he'd always been as he was now — arrogantly distant, aloof — cool. As if there was steel beneath his elegant clothes, concealing and distancing the flesh-and-blood man.
She had to agree; she didn't have to like it. Haughtily inclining her head, she looked away.
Luc fought not to grin knowingly. Sliding his fingers around her wrist, he stroked, then set her hand on his sleeve. 'Come — we should circulate.'
While they talked to first this group, then that, he cataloged the company. There were few of his ilk present. One or two older men, like Colonel Withersay, intent on bending a pretty widow's ear, and many youthful pups attending in their mothers' trains, still rosy-cheeked, stammeringly eager to hold a girl's reticule while she adjusted her shawl. No husbands — none would have been expected. Given that the Season was drawing to a close, the wolves' attention was also elsewhere; Luc doubted many of his peers were yet awake. Certainly not out of bed, whoever's beds they were gracing.
When Lady Hartington rang a bell, summoning them down to the lawns, where an array of culinary delights was set forth on trestle tables, he led Amelia down and, with his habitual distant grace, assisted her in assembling a plate of select morsels, simultaneously piling his own plate high. Preserving his attitude of resigned boredom — gaining a narrow-eyed, remarkably suspicious look from Reggie — he remained beside Amelia, exchanging mild comments with those who joined them.
Giving all the matrons who, driven by instinct, invariably watched such as he no inkling that he harbored any intention of working his wiles on any of the sweet innocents present certainly not on the fair beauty by his side.
The sun rose higher; the day grew warmer. Her ladyship's culinary offerings were consumed with relish, as was her wine cup.
As he'd expected, once their visceral hunger was satisfied, all the young things developed a longing to explore the famous grotto by the lake. Their mothers wanted nothing more than to stay seated in the shade and exchange desultory conversation. It consequently fell to Reggie and a host of bright-eyed youths to escort the bevy of giggling girls across the lawns, through the trees, and around the lake to the grotto.
He didn't have to say a word; all he had to do was wait for the moment his mother and Louise looked across to where he and Amelia remained seated at a table to one side of the lawn. The giggling girls had gathered into a brightly hued pack and were bustling across the lawns, parasols bobbing, a few dark coats amid the crush.
His mother caught his eye, raised her brows. Louise merely looked amused.
As if responding to a maternal hint, he assumed his most weary expression and glanced at Amelia. 'Come — we should follow.'
She was the only one close enough to read his eyes, to gain any sense that acting as overseeing gooseberry was not his goal. Her gaze fixed on his face, she gave him her hand. 'Indeed — I'm sure the grotto will be fascinating.'
Luc didn't reply, but rose and drew her to her feet. The sun was beaming down; he had to let her put up her parasol, then, side by side, some distance in the rear, they set off to follow the chattering horde.
He wondered whether anyone bar Louise had correctly interpreted his mother's questioning look. Minerva wasn't the least worried about her daughters; her question had more to do with what
He had every intention of leaving her guessing. There were some things mothers didn't need to know.
The lawns ended in a belt of parkland; beyond, the lake lay flat and reflective under a cerulean sky. Once in the trees' shade, he slid his hands into his pockets and slowed his pace, his gaze on the group ahead.
Amelia glanced at him and slowed, too. 'I've never been to the grotto. Is it worthwhile?'
'It won't be today.' Luc nodded at the gaggle ahead. 'They'll be there.'
The distance between them and the group was steadily increasing.
'However, if you've a mind to be adventurous…' He slanted her a glance. 'There's somewhere else we might go.'
She met his gaze calmly. 'Where?'
He took her hand and drew her away, through the trees, through a stand of shrubs onto a narrow path that twisted and turned, eventually climbing the man-made hill into the base of which the grotto had been carved. The hilltop formed part of the created landscape; a stone seat with a thyme cushion was placed to give a superb view over the fields to the west. Laurels had been groomed to shade the bench; with an appreciative sigh, Amelia sat and furled her parasol.
From far below came a distant giggle, carried on the updraft from the lake. After surveying the landscape, Luc turned; his dark eyes briefly surveyed her, then he sat beside her, leaning back, at ease, one arm along the back of the seat.
Amelia waited, then turned her head and studied him, relaxed, outrageously handsome with the breeze feathering his dark hair, a potent and dangerous attraction in the long lines of his sprawled limbs. After a moment of considering the view, he looked at her. Met her gaze, searched her eyes.
She was about to say something — very likely something caustic — when he lifted his free hand. He reached for her face, but didn't touch. Instead, his fingers twined with a ringlet bobbing by her ear. He wound the lock taut, then, very gently, tugged.
Captured her gaze as he drew her closer, and closer, until those long fingers slid about her nape, urging her nearer, until she drew so close her lids lowered, her lips parted, her gaze fell to his lips. Until at the last his thumb slid beneath her jaw and tipped her face up, and those long, lean lips met hers.
He hadn't moved but had encouraged her to come to him; it was the same with the kiss. His lips moved on hers, hard, assured; he lured her with promises, with teasing glimpses of all she could have, all the pleasures he could give her, and would. If she wished it.
If she made the decision and came into his arms, parted her lips, and offered him her mouth. Gave herself to him…
She shifted nearer, her parasol sliding from her lap as she raised her hands to his chest, leaned nearer yet, and let the kiss deepen, encouraged him further. A thought flitted through her brain — this was why he was so successful with the
He knew he didn't need to press, that all he had to do was invite, raise the possibility, and any lady who had ever got close enough to sense the sheer virility of his body, to feel his fingers stroke her wrist, to experience the sensation of his lips on hers, would accept.
Unlike other ladies, she knew him well, knew the image of lazy, undriven sensuality was a facade. Even as he drew her deeper into the giddy pleasures of their kiss, his fingers sliding free of her curl, his hands stroking down to her waist, gripping and lifting her more definitely to him so she was all but lying atop him as he eased back against the seat, she was well aware that that facade was wafer-thin, that he was perfectly capable of pressing, of demanding, commanding a surrender, of ultimately taking all he wished.
The power was there, the power to compel any woman to be his — to want to be his. She could feel it in the shifting muscles of his chest as his arms closed around her, locking her lightly to him, could feel it in the lips that continued to hold hers — effortlessly. An inherently male power, primitive, a touch frightening — scarifying, given that that very power was one she would have to contend with, deal with, treat with, every day for the rest of her life.
She shivered at the thought. He sensed it. A fractional hiatus was all the warning she got, then his hands firmed on her back, his lips and tongue hardened, and he ravished her mouth, ripped her senses from her — and she could think no more.
Could only follow mindlessly where he led, into a whirlpool of sensation, of steadily increasing desire. She gasped, tried to pull back and find her mental feet; his hand left her back to slide once more along her throat, cupping her nape, tangling in her curls as he ruthlessly drew her back into their kiss, into the rising flames.
Their heat was insidious, beckoning, tempting… she sank into them. Relaxed, let go…
Sighing softly into his mouth, she gave up any thought of managing the moment, settled, instead, simply to let herself feel. Experience the too-knowing caress of his fingertips down her throat, down over the exposed skin above her neckline, down over the curve of one breast. Those wandering fingers traced, teased, then returned to flirt with the tiny ruffle edging her bodice. A longing was growing inside her, unfulfilled; she shifted, murmured, the sound trapped between their lips.
He understood. His fingers returned to the swell of her breast, and traced again, more slowly. Again, then
