She would have smiled but her face felt too tight; instead, she sent her hands sliding around to spread on his back. Holding tight, she lifted her face to his, breathed against his lips, “Show me then. Now.”
His lips quirked in the instant before they met hers. The kiss was long, deep—undisguised. “Stay with me then,” he murmured, and took her mouth, then took her body again.
And again.
And again. The relentless repetition fed a whirlwind inside them, a hungry, compelling tide of need. It combined with the restless flames of desire, flaring anew, stronger, more powerful, now unrestrained, unrestricted, then the power coalesced.
And erupted.
Into a firestorm.
A raging, uncontrollable conflagration where the physical, sensual, and emotional swirled, where lips melded, tongues tangling, hands gripping, their bodies merged and came together, locked and fused, driven to give, driven to take, driven to be one.
The force was frightening, thrilling, utterly compelling. She moaned; he gasped. She sank her nails into his back and arched wildly, taking him deeper, wanting him deeper, satisifed only when he thrust harder, faster, ever more powerfully.
He sank one hand into her hair and held her down, ravaged her mouth as he plundered her body. Beneath him, she squirmed, hot, urgent—wild to provoke him further.
It wasn’t a game, but a fiery dance of desire, the recognition of a need beyond desperate, a need beyond her knowledge, a need that had to be fulfilled.
A need he seemed to share, equally driven, equally susceptible.
That welling need pulled them down, out, away from the world, onto a plane on which nothing beyond them and that need existed. On which nothing bar the fusion of their bodies was real, their senses held, locked, overwhelmed by the slickness, the heat, the gasping urgency, the spiraling tension. The steadily escalating excitement.
She would have given anything to grasp the bright triumph, the pinnacle of fulfillment that hovered and beckoned, just out of sensual reach. He drove her on, and she sobbed; he thrust deeper yet and her body closed hungrily, holding him, tightening yet more. . . .
And she suddenly felt it—let go, let herself ride the tide, joyously let it sweep her up, let it claim her soul and take her to the stars. Her body imploded in heat and glory, shards of sensation flashing down every nerve to melt in satiation just under her skin. Golden joy suffused her; the wave crested and she held tight—felt him thrust deep and hold still, holding her there, in glory, then the wave slowly ebbed.
Luc dragged in a breath, eyes closed tight as he felt the last spasms of her completion fade, then his body took charge, no longer his to command, driven by a need he couldn’t control, a need he had to slake.
A need to make her his, to bind her to him—to have her and know her to a degree beyond the carnal. To command her surrender. Complete and absolute.
With his.
He couldn’t stop himself from reaching for the gilded fruit, even though enough of his mind yet functioned to warn that, once tasted, he’d crave it again and again. Not even the certainty of lifelong addiction could turn him from his goal—bracing his arms, lifting above her, he watched as he loved her, watched her body take him in, cradle him, hold him. Watched her sumptuous, pearlescent curves lift and ease as she rode his thrusts, felt her acceptance as he spread her thighs wider and filled her deeper yet.
Release came on a long wave, a tsunami of feelings that built and rose and finally broke, pouring about him, crashing through him as he shuddered and filled her, spilled his seed deep inside her, then slumped, exhausted, wrung out beside her—more deeply sated, more deeply at peace, than he’d ever been in his life.
They were both exhausted. The sun sank low, slanting through the windows, illuminating their tangled limbs as they lay wrapped together, too drained to stir, and waited for life to reassert itself, waited for the world to start turning.
Slumped on his back, Amelia a warm silken bundle beside him, her head cradled on his chest, Luc idly played with her curls, and tried to think.
Tried to define just what had happened, and what it meant.
The most frightening thing was he couldn’t even define what “it” was—the force that had risen out of nowhere and driven him—he suspected them, but couldn’t be sure. She, of course, thought it only normal; he knew better. The point that exercised him most was that it had felt like it belonged, as if such a force was a natural part of him and her—a natural element in their physical interactions. An element that had elevated the latter to heights sufficient to stun even him.
