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, niched 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 stifled 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."

Huge, ever-so-slightly dazed cornflower blue eyes blinked at him. "Are there a lot of… temples?"

His lips curved spontaneously. "Several. Many are missed because people rush." He shifted his hand to her other breast and repeated the subtle torture, holding her gaze all the while, intensely aware of the ripples of sensual tension he was sending spiraling through her. "We have three weeks yet… it seems only sensible to see all we can. Visit as many temples as we can. As many places of worship."

Her eyes held his. He was aware to his bones of every breath she took, of the rise and fall of the soft flesh beneath his fingers, of the throb of her heartbeat against his chest, and that deeper throb between her thighs, in the heated spot above his abdomen.

Her lashes fluttered down and she sighed. On the exhalation she went all but boneless, sinking against him, all resistance flown. Her hips shifted, the inner faces of her thighs quite deliberately caressing him.

He managed not to react, but one part of his anatomy was beyond his control. She peeked at his face, ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. "I would have thought you'd be more urgent."

He managed not to grit his teeth. "It's a matter of control."

"Well, you're the expert, I suppose…"

He couldn't manage any reply. She glanced down, and he realized his thumb had seized — he set it sliding again, around and around.

"Is there really that much more to savor?"

"Yes." Not a lie. His gaze had fixed once more on one tightly niched nipple; it was an effort to draw enough breath to sigh. "But we've run out of time today."

He tweaked her chemise back up. With a resigned sigh of her own, she helped him set her gown to rights. But when he reached for her waist and gripped, intending to lift her from him, she stayed him, sliding one hand past his jaw, curling her fingers into his hair.

She looked down into his eyes, studied them, her gaze direct, then she smiled. "Very well — we'll do it your way."

Leaning down, she kissed him — long, lingering, and sweet. As she lifted her head, she whispered against his lips, "Until next time… and the next temple on our way."

He was a man it was impossible to manipulate or drive; she'd known that for years. The only way to deal with him was to take whatever he offered, and work it to her own ends.

Thus Amelia concluded. Consequently, she reassessed Luc's insistence on a courtship of four weeks, focusing, this time, on the opportunities such an undertaking might afford her. Opportunities she hadn't, prior to Lady Hartington's al fresco luncheon, realized existed.

Those opportunities were not inconsequential.

What price a gentleman — one as experienced as Luc Ashford — promising to open a lady's eyes — slowly? Step by step. In a nonovenvhelming way.

Her attitude to his stipulation of four weeks underwent a dramatic change.

He'd agreed to marry her, to make a June bride of her; she knew he would. With her primary goal secured, there was no reason she couldn't participate in extracurricular developments — and the prospect he'd laid before her was beyond her wildest dreams.

She spent the next day in a pleasant daze — reliving, planning, wondering… by the time she curtsied to Lady Orcott that evening, then, on Luc's arm, followed his mother into her ladyship's crowded ballroom, she was biting her tongue against the urge baldly to ask which particular temple lay on their immediate horizon.

"There's Cranwell and Darcy." Luc steered her toward the group containing those two gentlemen, cronies of sorts.

Amelia acknowledged the introductions. Miss Parkinson, a serious but wealthy bluestocking, was also present; she nodded, her gaze lingering disapprovingly on Amelia's gown of apricot silk.

The same gown incited Cranwell's and Darcy's immediate if unspoken approbation, possibly accounting for Miss Parkinson's disaffection.

"Daresay," Cranwell drawled, dragging his gaze from the gown's low neckline and the expanse of her upper breasts it revealed, "that like us, you're finding the tail end of the Season fatiguing?"

She smiled sunnily. "Not at all. Why, just yesterday I spent a delightful afternoon discovering new landscapes at Hartington House."

Cranwell blinked. "Ah." He would know to a rock what amenities Hartington House afforded. "The grotto?"

"Oh, no." Laying her hand fleetingly on his arm, she assured him, "These were much more interesting, much more novel and enticing vistas."

"Indeed?" Darcy shifted nearer, clearly intrigued. "Tell me — were these vistas to your liking?"

"Very much so." Her eyes full of laughter, she let her gaze slide to Luc. He was wearing his bored social mask, but his eyes… she let the curve of her lips deepen, then looked back at Darcy. If Luc insisted on dawdling through the evening chatting with friends before consenting to show her the next temple along their way, he would have to bear the consequences. "Indeed, I fear I'm addicted — I'm eager to experience my next revelation."

Noting shrewdly speculative glints in both Cranwell's and

Darcy's eyes, she smiled at Miss Parkinson. "New landscapes are so fascinating when one has the time to examine them, don't you think?"

Without a blush, Miss Parkinson replied, "Indeed. Especially when in the right company."

Amelia brightened. "Quite. That goes without saying, I believe."

Miss Parkinson nodded, her lips perfectly straight. "Only last week, I was at Kincaid Hall — have you visited the folly there?"

"Not recently, and definitely not in the right company."

"Ah, well — you should be sure to take advantage should the opportunity arise." Miss Parkinson rearranged her shawl. "Like you, my dear Miss Cynster, I'm quite looking forward to the upcoming house parties — so many opportunities to further one's appreciation of nature."

"Oh, unquestionably." Delighted to have found such a ready wit with whom to spar, Amelia was happy to further their game, one that was making all three gentlemen decidedly uncomfortable. "It's a pleasure to be able to further develop one's understanding of natural phenomena. All ladies should be encouraged to do so."

"Assuredly. While it used to be thought that only gentlemen had the required understanding to appreciate such matters, we are lucky to live in enlightened times."

Amelia nodded. "These days, there's no impediment to any lady's broadening her horizons."

How long they might have continued in such vein, discomfiting their male listeners, none of whom dared interject, they were destined never to learn; the orchestra chose that moment to start the introduction to a cotillion. All three men were eager to end the conversation; intrigued by the possibilities suggested, Lord Cranwell solicited Miss Parkinson's hand.

Lord Darcy bowed to Amelia. "If you would do me the honor, Miss Cynster?"

She smiled and gave him her hand, at the last throwing an innocent smile at Luc. He wasn't enamored of cotillions, and as they could still only dance twice with each other in one night, he'd wait for the waltzes.

His eyes, very dark, met hers briefly; he nodded a crisp acknowledgment as Darcy led her to join one of the rapidly forming sets.