On A Wicked Dawn by Stephanie Laurens

shimmering, glimmering fantasy that, as she flipped it up over her shoulders and turned with his mother, ready to depart, only added to the allure of that gleaming gown.
    Ruthlessly shackling his temper, and more, he waved them all to the front door. “We’d better get going.”
    His sisters and Fiona grinned forbearingly at him as they trooped past, imagining his black mood to be occasioned by their tardiness. His mother swept after them, an amused look in her eyes, taking care not to meet his.
    Amelia glided in Minerva’s wake; drawing level with him, she smiled, and continued on.
    He stood for a moment, watching her hips sway under the shimmering gauze, then inwardly groaned and followed.
    If he’d been thinking—thinking at all—he’d have got down the steps faster; when he stepped onto the pavement, the three girls had already piled into the carriage and taken their seats. He handed his mother up, then gave Amelia his hand, supporting her as she stepped up to the carriage, by long habit looking down at the right moment to glimpse the flash of bared ankle before she let her skirts fall.
    He was more than “ready” when he climbed into the carriage; he was uncomfortably hard. A situation that grew considerably worse when he realized that the space they’d left for him was next to Amelia, between her and the carriage’s side. There was only just enough space sitting three to each seat; the girls, crowded on the forward seat, already had their heads together, chattering animatedly. Impossible to make them change places—what excuse could he give? Instead, gritting his teeth, he sat—and endured the sensation of Amelia’s hip riding against his, of her slender, distinctly feminine thigh pressing against his, that godforsaken gown shifting, discreetly tantalizing, between them.
    All the way to the Carstairs house down by the river at Chelsea.
    The Carstairses owned a large house in Mayfair, but had elected to use their smaller property with its long gardens reaching down to the river for this summer night’s entertaining.
    They greeted their hostess in the hall, then joined the other guests in a long reception room running the length of the house. The room’s rear wall was comprised of windows and a set of doors presently open to the gardens. Said gardens had been transformed into a magical fairyland with hundreds of small lanterns hung in the trees and strung between long poles. A light breeze off the river set the lanterns bobbing, sent the shadows they cast swaying.
    Many guests had already yielded to the invitation of the softly lit night; turning from surveying the company, Luc looked at Amelia—and immediately determined to do the same. She’d appeared stunning enough in the even light of his front hall. Under the glare of the chandeliers she looked like . . . the most delectable delight any hungry wolf could dream of.
    And there were plenty of hungry wolves about.
    Inwardly swearing, he gripped her elbow, cast a cursory glance at his sisters. Ever since their come-out, successful as it had been, he’d become, if not less protective, then at least less overtly so. Emily had found her feet; Anne, naturally quiet, remained so. He felt comfortable leaving them to their own devices, and Fiona would be safe in their company.
    He’d check on them later.
    â€œLet’s go into the garden.” He didn’t look at Amelia, but sensed her glance, sensed her underlying amusement.
    â€œIf you wish.”
    He did glance at her then, sideways, briefly; the smile in her voice was manifest on her lips, lightly curved. The temptation to react—to kiss that teasing smile from those luscious lips—was frighteningly strong. He quelled it. With acurt nod for his mother, already settled with her bosom-bows, he grimly steered Amelia down the room.
    To reach the doors giving onto the gardens they had, perforce, to travel the length of the