He closed his eyes, tried not to think of the moment he’d first slid into the heat of her, or the moment he’d finally been able to thrust as deep inside her as he’d wished, and feel her close lovingly about him. She’d been so damned tight—easing her into letting him ride her freely had taxed his will, yet the result had been worth every iota of restraint. . . .
Swallowing a groan, he opened his eyes and stared at the canopy. He was hard and throbbing, but he couldn’t have her again, not with dinner drawing near . . .
The thought focused his mind on where they were, on the hour, the house. The company. All things he could define. Lifting his head, he glanced across the room—at the door he hadn’t locked. Now he was listening, he heard the shuffles and scrapes of distant footfalls.
“Mmm . . .” She stirred drowsily. Then her hand drifted from his chest, down over his torso—
He caught her wrist, manacled it. “We haven’t time.” Folding back her arm, he hefted her up, then brushed back her tangled hair. Met her gaze, brilliantly blue, lazily sensual, noted her lips, swollen and red. “I’ll have to leave before the other ladies start emerging. One thing—there’s blood on the coverlet.”
She smiled smugly. “It’s all right—it’s mine. I brought it. I’ll just take it home again.”
Lips compressing, he narrowed his eyes, remembered her transparent wrap—not something her mother had bought her for Christmas. She’d planned, and planned well—witness his current position. “Very well.” He rolled, taking her, too, pinning her beneath him—not that she struggled. He caught her hands, raised them, pressed them back to the bed on either side of her head, and kissed her—deeply, thoroughly, as he wished.
She undulated beneath him, sinuously sirenlike. Ending the kiss, he lifted his head and used his weight to hold her still. “Not now.”
“Surely we have time—“
“No.” He hesitated, looking down at her, then bent his head, trailed a kiss to her ear, and whispered, “Next time I have you, I plan on taking at least an hour, and we’ll have to gag you, because I promise you’ll scream.”
Drawing away, he studied her face. She simply stared back at him, thoughts whizzing behind her eyes.
He smiled—wolfishly. Then he lifted from her and left the bed.
Amelia couldn’t remember a single thing about the first night’s dinner.
After Luc left her bedchamber, first checking that no one was about to see him flit down the stairs, she’d bestirred herself. Discovering a number of unexpected aches and twinges in muscles she hadn’t known she possessed, she’d decided on a bath—a nice long soak during which she could dwell on what her twin had once confirmed as a magical moment.
Magical indeed—she’d fallen asleep in the tub. Luckily, Dillys had roused her and bundled her into her gown, dressing her hair high before directing her to the drawing room; if left to herself . . .
A curious, delightfully pleasant aura had suffused her, making thought, or indeed any exertion seem unnecessary. She’d had to fight to keep a silly, far too-revealing smile from her face. Up until, joining the assembled guests in the drawing room, she’d set eyes on her soon-to-be betrothed.
Rising from curtsying to their hostess, she’d moved to join Emily, speaking earnestly with Lord Kirkpatrick, and immediately felt Luc’s gaze. She’d followed it to its source; he was standing chatting with a lady and three gentlemen on the other side of
the room.
He met her gaze; despite the distance, she sensed the frown in his. Knew for a fact that he wasn’t attending to the comments bandied before him. Then he seemed to recollect himself, hesitated, then addressed himself to the conversation about him.
That glimpse of uncharacteristic uncertainty left her wondering—raised questions in her mind, very quickly left her uncertain, too.
“We’re planning on walking to the edge of the Downs tomorrow morning.” Lord Kirkpatrick looked at her hopefully. “It’s not all that far, and the views are said to be magnificient. Perhaps you’d like to join us?”
“Tomorrow?” She glanced at Emily, and saw a similar hope in her eyes. “I hadn’t really thought . . .” Another glance confirmed that his lordship and Emily both wanted her, a supporter of their blossoming romance, to accompany them so they could spend the time together without a bevy of others looking on. “That is . . . yes, I would like to get out, weather permitting.”
