On A Wicked Dawn (13 page)

His mother caught his eye, raised her brows. Louise merely looked amused.

As if responding to a maternal hint, he assumed his most weary expression and glanced at Amelia. “Come—we should follow.”

She was the only one close enough to read his eyes, to gain any sense that acting as overseeing gooseberry was not his goal. Her gaze fixed on his face, she gave him her hand. “Indeed—I'm sure the grotto will be fascinating.”

Luc didn't reply, but rose and drew her to her feet. The sun was beaming down; he had to let her put up her parasol, then, side by side, some distance in the rear, they set off to follow the chattering horde.

He wondered whether anyone bar Louise had correctly interpreted his mother's questioning look. Minerva wasn't the least worried about her daughters; her question had more to do with what
he
was about. She couldn't fathom his tack, and was wondering . . .

He had every intention of leaving her guessing. There were some things mothers didn't need to know.

The lawns ended in a belt of parkland; beyond, the lake lay flat and reflective under a cerulean sky. Once in the trees' shade, he slid his hands into his pockets and slowed his pace, his gaze on the group ahead.

Amelia glanced at him and slowed, too. “I've never been to the grotto. Is it worthwhile?”

“It won't be today.” Luc nodded at the gaggle ahead. “They'll be there.”

The distance between them and the group was steadily increasing.

“However, if you've a mind to be adventurous . . .” He slanted her a glance. “There's somewhere else we might go.”

She met his gaze calmly. “Where?”

He took her hand and drew her away, through the trees, through a stand of shrubs onto a narrow path that twisted and turned, eventually climbing the man-made hill into the base of which the grotto had been carved. The hilltop formed part of the created landscape; a stone seat with a thyme cushion was placed to give a superb view over the fields to the west. Laurels had been groomed to shade the bench; with an appreciative sigh, Amelia sat and furled her parasol.

From far below came a distant giggle, carried on the updraft from the lake. After surveying the landscape, Luc turned; his dark eyes briefly surveyed her, then he sat beside her, leaning back, at ease, one arm along the back of the seat.

Amelia waited, then turned her head and studied him, relaxed, outrageously handsome with the breeze feathering his dark hair, a potent and dangerous attraction in the long lines of his sprawled limbs. After a moment of considering the view, he looked at her. Met her gaze, searched her eyes.

She was about to say something—very likely something caustic—when he lifted his free hand. He reached for her face, but didn't touch. Instead, his fingers twined with a ringlet bobbing by her ear. He wound the lock taut, then, very gently, tugged.

Captured her gaze as he drew her closer, and closer, until those long fingers slid about her nape, urging her nearer, until she drew so close her lids lowered, her lips parted, her gaze fell to his lips. Until at the last his thumb slid beneath her jaw and tipped her face up, and those long, lean lips met hers.

He hadn't moved but had encouraged her to come to him; it was the same with the kiss. His lips moved on hers, hard, assured; he lured her with promises, with teasing glimpses of all she could have, all the pleasures he could give her, and would. If she wished it.

If she made the decision and came into his arms, parted her lips, and offered him her mouth. Gave herself to him . . .

She shifted nearer, her parasol sliding from her lap as she raised her hands to his chest, leaned nearer yet, and let the kiss deepen, encouraged him further. A thought flitted through her brain—this was why he was so successful with the
ton
's ladies, why they flocked to him, vying for his attention.

He knew he didn't need to press, that all he had to do was invite, raise the possibility, and any lady who had ever got close enough to sense the sheer virility of his body, to feel his fingers stroke her wrist, to experience the sensation of his lips on hers, would accept.

Unlike other ladies, she knew him well, knew the image of lazy, undriven sensuality was a facade. Even as he drew her deeper into the giddy pleasures of their kiss, his fingers sliding free of her curl, his hands stroking down to her waist, gripping and lifting her more definitely to him so she was all but lying atop him as he eased back against the seat, she was well aware that that facade was wafer-thin, that he was perfectly capable of pressing, of demanding, commanding a surrender, of ultimately taking all he wished.

