Luc had approved. Having Fiona artlessly breezy beside her gave Anne, always timorous and shy, more confidence and in some measure released Emily, older by a year, from Anne's side. It seemed likely that Emily would receive an offer from Lord Kirkpatrick at the end of the Season. They were both young, but the match would be a good one, and was looked upon with favor by both families.
The line of guests shuffled forward. His mother leaned nearer, lowering her voice so that no one else could hear. "I think our dinner was an unqualified success. A nice way to set the seal on our past affairs."
Luc arched a brow. "Prior to burying them?"
Minerva smiled and looked away. "Precisely."
After an instant's pause, he continued, "I'll still be seeing Robert — I don't intend giving up my interest in such endeavors."
His mother opened her eyes at him, then smiled and patted his arm. "Darling, if your interests truly lie in that direction — rather than the other — then I'm certainly not going to complain."
The laughter in her voice, the light that now glowed undimmed in her eyes — the way her spirits in the space of a day had lifted — made all his hard work worthwhile. As he led her on to greet the Mountfords, and heard Emily and Anne's gowns shushing as they followed, Luc mentally acknowledged that, despite the trials of the years — despite his father's efforts and those more recently of Edward — he was yet a lucky man.
And about to get luckier. The thought echoed in his mind when, having settled his mother on a chaise beside Lady Horatia Cynster, Amelia's aunt, he finally caught sight of his bride-to-be. She was whirling down a country dance, oblivious as yet of his presence. Curls jouncing, she was laughing up at Geoffrey Melrose, her partner; Luc wasn't enamored of the sight.
His sisters' and Fiona's hands had also been claimed; they, too, were on the floor. Luc fixed his gaze on Amelia, waited…
She glanced around, saw him — and missed her next step. She quickly looked away, readjusted to the dance; she didn't glance his way again. However, at the end of the measure, she glided over to join his sisters. As throughout this Season both she and Amanda had been assiduous in easing Emily's and Anne's way — a selfless act for which he was more grateful than he had any intention of ever telling either twin — no one saw anything unusual in her making one of their circle.
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.