He touched her curls and she shivered; he ran one fingertip down through them, and her nerves leapt. Then his lips firmed, and he drew her back into the kiss; she tried to resist, to let her mind follow his fingertips instead, but he ruthlessly captured every last shred of her awareness and anchored them, her, in the passionate engagement of their lips and tongues, the increasingly intimate merging of their mouths.

When he finally allowed her to resurface, not completely but just enough to sense again, her thighs were parted, his hand was between, his fingertips sliding over heated flesh that was swollen and quite wet.

It was a shocking discovery, one of dizzying delight. He didn't release her lips, but kept her with him in the kiss while his fingers played. But it wasn't just play; beneath the drugging sensuality, the consistent delight, lay a possessive-ness, a primitive drive that she sensed despite his efforts to disguise it. To keep it veiled, concealed — hidden.

It was there in the tension that held him, that locked his muscles and left him rigid. There in the heavy weight of his erection against her thigh, in the steely power in his hand as he parted her folds and caressed her. She sensed it in the building heat he held back from her, kept screened from her, as if to protect her from the flames. Flames he was accustomed to dealing with, but which she had yet to experience.

If the choice had been hers, she would have asked for the flames — they beckoned with an addictive glory. But she could do no more than accept what he gave her, take what he offered — what he allowed.

She was too desperate to argue, too caught in the sensual web he'd woven. She needed more. Now. He seemed to understand. He parted her slick folds and opened her, gently probed the entrance to her body until she thought she'd scream, then slowly, boldly, slid one long finger into her.

In some dim part of her brain, she'd expected the penetration to ease her need, and for some few minutes it did. But then the subtle friction of that probing finger, sliding languidly back and forth, ignited another want, another need — one even more desperate than the last.

He purposely built it, stoked it, until she was clinging, her nails sinking into his arms, her body arching under his. A captive, certainly, one ready to yield, to surrender.

And she did.

The implosion of sensation, the sudden release, the tide of sensual heat that engulfed her, took her unawareness, caught her up, whirled her high, into some sensual heaven.

The ease, the physical peace that suffused her, was unfamiliar, yet she embraced it eagerly and relaxed in his arms, only dimly aware when he withdrew his hand and flipped her skirts down.

His lips remained on hers, hard, too knowing, yet the heat was dying; she could sense him bringing the barriers down, shutting her off completely from the furnace and the flames.

When he finally lifted his head, she was waiting. Raising one hand, she speared her fingers through his hair, and held him near. Forced her weighted lids to rise, studied his eyes.

Even from this close, she couldn't read them.

"Why did you stop?" His gaze dropped to her lips; she tightened her hold on his hair. "And if you mention time or timing, I'll scream."

His lips curved, then he met her eyes. "Not time. Temples." He put out his tongue and ran the tip along her lower lip. "We haven't reached that temple yet."

She didn't take his explanation well, but grudgingly forebore to argue; she seemed to have accepted that at least in this arena, she couldn't dictate to him.

The afternoon was mild; they had plenty of time. He slumped back and rearranged her so she lay atop him, her back to his chest, cradled in his arms as her skin cooled and her wits lazily drifted. A moment of blessed peace he seized for himself. Placed as she was, she couldn't see his face — couldn't see the glances he slanted at hers.

He was trying to regain his bearings, and didn't want her to know he'd lost them. Didn't want her to guess, as she might if she saw him looking uncertain, that he was ever so slightly at sea.

Even on this sea, one he'd successfully navigated more times than he could count.

Women, the having of them, had never truly mattered — not in any specific way — in the past. He'd assumed having Amelia would be, if not precisely the same, then not seriously different.

Yet the blind need that had gripped him only moments past was new. Blind lust, blind desire — those he was familiar with — but blind need? That was something else. Something that had never before afflicted him. He couldn't logically explain why the need to possess her and only her had suddenly become so acute. So absolutely necessary.

He didn't know how deep this unfamiliar emotion ran. He didn't know if he could control it — or if, ultimately, it would control him.