The power was there, the power to compel any woman to be his—to want to be his. She could feel it in the shifting muscles of his chest as his arms closed around her, locking her lightly to him, could feel it in the lips that continued to hold hers—effortlessly. An inherently male power, primitive, a touch frightening—scarifying, given that that very power was one she would have to contend with, deal with, treat with, every day for the rest of her life.

She shivered at the thought. He sensed it. A fractional hiatus was all the warning she got, then his hands firmed on her back, his lips and tongue hardened, and he ravished her mouth, ripped her senses from her—and she could think no more.

Could only follow mindlessly where he led, into a whirlpool of sensation, of steadily increasing desire. She
gasped, tried to pull back and find her mental feet; his hand left her back to slide once more along her throat, cupping her nape, tangling in her curls as he ruthlessly drew her back into their kiss, into the rising flames.

Their heat was insidious, beckoning, tempting . . . she sank into them. Relaxed, let go . . .

Sighing softly into his mouth, she gave up any thought of managing the moment, settled, instead, simply to let herself feel. Experience the too-knowing caress of his fingertips down her throat, down over the exposed skin above her neckline, down over the curve of one breast. Those wandering fingers traced, teased, then returned to flirt with the tiny ruffle edging her bodice. A longing was growing inside her, unfulfilled; she shifted, murmured, the sound trapped between their lips.

He understood. His fingers returned to the swell of her breast, and traced again, more slowly. Again, then again; each time his touch grew heavier with intent while her flesh firmed and her skin heated. Then his fingers curved, and he cupped her softness.

Sensation flashed through her, immediately melting into a warm tide that spread like warmed honey through her. His wicked fingers tensed, flexed—he closed his hand, then kneaded; nerves she didn't know she possessed came alive. Pure pleasure washed through her when his other hand left her back to minister to her other breast. Eyes closed, her mouth all his, still captured in the drugging sensuality of a slow, deep kiss, she gave herself up to the sensation of his hands on her breasts, to the heat and the fire slowly building, to the tightness, the ache he both evoked and appeased.

It was a revelation that anything could feel quite so good, quite so satisfying, yet there was more, she knew, more she yet wanted, more her awakening body yearned for. Within minutes, she was very certain—more she had to have.

Luc broke their kiss, but only to skate his lips along her jaw to find the delicate hollow beneath her ear. He didn't need to think to know what she wanted—to know that he could take as he wished. Beyond a distant watching brief to
ensure their privacy, which, given the composition of Lady Hartington's company, he was certain would remain undisturbed, his senses were focused on the woman in his arms, on the tantalizing promise of the svelte body beneath his hands.

He'd had women aplenty, yet this one . . . he put the difference he was too experienced not to notice in the strength of his own desire down to the fact she had for so long been a forbidden delight. A forbidden delight he could now sample, and subsequently savor whenever he wished. However he wished. That thought, barely conscious, fueled his need, but he shackled it, played to hers instead, confident in the knowledge that ultimately he would have all he wanted, all he wished—every wicked dream completely and thoroughly satisfied.

Her shallow breaths stirred the hair at his temple, caressed his skin with tendrils of temptation, evocative as sin. He sent his lips lower, cruising the length of her throat, along skin like ivory silk, delicate and fine. Pressing his lips to the base of her throat, he found her pulse beating under that fine skin, a speeding tattoo that urged him on, as did the small fingers that clenched on his chest, creasing his shirt, the rake of her nails just enough to awake a need of his own, to have her hands on his bare skin.

The thought of naked skin sent his attention to the mounds that filled his hands. Full and firm, heated, swollen. The buttons of her bodice were straining, easy to slip free; the ribbon straps of her chemise were fastened with tiny bows that unraveled at a tug.

A quick shuffle of fingers and hands, and her naked breasts were in his palms. She gasped; her lashes fluttered, but she didn't open her eyes. Didn't look down.