“Of course—weather permitting.”
Both his lordship and Emily beamed with gratitude.
Amelia inwardly sighed, resigning herself to a morning of bucolic pleasures tramping through fields and meadows. There were other pleasures she would have preferred, but . . . she had no idea what Luc was thinking, much less what he was planning for tomorrow.
She felt the touch of his gaze and turned, only once again to sense his brooding frown. Not that such an expression was permitted to mar his Byronic beauty, but she could feel its leaden weight. Again, once their gazes had touched for a moment, he looked away—supposedly distracted by those he was standing with, in reality. . . .
What was he thinking? Emily and Lord Kirkpatrick didn’t need her assistance, so she could safely stand beside them and try to work it out. Reviewing all that had occurred through the lazy afternoon, and trying to see it through Luc’s eyes, she was assailed by a sinking feeling.
Should she have screamed? Or was the boot on the other foot and, on reflection, had he not liked her forwardness? Had she been too accommodating? Was that even possible with a man—a rake—like him?
Had she, through sheer inexperience, done something he hadn’t appreciated?
Was that why he’d left, surely earlier than necessary? He’d been adamant—immovably so—over not indulging with her again, yet he’d been perfectly capable. That wasn’t the sort of behavior she’d expected, not from a man of his reputation. She was well aware that since his late teens, he’d had his pick of women, and had never been averse to taking his choice.
Her stomach had tightened, not pleasantly; an even more horrible thought flitted through her mind. Was his dark brooding an indication that he regretted coming to her—regretted all that had occurred that afternoon?
The thought caught, took root, blossomed, blocking out all else. She tried to catch Luc’s eye, but he didn’t again glance her way. Indeed, he kept his distance. The gong sounded, and the company transferred to the dining room. As one of the more senior peers present, Luc had to escort one of the grandes dames in; she found herself half a table away from him.
She had to laugh, converse, and put on a gay face—everyone, especially her sharp-eyed mama, expected her to be happy and carefree. She hoped she made a good job of it, but in truth had little idea—all through the meal, her heart was steadily sinking, her mind engrossed with the questions of where they were now, and if he would come to her room that night so she could rid herself of her uncertainties.
Small wonder she remembered not one bite, not one word.
The ladies rose and repaired to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen—a goodly company—to pass the port. Smiling, she joined the younger girls, Anne, Fiona, and three others, letting their chatter wash over her as she waited for the gentlemen to return, waited for Luc to come to her—to speak, to make arrangements to meet again, privately or otherwise.
The gentlemen returned; Luc did not.
She forced herself to behave normally, to take tea and continue to chat, while inwardly considering and discarding all thoughts of seeking him out. Hightham Hall was huge and rambling; she had no idea where he might be, nor yet where his room was situated. Impossible for her to find him.
He, of course, could find her.
When the youthful crew were encouraged to retire, she stifled a yawn and, citing the drive down as the cause of her tiredness, seized the chance to retreat to her room.
Once there, she changed into a long, lawn nightgown. After shooing Dillys off to her own rest, she blew out her candle and went to the window. Drawing the curtains wide, she waited, watching the wash of moonlight move slowly across the floor.
It finally occurred to her that no matter how early she retired, he wouldn’t risk coming to her room until much later—until all the grandes dames along the corridor retired, too, and fell asleep. Muttering a curse, she marched to the bed and climbed in. Pulling the covers up over her shoulders, she wriggled and fussed with the pillows, then settled her head on them.
If she fell asleep, Luc would just have to wake her—she was quite sure he would.
Closing her eyes, she sighed, and settled down to wait.
Chapter 9
The morning sun slanting through the uncurtained windows woke her. She had plenty of time to join Emily and Lord Kirkpatrick on their excursion to the Downs.
They were returning to the house, the sun high in the sky, hot and somewhat exhausted from what had proved an adventurous ramble, when she saw Luc—on the back terrace, hands on his hips, clearly waiting for them.
