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."
"Just a faint lapping and the occasional splash of oars." She was looking around herself. "It appears they're having the dancing out here." She nodded to a group of musicians, resting with their instruments at one end of the wide terrace.
"Let's stroll."
If they didn't, others would soon join them; she had no interest in conversing with anyone but Luc. Even with him, she'd prefer to exchange something other than words, and the garden promised to be the best venue for that. She went down the terrace steps at his side.
The gravel walks spread in numerous directions; they took the least frequented, leading away under the leafy branches of a grove. They walked through successive bands of moonlight and shadow; she held her tongue, aware of
Luc's gaze, aware that it returned as if against his will to her bare shoulders, to the bared upper curves of her breasts.
She wasn't surprised when he eventually growled, "Where the devil did you find that gown?"
"Celestine had it brought in from Paris." She glanced down, fluffed up the ruffle that formed the bodice, supremely conscious that his gaze followed her every move.
"Different, but hardly outrageous. I like it, don't you?" She glanced up; even in the dim light she saw his lips thin.
"You know damned well what I — and every other male present this side of senility — think of that gown. Think of you in that gown." Luc bit his tongue, stifling the words: Think of you out of that gown. Narrow-eyed, he glared at her.
"As I recall, we'd agreed that you would follow my lead."
She opened her eyes wide. "Isn't this" — slipping her hand from beneath his, she spread her shimmering skirts—"along the path we're supposed to walk — that society expects us to tread?" Halting, she faced him. They were far enough from the terrace, and there were no other guests in the vicinity; they could speak without restraint. "Isn't it expected that I'd wish to dazzle you?"
His eyes couldn't get any narrower; he gritted his teeth, spoke through them. "You're dazzling enough without the gown." What was he saying? "I mean an ordinary, usual gown would have sufficed. That" — with one finger, he indicated the scintillating garment—"is going too far. It's too dramatic. It doesn't suit you."
He meant that things dramatic didn't suit her; Amanda was dramatic, Amelia was… whatever she was, it was something else.
Courtesy of the overhead branches, her face was in shadow, even when she lifted her chin. "Oh?"
There was nothing in the syllable to suggest she'd taken offense; indeed, her tone seemed light. It was the set of her chin that sent a warning snaking down his spine, sent him rushing into speech, disguising his disquiet behind an exasperated grimace. "I didn't mean—"
"No, no." She smiled. "I quite understand." That smile didn't reach her eyes. "Amelia—" He reached for her hand, but with a silken swish, she turned back along the path.
"I really think, if that's the tack you believe we should take, that we ought to get back to the terrace." She continued in that direction. "We wouldn't want any of the gossipmongers to overinterpret our state." He caught up with her in two strides. "Amelia—"
"Perhaps you're right and we should take this more slowly." A note had crept into her voice, one that gave him pause. "That being so…"
They'd reached the terrace; she stopped before the steps in a patch of light cast by the lanterns. He halted beside her, saw her scan the platoon of guests waiting on the flags for the orchestra to start up. Then she smiled — not at him. "Indeed." Glancing his way, she inclined her head in dismissal. "Thank you for the walk." Turning, she started up the steps. "Now I'm going to dance with someone who does appreciate my gown."
Chapter 4
The words reached Luc a second too late for him to grab Amelia back. Gaining the terrace, she plunged into the crowd; although he followed in a flash, by the time he located her she was part of a group, chatting animatedly with Lord Oxley, one hand on his lordship's arm.
The musicians chose that moment to strike up; the introduction to a cotillion had the guests quickly forming into sets. Jaw clenched, Luc retreated to where shadows draped the house wall; folding his arms, he leaned his shoulders against the wall, and watched Amelia — his bride-to-be — dip and sway through the figures.