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.

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.