On A Wicked Dawn (10 page)

The words reached Luc a second too late for him to grab Amelia back. Gaining the terrace, she plunged into the crowd; although he followed in a flash, by the time he located her she was part of a group, chatting animatedly with Lord Oxley, one hand on his lordship's arm.

The musicians chose that moment to strike up; the introduction to a cotillion had the guests quickly forming into sets. Jaw clenched, Luc retreated to where shadows draped the house wall; folding his arms, he leaned his shoulders against the wall, and watched Amelia—his bride-to-be—dip and sway through the figures.

That wretched gown floated about her, a fantasy of shimmering light. He saw at least two accidents caused by gentlemen getting distracted. The emotions that scored him were not familiar, the tension gripping him only partially so. Desire he was accustomed to, could deal with without effort, but this other . . .

His temper felt raked, rawly sensitive. Overreactive, yet he was rarely that. How had she so easily provoked him to this state?

At least the damned dance wasn't a waltz.

That thought had him cursing. The next dance almost certainly
would be—and he didn't trust himself to take her in his arms, not in public, not in that excuse for a gown. Yet he knew perfectly well what would happen if he tried to endure watching her waltz—in that gown—with some other man.

Comprehensively cursing all women—Cynster females especially—he watched and waited. And planned.

Amelia knew he was watching her; she only smiled more brightly, laughed and charmed Lord Oxley, but only so far. She had no intention of exchanging his lordship for one difficult viscount. Luckily, Luc couldn't be totally, incontrovertibly, sure of that.

At the end of the dance, she studiously avoided looking Luc's way, instead encouraged other gentlemen to gather around. She was watching Mr. Morley bow over her hand when Luc strolled up.

The instant Morley released her fingers, Luc appropriated them, directed a negligent, possibly bored nod her way, then wound her arm with his and set her hand on his sleeve—leaving his hard palm heavily over it.

She opened her eyes wide. “I wondered where you were.”

His dark eyes met hers. “Wonder no more.”

The four gentlemen who'd surrounded her looked from him to her, confusion in their faces. They would know she'd entered the house on Luc's arm, but would have assumed their association was as before—a convenient family connection, nothing more.

Nothing deeper.

The currents now surging between them, around them, spoke otherwise.

Wishing his eyes were easier to read, she smiled at Luc—then directed her delight at her cavaliers. “Have you heard about the balloon ascension?”

“Indeed, yes!” Lord Carmichael replied. “It's to be held in the park.”

“Day after tomorrow,” Mr. Morley supplied.

“Perhaps, my dear, I could offer my new phaeton as a conveyance.” Lord Oxley puffed out his chest. “Quite seven feet off the ground, y'know—you'll have an excellent view.”

“Indeed?” Amelia smiled at his lordship. “I—

“Miss Cynster has already agreed to attend the spectacle in company with my sisters.”

She glanced at Luc, brows rising, faintly haughty.

He met her gaze, added, “And me.”

She held his dark gaze for an instant longer, then let her lips curve and inclined her head. Turning back to Lord Oxley, she gestured helplessly, easing her rejection with a smile. “As I was about to say, I'm afraid I've already accepted an invitation to attend with the Ashfords.”

“Ah, well—yes.” Lord Oxley shot a puzzled glance at Luc. “I see.” His tone suggested he hadn't the foggiest clue.

A screech from a violin alerted the crowd to the upcoming waltz.

“My dear, if I might beg your indulgence—“

“If I might be so bold, Miss Cynster—“

“Dear lady, if you would do me the honor—“

Mr. Morley, Lord Carmichael, and Sir Basil Swathe all broke off, glanced at each other, then looked at Amelia.

She hesitated, waited—then lifted her chin. “I—“

Luc pinched her fingers trapped under his hand. “My dear, I came to fetch you—Mama desires you to meet an old friend.”

She looked at him. “But the waltz . . . ?”

“I fear this old friend is quite elderly and must leave soon. He's rarely in London.” He glanced at her four cavaliers. “If you'll excuse us.”

No question, of course; he barely waited for her to murmur her good-byes before drawing her away. Not onto the dance floor, where she'd wanted to go—with him—but doggedly back into the house.

Inside the doors of the long reception room, she halted, refusing to be dragged farther. “Who
is
this old friend your mother wants me to meet?”

Luc glanced at her. “A figment of my imagination.”

Before she could respond, he changed direction, urging her to a door. “This way.”

She was intrigued enough, hopeful enough, to let him
steer her through, into a short passage that eventually joined a corridor running parallel to the reception room on the other side of the house. Rooms opened off it to both sides.

Her hand locked in his, Luc made for a door halfway along the corridor, on the side farthest from the reception room. Opening the door, he looked in, then stepped back and swept her before him—she had no real option but to enter the room. He followed on her heels.

She looked around. The room was a parlor boasting comfortable sofas, chairs, and low tables. Long curtains framed the windows, undrawn, allowing pale moonlight, faint but pervasive, to illuminate the scene.

One in which no other soul breathed, bar them.

She heard a muted click. She swung around in time to see Luc slide something into his waistcoat pocket. A glance at the door confirmed the lock was the sort that would normally have a key in it. It no longer did.

A most peculiar sensation flickered over her skin, slithered down her spine. She lifted her gaze to Luc's face as he closed the distance between them.

She was not going to let him fluster her, make her act like some mindless ninny he could manage with disgustingly arrogant ease. Folding her arms beneath her breasts, uncaring of the fact that pulled the ruffle forming her bodice tight, she lifted her chin. “What's this all about?”

