On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

She noticed, but other than one glance, gave no sign. After casting a comprehensive glance over his sisters, Fiona and their beaux, he left them, for once, to fend for themselves and turned his attention to Amelia.

To eliminating a potential problem.

"I heard," he murmured into the first lull in the conversation, "that Toby Mick was likely to meet The Gnasher at Derby."

Amelia stared at him; Melrose looked slightly shocked. It was an unwritten rule that gentlemen did not discuss such bloodthirsty subjects as the exploits of the Fancy in the presence of ladies.

Hardcastle, however, positively vibrated with pent-up enthusiasm. He bent a pleading look on Amelia. "You don't mind, do you, my dear?" Without waiting for any reply, he pounced. "It's quite true — I had it from Gilroy himself.

They say it'll be all over in three rounds, but—"

Melrose was torn. Luc merely waited, feigning mild interest, pretending not to notice Amelia's sharp glance.

"And there's talk that now they've doubled the purse, Cartwright is considering throwing his hat into the ring."

The mention of the latest contender was too much for Melrose.

"I say! But is there really any likelihood of that? I mean, it's not as if Cartwright needs the outing — he was in action only two weeks ago on the Downs. Why risk—"

"No, no! You see, it's the challenge."

"Yes, but—"

Luc turned to Amelia. Smiled. "Would you care to stroll?"

"Indeed." She gave him her hand.

He tucked it possessively in his arm. The other two barely broke off their argument to acknowledge their farewells.

"You're wicked," she said the instant they were out of earshot. "One of the matrons will overhear, and then they'll be in trouble."

He raised his brows high. "Did I force them to it?"

"Humph!" Amelia looked ahead, and tried to quell the fluttery sensation that had developed in her stomach. It couldn't be nervousness; she was at a loss as to its cause.

Then Luc leaned nearer, guiding her around a trio of gentlemen. The sudden frisson that flashed down her side — the side he'd brushed — opened her eyes.

Of course! She'd never been this physically close to him, except when he'd been non compos mentis. He was now wide-awake, and closer than the merely polite; she could sense him, hard, strong, and very male, a potent living force beside her.

A distracted moment later, she realized the emotion evoked by his nearness wasn't panic, or fear, but something far more giddy. Decidedly more pleasurable.

She glanced at his face. He felt her gaze and looked down. Then his gaze grew intent; his eyes searched hers.

Her lungs seized.

The introduction for the first waltz cut through the conversations. Luc glanced up; she dragged in a huge breath.

Held it again as he looked back at her. His fingers closed about her hand; he lifted it from his sleeve, then elegantly bowed, his eyes never leaving hers. "My dance, I believe?"

At that precise instant, she would have felt far safer dancing with a wolf, but she smiled, inclined her head, and let him draw her to the floor. What had Amanda called him? A leopard?

And lethal to boot.

She had to agree with her twin's estimation as he gathered her close and steered her into the swirling throng.

Her chest felt tight; her skin came alive. Her wits were giddy, her senses taut. With anticipation, expectation. Of what, she wasn't sure, but that only increased the excitement.

It was ridiculous — they'd waltzed before, on numerous occa