That thought left him wary, even more wary than before, yet as the minutes ticked past and the afternoon waned, the soft warm body, so elementally feminine, in his arms, in spite of all, soothed him.

She'd lost all physical distance; she was utterly content in his arms, even though her bodice was still open, her breasts delightfully exposed. He felt his lips curve; he definitely approved of her this way. The temptation to raise a hand to the soft mounds and play was real, yet… the end of the day was not that far away.

Eventually, they stirred and after righting their clothes, headed back to the villa. She led the way, as she so often did. Just before they reached the main walk, he stopped her; close behind her, he bent his head and pressed his lips briefly to the curve of her throat.

She said nothing, but looked around, her eyes meeting his as he straightened. Then she smiled — that odd, glorious, womanly smile that always left him suspicious — and blithely turned and headed on.

They reached the lawns a few minutes before the others straggled back, tired and weary but smiling. They all piled back into the carriages. Although the girls' chatter had died, Reggie begged for relief so Luc took him up behind them in his curricle. The faster equipage soon left the carriages far behind.

They were trotting into London when Reggie yawned and stirred. Luc grinned. "Did you hear anything worth learning?"

Reggie humphed. "Only some tale about a snuffbox gone missing at Lady Hammond's and some precious bud vase that Lady Orcott's misplaced. You know what it is, though — it's the end of the Season and things have got moved and people have forgotten where they put them."

Luc thought of his grandfather's inkstand. Reggie was undoubtedly right.

Chapter 7

The evening of the next day loomed as a disaster; if Luc could have avoided the Countess of Cork's masquerade, he would have, but the old harridan was a longtime friend of the family — attendance for him was compulsory. That being so, there was no argument powerful enough to prevent Amelia attending, too; she was — and had made it perfectly clear she was — flown with high hopes for the evening.

Ascending the steps of the Cork mansion with Amelia, cloaked and masked, on his arm, he was uncomfortably aware of the irony; he'd never felt so torn in his life. At least his mother, and hers, and their cronies, would not be attending. Tonight was largely for those of his and Amelia's ilk, and those more youthful who aspired to similar status.

Handing their invitations to the butler, he ushered Amelia into the crowd thronging her ladyship's front hall. Those new to such entertainments had paused there; masked and unidentifiable in dominos, they were looking around, trying to recognize others. A hand at her back, he urged Amelia on.

"The ballroom," he said when she hesitated and glanced back at him. "It'll be less packed in there."

At one point, he had to take the lead and shoulder a way through, but his prophecy proved correct; in the ballroom, they could at least breathe.

"I'd no idea it would be such a crush. Not so late in the Season." Up on her toes, Amelia was craning her neck, trying to get her bearings.

"If masquerades aren't crowded, they tend to miss the mark."

She looked at him. "Because it's too easy to guess who everyone is?"

He nodded brusquely and took her arm. Not that anyone would have trouble identifying her regardless of the crowds; those cornflower blue eyes, wide behind her mask, were distinctive, especially when combined with the flash of golden curls beneath her domino's hood.

"Here." Halting, he tugged her hood forward, further shielding her face and hair.

She looked up at him. "It doesn't really matter if people guess who I am. I've already found my partner for the night."

True, but… "Given your hopes for the evening, it would be wiser to avoid drawing unnecessary attention our way."

She was wearing a half mask; he watched her face clear, saw a seductive smile curve her lips as she inclined her head. "On that I must bow to your greater experience."

Sliding her hand onto his arm, she came alongside — into the position where he now expected her to be; he felt most comfortable when she was there, beside him, her hand on his sleeve. Stifling a sigh, he consented to stroll down the ballroom.

In more normal circumstances, he would be assessing the room and the house for places to which he might later whisk the lady he had on his arm so they could indulge in private pleasures. Tonight, with the lady who currently commanded most of his waking thoughts, he was more concerned with, if at all possible, avoiding precisely those same pleasures.