Which, thus far, was no further than at Lady Orcott's.

Self-preservation was a wise and sensible goal.

Feminine fingers touched his sleeve; knowing who it was, he turned, drawing his mother's hand into the crook of his arm.

She smiled. "Come, my son — let's stroll a little way."

He raised his brows faintly but complied; simultaneously, he scanned the room, checking on Emily, Anne, and Fiona. Amelia might claim the best part of his attention, but he hadn't forgotten his responsibilities.

"No, no — they're well. Indeed, very creditably engaged. It's you — and the lady you've been watching — I wanted to speak with you about."

"Oh? Why?"

"I've been approached by no less than three of the senior hostesses, as well as any number of the lesser gossips. Speculation is rising that the relationship that in the past existed between you and Amelia has undergone a fundamental transformation."

His lips twitched; that was an accurate way of describing it. "On what evidence do the good ladies base such speculation?"

"It's been noted that you're both spending an unusual amount of time together, that you, especially, have gone out of your way to facilitate that, and, of course, it's been noted that you both have a tendency to disappear from the central venue, to return within a reasonable time, admittedly, yet that frequent fact is viewed with suspicion."

"That sounds as it should at this point." Luc glanced at Minerva. "What have you said?"

She opened her eyes wide. "Why, that you've known each other for years and have always been close."

He nodded. "It's possible you might actually start wondering yourself…"

Minerva raised her brows. "Just what date are you aiming for?"

There was a note in her voice that had him temporizing, "Well, not just me—"

"Luc." Minerva fixed him with a straight look. "When?"

He knew when to capitulate; he'd had recent practice. "About the end of the month."

"And the ceremony?"

He set his jaw. "By the end of the month."

Her eyes opened wide, then a thoughtful expression swept her face. "Ah. I see. That does explain a few things." She re-focused on his face, then patted his arm. "Very well. At least I now know what to expect — and how to manage the gossips. You may leave them to me."

"Thank you."

She caught his eye, then smiled and shook her head. "You'll go your own road, I know, but beware, my son. Marriage for you will not be as easy as you think."

Still smiling, she left him. Luc watched her go, a frown in his eyes, one question in his mind. Why?

Women. A necessary evil, or so he'd come to accept. He could define precisely what the necessary parts were. As for the rest, one simply had to learn to deal with them — it was that or be driven insane.

To enliven the next day, they'd organized a picnic at Merton. A picnic — he knew what that meant. Bucolic delights — like rocky or marshy ground, or trees with unhelpfully rough bark, or inquisitive ducks — all obstacles he'd met with in his callow youth.

He was long past those days — long past picnics.

"I'll take a decent chaise in a conservatory any day."

"What was that?"

He glanced at Amelia, beside him on the curricle's seat. "Nothing. Just muttering."

Amelia grinned and looked ahead. "I haven't been to Cousin Georgina's in years."

She was looking forward to it, to the chance of spending more than a few rushed minutes with Luc. She wanted — very definitely — to take their interaction further, to learn more of the magic he conjured, to wallow in the sensations he knew so well how to invoke. Ultimately, to travel further down their road and visit the next temple.

Since Lady Orcott's dim corridor, progress had been minimal, primarily due to lack of time. At least, that's how it seemed, although in truth, she never had the slightest idea of time passing once Luc's lips were on hers.

Let alone his hands on her body, clothed or otherwise.

Nevertheless, she'd learned one or two things. Such as, despite the fact he physically desired her, that iron will of his stubbornly intervened and left him firmly in control, not just of her but of himself, too. Even when he'd reduced her to a gasping, witless, boneless heap, he could still hear and function as if he were merely out riding. Indeed, that was a very apt analogy — he loved riding, but never lost control.

Undermining that control, seeing him in the throes of a passion as hot and mindless as what he induced in her, was a very tempting proposition.

She glanced at him, studied the strong line of his jaw, then smiled and looked ahead.

The drive leading to Georgina's villa lay around the next bend. Luc turned the curricle in between the gateposts; the drive led to a circular court before the villa's front door.

Georgina was waiting to greet them. "My dears." She enveloped Amelia in a scented embrace and kissed her cheek. Then she smiled, and gave Luc her hand. "The last time you were here, you fell out of the plum tree. Luckily, you didn't break any bones."

Luc straightened from his bow. "Did I break any branches?"

"No, but you did eat a great many of the plums."

Amelia slipped her arm in Georgina's. "The others are following in the carriages. Can we help with anything?"

The answer was no, so they sat outside on the terrace and sipped cool drinks until the others arrived. As well as Luc's sisters and Fiona, and Minerva and Louise to keep Georgina company, young Lord Kirkpatrick and two of his friends had been invited, along with Reggie, and Amelia's brother Simon. And three of their cousins, Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, together with a few of their friends.

The carriages rolled up, the occupants joined them on the shady terrace, and the picnic party swelled to a sizable group, full of laughing, chattering good cheer.

Luc viewed the gathering with mixed feelings. He was thankful his two youngest sisters, Portia and Penelope, had remained at home in Rutlandshire. They hadn't come to London with the family primarily because of the cost; after his recent windfall, he'd toyed with the idea of sending for them, but at fourteen and thirteen, they were supposed to be attending their lessons. Penelope would be, her nose buried in some tome, but on a day like this, Portia would be out with his prize pack of hounds. If they'd been here, at this party, he'd have been forced to keep a strict eye on them both — and endure their incessant and often pointed teasing. Just as well those two sharp-eyed nuisances were safely far away.

