On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)
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.