On A Wicked Dawn (12 page)

This time, he dictated where they would all sit. The three girls dutifully took the seat behind the coachman, facing Luc and Amelia. As the coach rolled off, Amelia cast him a suspicious glance, then opened her parasol, deploying it to shade her face.

The girls chatted and looked about, exclaiming at the sights as the carriage turned south, crossed the river at Chelsea, then rumbled west past villages and hamlets. Although the girls were only a foot away, seated as she was with Luc, Amelia felt no compelling need to listen to their conversation.

Luc said nothing, looking about idly, elegantly at ease beside her. He had to keep his distance to avoid her parasol; compensating, he'd spread his arms, one along the carriage's side, the other along the back of the seat.

She wondered what he was up to, but as the miles rumbled uneventfully by, she relaxed. Only then did she realize how tense she'd become—how intense she'd been for the past several months, doggedly pursuing her plan. Her plan, which had landed her here, where she wished to be.

With the right gentleman beside her.

She'd just come to that realization and let a small smile curve her lips, when Luc's fingertips brushed the soft tendrils exposed at her nape. She froze, couldn't quite hide her reactive shiver. As usual, she'd worn her hair pulled into a topknot, but it was naturally curly, so tiny locks sprang loose, feather-light, sensitive to the touch.

Turning her head, she intended to frown, but the look in Luc's eyes distracted her. Intent, he watched her; his fingertips shifted, stroked again.

“What are you smiling at?”

The light in those dark eyes wasn't teasing; he wanted to know. She looked forward, would have shrugged but . . . she didn't want him to take his hand away. “I was just thinking . . .” She gestured to the bucolic scenery through which they were rolling. “I haven't been out to Richmond for years. I'd forgotten how restful the drive can be.”

She glanced back at him, again found herself trapped in his eyes.

“You gad about too much.” His eyes remained on hers, his fingers firmed. “From now on, you won't have to.”

She had to smile; trust a man to imagine that the only reason ladies “gadded about” was in pursuit of them. “There'll still be the Season, and making appearances. More or less obligatory, after all.”

The girls were engrossed with their own topics; he and she could converse freely.

“Only up to a point.” He paused, then coolly stated, “In the coming months I think you'll discover there's other activities more to your taste than whirling around ballrooms.”

She had absolutely no doubt to what activities he was alluding; his gaze was anything but cool. Meeting it, she arched one brow. “Such as?”

The look in his eyes stated very clearly: that's for me to know and you to learn.

“Oh, look! Is that Richmond village?”

They both turned to see Fiona pointing; Amelia inwardly cursed. She glanced at Luc, but he retrieved his arm and turned away. The moment was gone.

Or so he led her to believe. Only when they were strolling in the girls' wake under the spreading oaks and beeches did she realize he had another agenda beyond entertaining his sisters—one that involved only them.

They were under a large oak that hid them from view, the girls ahead, already clear of the shadows, when Luc tugged her to a halt, spun her to him, and kissed her, swift, hard and all too sure.

Then he released her, resettled her hand on his arm, and strolled on.

She stared at him. “What was that for?”

He looked at her, eyes glinting from beneath his lashes as they passed into the sunshine. “I didn't think I needed a reason.”

She blinked, faced forward. He didn't, of course. Not to kiss her, or . . . anything else.

He had a fertile imagination—the rest of the day passed in giddy absorption in what became a lighthearted game. At first, when his long fingers found the gap in her glove cuffs, and stroked, toyed, with caresses that were so innocent it was hard to comprehend why they felt so illicit, she couldn't see any reason to discourage him; she was more concerned with trying to predict just what he would be at next—what sensitive spot he would choose to tease—with a breath, with a touch, with a kiss.

Later, after they'd lunched at the Star and Garter, then, as the afternoon waxed glorious, started down the hill, she concluded that, for propriety's sake, she had to at least protest. The sliding, glancing passage of his hand over her hip, over the curve of her bottom, covered only by a thin layer of muslin and a silk chemise, was explicit enough to make her blush. She knew perfectly well no one else could see, however . . .

Yet when she grasped the moment as they passed under another useful tree and turned to him, lips opening on a rebuke—she found herself in his arms being thoroughly kissed. Kissed witless; when he released her, she'd forgotten what she'd wanted to say.

Lips curving wickedly, he tweaked a curl, and, one hand on her bottom, turned her toward the carriage.

She kept her parasol up all the way home to hide her blush from his sisters. The man was a rake! His fingers now rested not at her nape but even more possessively, heavy at the curve where her shoulder met her neck.

