His tone made her blink. Before she could start speculating, he continued, "The Hightham Hall house party. Tomorrow."
The light that leapt into her eyes had him hurrying on, "We need to be careful. I know what you're thinking, but while the venue might appear at first glance to be greatly amenable, in reality, such a crowded and cramped house poses dangers all its own."
Head tilted, she'd listened, her gaze steady on his face. Now she looked ahead. "I had thought that the house party was all but fated in terms of our direction." She glanced at him. "Are you telling me that view is incorrect?"
He nodded. Somehow, he had to convince her not to take advantage of the amenities afforded by a major house party to tempt him further — he felt certain she would try. His aim was to prevent that, in case she succeeded. "The prospect seems ready-made, I grant you, but—"
The others strolled ahead; luckily the Serpentine Walk was quite long. Amelia held her tongue and listened — to what anyone knowing Luc would instantly recognize as a plethora of nervous excuses. From him, given the subject of their conversation, the fact was astonishing.
"I can assure you the outcome risks being far less satisfactory than you might hope." He glanced at her, saw her rising brows, mentally replayed his words, hurriedly amended, "Not in terms of immediate enjoyment, but—"
That he didn't want to take advantage of the house party to further their interaction, to take what surely had to be the ultimate step, was crystal clear. Why was less so.
She let him talk without interruption, hoping to learn more. The situation, his reaction, was so unlike what she'd been expecting — what, knowing him, she had every reason to expect — she was more puzzled than dismayed. This was the man she wanted to marry; he was proving to have more layers than she'd imagined — it behooved her to pay attention.
"Ultimately, we have to consider the fact that any action likely to result in rumors besmirching your name must be avoided at all costs."
He sounded so pompous, she had to fight to keep her lips straight. They reached the end of the Serpentine's banks; the others had turned back toward the lawns. Luc halted, and drew her to face him. His eyes searched hers. "You do see, don't you?"
She studied his dark eyes, confirmed he was indeed worried, but about what she couldn't be sure. Nevertheless, she knew how to respond. She smiled reassuringly. "You know perfectly well I would never do anything to besmirch my name."
He wasn't so sure of her that he jumped to conclusions; his eyes searched hers for confirmation that she meant what he hoped she did. She let her smile deepen and patted his arm, then glanced up the Walk. "Now you'd better take me back before Reggie starts wondering if he did the right thing in allowing us to be alone."
Their mothers had decreed their party would set out for Hightham Hall at nine o'clock the next morning. Reggie's mother was feeling unwell, so he, too, was joining them. To
Luc's mind, that still left him in charge of too many females with insufficient male support — every one of those females could twist Reggie around her little finger.
Together with Reggie, he stood on the pavement and resignedly watched the two traveling carriages sink on their axles as box after box was added to their loads.
"Dashed if they'll wear the half of it." Reggie glanced at the four horses harnessed to the Cynster carriage, which had arrived fifteen minutes earlier already burdened with Amelia's and Louise's trunks and boxes. "Just hope the cattle're up to it."
Luc humphed. "No danger there." Both his and the Cynster stables contained only the best. "But it's going to add at least an hour to the journey." Hightham Hall was in Surrey, on the banks of the Wey.
Reggie watched a footman hand another bandbox up to the Ashford coachman. "Assuming we make it at all."
A flurry of activity drew their eyes to the front door; excitedly chattering, Luc's sisters and Fiona, as usual one of the party, eagerly descended the steps. Luc looked beyond them, caught Cottsloe's eye. The butler stepped back into the house to speed the summons for Luc's curricle.
Reggie was counting bodies; Luc broke the news that he and Amelia would travel separately. Reggie looked surprised. "Wouldn't have thought you'd bother — there'll be plenty of room."
Luc met his eyes. "You've forgotten to count the maids."
Reggie blinked, then groaned.
As she followed her mother and Luc's onto his front steps, Amelia saw Reggie's pained expression, so typical of fashionable males embarking on a trip with female relatives that she had no difficulty guessing his thoughts. Luc's expression was equally typical, but of himself — hard, impassive, impossible to read.
But then he glanced up and saw her, and hesitated, as if suddenly uncertain. She brightened; smiling, calm, and assured, she continued down the steps to his side.
The next moments were filled with orders and — organization, with the questions of who would go where debated and decided, then all the others were handed up to the coaches; Luc shut the last door and stepped back.
"We'll be ahead of you before the river," he told Reggie, who nodded and saluted.
Luc signaled to his coachman; the man swung his whip, the horses leaned into the traces, and the heavy coach ponderously rolled forward. The Cynster carriage followed just as Luc's groom appeared, driving his curricle. The curricle drew up alongside them. Luc watched the coaches until they'd turned the corner, then glanced at her.
She was waiting to catch his eye, to raise her brows, faintly challenging. Stepping close, she murmured, "Stop worrying — everything will be perfectly all right."
He was a full head taller; his shoulders were so broad, standing this close, he shielded her completely. This close, she could feel the sheer male strength of him all but vibrating around her, like a humming in the air she could feel. This close, and the potent sexuality that lurked beneath his elegant facade was rawly apparent, just short of a physical threat.
And despite all of that, there she was, reassuring him over their intimate relationship. Over the pace of said intimate relationship.
Did irony get any more delicious?
Her smiling assurance had the opposite of its intended effect; his dark eyes — still difficult to decipher, but she was getting much better at it — grew even more wary. His brows lowered in more obvious suspicion.
Valiantly resisting an urge to laugh, she smiled into those watchful eyes and patted his arm. "Do stop scowling — you'll scare your horses."
That got her a grim look, but he did stop frowning and handed her up to the curricle. She settled her skirts, decided the sun was not yet high enough to warrant opening her parasol. After exchanging last-minute words with Cottsloe, Luc joined her; in short order, they were away.
He was an excellent whip, an instinctive driver, but she knew better than to chatter and distract him while he tacked through the morning traffic. As he'd predicted, they passed the two coaches just past Kensington; so much heavier and less maneuverable, the latter had to stop frequently and wait for their way to clear.
Thankful she was in the curricle, in the open air, she let her gaze drink in the myriad sights; although she'd seen them many times, now, with Luc beside her, poised on the threshold of her dearest dream, every view, every detail her eyes beheld seemed more alive, brighter, more heavily imbued with meaning.
They reached Chiswick and turned south, crossing the river to Kew, then journeyed on, heading south and west, into the countryside. As the houses fell behind, the brightness of the summer morning enveloped them, and there still seemed no need for talk — for idle chatter to fill the moments.