He swung around, mentally thanking the gods she'd arrived—
His mind stopped, literally seized, in the instant his gaze touched, locked on her.
She was a vision to confound not just his senses but his wits. His mind's slate remained blank, as blank as his expression, as his eyes devoured. As every instinct he possessed hungered.
Wanted…
She turned from greeting Cottsloe and glided toward him, head rising, golden ringlets tumbling down her back, brushing her shoulders. His fingers curled. She lifted her gaze to his, smiled with easy familiarity — as if she always appeared in his front hall in the guise of a sea goddess, some acolyte of Venus Aphrodite given flesh, blood, and cornflower blue eyes.
Ringlets, eyes, and face he knew, but as for the rest… had he ever truly seen her before? He'd certainly never seen her dressed as she now was.
Her gown was fashioned from shimmery silk gauze so light it shifted with every breath, so sensuous it draped every curve lovingly, outlining the lushness of breast and hip, of sleek thigh and curvaceous derriere. The color was a pale, silvery blue-green. A ruffle of the same material formed the bodice; another ruffle rippled around the hem. Expertly cut, the gown emphasized the indent of her waist, pouring over her like water, clinging, coruscating…
For one fanciful moment, she appeared to be clothed in nothing more substantial than sea foam, as if, at any moment, the waves would retreat, the breeze sigh, the foam melt…
An illusion, but such a good one he found he was holding his breath.
He couldn't see any sleeves or straps, then realized they were there but transparent; her bare shoulders and the delectable upper swells of her breasts seemed to rise out of the froth of the bodice, for all the world as if it would be a simple matter to peel the gown down…
She reached him, stopped before him, screened from the others; from behind came exclamations from his sisters and the clattering of their now-eager descent.
He dragged his gaze up to Amelia's eyes.
She met it, a teasing smile on her lips. Raised one delicate brow. 'Are you ready?'
Her voice was low, sirenlike…
He stared — into eyes that were nowhere near as angelic as he'd expected. Before he could narrow his, her smile deepened, and she stepped past him to greet his mother and sisters.
Leaving him to grapple — to wrestle back under control — a veritable horde of instincts he'd been only dimly aware he possessed. He swung around, hands rising to his hips as he considered her. His mother and sisters would read his stance as impatience; they were already late. Amelia would know better, but…
He didn't, in that instant, care what she knew or guessed. If he'd had any chance of being obeyed, he'd have ordered her home to change. No matter how late it made them. But the enthusiastic approbation that…
It was scintillating, but in his opinion better suited to a boudoir than a damned rout. And he was supposed to squire her around for the rest of the evening? And keep his hands to himself?
Keep every other man's hands off her?
Him and half the Guards.
He scowled, and was about to ask pointedly where her shawl was, in a growl to go with the scowl, when he realized it was draped over her elbows. A shimmering, glimmering fantasy that, as she flipped it up over her shoulders and turned with his mother, ready to depart, only added to the allure of that gleaming gown.
Ruthlessly shackling his temper, and more, he waved them all to the front door. 'We'd better get going.'
His sisters and Fiona grinned forbearingly at him as they trooped past, imagining his black mood to be occasioned by their tardiness. His mother swept after them, an amused look in her eyes, taking care not to meet his.
Amelia glided in Minerva's wake; drawing level with him, she smiled, and continued on.
He stood for a moment, watching her hips sway under the shimmering gauze, then inwardly groaned and followed.
If he'd been thinking — thinking at all — he'd have got down the steps faster; when he stepped onto the pavement, the three girls had already piled into the carriage and taken their seats. He handed his mother up, then gave Amelia his hand, supporting her as she stepped up to the carriage, by long habit looking down at the right moment to glimpse the flash of bared ankle before she let her skirts fall.
He was more than 'ready' when he climbed into the cariage; 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.'