The most amazing discovery was that she liked his fingers
there—liked feeling his touch, the weight of his hand. The sensation of skin to skin.

The realization kept her silent—occupied—all the way home.

The surest way to manage Amelia was, not just to keep the reins in his hands, but to use them. To drive her, distract her, so she didn't have time to filch said reins from his grasp.

That established, Luc escorted her, together with his sisters and Fiona, to the balloon ascension, and through judicious dalliance kept her on tenterhooks the entire time—kept her attention riveted on him. She didn't even notice the other gentlemen who unsuccessfully vied for her smiles.

The following day, confident he now had her measure, confident he could keep her distracted sufficiently to draw out their unexpected courtship until the
ton
yawned, nodded, and thought no more of it, he agreed to escort his mother and sisters, Fiona, Amelia, and her mother, to the Hartingtons'
al fresco
luncheon in the grounds of Hartington House.

After counting heads, he sent a note to Reggie, inviting him, too, to make one of their party. Reggie arrived in Mount Street just as the ladies, young and old, chattering like starlings, descended the front steps of Ashford House. By the curb, the Cynster landau stood waiting, along with Luc's curricle.

Following his female responsibilities down the steps, he smiled at Reggie. Who could count as well as he.

Reggie met his gaze as he strolled up. “You owe me for this.” Reggie had already bowed to Minerva and Louise, both friends of his mother's. He nodded, a touch resignedly, at the younger girls. The footman handed them up. Reggie turned to Amelia as she halted beside him.

She'd only just realized Luc's strategy.

Reggie caught her eye. “Have fun. But think twice before agreeing to anything he says.”

She grinned and pressed Reggie's hand, then watched as he climbed into the landau, taking the last seat beside Louise. Luc gave the coachman directions, then returned to her side as the landau rumbled off.

It was replaced at the curb by Luc's curricle. He handed her up. She shuffled along, then he joined her. Taking the reins, he nodded to his groom. The pair of matched greys were released; they tossed their heads—Luc calmed them, then, with a flick of his wrist, set them trotting in the wake of the landau.

She had to smile. “Poor Reggie.”

“He'll enjoy himself hugely being the undisputed center of attention while he regales them with the latest gossip.”

“True.” She glanced at Luc's chiseled features. “But if you find escorting us such a trial, why did you suggest it?”

He turned his head; his eyes met hers. His message was quite clear: don't be daft. The glint in the midnight blue depths clearly stated that he had plans for Lady Hartington's
al fresco
luncheon, plans that had nothing to do with food.

When he looked back at his horses, her heart was beating faster, her mind awash with fanciful imaginings, her nerves tensing with a blend of excitement and anticipation she'd never felt with anyone but him. The effect left her pleasantly expectant, sunnily confident, as they rolled through the streets.

Indeed, as she cast a surreptitious glance over her companion, negligently handsome in a drab, many-caped driving coat thrown over a dark blue morning coat, his long legs encased in tight-fitting buckskin breeches and glossy Hessians, long fingers firm on the reins as he expertly guided the frisky
greys through the crowded thoroughfares, she couldn't think of anything she needed to make her day more complete. She had the right man and, if she'd read that glance correctly, his promise of pleasure to come.

Smiling, she sat back and watched the houses go by.

Hartington House lay to the west amid gently rolling fields. The house stood in an extensive park with large trees, a lake, and many pleasing vistas. Lady Hartington was delighted to welcome them; Luc assumed his customary bored expression, projecting the image that, in view of the number of females attending from his family, he'd felt obliged to lend them his escort.

They joined the other guests on the wide terrace overlooking the lawns, passing through the crowd, nodding, and exchanging greetings. Although Luc remained by her side, his expression, and that air of a man condemned to an afternoon of polite boredom, remained, too.

Amelia glanced at him as they emerged at one side of the crush, in relative if temporary privacy. “I hesitate to mention it, but if you want the
ton
to believe you've fixed your eye on me, shouldn't you be looking rather more
interested
in spending time by my side?”

She pretended to admire the distant lake; from the corner of her eye, she saw his lips twitch, felt the weight of his gaze as it rested on her face.

“Actually, no—that might, I feel, be stretching the bounds of the believable.
Not
,” he smoothly continued as she swung to him, eyes flashing, lips parting on an incensed retort, “because my wishing to spend time in your company is not believable”—he captured her gaze—“but because the idea I would allow it to show, like some smitten puppy lolling at your dainty feet, is just a touch incredible.” He raised one black brow. “Don't you think?”

A callow youth, an eager puppy—she couldn't remember him ever being like that. Throughout his career, 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.