While she danced, twirled, smiled, and chatted, Amelia considered that nod — or rather, its underlying quality. A certain tension now lay between them, a nuance of emotion not previously present. By the end of the cotillion, she'd decided she approved.

Darcy was perfectly ready to monopolize her, but Luc reappeared and, with smooth arrogance and not a single word, reclaimed her hand, setting it on his sleeve. Darcy's brows rose fleetingly, but he was too wise to press; Luc's actions spoke of an as-yet-unannounced understanding.

She smiled and chatted, but after a few minutes, Luc excused them and drew her away. They ambled through the crowd; glancing at his profile, she hid a smug smile and patiently waited.

Through innumerable encounters with friends, through the first waltz, and supper. By the time Luc drew her into his arms for their second, and last, waltz of the night, she'd lost all touch with patience.

"I thought," she said, as they whirled down the floor, "that we agreed to start exploring new vistas."

He raised a brow — as usual, wearily. "This venue is somewhat restricting."

She wasn't that innocent. "I would have thought an expert in the field, such as you are so widely purported to be, would be up to the challenge."

The subtly emphasized words rang warning bells. Luc met her eyes, something until then he'd avoided; he had no need to see the irritation sparking in the blue. There was no evidence of stubbornness in her face — no set jaw, no tight lips — no change at all in the expectant tension that from the moment he'd met her in his hall earlier that evening had invested the supple body now supported in his arms; nevertheless, he could sense that steely strength of purpose he knew she possessed burgeoning by the instant.

Lifting his head, he scanned the room. "The opportunities are limited." Orcott House was not large; the ballroom was of simple design.

"Be that as it may…"

He looked at her, again met her eyes. Confirmed that the threat he'd thought he'd heard beneath her words was intentional. Instinctively replied, "Don't be foolish."

If he could have called back the words, he would have — instantly. But she'd surprised him — left him inwardly blinking at the preposterous notion that she might cross swords with him—him of all men — her goal being to force him to indulge her in some shameless dalliance…

The idea was crazy — upside down and inside out. Totally contrary to how the world operated — his world, at least.

The sudden flash of blue fire that lit her eyes suggested he prepare himself for upside down. Inside out. And worse.

Amelia smiled sweetly as the waltz ended. "Foolish? Oh, no." She stepped out of his arms as they halted, registering the fact that his fingers started to flex, wanting to seize her, that he had to force himself to let her go. Her eyes on his, she let her smile linger as his hands fell from her; she turned away, holding his gaze to the last. "I've something more potent in mind."

Outrageous provocation was what she intended, what she served up in lavish degree. She was twenty-three, and in this arena thoroughly experienced — there was little she dared not do. Especially with Luc on her heels.

She flirted and teased to the top of her bent — and watched his temper rise. It was never easy to provoke it, or him — he was far too controlled, even to his emotions. But he didn't like seeing her smiling and laughing, inviting the attention of other men. He definitely didn't approve of her leaning close, letting her natural charms invite inspection — an invitation other gentlemen saw no reason to refuse.

After six years in the ballrooms, she knew exactly which men to choose, which she could incite and tease with abandon and a clear conscience. The same males were the best for her purpose in another sense — they were the most likely to step in and pick up the gauntlet she made no bones about throwing down.

She was courting no risk — that she knew. There was not a chance Luc would allow any other man to seize that which he considered his.

The only question that remained was how long it would be before he capitulated.

And seized her himself.

Twenty minutes was the answer. Deserting one group of stunned rakes with an openly seductive laugh, she stepped back, ignored Luc at her shoulder, and set off through the crowd. An instant later, she heard a muttered curse — not a polite one — as Luc, on her heels, saw the group she now had in her sights. The gathering included Cranwell, Darcy, and Fitcombe, another of his peers.

He said not a word, just seized her hand, hauled her to the nearest wall, flung open a door she hadn't even noticed — one used by the servants — and stalked through, towing her behind him. Two shocked footmen carrying trays dodged about them, then Luc threw open another door, one leading into a normal corridor, dark and unlighted. He stepped through, pulled her after him, then slammed the door shut, spun her about, and backed her against it.

She blinked into his face, now devoid of any polite mask — or indeed, any politeness at all. His eyes were narrow, dark shards boring into hers; his lips were set in a thin line. Stripped of all softness, the chiseled planes were forbidding, shadowed, harsh in the gloom.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The words were hard, incisive, his voice deep and menacing.

She held his gaze, calmly replied, "Getting us here."

With one forearm braced on the door, his other hand at her waist, holding her immobile, he leaned closer, his face intimidatingly inches from hers, a bare inch between their bodies.

Intimidated was not what she felt, a fact she allowed him to see.

His expression grew grimmer. "What the hell do you imagine you'll experience in a dim corridor?"

She held his gaze, slid her hands up, curled her fingers into his lapels, then raised her brows, and evenly stated, "Something I haven't experienced before."

A blatant challenge, one he answered so swiftly her head spun.

His lips claimed hers, hard, forceful. She expected to be crushed against the door, but although his hand remained, pinning her against the panel, keeping her precisely where he wished, he didn't close the distance between them, didn't use his hard body to trap hers.

