On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

Lord Darcy bowed to Amelia. "If you would do me the honor, Miss Cynster?"

She smiled and gave him her hand, at the last throwing an innocent smile at Luc. He wasn't enamored of cotillions, and as they could still only dance twice with each other in one night, he'd wait for the waltzes.

His eyes, very dark, met hers briefly; he nodded a crisp acknowledgment as Darcy led her to join one of the rapidly forming sets.

While she danced, twirled, smiled, and chatted, Amelia considered that nod — or rather, its underlying quality. A certain tension now lay between them, a nuance of emotion not previously present. By the end o

f the cotillion, she'd decided she approved.

Darcy was perfectly ready to monopolize her, but Luc reappeared and, with smooth arrogance and not a single word, reclaimed her hand, setting it on his sleeve. Darcy's brows rose fleetingly, but he was too wise to press; Luc's actions spoke of an as-yet-unannounced understanding.

She smiled and chatted, but after a few minutes, Luc excused them and drew her away. They ambled through the crowd; glancing at his profile, she hid a smug smile and patiently waited.

Through innumerable encounters with friends, through the first waltz, and supper. By the time Luc drew her into his arms for their second, and last, waltz of the night, she'd lost all touch with patience.

"I thought," she said, as they whirled down the floor, "that we agreed to start exploring new vistas."

He raised a brow — as usual, wearily. "This venue is somewhat restricting."

She wasn't that innocent. "I would have thought an expert in the field, such as you are so widely purported to be, would be up to the challenge."

The subtly emphasized words rang warning bells. Luc met her eyes, something until then he'd avoided; he had no need to see the irritation sparking in the blue. There was no evidence of stubbornness in her face — no set jaw, no tight lips — no change at all in the expectant tension that from the moment he'd met her in his hall earlier that evening had invested the supple body now supported in his arms; nevertheless, he could sense that steely strength of purpose he knew she possessed burgeoning by the instant.

Lifting his head, he scanned the room. "The opportunities are limited." Orcott House was not large; the ballroom was of simple design.

"Be that as it may…"

He looked at her, again met her eyes. Confirmed that the threat he'd thought he'd heard beneath her words was intentional. Instinctively replied, "Don't be foolish."

If he could have called back the words, he would have — instantly. But she'd surprised him — left him inwardly blinking at the preposterous notion that she might cross swords with him—him of all men — her goal being to force him to indulge her in some shameless dalliance…

The idea was crazy — upside down and inside out. Totally contrary to how the world operated — his world, at least.

The sudden flash of blue fire that lit her eyes suggested he prepare himself for upside down. Inside out. And worse.

Amelia smiled sweetly as the waltz ended. "Foolish? Oh, no." She stepped out of his arms as they halted, registering the fact that his fingers started to flex, wanting to seize her, that he had to force himself to let her go. Her eyes on his, she let her smile linger as his hands fell from her; she turned away, holding his gaze to the last. "I've something more potent in mind."

Outrageous provocation was what she intended, what she served up in lavish degree. She was twenty-three, and in this arena thoroughly experienced — there was little she dared not do. Especially with Luc on her heels.

She flirted and teased to the top of her bent — and watched his temper rise. It was never easy to provoke it, or him — he was far too controlled, even to his emotions. But he didn't like seeing her smiling and laughing, inviting the attention of other men. He definitely didn't approve of her leaning close, letting her natural charms invite inspection — an invitation other gentlemen saw no reason to refuse.

After six years in the ballrooms, she knew exactly which men to choose, which she could incite and tease with abandon and a clear conscience. The same males were the best for her purpose in another sense — they were the most likely to step in and pick up the gauntlet she made no bones about throwing down.

She was courting no risk — that she knew. There was not a chance Luc would allow any other man to seize that which he considered his.

The only question that remained was how long it would be before he capitulated.

And seized her himself.

Twenty minutes was the answer. Deserting one group of stunned rakes with an openly seductive laugh, she stepped back, ignored Luc at her shoulder, and set off through the crowd. An instant later, she heard a muttered curse — not a polite one — as Luc, on her heels, saw the group she now had in her sights. The gathering included Cranwell, Darcy, and Fitcombe, another of his peers.

He said not a word, just seized her hand, hauled her to the nearest wall, flung open a door she hadn't even noticed — one used by the servants — and stalked through, towing her behind him. Two shocked footmen carrying trays dodged about them, then Luc threw open another door, one leading into a normal corridor, dark and unlighted. He stepped through, pulled her after him, then slammed the door shut, spun her about, and backed her against it.

She blinked into his face, now devoid of any polite mask — or indeed, any politeness at all. His eyes were narrow, dark shards boring into hers; his lips were set in a thin line. Stripped of all softness, the chiseled planes were forbidding, shadowed, harsh in the gloom.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The words were hard, incisive, his voice deep and menacing.