On A Wicked Dawn (9 page)

“Are you sure Minerva has room for you in her carriage?”

Amelia glanced across her bedroom and smiled at her mother. “She said she'd use her traveling carriage. There'll be just the six of us.”

Louise considered, then nodded. “None of you is stout, after all. I have to say it'll be a relief to have a quiet night at home. I still haven't recovered from the rush of Amanda's wedding.” After a moment, she murmured, “I suppose I can trust Luc to keep an eye on you.”

“Indeed. You know what he's like.”

Louise's lips quirked. Then she straightened. “No, no!” Amelia had grabbed up her reticule and shawl and was hurrying toward her—she waved her back. “Stop and let me see.”

Amelia grinned and halted. She slid the cords of her reticule over one wrist, draped her shimmering shawl about her shoulders, then she stood straight, head high, and pirouetted. Then she glanced at Louise.

Louise nodded approvingly. “I was wondering when you were going to wear that. That shade becomes you.”

Amelia broke from her pose and hurried to the door. “I know.” She kissed her mother's cheek. “Thank you for buying it for me.” Stepping on down the hall, she smiled over her shoulder. “I have to rush—I don't want to be late. Good night!”

Louise watched her go, a smile on her lips, a softness in her eyes. When Amelia had disappeared down the stairs, she sighed. “You don't want to miss the chance of setting him back on his heels—I know. Good night, my dear, and good luck. With that one, you'll need it.”

* * *

Decked out in black coat and black trousers, ivory cravat and silk waistcoat, Luc was standing in the front hall looking up the stairs at the head of which his mother and sisters, and Fiona, all dressed for the evening, were finally congregating, when he heard Cottsloe open the front door. Assuming Cottsloe was checking to see if the carriage had arrived, he didn't glance around.

Then he heard Cottsloe murmur, “Good evening, miss,” heard Amelia's light reply.

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 . . .

Ready?

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 . . .
gown
for want of a better word was receiving from his assembled female relatives made it clear they didn't view the ensemble as he did.

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 carriage; 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.”