On A Wicked Dawn (8 page)

That was what he'd wanted, intended to achieve with his
advancing of their “script.” He'd moved to set his mark on her, a first declaration, a preliminary statement of absolute intent.

She was in absolute agreement. He'd set the scene, pledged his troth—now it was her turn. If she would.

She wasn't sure how to do it. Tentatively, she stepped nearer; her bodice brushed his coat. The steely tension holding him increased; the fingers at her nape tightened . . . with an inward shrug, she boldly kissed him back.

And he froze.

Emboldened, she sent her free hand sliding up to his shoulder, then higher still to trace his lean cheek. She pressed another long, tempting kiss on him, then flicked her fingers free of his slackened grip. Lifting that arm, she draped it on his shoulder, slid her fingers into his silky hair—and stepped closer yet, kissed him more determinedly—

His arms closed around her. He didn't crush her, yet there was no disguising the possessiveness behind the act. She twined her arms about his neck, but she didn't need to hold him to her; she offered her mouth again and he took control, wrested it from her.

His next kiss curled her toes.

Heat flooded her. Not in a searing rush but in a steady relentless tide. It poured down her veins, filled her up, took her over . . . she clung, and drank, felt her senses slide beneath the heating waves. Let herself sink against him, hard as steel beneath his elegant clothes, felt the vise of his arms close in.

His languidness—always a veneer—had flown. Every kiss seemed deeper, stronger, like a current steadily eroding her ability to resist. Not that she was resisting, a fact he knew. He didn't demand—he asked for no permission at all—but simply took, claimed, opened her eyes, ripped aside the veils, and showed her how far a simple kiss could go.

She was with him every inch of the way.

It was the tensing of her fingers at his nape, the arching of her spine—the sudden, blinding need to take the kiss much further—that jerked Luc back to reality. To sanity.

What the hell were they doing?

Abruptly, he drew back, broke the kiss. Struggled to draw breath, to steady his whirling head.

Couldn't do it with her in his arms, with her slender, pliant, oh-so-feminine body pressed so invitingly to his. His heart thundered. He forced his arms to unlock, forced his hands to grip her waist and set her back from him.

She swayed; he steadied her as she blinked at him in surprise.

He dragged in a huge breath. “We—“ The word came out as a strangled rumble. He cleared his throat—clogged with desire—managed to growl, “It's time we returned to the ballroom.”

“Time?” She stared at him, then glanced about. “How do you know? There's no clock.”

“Clock?” For one instant, he couldn't imagine . . . then he shook his head. “Never mind. Come on.”

Grabbing her hand, he towed her along, then up the steps to the terrace. Hauling in another breath, he paused, feeling his wits slowly falling back into place.

Into working order, where they hadn't been for the past God-knew-how-many minutes.

There were still couples wandering. Setting Amelia's hand on his sleeve, he steered her toward the ballroom. She was breathing more rapidly than usual, but when they reached the area where light spilled out and he ran a critical eye over her, she seemed remarkably composed. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes huge and bright, and her lips, if one looked closely, were swollen, yet the image she projected—of a young lady mildly starry-eyed—would serve their purpose well.

They reached the ballroom doors; he stood back to let her precede him. She stepped past, then paused, looked back. Her eyes met his, briefly searched, then steadied.

He felt sure she was about to speak, but instead, she smiled. Not just with her lips, but with her eyes.

Then she turned and walked into the ballroom.

He stared, then silently swore and followed her. She'd smiled at him like that once before; as before, the hair at his nape had lifted.

* * *

He'd intended it to be a simple kiss. What it had turned into . . . memories of that had kept him awake half the night.

The clocks chimed twelve noon as Luc crossed his front hall. There were documents and reports awaiting him in his study; he'd make a start on them before lunch and get his mind off its obsession.

He was reaching for the study doorknob when he heard her laugh. He knew the notes well, could at any time make them ring in his mind. For one instant, he thought that was what he'd heard—his imagination teasing him. Then he heard the voice that went with the laugh, not precise words, but the tone, the cadence.