More precisely, waiting for her; when Emily and his lordship went up the steps, Luc merely nodded distantly. With a wide-eyed glance back at her, now trailing in the rear, the younger couple escaped. Leaving her to cope with a hardened rake who was giving a very good imitation of an aggravated Zeus.
With a jaunty, positively saucy smile, she climbed the steps, swinging her hat by its ribbons. His lips thinned, his expression grew grimmer as he took in her disheveled appearance, the flush in her cheeks, the curls clinging to her brow and throat. She had a fairly good idea of the picture she presented, but was in no mood to pander to his thoughts, whatever they might be.
“Where the devil have you been?”
The inquiry was growled through gritted teeth.
She waved with her hat. “Up on the Downs. The views are quite breathtaking. You should go and take a look.”
“Thank you, but no—I’ll take your word for it. It might have been wise to mention your little expedition—why the hell didn’t you tell me you were swanning off?”
She met his gaze. “Why should I?” The “you’re not my keeper” she left unsaid.
He heard it, however; his jaw clenched. She wasn’t close enough to be certain, but she thought his eyes had gone black. They did when he was angry; also when he was . . .
“I wanted to speak with you.” The words were even, their tone one of considerable temper severely restrained.
She raised her brows. “About what?” Nose elevating, she turned along the terrace.
He swung across her path. “I would have thought—“
The lunch gong clanged. With a not very well suppressed oath, he glared at the house, then at her. “There are one or two matters I want to get straight with you. After lunch, don’t disappear.”
She wasn’t of a mind to be dictated to, but she kept her eyes innocently wide and carefully stepped around him so he was no longer between her and the house. Then she shrugged. “As you wish.”
With a swish of her skirts, she turned haughtily away.
His fingers shackled her wrist. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just held her immobile and waited for her to turn back to him.
After a long moment, she did; her own temper had flown—she could feel it—and more—simmering just beneath her skin.
Her eyes flashed, clashed with his; their gazes locked, held.
“Don’t.”
It was a primitive, fundamental, all-encompassing warning; he made no
t the slightest effort to veil its nature.
She felt her breasts swell, felt their wills collide—and knew, had absolutely no doubt, that his was the stronger. She’d never crossed his temper before, but she knew it existed—the other side of that wildness she coveted; she couldn’t have one without the other.
But if she had to take him as he was, he would need to reciprocate.
Lifting her chin, she twisted her wrist—he released her, but slowly, enough to underscore that he did so only because he wished it.
“If you’ll excuse me, I must change.” With a nod, she turned to the house. “I’ll see you after lunch.”
An hour after the company had quit the luncheon tables, Luc halted at the bottom of the central stairs and silently and comprehensively cursed. Where in all Hades was she? He’d quartered the house, checking every last reception room, inadvertently surprising a number of other couples; he’d then spent a heated half hour combing every likely spot in the gardens. All to no avail.
Dragging in a breath—shackling his temper, suppressing it so he could think—he backtracked. She’d been at luncheon, arriving late after changing her limp walking dress for a fresh and cool apple green muslin gown. Seeing it, he’d wished he’d gone with her—followed her from the terrace and peeled the walking dress from her damp flesh . . . instead of feasting on cold meats and strawberries, he could have been feasting on fruits more to his taste . . .
Suppressing the resulting mental images, he forced his mind back to the luncheon party under the trees. He’d watched Amelia from afar, not daring in his present mood, and hers, to get within sniping distance—God only knew what she might provoke him to say. Or worse, do. Then, just as the party started to break up, old Lady Mackintosh had collared him. She’d insisted on introducing him to her niece—a flashy, overconfident young lady very aware of her charms. Charms she’d clearly intended to use to capture him.
He’d been tempted to tell her she had no chance; he’d never been attracted by unsubtle women. To his cost.
The thought had made him glance around—only to realize Amelia had gone. He’d forced himself to disengage with an appearance of civility, then had set out to hunt her down.