On A Wicked Dawn (23 page)

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.

He realized before he'd taken even one step—one arm lay draped across the counterpane, a different one from yesterday, her fingers, lightly curled, in a patch of sunshine. Hand and arm were totally relaxed, the deep relaxation achieved only in sleep.

His feet took him to the side of the bed, to where, beyond the diaphanous swatches, he could stand and look down on her.

She was lying on her side, her cheek pillowed on one hand. Her curls, pure gold, framed her features, delicate, fine, rendered in alabaster silk. Her long lashes, light brown, lay still in slumber; her cheeks held a faint blush, courtesy of her morning's excursion. Soft and vulnerable, fractionally parted, her lips tempted and tantalized . . .

How would she react if he kissed her? Roused her from her nap but didn't let her open her eyes. Pulled her from one dream, to another, and from there into ecstasy.

He shifted his gaze, let it roam. Drew a slow breath. The rise and fall of her breasts, soft mounds revealed above her round neckline, confirmed just how deeply she slept. His gaze traveled on, over the indentation of her waist, over the swell of her hips, down the sleek curve of her thighs.

She'd kicked off her shoes. Her bare toes, bare feet,
peeked from under the hem of her gown. He studied them, the graceful arch, the pearly nails—he was reaching to touch when he stopped, and drew back.

If he woke her—here, like this—what then?

They wouldn't talk, even though verbal communication had supposedly been his goal; he knew himself better than that. Yet wouldn't she—she who knew him too well—wonder at his change of tack?

Glancing around, he saw the stool before the dressing table; stepping back, he sat, leaned back, settled his shoulders against the table behind him—and let his gaze rest on her while he considered the questions that had plagued him since he'd last been in this room.

Since he'd had her, and discovered there was more to his need than mere lust. More than desire, more than passion.

Just what the emotion, so elusive yet so powerful, that had threaded through his need and, like a clinging vine, shackled it, and him, was, he didn't know. He suspected his cousin Martin could give it a name; that was more than he could, for he'd never believed that emotion—the one the poets glorified—existed, at least not for him. He'd never felt it before.

Yet it or something like it had hold of him now, a disconcerting, discomfiting experience. If he'd been given a choice, he'd have avoided it—turned down the opportunity to experience it. Why any sane man would willingly accept what he could foresee developing without at least putting up a fight was a continuing mystery.

When she realized . . . if she guessed that he hadn't, in fact, been looking for her to speak with her, but had fabricated the excuse to explain his reaction to not knowing where she was, to learning that her attention had not been firmly fixed on him when his was so obsessively fixed on her, what then? Would she see through him?

His gaze shifted to her face, to the delicate features relaxed and at peace. Had she already guessed?

He recalled their words on the terrace. She'd reacted to his anger—illogical unless one invoked that telltale emotion,
a fact that did not improve his view of its qualities and only deepened his distrust—yet she'd responded with straightforward anger of her own, irritated by what she'd seen as his domineering stance. If she'd realized the truth of why he'd been so exercised, she'd have been smug.

He stared at her face and the minutes ticked by; gradually, he relaxed, his tension draining away.

An odd contentment stole over him as he watched her sleep. The idea of waking her still teased, but . . . it was barely twenty-four hours since he'd been buried deep inside her, and he knew just how deep. On top of that, she'd gone hiking God knew how far all through the morning. Small wonder sleep had claimed her.

He studied her, then smiled. Rising, he stretched, then headed for the door. Let her sleep, let her refresh herself—then he could claim her night hours with an unfettered conscience.

A sudden thought stopped him just before the door—if she woke and thought he hadn't found her, she'd come searching for him, expecting him to be angry. She'd be braced for a clash—not helpful, given his revised plan.

Swinging back into the room, he confirmed there was no escritoire. Digging out his note tablet and a pencil, he scanned the room, then saw what he needed. He considered, then wrote four words:
Tonight at midnight. Here.
Tearing off the sheet, he replaced tablet and pencil in his pocket as he crossed to the center table.

Selecting one of the white lilies whose exotic perfume hung heavy in the room, he broke off most of its stem, curled the note around the stub as he returned to the bed.

Amelia was still deeply asleep. She didn't stir when he gently threaded the lily's stem, carrying his note, into her curls so the flower lay just behind her ear.

He stood looking down at her for some minutes more, then silently left the room.

Midnight was a long time coming.

Amelia waited with feigned patience through afternoon
tea, followed by a few hours of charades, then dutifully dressed and allowed herself to be distracted by Mr. Pomfret all through dinner.

When Luc joined her in the drawing room, she suppressed a sigh of relief and waited for him to single her out; instead, he merely stood by her side and conversed easily with Lady Hilborough, Miss Quigley, and her fiancé, Sir Reginald Bone.

She kept waiting, lips curved, teeth mentally gritted. He'd wanted to talk to her; he'd been insistent and irritated, ready to make some point. Now he was behaving as smoothly as usual, as if not an ounce of temper—or wildness—lurked behind his sophisticated mask. She swallowed a humph, then nearly groaned aloud when, clapping her hands, Lady Hightham urged them to gather around for some music.

Music? At this time? Oh, please. . . .

But no helpful deity heard her plea; she had to endure a full two hours of harp, pianoforte, and harpsichord—she even had to make a contribution herself, one she kept severely abbreviated. She was no longer a
young
young lady, one needing to impress potential suitors with her talents. On top of that, her husband-to-be was not, she knew, particularly partial to music, and thus unlikely to be swayed by her skill with the keys.

