Not one gossipmonger so much as raised a brow when he strolled across the ballroom to join the group.

They were a colorful and handsome company; the three younger girls, all brown-haired, all somewhat shorter than Amelia, wore gowns of pastel blue and pink, petals surrounded by the gentlemen's darker coats. At the center, Amelia glowed in a silk gown of muted gold. The shade emphasized the ivory perfection of her skin, turned her hair a more definite gold, made her eyes a more intense, more startling blue.

Emily's, Anne's, and Fiona's partners had lingered to chat; three other young gentlemen had come up, hoping to secure the girls' hands for the next dance. To Luc's irritation, Melrose had followed Amelia, and Hardcastle had ambled up, casting covetous eyes over her slender form. Hiding his instinctive snarl behind an easy smile, he bowed to Amelia, nodded to both gentlemen, adroitly maneuvering so he ended by Amelia's side.

She noticed, but other than one glance, gave no sign. After casting a comprehensive glance over his sisters, Fiona and their beaux, he left them, for once, to fend for themselves and turned his attention to Amelia.

To eliminating a potential problem.

"I heard," he murmured into the first lull in the conversation, "that Toby Mick was likely to meet The Gnasher at Derby."

Amelia stared at him; Melrose looked slightly shocked. It was an unwritten rule that gentlemen did not discuss such bloodthirsty subjects as the exploits of the Fancy in the presence of ladies.

Hardcastle, however, positively vibrated with pent-up enthusiasm. He bent a pleading look on Amelia. "You don't mind, do you, my dear?" Without waiting for any reply, he pounced. "It's quite true — I had it from Gilroy himself.

They say it'll be all over in three rounds, but—"

Melrose was torn. Luc merely waited, feigning mild interest, pretending not to notice Amelia's sharp glance.

"And there's talk that now they've doubled the purse, Cartwright is considering throwing his hat into the ring."

The mention of the latest contender was too much for Melrose.

"I say! But is there really any likelihood of that? I mean, it's not as if Cartwright needs the outing — he was in action only two weeks ago on the Downs. Why risk—"

"No, no! You see, it's the challenge."

"Yes, but—"

Luc turned to Amelia. Smiled. "Would you care to stroll?"

"Indeed." She gave him her hand.

He tucked it possessively in his arm. The other two barely broke off their argument to acknowledge their farewells.

"You're wicked," she said the instant they were out of earshot. "One of the matrons will overhear, and then they'll be in trouble."

He raised his brows high. "Did I force them to it?"

"Humph!" Amelia looked ahead, and tried to quell the fluttery sensation that had developed in her stomach. It couldn't be nervousness; she was at a loss as to its cause.

Then Luc leaned nearer, guiding her around a trio of gentlemen. The sudden frisson that flashed down her side — the side he'd brushed — opened her eyes.

Of course! She'd never been this physically close to him, except when he'd been non compos mentis. He was now wide-awake, and closer than the merely polite; she could sense him, hard, strong, and very male, a potent living force beside her.

A distracted moment later, she realized the emotion evoked by his nearness wasn't panic, or fear, but something far more giddy. Decidedly more pleasurable.

She glanced at his face. He felt her gaze and looked down. Then his gaze grew intent; his eyes searched hers.

Her lungs seized.

The introduction for the first waltz cut through the conversations. Luc glanced up; she dragged in a huge breath.

Held it again as he looked back at her. His fingers closed about her hand; he lifted it from his sleeve, then elegantly bowed, his eyes never leaving hers. "My dance, I believe?"

At that precise instant, she would have felt far safer dancing with a wolf, but she smiled, inclined her head, and let him draw her to the floor. What had Amanda called him? A leopard?

And lethal to boot.

She had to agree with her twin's estimation as he gathered her close and steered her into the swirling throng.

Her chest felt tight; her skin came alive. Her wits were giddy, her senses taut. With anticipation, expectation. Of what, she wasn't sure, but that only increased the excitement.

It was ridiculous — they'd waltzed before, on numerous occasions, yet it had never been like this. Never before had his eyes, his attention, been focused, fixed on her. He didn't even seem to hear the music, or rather, the music became part of some sensory whole that included the way their bodies revolved, swayed, touched, brushed as he effortlessly guided them down the long room.