"Luc?"

Amelia's voice drew him back to Merton; he blinked, and saw her silhouetted against the glare of the sunlight washing over the lawns. She was wearing a thin muslin gown, perfect for the warm day; the bright light behind her turned the fabric translucent, revealing the shapely curve of one breast, the indentation of her waist made all the more definite by the delectable swell of her hips, followed by the long, slender lines of her legs.

He had to draw breath before he succeeded in dragging his gaze back up to her face. She tilted her head, studying him, a light smile on her lips. She gestured with a plate. "Come and eat."

With a nod, he got to his feet — slowly — using the instant to shackle his hunger, sudden, rampant, unexpectedly vital. He hadn't realized it had grown to this extent, to the point where its spurs had real bite, driving him to seize.

He joined her; to her right lay the open doors to a dining parlor where a feast was spread. Many of the company were filling their plates, chattering incessantly; others, plates in their hands, were heading out to the chairs and tables assembled on the lawn.

Relieving Amelia of the plate, he met her gaze, blue eyes wondering. With his other hand, he caught her fingers, raised them and pressed his lips to the tips. Let her, but only her, see the real nature of his hunger in his eyes.

Hers widened. Before she could say anything, he lowered her hand, and turned her to the table. "So what's the most delectable delight?"

Her lips twitched, but she calmly informed him the stuffed vine leaves were particularly good.

They filled their plates, then joined the others on the lawns. The next hour sped by in easy converse. Good company, excellent food, fine wine, and a bright summer day; there were no jealousies or tensions in the group — they all relaxed and enjoyed the occasion.

Eventually, their appetite for food sated, the younger crew — all bar the older ladies, Luc, Amelia, and Reggie — decided on an expedition to the nearby river. A walk through the gardens joined a country path to the riverbank; Simon, Heather, Eliza, and Angelica all knew the way. The party rose in a flurry of pastel muslin flounces and frilled parasols, the young gentlemen eagerly assisting.

"No need to rush," Louise advised them. "We've hours before we need to leave."

Smiling, Minerva nodded her own permission.

Most set off in close file through the gardens; Heather and Eliza descended on Reggie.

"Do come along — we want to hear all about Lady Moffat's wig."

"Did it really fly off at Ascot?"

Always ready to gossip, Reggie allowed himself to be led away.

Luc raised a brow at Amelia. "Shall we?"

She raised a brow back, a speculative gleam in her eye. "I suspect we should, don't you?"

He rose and drew out her chair. Neither of them had any intention of walking as far as the river, yet with every evidence of reluctantly doing their duty and watching over their juniors — who in this company needed no watching — they ambled, side by side, in the group's wake.

They left the lawns behind; when the gardens hid the house from view, Luc paused on a crest in the walk. Ahead, the others straggled in groups of three and four, stretching away toward the golden fields and the distant green ribbon of the river.

Simon's voice reached them; he and Angelica were debating the likelihood of again meeting a family of fierce ducks encountered on their last visit.

Luc glanced at Amelia, waiting beside him. "Do you want to see the river, complete with ducks?"

Her lips curved. "I've seen it all before."

"In that case, which way is the orchard? Maybe we can identify the tree I fell out of on my last visit?"

She waved to another path, leading to the left a little way along. "At the very least, the plums will be ripe."

He stepped off the main walk in her wake. "It isn't plums I'm thinking of tasting."

She threw him a haughty, challenging glance, and forged on.

He smiled, and followed.

The orchard was a seducer's delight — large old trees heavily in leaf surrounded by a high stone wall, it was far enough from the house to ensure privacy, uphill and far enough from the path to the river to make it highly unlikely any of the others would come that way.

Once beneath the trees, they were all but invisible to anyone outside the orchard. Amelia had been right; the plums were ripe. Reaching up, Luc plucked a plump one. He saw Amelia glance his way; he handed it to her, then searched and found another for himself.

"Hmm — delicious."

He looked at Amelia as he bit in; she was right again — the sun-warmed fruit was heavenly. Eyes closed in appreciation, she swallowed; red plum juice stained her lips.

Opening her eyes, she took another bite. The juice overran her lip, one drop trickling down from the corner.

He reached out and caught the drop on his fingertip. She blinked, focused — then leaned forward and took the tip of his finger between her lips, and sucked lightly.

His lungs — all of him — seized; for one instant, he was blind. Then he blinked, hauled in a breath, managed to lower his hand — and saw, beyond her, the orchard's crowning glory, at least for their purpose.

A small summerhouse, it had clearly been placed in the center of the orchard to capitalize on the privacy. The orchard was on a slope, so the summerhouse had views over the distant fields and river, but the trees all around ensured no one could see in.

Many of Merton's villas had been built by gentlemen for their mistresses; Luc was only too ready to exploit someone else's good planning, especially as he doubted he could keep his hands off his fair companion for much longer, and although the grass beneath the trees grew lush and thick, and little fruit had thus far fallen, grass stains on a lady's gown was a telltale sign.