Glancing along the hall, he listened. Amelia, his mother, and his sisters. Fiona, too. He strained his ears but heard no one else. Not an at-home, then, but an informal morning visit by a friend of the family.

The documents on his desk called to him. Some orders he needed to deal with by that evening; others were urgent bills he could at last pay. Responsibility urged him to the study; a deeper, more primitive instinct pointed in a different direction.

Last night she'd gone along with his edict, acquiesced readily and let him steer their path—up until that kiss. Their supposedly simple first kiss.
Then
she'd overset his plans. It hadn't been he who'd turned the exchange into a flagrantly sensual prelude—and if it hadn't been he, it had to have been she.

That fact disturbed him not a little. If she could challenge his rule in that sphere, what else might she attempt?

Which led to the exceedingly pertinent question of what she was doing in his drawing room that morning.

Amelia glanced up as the drawing room door opened. She smiled delightedly, made no attempt to hide her approbation as Luc entered, saw them, then shut the door and strolled up the long room to where they sat before the windows.

Her companions looked and smiled, too, his mother on the chaise beside her, Emily, Anne, and Fiona on two chairs and an ottoman ranged before them. Her intended presented the sort of picture any lady would smile at. His blue coat of Bath superfine fitted him superbly, displaying his shoulders to advantage, drawing attention to his narrow hips. His long, muscled thighs were encased in buckskin breeches which disappeared into Hessians shined to a mirror gloss. The contrast between his pale skin and the absolute blackness of his hair and brows was dramatic even in daylight.

He nodded to the three girls; skirting them, reaching her side, he inclined his head to his mother as he held out one long-fingered hand.

Her heart thumped as she laid her fingers across his, felt his close strongly.

He bowed. “Amelia.”

Within their homes, they could use their given names; while his tone would not have alerted the others, not even his mother, she caught the warning note—saw it echoed in his eyes as he straightened and released her.

She let her smile brighten. “Good morning. Have you been riding?”

He hesitated, then nodded, stepping back to lean against the nearby mantelpiece.

“Would you like some tea?” his mother asked.

Luc glanced at the tray on the table. “No, thank you—nothing.”

Minerva gracefully relaxed against the chaise. “We've just been discussing the latest invitations. Despite the Season winding down, there seem quite a few interesting events planned for the last weeks.”

Luc raised a disinterested brow. “Indeed?”

Amelia looked up at him. “Even though there are only three or so weeks to go, I doubt we'll be short of diversions.”

He looked down at her, into unbelievably innocent blue eyes.

“It's all so exciting!” Fiona, bright as a button, bobbed in her chair, distracting him. Her brown curls were caught up in
the same style Anne favored—she looked more than just familiar . . . then he realized she'd borrowed one of Anne's spencers.

“At least the balls aren't quite so crowded anymore,” Anne put in.

Fiona swung to face her. “
Not
as crowded?”

“Definitely not,” Emily confirmed. “They were much worse—truly crushes in every sense—at the height of the Season.”

“So was your come-out a crush?” Fiona asked.

Minerva smiled. “Indeed—it was a very well attended affair.”

She glanced up at him; Luc met her gaze and shared her proud smile. He still inwardly shuddered at the disruption and effort his sisters' come-out had entailed, but at least he could now pay for it.

“It was such a pity you missed it.” Anne caught Fiona's hand. “So odious of your aunt to insist you go to visit your cousins instead.”

“Now, now, girls,” Minerva intervened. “Fiona is staying with her aunt, and Mrs. Worley has been very kind in sparing her to us so often.”

Anne and Fiona accepted the rebuke meekly, but it was clear their poor opinion of Fiona's aunt choosing to take her to visit relatives in Somerset during the critical week had not altered.

“I heard there's to be a balloon ascension in the park the day after tomorrow.”

Emily's information distracted the girls; Minerva sat back, watching with fond affection as they discussed the event.