He didn't have to, didn't need to — just the kiss, blatantly sexual, unforgivingly explicit, was enough to rip her wits away, to shred any thought of escape. Likewise any thought

Appeasing him — she hadn't intended to, yet quickly found herself doing precisely that, driven to it by the unrelenting demand of his lips, his tongue, of his unquestioned expertise. He knew precisely what he was doing — even more, he knew what he was doing to her. He gave no quarter but quickly, efficiently, ruthlessly drove her to the point where surrender was her only option.

She tried to slide her arms up and wind them about his neck, but his hand at her waist, braced to preserve the small distance between them, prevented that. Instead, she spread her fingers and slid them into his thick hair, marveling at the feel of the heavy silky locks tumbling through her digits. Drew him deeper into their kiss — gave him all he wished. Invited him to take more.

She didn't even feel his fingers on her laces, only registered the fact he'd been busy when he shifted and the hand that had risen to cradle her face drifted down, hard fingertips trailing down her throat, down to the low neckline of the gown — only then did she realize her bodice was gaping. His knowing fingers didn't hesitate, but slid beneath the silk seeking and finding, then he eased one breast free, his fingers already tight about the pebbled tip.

His touch was possessive and sure. He tweaked, rolled, kneaded, until she was inwardly gasping, reeling, the sensations aroused by his hand at her breast clashing with those evoked by his ceaseless, devastatingly persistent possession of her mouth. Of her lips. Of her breath.

She was close to fainting when he lifted his head, only to duck lower and take the sensitive bud he'd tortured into the hot wetness of his mouth. To lick, lave, suckle — until, head back against the door, she could no longer mute her cries.

He stirred then; the hand cradling her breast slid away. Then he rested it, palm flat, fingers splayed, on her stomach. Kneaded in a way she hadn't expected — hadn't expected to make her knees weak.

Eyes closed, her fingers clenched in his hair, she gasped as his lips tugged at her nipple. Then his fingers slid lower; her legs quaked.

Suddenly, it was only the iron grip of his hand at her waist that was keeping her upright, pinned against the door.

Through two layers of silk, his questing fingers found her curls. Stroked, teased, in some odd way taunted. Parted them. Heat pooled within her, deep between her thighs. His fingers didn't pause but continued their gentle probing, touching soft flesh that no other had ever touched, albeit through the screen of silk.

He didn't part her thighs, didn't press his hand between. His mouth was still hot, greedy on her breast, distracting her. Then, with one fingertip, he touched her — touched some spot she hadn't known she possessed — gently, knowingly. Persistently.

The sharp sensation of his mouth at her breast, the novel, wholly unexpected, shockingly intimate caress of that marauding fingertip all but brought her to her knees.

Her skin felt afire, her lungs had long seized. Then his finger slowed, and he pressed — breathless, she gasped his name.

To her surprise, he lifted his head — not to look at her, but to stare down the corridor.

Then he cursed softly, straightened, drew his hands from her. She started to slide down the door.

He cursed again and grabbed her. "There's someone coming."

The words were a low hiss; he was almost as quick setting her bodice to rights as he had been disarranging it. That done, he spun her around, held her to him, hauled open the door, and bundled her through before him. He shut the door carefully, silently…

They stood in the now dark and deserted servants' corridor, his arm around her waist, holding her against him. She clung to his arm even though she no longer needed the support.

From beyond the door came voices, footsteps — a group of people passed by in the corridor where less than a minute ago they had been.

The footsteps faded; Luc heaved a relieved sigh. Close — too close. He glanced at Amelia, silent and alert; without a word, he urged her on toward the door into the ballroom.

"Wait." He stopped her just before the door. They could hear the sounds of the ball still in full swing. It seemed like eons since they'd left.

She'd halted before him. Even in the darkness, he had no trouble redoing her laces, neatly tying them off.

When he lowered his hands, she glanced at him, then turned and stepped nearer. One hand touching his cheek, she stretched up and kissed him lightly. "No more?" she murmured as their lips parted.

He didn't attempt to mute his growl. "That was more than enough for one night."

Chapter 6

More than enough torture. He doubted she realized the effect she had on him, especially when he had her under his hands, his to do with as he pleased. He had absolutely no intention of telling her, or of letting her guess.

He wasn't that foolish.

Inwardly wincing at the memory of what had transpired the last time he'd uttered that word, he watched his torment trip down Lady Hammond's dance floor in a country dance. Her partner was Cranwell; ever since Lady Orcott's ball five nights ago, Cranwell and the others with whom she'd flirted had grown overtly attentive. They were watching to see if he'd lose interest and walk away, then they'd pounce.

Stifling a dismissive humph, he focused on Amelia. She was enjoying herself as she always did these days — bright-eyed and expectant, anticipating the moment when he'd whisk her off somewhere private, and they would grab as many minutes of illicit indulgence as they could.

Compounding frustration wasn't his idea of fun, yet he wasn't about to invite another display of her talents like the one she'd staged at the Orcotts'. He'd capitulated as soon as he'd realized she'd found a real chink in his armor and taken the necessary steps to deal with her, albeit under duress.

Subsequently, he'd accepted that he had, at least in part, to dance to her tune. By letting her believe he was, he remained in control of their interludes, specifically how far those interludes went.