He managed not to react, but one part of his anatomy was beyond his control. She peeked at his face, ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. 'I would have thought you'd be more urgent.'
He managed not to grit his teeth. 'It's a matter of control.'
'Well, you're the expert, I suppose…'
He couldn't manage any reply. She glanced down, and he realized his thumb had seized — he set it sliding again, around and around.
'Is there really that much more to savor?'
'Yes.' Not a lie. His gaze had fixed once more on one tightly niched nipple; it was an effort to draw enough breath to sigh. 'But we've run out of time today.'
He tweaked her chemise back up. With a resigned sigh of her own, she helped him set her gown to rights. But when he reached for her waist and gripped, intending to lift her from him, she stayed him, sliding one hand past his jaw, curling her fingers into his hair.
She looked down into his eyes, studied them, her gaze direct, then she smiled. 'Very well — we'll do it your way.'
Leaning down, she kissed him — long, lingering, and sweet. As she lifted her head, she whispered against his lips, 'Until next time… and the next temple on our way.'
He was a man it was impossible to manipulate or drive; she'd known that for years. The only way to deal with him was to take whatever he offered, and work it to her own ends.
Thus Amelia concluded. Consequently, she reassessed Luc's insistence on a courtship of four weeks, focusing, this time, on the opportunities such an undertaking might afford her. Opportunities she hadn't, prior to Lady Hartington's
Those opportunities were not inconsequential.
What price a gentleman — one as experienced as Luc Ashford — promising to open a lady's eyes — slowly? Step by step. In a nonovenvhelming way.
Her attitude to his stipulation of four weeks underwent a dramatic change.
He'd agreed to marry her, to make a June bride of her; she knew he would. With her primary goal secured, there was no reason she couldn't participate in extracurricular developments — and the prospect he'd laid before her was beyond her wildest dreams.
She spent the next day in a pleasant daze — reliving, planning, wondering… by the time she curtsied to Lady Orcott that evening, then, on Luc's arm, followed his mother into her ladyship's crowded ballroom, she was biting her tongue against the urge baldly to ask which particular temple lay on their immediate horizon.
'There's Cranwell and Darcy.' Luc steered her toward the group containing those two gentlemen, cronies of sorts.
Amelia acknowledged the introductions. Miss Parkinson, a serious but wealthy bluestocking, was also present; she nodded, her gaze lingering disapprovingly on Amelia's gown of apricot silk.
The same gown incited Cranwell's and Darcy's immediate if unspoken approbation, possibly accounting for Miss Parkinson's disaffection.
'Daresay,' Cranwell drawled, dragging his gaze from the gown's low neckline and the expanse of her upper breasts it revealed, 'that like us, you're finding the tail end of the Season fatiguing?'
She smiled sunnily. 'Not at all. Why, just yesterday I spent a delightful afternoon discovering new landscapes at Hartington House.'
Cranwell blinked. 'Ah.' He would know to a rock what amenities Hartington House afforded. 'The grotto?'
'Oh, no.' Laying her hand fleetingly on his arm, she assured him, 'These were much more interesting, much more novel and enticing vistas.'
'Indeed?' Darcy shifted nearer, clearly intrigued. 'Tell me — were these vistas to your liking?'
'Very much so.' Her eyes full of laughter, she let her gaze slide to Luc. He was wearing his bored social mask, but his eyes… she let the curve of her lips deepen, then looked back at Darcy. If Luc insisted on dawdling through the evening chatting with friends before consenting to show her the next temple along their way, he would have to bear the consequences. 'Indeed, I fear I'm addicted — I'm eager to experience my next revelation.'
Noting shrewdly speculative glints in both Cranwell's and
Darcy's eyes, she smiled at Miss Parkinson. 'New landscapes are so fascinating when one has the time to examine them, don't you think?'
Without a blush, Miss Parkinson replied, 'Indeed. Especially when in the right company.'
Amelia brightened. 'Quite. That goes without saying, I believe.'
Miss Parkinson nodded, her lips perfectly straight. 'Only last week, I was at Kincaid Hall — have you visited the folly there?'
'Not recently, and definitely not in the right company.'
'Ah, well — you should be sure to take advantage should the opportunity arise.' Miss Parkinson rearranged her shawl. 'Like you, my dear Miss Cynster, I'm quite looking forward to the upcoming house parties — so many opportunities to further one's appreciation of nature.'
'Oh, unquestionably.' Delighted to have found such a ready wit with whom to spar, Amelia was happy to further their game, one that was making all three gentlemen decidedly uncomfortable. 'It's a pleasure to be able to further develop one's understanding of natural phenomena. All ladies should be encouraged to do so.'
'Assuredly. While it used to be thought that only gentlemen had the required understanding to appreciate such matters, we are lucky to live in enlightened times.'
Amelia nodded. 'These days, there's no impediment to any lady's broadening her horizons.'
How long they might have continued in such vein, discomfiting their male listeners, none of whom dared interject, they were destined never to learn; the orchestra chose that moment to start the introduction to a cotillion. All three men were eager to end the conversation; intrigued by the possibilities suggested, Lord Cranwell solicited Miss Parkinson's hand.
Lord Darcy bowed to Amelia. 'If you would do me the honor, Miss Cynster?'
She smiled and gave him her hand, at the last throwing an innocent smile at Luc. He wasn't enamored of cotillions, and as they could still only dance twice with each other in one night, he'd wait for the waltzes.
His eyes, very dark, met hers briefly; he nodded a crisp acknowledgment as Darcy led her to join one of the rapidly forming sets.
While she danced, twirled, smiled, and chatted, Amelia considered that nod — or rather, its underlying quality. A certain tension now lay between them, a nuance of emotion not previously present. By the end of the cotillion, she'd decided she approved.
Darcy was perfectly ready to monopolize her, but Luc reappeared and, with smooth arrogance and not a single word, reclaimed her hand, setting it on his sleeve. Darcy's brows rose fleetingly, but he was too wise to press; Luc's actions spoke of an as-yet-unannounced understanding.
She smiled and chatted, but after a few minutes, Luc excused them and drew her away. They ambled through the crowd; glancing at his profile, she hid a smug smile and patiently waited.
Through innumerable encounters with friends, through the first waltz, and supper. By the time Luc drew her into his arms for their second, and last, waltz of the night, she'd lost all touch with patience.
'I thought,' she said, as they whirled down the floor, 'that we agreed to start exploring new vistas.'
He raised a brow — as usual, wearily. 'This venue is somewhat restricting.'
She wasn't that innocent. 'I would have thought an expert in the field, such as you are so widely purported to be, would be up to the challenge.'
The subtly emphasized words rang warning bells. Luc met her eyes, something until then he'd avoided; he had no need to see the irritation sparking in the blue. There was no evidence of stubbornness in her face — no set jaw, no tight lips — no change at all in the expectant tension that from the moment he'd met her in his hall earlier that evening had invested the supple body now supported in his arms; nevertheless, he could sense that steely strength of purpose he knew she possessed burgeoning by the instant.
Lifting his head, he scanned the room. 'The opportunities are limited.' Orcott House was not large; the ballroom was of simple design.
'Be that as it may…'
He looked at her, again met her eyes. Confirmed that the threat he'd thought he'd heard beneath her words
