On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

Poor dear, he was simply confused — caught in the proverbial cleft stick by his inherent, intrinsic warrior-male instincts. She understood; she could recall some of her cousins being similarly torn. Hoist with their own petard, indeed.

It wouldn't do to laugh — they all took such matters so seriously. And besides, if she was to succeed in getting him to put aside his chivalrous scruples, provoking his temper was the last thing she should do.

His second reason was one she understood even better — a simple case of stubborn male will. He'd decreed from the first that for social acceptance they would need four weeks of public courtship; the fact they'd patently succeeded in two weeks — as evidenced by the encouraging reactions of all the senior matrons over the past week — was not going to change his mind.

She wasn't, in fact, intending to argue that point; as long as they married in June, she would gain what she wished from their wedding.

Their wedding, however, was not in her mind equated with their intimacy. The latter could precede the former, as in truth it so often did. They had made their decision, and society approved; as long as they did not flaunt the fact, neither society nor their families would bat an eyelid.

That, she had no doubt, Luc knew — or would if he allowed himself to consider the matter impartially. But with both his instincts and his will driving him, impartiality was clearly beyond him.

It therefore fell to her to take matters in hand. To bring their stalled wooing to a satisfactory end, to advance his script through the last scene — the one he'd unexpectedly balked at. If she hadn't been so sure he desired her — wanted her as she wanted him — she would not have been able to face the task with the calm certainty presently infusing her.

"There it is."

Luc's words jerked her from her thoughts; looking ahead, she saw the twin towers of Hightham Hall rising above the trees. A stone fence bordered the lane; a little way along, they came to a pair of open gates. Luc turned his horses in, then they were bowling along the graveled drive, watching the large sprawling house draw near.

The butler, grooms, and footmen were waiting; a coach had just disgorged its occupants — as they drew up, it rumbled away. A groom ran to the greys' heads; Luc threw the reins to another, then stepped down.

He turned and lifted her from the carriage. For one moment, while Lady Hightham's minions scurried about them, unstrapping the bags from the curricle's boot and carting them indoors, Luc held her fast between his hands, a fraction closer than propriety allowed — close enough for her to sense the very physical response that flared between them. To which he was paying not the slightest attention; his features a touch grim, he searched her face.

"You do agree, don't you?" His eyes held hers. "No further advances for at least the next week."

She smiled gloriously up at him; if they'd been alone she'd have pressed herself to him and kissed his worries away — perhaps it was as well they were surrounded. Raising a hand, she caressed his cheek. "I told you — stop worrying." Turning toward the house, she held his gaze. "You have absolutely nothing to fear."

Stepping out of his hold, she headed for the house. He watched her for a long moment, then she heard the scrunch of his boots as he followed her, felt his gaze on her back. The curve of her lips deepened; he didn't — wouldn't — believe her; unfortunately, he knew her too well.

Lifting her head, she went up the front steps, wrestling with the one burning question that yet remained: How was she to seduce a man who, given his legendary career, must have seen it all?

Chapter 8

She'd come prepared. Even so, she would need to take him by surprise.

They'd arrived in good time — it was barely noon when, with Luc at her heels, she entered the drawing room where their hostess was entertaining those already present.

"Mama and Lady Calverton are yet on the road," Amelia replied to Lady Hightham's inquiry. "Luc drove me down in his curricle."

Her ladyship beamed, and patted the chaise beside her. "Do sit down, dear — you must tell me all your news!"

Amelia sat, hiding a grin as Luc coolly ignored her ladyship's archly teasing gaze; after bowing over her hand, he strolled off to join a group of similar gentlemen who'd taken refuge by the windows. Amelia let him go. She'd been to house parties aplenty; she knew the timetable as well as he.

The ladies chatted avidly while more guests arrived; the Calverton and Cynster coaches rolled up just in time for the customary late luncheon.

Following that came the period when the gentlemen sloped off to some masculine den to lie low while the ladies got themselves settled. This first afternoon was a time for feminine organizing — learning which room they'd been assigned, ensuring their gowns were properly shaken and their maids had found them and laid out their brashes. Also for learning who was quartered around them, and where chaperons and dangerous gossips were stationed.

Later that evening, those ladies intent on pursuing an illicit liaison would find some opportunity to divulge their whereabouts to their partners in desire. Whatever might transpire did so over the ensuing days; it was, therefore, the structured, accepted, and expected norm that nothing remotely scandalous ever occurred on the first afternoon of a house party.

Reaching the room assigned to her — a delightful bedchamber at the end of one wing, helpfully close by a secondary stair — Amelia found that her maid, Dillys, had obeyed her instructions to the letter. Her gowns were already hanging, her brashes neatly laid upon the dressing table. The garment she'd asked to be left out was draped upon the bed. In return for working like a Trojan ever since she'd set foot in the house, Dillys was to get the afternoon off — so she cou

ld cast her bright eyes over the footmen, stealing a march over the other maids.

Hands clasped, Dillys stood waiting at the end of the bed, eager for her thoroughness to be approved of so she could be off.

Closing the door, Amelia noted the other little touches she'd requested all in place. "Very good. Now — one last thing."

From her reticule, she drew out the note she'd scribbled in the parlor downstairs. "When the clocks strike three, give this to the butler. The direction's on the note — simply say I asked that it be delivered immediately."

"At three o'clock." Dillys took the note.