On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

Luc's gaze, aware that it returned as if against his will to her bare

shoulders, to the bared upper curves of her breasts.

She wasn't surprised when he eventually growled, "Where the devil did you find that gown?"

"Celestine had it brought in from Paris." She glanced down, fluffed up the ruffle that formed the bodice, supremely conscious that his gaze followed her every move.

"Different, but hardly outrageous. I like it, don't you?" She glanced up; even in the dim light she saw his lips thin.

"You know damned well what I — and every other male present this side of senility — think of that gown. Think of you in that gown." Luc bit his tongue, stifling the words: Think of you out of that gown. Narrow-eyed, he glared at her.

"As I recall, we'd agreed that you would follow my lead."

She opened her eyes wide. "Isn't this" — slipping her hand from beneath his, she spread her shimmering skirts—"along the path we're supposed to walk — that society expects us to tread?" Halting, she faced him. They were far enough from the terrace, and there were no other guests in the vicinity; they could speak without restraint. "Isn't it expected that I'd wish to dazzle you?"

His eyes couldn't get any narrower; he gritted his teeth, spoke through them. "You're dazzling enough without the gown." What was he saying? "I mean an ordinary, usual gown would have sufficed. That" — with one finger, he indicated the scintillating garment—"is going too far. It's too dramatic. It doesn't suit you."

He meant that things dramatic didn't suit her; Amanda was dramatic, Amelia was… whatever she was, it was something else.

Courtesy of the overhead branches, her face was in shadow, even when she lifted her chin. "Oh?"

There was nothing in the syllable to suggest she'd taken offense; indeed, her tone seemed light. It was the set of her chin that sent a warning snaking down his spine, sent him rushing into speech, disguising his disquiet behind an exasperated grimace. "I didn't mean—"

"No, no." She smiled. "I quite understand." That smile didn't reach her eyes. "Amelia—" He reached for her hand, but with a silken swish, she turned back along the path.

"I really think, if that's the tack you believe we should take, that we ought to get back to the terrace." She continued in that direction. "We wouldn't want any of the gossipmongers to overinterpret our state." He caught up with her in two strides. "Amelia—"

"Perhaps you're right and we should take this more slowly." A note had crept into her voice, one that gave him pause. "That being so…"

They'd reached the terrace; she stopped before the steps in a patch of light cast by the lanterns. He halted beside her, saw her scan the platoon of guests waiting on the flags for the orchestra to start up. Then she smiled — not at him. "Indeed." Glancing his way, she inclined her head in dismissal. "Thank you for the walk." Turning, she started up the steps. "Now I'm going to dance with someone who does appreciate my gown."

Chapter 4

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. Overactive, 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.