in her hands and bearded him in his front hall. Before then, she’d have felt compelled to converse, to keep some measure of social contact between them.
Much had changed in the past days; they no longer needed conversation as a bridge between them.
She glanced at him, swiftly took in his expression before looking away; he was absorbed in his driving—she didn’t want to draw his attention. She didn’t want him thinking about her, brooding about their relationship and how that should or should not progress. How and when the next step should occur. They would both do much better if h
e left that to her.
Their peculiar discussion in the park the previous day had given her a great deal to think about. The amazing fact that he wished to delay their intimacy in the teeth of his desire—and hers—had been initially so incomprehensible that she’d had to think long and hard before she’d felt confident she’d correctly identified all the reasons behind it.
Once she had . . . once she’d realized there could only be two reasons, and that neither was, in her opinion, sufficient to justify another week of dallying, far from feeling downhearted, she’d felt buoyed—with expectation, with a determination to bring their no-longer-necessary wooing to an end.
He’d denied being influenced by having known her for so long, and to some extent she accepted that as true. However, he’d always viewed her as he did his sisters and other gently reared females; they were to be protected from all danger. The wolves of the ton always featured as a prominent danger; given Luc now expected her to become his wife—and had had fourteen days to accustom himself to the notion—then it was hardly surprising if his definition of danger now extended to himself, and his wolflike, in other circumstances reprehensible, desires.
Poor dear, he was simply confused—caught in the proverbial cleft stick by his inherent, intrinsic warrior-male instincts. She understood; she could recall some of her cousins being similarly torn. Hoist with their own petard, indeed.
It wouldn’t do to laugh—they all took such matters so seriously. And besides, if she was to succeed in getting him to put aside his chivalrous scruples, provoking his temper was the last thing she should do.
His second reason was one she understood even better—a simple case of stubborn male will. He’d decreed from the first that for social acceptance they would need four weeks of public courtship; the fact they’d patently succeeded in two weeks—as evidenced by the encouraging reactions of all the senior matrons over the past week—was not going to change his mind.
She wasn’t, in fact, intending to argue that point; as long as they married in June, she would gain what she wished from their wedding.
Their wedding, however, was not in her mind equated with their intimacy. The latter could precede the former, as in truth it so often did. They had made their decision, and society approved; as long as they did not flaunt the fact, neither society nor their families would bat an eyelid.
That, she had no doubt, Luc knew—or would if he allowed himself to consider the matter impartially. But with both his instincts and his will driving him, impartiality was clearly beyond him.
It therefore fell to her to take matters in hand. To bring their stalled wooing to a satisfactory end, to advance his script through the last scene—the one he’d unexpectedly balked at. If she hadn’t been so sure he desired her—wanted her as she wanted him—she would not have been able to face the task with the calm certainty presently infusing her.
“There it is.”
Luc’s words jerked her from her thoughts; looking ahead, she saw the twin towers of Hightham Hall rising above the trees. A stone fence bordered the lane; a little way along, they came to a pair of open gates. Luc turned his horses in, then they were bowling along the graveled drive, watching the large sprawling house draw near.
The butler, grooms, and footmen were waiting; a coach had just disgorged its occupants—as they drew up, it rumbled away. A groom ran to the greys’ heads; Luc threw the reins to another, then stepped down.
He turned and lifted her from the carriage. For one moment, while Lady Hightham’s minions scurried about them, unstrapping the bags from the curricle’s boot and carting them indoors, Luc held her fast between his hands, a fraction closer than propriety allowed—close enough for her to sense the very physical response that flared between them. To which he was paying not the slightest attention; his features a touch grim, he searched her face.
“You do agree, don’t you?” His eyes held hers. “No further advances for at least the next week.”
She smiled gloriously up at him; if they’d been alone she’d have pressed herself to him and kissed his worries away—perhaps it was as well they were surrounded. Raising a hand, she caressed his cheek. “I told you—stop worrying.” Turning toward the house, she held his gaze. “You have absolutely nothing to fear.”
Stepping out of his hold, she headed for the house. He watched her for a long moment, then she heard the scrunch of his boots as he followed her, felt his gaze on her back. The curve of her lips deepened; he didn’t—wouldn’t—believe her; unfortunately, he knew her too well.
Lifting her head, she went up the front steps, wrestling with the one burning question that yet remained: How was she to seduce a man who, given his legendary career, must have seen it all?
Chapter 8
She’d come prepared. Even so, she would need to take him by surprise.
