On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

"— any reason to know. It'll work perfectly well — all we need do—"

She was right there, too — the way she'd framed her proposition, it could indeed work. Because she was offering, and all he had to do was…

"Well?"

Her tone jerked his mind from the primitive plane on which it had been wandering. She'd folded her arms. She was frowning. He couldn't see, but he wouldn't have been surprised if she was tapping her toe.

He was suddenly very aware that she stood within arm's reach.

Her eyes narrowed, glittering in the weak light. "So what's your considered opinion — do you think our marrying is a good idea?"

He met her gaze, then raised one hand, lightly traced her jaw, tipped up her face. Openly, unhurriedly, studied her features, wondered what she would do if he simply… he fixed his gaze on her eyes. "Yes. Let's get married."

Wariness stole into her eyes. He wondered what she'd seen in his face; he reassembled his social mask. Smiled. "Marrying you" — his smile deepened—"will be entirely my pleasure."

Releasing her, he swept her a magnificient bow—

A mistake. One he had only the most fleeting inkling of before his vision went black.

He collapsed on the floor at her feet.

Amelia stared at his crumpled form. For one moment, she was completely at a loss — half expected him to rise and make some joke. Laugh…

He didn't move.

"Luc?"

No answer. Wary, she edged around until she could see his face. His long lashes were black crescents smudged over his pale cheeks. His brows, the planes of his face, looked oddly relaxed; his lips, long, thin, so often set in a severe line, were gently curved…

She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss. Drunk! Damn him! When she'd wound up her courage, come out so late at night, stood in the cold dark for hours, then managed to get through her rehearsed proposition without a single fluster — and he was drunk?

In the instant before her temper took flight, she remembered he'd agreed. Perfectly lucidly. He might have been giddy, but he hadn't been incapable — indeed, until he'd fallen, she'd had no idea, hadn't been able to tell from his manner or his speech. Drunks slurred their words, didn't they? But she knew his voice, his diction — he hadn't sounded the least bit odd.

Well, the fact he'd kept quiet and let her talk without interruption had been odd, but it had worked to her advantage. If he'd made his usual barbed comments, picked at her arguments, she'd never have got them all out.

And he'd agreed. She'd heard him, and, more importantly, she was sure he'd heard himself. He might be all but unconscious now, but when he awoke, he'd remember. And that was all that mattered.

Euphoria — a sense of victory — seized her. She'd done it! Staring down at him, she could hardly believe it — but she was here, and so was he; she wasn't dreaming.

She'd come to his house and made her proposition, and he'd accepted.

Her relief was so great it left her giddy. A chair stood nearby, against the wall; she sank onto it, relaxed back, and studied his recumbent form.

He looked so peaceful, slumped on the tiles. She decided it was a good thing he'd been drunk — an unexpected bonus; she was perfectly certain he didn't normally imbibe to excess. The concept was so un-Luc-like; he was always so rigidly in control. It must have been some special occasion — some friend's great good fortune or some such — to have resulted in his present state.

His long limbs were tangled; his face might look peaceful, but his body… she sat up. If she was going to marry him, then presumably she should ensure he didn't wake with a cricked neck or a twisted spine. She considered him; shifting, even dragging him, wasn't an option. He was over six feet tall and broad-shouldered and while he was rangy and lean, his bones were typical of men of his background — heavy. The remembered thud as they'd hit the floor assured her she'd never manage to meaningfully move him.

With a sigh, she stood, gathered her cloak, and walked into the dr

awing room. The bellpull was by the mantelpiece; she tugged it, then returned to the door. Almost closing it, she stood in the dark drawing room and watched.

Minutes ticked by. She was about to go back and tug the bellpull again when she heard a door squeak. A glimmer of light appeared down the corridor leading to the kitchens; it steadily grew brighter. Then its bearer halted, gasped, then with a muttered exclamation hurried forward.

Amelia watched as Cottsloe, Luc's butler, bent over his master, checking the pulse at his throat. Relieved, Cottsloe straightened and stared; she hoped he imagined Luc had been in the drawing room, rung for assistance, then staggered into the hall and collapsed. She waited for Cottsloe to summon a footman. Instead, the old man shook his head, picked up Luc's cane, and set it on the hall table along with his candle.

Then Cottsloe bent and tried to heft Luc to his feet.

Amelia suddenly realized there might be reasons Cottsloe, kind old Cottsloe, who doted on Luc and the whole family, might not want to summon help, might not want it known that Luc was drunk. But it was ludicrous — Cottsloe was in his fifties, shortish and tending toward rotund. He managed to get Luc half-upright, but there was no way he could support such a heavy and unwieldy body far, especially not up the stairs.