On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

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 Ox-ley, 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 hee

ls.

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?"