Never before had she been so aware; never had she waltzed like this, with him or anyone else. Drawn into the music, into the moment, into…

Something had changed. Something fundamental — he wasn't the same man she'd danced with before. Even the planes of his face seemed harder, more chiseled, more austere. His body seemed more powerful, the fashionable screen more transparent. And there was something in his eyes as they rested on hers — something… she couldn't place it, but her instincts recognized enough to make her shiver.

He felt it; his lids lowered, long lashes screening his dark eyes. His lips twisted wrily; his hand shifted on her back, reassuring, soothing.

She stiffened. "What are you about?" The words tumbled out before she'd thought, their tone as suspicious as her glance.

Luc opened his eyes wide, resisted the urge to laugh — to ask what the hell she thought he was about. Then the implication struck, and all thought of laughing fled — but he still had to fight to hide his possessive gloat, to keep a smug smile from lifting his lips. Despite his efforts, it must have showed; he quickly moved to dampen the temper building in her eyes. "Don't worry — I know what I'm doing. I told you this afternoon, just follow my lead."

He shifted his hand on her back again, drawing her closer as they went through the turns. "I won't bite, but you can't expect me to change my spots overnight."

Or, indeed, at all, but he left that unsaid. After a moment, the grim look in her eyes eased; he felt her relax once more into his arms — indeed, relax more than before. "Oh — I see."

He sincerely doubted it. He didn't either; it took him a few moments to follow her train of thought, then he realized — she thought the effect he knew he was having on her was simply part of his… mystique. The natural outcome of the application of his popularly acclaimed talents.

In part, she was right, but that didn't fully explain her reaction, or his. Or his to hers, for that matter.

Experience, and his was extensive, told him she was remarkably sensitive, stunningly responsive. The fact that had startled her strongly suggested such responses had been limited, at least thus far in her life, to him.

Hence his surge of appreciation. She was a sensual prize, untouched, unawakened, and she was his, all his. Small wonder he felt like gloating.

He knew, had known for years, that the response she evoked in him was stronger, different, more powerful than with any other woman he'd met. In all those years, concentrating on subduing his own reactions, he'd never thought to look for hers. Why so? He'd never thought of pursuing her. Before.

It took effort to resist the impulse to draw her closer still and push ahead with his plan to tie her to him sensually, yet the wisdom of the years warned that going too fast would risk her guessing his plan — and resisting. She'd become even more suspicious than she had been a moment ago.

However, if he took things gradually, seduced her step by deliberate step, then she, now thinking her responses merely the norm, the usual, nothing out of the ordinary… by the time she realized the strength of her own desire, she'd be too addicted to break free, too enthralled to quibble over why they were marrying, even when he confessed he didn't need her dowry.

The music wound down and they slowed. His senses, every last ounce of his awareness focused on her. On the physical her, on the promise inherent in her slender form, on her skin, her eyes, her lips — the cadence of her breathing.

His, all his.

He had to force his arms to release her, had to screen his intent behind the black veil of his lashes. Had to smile easily, tuck her hand in his arm, and turn back to the other guests. "We'd better stroll."

She looked slightly put out. "There's no one I really want to meet."

"Nevertheless." When she glanced at him, he murmured, "We can't instantly, after one perfectly ordinary waltz, cleave to each other's company."

She grimaced, then waved ahead. "Very well — lead on."

He did, much against his wishes, especially knowing it was against hers, too. But a plan was a plan, and his was sound. He found a knot of mutual friends; they stood and conversed with their customary facility. They were both at home in this sphere; neither needed the other's support.

It came as a surprise when he realized he'd retreated from the conversation, content to listen to Amelia's chatter, to her laughter and quick-witted sallies. She had a tongue almost as keen as his, and a mind equally agile; he was taken aback at how often she voiced his silent thoughts.

He caught a glance or two directed their way, and inwardly smiled. His relaxed but watchful presence by her side was not going unremarked. By dint of strolling on at just the right moment, he kept her to himself for the next dance; watching the other dancers twirl through a reel, they strolled about the floor.