Lips curving, he raised his head, found her lips again, unsurprised when she kissed him ravenously. Riding the tide, he waited, then slid deep and took command, once again sent her senses whirling while his hands played, and learned her. Found the peaks of her breasts, ruched tight, tweaked gently, then slowly squeezed . . . until she gasped again, until
she broke the kiss and lifted her head, struggling for breath.

He ducked his head, let his lips trail down her throat, over the fine skin covering her collarbone, then lower still to the soft upper curve of her breast. The heat of his lips touched her and she stilled, quivering . . . he didn't pause but licked, then laved, then opened his mouth and took the peak in, curled his tongue about the tip, and gently rasped.

The sound she made was neither gasp nor sob but pure shocked surprise. Pleased surprise. He continued to feast, holding her steady over him, watching her face from beneath his lashes as he pleasured her—and himself. His first taste of her flesh would remain blazoned in his mind—the piquancy of knowing no other had ever tasted her, touched her, like this.

He'd gradually urged her upward; her hip now rode against his stomach, one slender, decidedly feminine thigh caressing his rampant erection. She could not be unaware of his state, yet he sensed no retreat, no sudden maidenly reserve—no panic.

A fact that only sharpened his desire, a desire that flared when he caught a glimpse of bright sapphire beneath her lids, and realized she was watching. Watching him pay homage to her breasts, watching him feast on her bounty.

He caught her gaze, held it.

Deliberately curled his tongue about one tight bud, deliberately, and slowly, rasped—just hard enough to shatter her composure—then he suckled, and she caught her breath on a gasp. Closed her eyes. Slid one hand from his chest to his nape; head bowing, she held him to her, a surrender as explicit as the quiver that raced through her when he drew her flesh deeper still.

His hand left her breast, sliding down, over her hip, pausing to caress her derriere before sliding around, along her thigh, reaching for her skirt—

She sank against him, soft, pliant, urgent—a flagrant invitation.

Between them, he splayed his hand over her upper thigh, tensed to slide his fingers inward, searching—

He stopped. Remembered.

Where they were—what they were supposed to be doing.

Taking things one step further.

Not ten.

He lifted his head, found her lips, and kissed her—took a dark pleasure in ravaging her mouth, taking from her in that way what he would not yet take from her more explicitly.

Yet.

He stiffled his groan, his body's protest, with that promise. This was only a temporary state—a tactic in his greater campaign. A campaign he was determined to win without granting her any concessions.

Forcing his hands from their absorption, he gripped her hips and held her to him, stealing a moment to glory in her suppleness, in the evidence of how well she would, when the time came, suit him, taking in the womanly warmth that ultimately, when the time came, would ease his pain.

Sensing him drawing away through their kiss, she broke it herself, lifting her head to look down at him.

She frowned. “What's the matter? Why have you stopped?”

He debated the wisdom of suggesting that, all things considered, she should be thanking him he had. Lying beneath her, he studied her face, taking in the fact that fate was having a hearty laugh at his expense. She didn't want him to stop—she'd be quite happy if he drew her back down, kissed her swollen cherry red lips, and—

It took serious willpower to drag in a breath. “Timing.”

The flash in her eyes jerked his wits into action. “As in”—he lowered his gaze to the tempting white mounds inches from his face—“we wouldn't want to rush things to such an extent that you were overwhelmed.”

Settling one arm across her hips, anchoring her to him, he sent the fingers of his right hand dancing across the edge of her gown, teasing, tantalizing, flirting anew.

She shivered, watching through downcast eyes. “Overwhelmed?”

The frown in her eyes was fading, but hadn't yet disappeared.

Surreptitiously watching her face, he chose his words carefully. “There's so much to experience, so much I could show you, and after the first time, it's never quite the same. Never so . . . excruciating in its novelty.”

The frown remained.

Hooking a finger into her loosened bodice, he drew the fabric down, reexposing one pert nipple. With the pad of his thumb, he circled the aureole, applying just the right degree of pressure.

Her lids fell; she caught a shaky breath. “Oh. I see.”

“Hmm. Given our situation, I thought you might prefer to take the long road, see all the sights, visit all the temples along the way”—he caught her gaze—“so to speak.”