They’d arrived in good time—it was barely noon when, with Luc at her heels, she entered the drawing room where their hostess was entertaining those already present.
“Mama and Lady Calverton are yet on the road,” Amelia replied to Lady Hightham’s inquiry. “Luc drove me down in his curricle,”
Her ladyship beamed, and patted the chaise beside her. “Do sit down, dear—you must tell me all your news!”
Amelia sat, hiding a grin as Luc coolly ignored her ladyship’s archly teasing gaze; after bowing over her hand, he strolled off to join a group of similiar gentlemen who’d taken refuge by the windows. Amelia let him go. She’d been to house parties aplenty; she knew the timetable as well as he.
The ladies chatted avidly while more guests arrived; the Calverton and Cynster coaches rolled up just in time for the customary late luncheon.
Following that came the period when the gentlemen sloped off to some masculine den to lie low while the ladies got themselves settled. This first afternoon was a time for feminine organizing—learning which room they’d been assigned, ensuring their gowns were properly shaken and their maids had found them and laid out their brushes. Also for learning who was quartered around them, and where chaperons and dangerous gossips were stationed.
Later that evening, those ladies intent on pursuing an illicit liaison would find some opportunity to divulge their whereabouts to their partners in desire. Whatever might transpire did so over the ensuing days; it was, therefore, the structured, accepted, and expected norm that nothing remotely scandalous ever occurred on the first afternoon of a house party.
Reaching the room assigned to her—a delightful bedchamber at the end of one wing, helpfully close by a secondary stair—Amelia found that her maid, Dillys, had obeyed her instructions to the letter. Her gowns were already hanging, her brushes neatly laid upon the dressing table. The garment she’d asked to be left out was draped upon the bed. In return for working like a Trojan ever since she’d set foot in the house, Dillys was to get the afternoon off—so she could cast her bright eyes over the footmen, stealing a march over the other maids.
Hands clasped, Dillys stood waiting at the end of the bed, eager for her thoroughness to be approved of so she could be off.
Closing the door, Amelia noted the other little touches she’d requested all in place. “Very good. Now—one last thing.”
From her reticule, she drew out the note she’d scribbled in the parlor downstairs. “When the clocks strike three, give this to the butler. The direction’s on the note—simply say I asked that it be delivered immediately.”
“At three o’clock.” Dillys took the note.
Amelia glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; the hands stood at two-forty. “Whatever you do, don’t forget. I’ll ring when next I need you.”
Grinning, Dillys bobbed and departed, closing the door behind her. Amelia turned to the bed, and the garment laid out upon it.
* * *
The three heavy bongs emanating from the longcase clock in the corner of the library drew Luc from his absorption. He glanced at the other gentlemen slumped about the large room; except for two idly discussing some curricle race,
the rest had their eyes closed. Some were even snoring.
Half their luck; he couldn’t relax enough to nod off. Holding a news sheet before his face, he’d pretended to be catching up on events; in reality, his mind was engrossed with its now-habitual obsession.
Her image blossomed in his mind—that gentle smile that in recent days had flirted across her lips whenever he attempted to reinforce the line he’d drawn vis à vis herself and him. Every time that smile bloomed, he had to shackle an urge to kiss it from her lips. And then . . .
Inwardly cursing, he jerked his mind off the very track he’d insisted they would not follow. Yet. Sometime, definitely—just not yet. Unfortunately, ingrained habit was hard to break; simply being here, at a house party, a venue all but expressly designed to further the end he was so determined to delay only added to the already considerable strain of desisting. Resisting.
He shouldn’t have come. Having done so amounted to self-flagellation with a very prickly scourge. Just how prickly he’d only realized when he’d held her between his hands in the forecourt—knowing they were here, in a venue he could so easily exploit to gain the ease his body longed for, in a house that was not his, not hers, and where she wasn’t, courtesy of her mother’s presence, specifically under his protection.
Just how strong his desire to have her had grown, he’d only then fully comprehended.
Only to have her tease him.
Eyes narrowing, he replayed yet again all she’d said, heard again the tenor of her assurance.
He trusted her not one jot. He’d be watching her closely; from this evening on, he’d keep his guard high. . . .
A moment later, he grimaced and surreptitiously shifted. His body was trapped in the most peculiar vise. On the one hand, he was champing at the bit to have her, on the other, he was desperately reining back, fighting to postpone the very moment he so desired. If anyone had suggested he was capable of contorting himself to this extent, he’d have laughed in their faces.
On A Wicked Dawn Page 14