Luc paid their ramblings little heed; his gaze on Amelia's golden head, he wondered . . . she was watching the younger girls, smiling at their excitement. “Would you like to view the spectacle?”

She looked up, met his eyes—read them, and colored delicately. She glanced at the girls. “Perhaps we could make a party?”

Luc inwardly grimaced, but gracefully nodded when his sisters looked eagerly his way. “Why not?” It would serve as a reasonable first outing to which he could publicly squire Amelia.

Fiona whooped; Anne smiled. Emily laughed. They fell to discussing the details.

Under cover of their excited chatter, Amelia glanced up and met his gaze, a certain consciousness in her eyes . . .

“Actually, we've just been discussing . . .” His mother captured his attention before he could fathom the reason behind
that
particular look. Minerva smiled and held his gaze. “As Amanda has gone north and won't return this Season, and as I've got to escort these giddy girls about, then it makes eminent sense for Amelia to join us, especially when Louise has clashing engagements.”

He managed to keep his expression impassive, then he looked again at Amelia. She met his gaze over the rim of her cup, then lowered it and smiled brightly. “It seemed the most obvious idea.”

“Indeed. So Amelia will be joining us here tonight, then we'll all go on to Lady Carstairs's rout.” His mother raised a brow at him. “You hadn't forgotten, had you?”

He straightened. “No.”

“I'll order the carriage for eight, then—we should all be able to fit.”

Amelia set down her cup and spoke to Minerva. “Thank you. I'll be here before eight.” She smiled, then extended the gesture to the girls. “But now I really must go.”

Luc waited, suppressing his impatience while she farewelled his mother and sisters. When she turned to him, he waved to the door. “I'll see you out.”

With brief nods to his mother and the girls, he stalked after her to the door, reached around her and opened it, then followed her into the hall. A quick glance showed no footmen about; shutting the door, he caught her gaze. “You agreed to follow my lead.”

She opened her eyes wide. “Weren't you intending for me to join your mother and sisters at some point?” Turning toward
the front door, she started pulling on her gloves. “It seemed an opportunity waiting to be grasped.”

“Quite.” He prowled by her side as she headed for the door. “But
at some point
.”

She halted, looked at him. “Which point?”

He frowned. “Possibly after the balloon ascension.”

She raised her brows, then shrugged. “Tonight was sooner. Anyway”—glancing down, she struggled with one of the tiny buttons closing her gloves—“it's done now.”

Impossible to argue that. Luc told himself it didn't really matter. They reached the front door; he opened it. She was still struggling with her glove.

“Here—let me.” He grasped her wrist, sensed more than heard the quick intake of her breath. Felt the
frisson
that sheered through her as his sliding fingertips found the gap in the cuff of her recalcitrant glove, found her bare skin.

He met her gaze, then, gripping, slowly raised her hand and looked at the difficult button.

She remained absolutely immobile—he didn't think she even breathed—while he dealt with the tiny closure. The button slipped into place. He looked up, caught her gaze—deliberately rubbed the fine leather, smoothing the button into place, his thumb riding slowly back and forth over the sensitive inner face of her wrist.

Her eyes sparked; she twisted her wrist—he released her. She looked down, gathering her skirts.

Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he lounged against the doorframe. “I'll see you tonight then. Before eight.”

“Indeed.” She inclined her head, but didn't meet his gaze. “Until then.”

Head rising, she stepped out and descended the steps. Reaching the pavement, she turned for her home and waved one hand; her footman came quickly up the area steps, nodded to Luc, then fell in behind her.

Luc dispelled the frown that had been about to form; straightening, he shut the front door—only then did he let his lips quirk. She might have taken it upon herself to initiate the next step, but he still held the whip.

Satisfied, he headed for his study. Passing the side table at the back of the hall, he paused, contemplated the polished surface. Where was his grandfather's inkstand? It had stood there as long as he could recall . . . perhaps Higgs in her annual spring cleaning frenzy had taken it for polishing and put it somewhere else. Making a mental note to ask her sometime, he strode on—to the business still waiting behind his study door.