He blinked, halted, apparently uncertain. Then she realized he wasn't looking at her face. A fact he quickly rectified, lifting his eyes to meet hers.

“This,” he stated, through clenched teeth, “is about
that
.”

She frowned. “
That?
”

His features grew grimmer; his eyes, so dark, burned. “We need to discuss our tactics. The steps we're going to take to manipulate the
ton
into believing our marriage is anything but arranged. We need to discuss the order in which we're going to take those steps.
And
we need—definitely need—to discuss the small matter of timing.”

“Timing?” She widened her eyes. “Surely it's simply a
matter of taking our agreed steps in their appropriate order, and if the opportunity presents to move faster—“

“No!
That
is where we disagree.”

He was still speaking through his teeth. She frowned—pointedly—searching his face. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

Luc looked long and hard into her wide blue eyes, and couldn't tell if she was teasing. “Nothing,” he ground out. “Nothing that any normal—no, never mind!” He raked back his hair, then realized what he was doing and let his hand fall. “The important thing we're going to discuss and agree on is the pace of our little charade.”

“Pace? What—“

“It can't go too fast.”

“Why not?”

Because that risked revealing far too much. He locked his gaze on her stubborn face. “Because going too fast will raise questions—questions we'd rather weren't asked. Like is there any reason for my sudden pursuit of you—I've only known you for how long? Twenty something years? Too fast, and people will wonder what's behind it. And my possible motives are the least of it. I told you from the start, this needs to be convincing, and that means slow. Four weeks. No shortcuts.”

“I thought you meant we could take
up to
four weeks, not that it
had
to take four weeks.”

“People need to see a steady progression from mild interest, to awareness, to decision, to confirmation. If they don't see any motive—if we don't give them a good show—they won't accept it.”

All nonsense, of course. If she had any more gowns in her armoire like the one she was wearing, no one would wonder at his sudden decision.

On the thought, his gaze lowered; he frowned at the offending article. “Have you any more gowns like that?”

She glared, then looked down at her gown, spread the skirts. “What is it about this gown that so irks you?”

He had wisdom enough to know to keep his lips shut; instead, he heard himself growl, “It's too damned inviting.”

She seemed taken aback. “Is it?”

“Yes!” He'd thought the effect bad enough in his hall, and even worse under the chandeliers. Yet the worst, most dizzying effect was now, in half-light. He'd noticed it under the trees; it had been partly to blame for his unwise words. In poor light, the gown made her skin shimmer, too, as if her bare shoulders and breasts were part of a pearl, rising from the froth of the sea. Offered, waiting for the right hand to recognize and seize, take, reveal the rest that the gown concealed . . .

Small wonder he could barely think.

“It's . . .” He gestured, struggling to find the right words to talk his way out of this morass.

She was looking down, considering. “Inviting . . . but isn't that how I should look?”

It was the way she lifted her head and met his gaze—head-on, direct—that shook his laggard wits into place. His eyes slowly narrowed as he considered—her words, and her. “You know.” He took a menacing step toward her. She dropped her skirts and straightened, but didn't step back. He halted and glared down into her eyes. “You know damned well how you—in that damned gown—affect men.”

Her eyes widened. “Well of course.” She tilted her head, as if wondering at his thought processes. “Whyever did you imagine I'd worn it?”

He made a strangled sound—the remnants of the roar he refused to let her hear. He never lost his temper—except, these days, with her! He pointed a finger at the tip of her nose. “If you wish me to marry you, you will not again wear this gown, or any like it, unless I give you leave.”

She held his gaze, then drew herself up, folded her arms—

“For God's sake, don't do that!” He shut his eyes against the sight of her breasts rising even higher above the rippling edge of her bodice.

“I'm perfectly decent.”

Her tone was clipped, distinctly acid.

He risked lifting his lids the veriest fraction; his gaze, predictably, locked on the ivory mounds flauntingly displayed by the distracting gown. Her nipples had to be just—

“Anyone would think you've never seen a lady's breasts before—you can't expect me to believe that.” Amelia kept her delight at his susceptibility firmly in check. Not hard; she didn't like the direction this discussion was taking.

His gaze was unabashedly locked on her breasts; beneath the thick fringe of his sooty lashes, his dark eyes glittered.

“At this point, I don't much care what you believe.”

There was a quality in his voice, in the slowly and precisely enunciated words, that made her still, that alerted every instinct she possessed.

His gaze slowly rose, and fixed on her eyes.

“I repeat: if you want me to marry you, you will not again wear this gown, or any like it.”

She lifted her chin. “I'll need to some time—toward the end—“

“No. You won't. Need to. Or do so.”

She felt her jaw lock, could almost feel her will and his collide, but while hers was like a wall, his was like a tide—it flowed all around, surged, tugged, weakened her foundations. She knew him too well, knew she couldn't push him and didn't dare defy him at this point.

It didn't happen easily, but she forced herself to nod. “Very well.” She drew in a breath. “But on one condition.”

He'd blinked, his gaze lowering; he jerked it back up to her face. “What condition?”

“I want you to kiss me again.”

He stared at her. A moment passed. “Now?”

She spread her hands, widened her eyes. “We're here—completely private. You locked the door.” She gestured to her gown. “I'm wearing this. Surely our charade suggests a certain script?”

Luc looked into her eyes—he was perfectly sure he'd never felt so torn in his life. Every instinct, every urge, every demon he possessed wanted nothing more than to seize the
slender body so provocatively displayed and feast. Every instinct bar one. Self-preservation was the only naysayer, but it was screaming.