When she returned to her chair in the back row, Luc, at ease in the one beside it, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, met her gaze, then raised a cynical brow. “Supposedly it soothes the savage breast.”

With calm deliberation, she sat, and quietly informed him, “I would infinitely rather it incited, instead.”

He had to smother his surprised laugh, but the sound made her feel insensibly better.

A few moments later, under cover of a particularly noisy crescendo, he murmured, “Did you get my note?”

She glanced sideways at him; he was facing forward, his gaze on the pianist. “Yes.”

“Good. In that case . . .” Uncrossing his legs, he sat up. “I'm off—I've
had enough of this.” His fingers closed about her wrist; his eyes met hers as he raised it and pressed his lips fleetingly to the inner face. “Until later.”

With that promise—its nature underscored by the expression in his eyes—he released her, rose, and unobtrustively left the room.

She followed him with her eyes, and wished she could follow him in person. Instead, with a resigned sigh, she settled back to listen to the rest of the performances.

It was as well that she did; when the ladies finally decreed they would retire, she noted Lady Hilborough, Lady Mackintosh, and others of their ilk sharply observing that although Luc was absent, she was still among them. A fortunate circumstance; those ladies were most deserving of the tag “gossipmongers” and would undoubtedly recount any suspicious happenings, heavily embroidered, to the
ton
at large on their return to town.

While everyone knew of, and indeed expected, scandalous doings at house parties, that did not mean that those who indulged could hope to escape social censure were they unwise enough to have their behavior remarked. Thus far, she and Luc had given no one any grounds for comment.

Climbing the stairs beside her mother and his, Amelia realized he would definitely expect to keep it that way. And she agreed. Consequently, when the house grew silent a full hour before midnight, she gathered the last shreds of her patience. And waited.

A rattle at her window woke her. She'd nodded off in the chair before the hearth. She glanced at the clock, squinting in the weak light of the single candle she'd left burning; it was ten minutes past midnight.

The rattle came again; she glanced at the door, but the sound definitely came from her curtained windows.

Rising, reassuring herself that she'd latched the windows earlier, she tiptoed to one side of the pair and peeped out past the heavy curtain.

A familiar dark head greeted her. With a muttered, “Good
heavens!” she rushed to pull the curtains wide and unlatch the tall windows. Luc hauled himself up to sit on the window ledge, then swung his legs into the room. Signaling her to silence—she'd been so surprised she'd simply stared to that point—he rose and crossed silently to the door; she watched, dumbfounded, as he very, very carefully eased the key on her door around. Then he straightened and turned; she presumed he'd locked the door, but she hadn't heard the tumblers fall.

She looked back at the window, went to the ledge and peered out, and down. A thick creeper covered the outside wall; no mystery how he'd reached the window. Why was another matter.

“Latch it again and draw the curtains.”

His voice came to her, soft and dark, from the shadows behind her. Ignoring the shivery thrill that raced down her spine, she hurriedly obeyed. Then she turned—and found herself in his arms. She pushed back to look at his face. “Why—“

“Sshh.” He bent his head and whispered, “Lady Mackintosh is haunting the bottom of the stairs.”

She drew back to stare at him. “She isn't?”

The look he threw her spoke volumes. “You don't think I risked climbing that damned creeper just to look romantic?”

His disgusted tone made her giggle.

He hauled her close, smothered the sound with a kiss—a kiss that quickly shifted from practical maneuver to seductive exchange, from light caress to long, slow, explicit invasion.

When he finally released her lips, he murmured, “We'll have to keep quiet.”

“Quiet?” she breathed.

He kissed her briefly, demandingly. “Totally and absolutely silent,” he confirmed. “No matter what.”

The tenor of that last phrase, the words a hot whisper feathering her hungry lips, made it clear he hadn't forgotten his declaration that, this time, she'd scream.

The essential contradiction tightened her nerves, made
her wish she could question him, but he was kissing her again, drawing her deeper into the exchange, his arms closing around her.

When he finally paused to let her breathe, she did, and quickly said, “I thought you wanted to talk.”

In answer, he took her mouth, her lips, again. His hands wandered over her back, her hips—he drew her tight against him, molded her to him, making it patently clear rational discussion did not feature on his immediate agenda.

Her head was spinning when he drew back from the kiss—purely to deal with the knotted tie of the robe she'd worn over her nightgown. “Tomorrow.” He touched the tip of his tongue to the corner of her lips, lightly probing—an erotic little touch that had her breath catching. “We can talk then.” He briefly transferred his attention to the other corner of her lips, then captured them fully, making them cling to his.

“Tonight”—his voice was so low, so deep, she wasn't sure she heard so much as felt the words resonating inside her—“we have more important matters to explore.”

He kissed her again, his hands moving over her shoulders, sliding her robe away. Arms freed, she reached for him—for his coat. She felt the smile on his lips when he finally consented to notice her tugging and release her long enough to shrug the garment free. She let it fall to the floor, aware that his fingers had fastened on the tiny buttons down the front of her nightgown.

Without letting her free of the kiss, he steered her, the long hard columns of his thighs herding her around and back, step by step, until the backs of her thighs hit the bed. He trapped her there, his legs outside hers, his chest a wall before her. Catching her hands, he drew them down, then releasing them, swiftly drew the halves of her nightgown, now gaping to her waist, over her shoulders and partway down her arms, effectively anchoring them to her sides.

She would have pulled away from the kiss and slipped her arms free, but he didn't let her. Didn't let her retreat from the demanding kiss; instead, he captured her awareness completely by closing both hands about her breasts.