His fingers shackled her wrist. He didn't move, didn't speak, just held her immobile and waited for her to turn back to him.
After a long moment, she did; her own temper had flown — she could feel it — and more — simmering just beneath her skin.
Her eyes flashed, clashed with his; their gazes locked, held.
"Don't."
It was a primitive, fundamental, all-encompassing warning; he made not the slightest effort to veil its nature.
She felt her breasts swell, felt their wills collide — and knew, had absolutely no doubt, that his was the stronger.
She'd never crossed his temper before, but she knew it existed — the other side of that wildness she coveted; she couldn't have one without the other.
But if she had to take him as he was, he would need to reciprocate.
Lifting her chin, she twisted her wrist — he released her, but slowly, enough to underscore that he did so only because he wished it.
"If you'll excuse me, I must change." With a nod, she turned to the house. "I'll see you after lunch."
An hour after the company had quit the luncheon tables, Luc halted at the bottom of the central stairs and silently and comprehensively cursed. Where in all Hades was she? He'd quartered the house, checking every last reception room, inadvertently surprising a number of other couples; he'd then spent a heated half hour combing every likely spot in the gardens. All to no avail.
Dragging in a breath — shackling his temper, suppressing it so he could think — he backtracked. She'd been at luncheon, arriving late after changing her limp walking dress for a fresh and cool apple green muslin gown. Seeing it, he'd wished he'd gone with her — followed her from the terrace and peeled the walking dress from her damp flesh… instead of feasting on cold meats and strawberries, he could have been feasting on fruits more to his taste…
Suppressing the resulting mental images, he forced his mind back to the luncheon party under the trees. He'd watched Amelia from afar, not daring in his present mood, and hers, to get within sniping distance — God only knew what she might provoke him to say. Or worse, do. Then, just as the party started to break up, old Lady Mackintosh had collared him. She'd insisted on introducing him to her niece — a flashy, overconfident young lady very aware of her charms. Charms she'd clearly intended to use to capture him.
He'd been tempted to tell her she had no chance; he'd never been attracted by unsubtle women. To his cost.
The thought had made him glance around — only to realize Amelia had gone. He'd forced himself to disengage with an appearance of civility, then had set out to hunt her down.
So here he was, an hour later, and no further forward.
She'd known he wanted to speak with her — she'd promised not to disappear. He considered the possibility that she might have set out to flout him deliberately — and reluctantly dismissed it. She wasn't stupid.
So… if she was patiently waiting for him somewhere…
He closed his eyes and quietly groaned. Surely not? It was the last place he'd think of — demonstrably so — yet given the direction in which her mind had so consistently been working…
Visiting her bedchamber last night had, to his mind, figured as too dangerous. Not only had he been laboring under the weight of unwelcome surprise over how easily she'd seduced him, how easily his need of her had overridden his will, as well as the fact she'd planned and committed the deed without a blink, against his expressly stated wishes, he'd also been grappling with the unexpected and unsettling emotions she'd stirred to life. He'd had no wish to speak with her before he'd had time to think. And only a cad would have gone to her so soon with anything more than conversation on his mind.
The notion of having a cozy chat in her room without laying a hand on her, without her laying a hand on him, had been laughable. Yet a whole night of thinking had got him precisely nowhere.
Five minutes this morning had changed that, crystallized his thoughts wonderfully — the five minutes after breakfast during which he'd realized, then confirmed, that she wasn't in the house.
Not even the discovery, much later, that she'd gone off to play gooseberry for his sister had improved his mood.
A basic, primitive, fundamental mood he had absolutely no wish to discuss. Especially not with her.
God only knew what was going to happen next.
Opening his eyes, he heaved a resigned sigh, and headed straight out of the house.
Descending the front steps, he turned onto the path that led around the west wing. There were too many ladies, young and old, wandering the corridors to attempt an approach from inside. Luck was with him; when he entered through the garden door, there was no one in the small hall at the bottom of the secondary stairs. He took them two at a time. At the top, he paused, and carefully looked around the corner, down the upper corridor. It, too, was temporarily empty. He was at her door, easing it open, in a heartbeat; whisking around it, he had time for only the briefest glance before turning to silently close the door.
She was there, on the bed — the green of her dress, the gold of her curls had confirmed it.
The door safely shut, he turned, grimly holding back his irritation…
She was asleep.