On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

Amelia glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; the hands stood at two-forty. "Whatever you do, don't forget. I'll ring when next I need you."

Grinning, Dillys bobbed and departed, closing the door behind her. Amelia turned to the bed, and the garment laid out upon it.

The three heavy bongs emanating from the longcase clock in the corner of the library drew Luc from his absorption. He glanced at the other gentlemen slumped about the large room; except for two idly discussing some curricle race, the rest had their eyes closed. Some were even snoring.

Half their luck; he couldn't relax enough to nod off. Holding a news sheet before his face, he'd pretended to be catching up on events; in reality, his mind was engrossed with its now-habitual obsession.

Her image blossomed in his mind — that gentle smile that in recent days had flirted across her lips whenever he attempted to reinforce the line he'd drawn vis a vis herself and him. Every time that smile bloomed, he had to shackle an urge to kiss it from her lips. And then…

Inwardly cursing, he jerked his mind off the very track he'd insisted they would not follow. Yet. Sometime, definitely — just not yet. Unfortunately, ingrained habit was hard to break; simply being here, at a house party, a venue all but expressly designed to further the end he was so determined to delay only added to the already considerable strain of desisting. Resisting.

He shouldn't have come. Having done so amounted to self-flagellation with a very prickly scourge. Just how prickly he'd only realized when he'd held her between his hands in the forecourt — knowing they were here, in a venue he could so easily exploit to gain the ease his body longed for, in a house that was not his, not hers, and where she wasn't, courtesy of her mother's presence, specifically under his protection.

Just how strong his desire to have her had grown, he'd only then fully comprehended.

Only to have her tease him.

Eyes narrowing, he replayed yet again all she'd said, heard again the tenor of her assurance.

He trusted her not one jot. He'd be watching her closely; from this evening on, he'd keep his guard high…

A moment later, he grimaced and surreptitiously shifted. His body was trapped in the most peculiar vise. On the one hand, he was champing at the bit to have her, on the other, he was desperately reining back, fighting to postpone the very moment he so desired. If anyone had suggested he was capable of contorting himself to this extent, he'd have laughed in their faces.

The door opened. The supercilious butler looked in, saw him, entered, and shut the door. Crossing the floor, the man offered his salver. "For you, my lord. I was told it was urgent."

Luc nodded his thanks and lifted the folded square. The man had spoken quietly; none of those resting had been disturbed. The two chatting glanced over, then resumed their discussion. The butler bowed and retreated. Luc laid aside the news sheet and opened the note.

Luc—Please come to my room at once.

A.

P.S. It's on the first floor at the very end of the west wing at the top of the stairs at the end.

He frowned, read the note again, then refolded it and slipped it into his pocket.

He might not trust her, yet… she couldn't have even settled in. Maybe the lock on her trunk had jammed — no, it had to be something more serious. Perhaps she'd mislaid her jewelry case. Perhaps… perhaps she was in some more dire trouble.

Stifling a sigh, he rose. Whatever was behind her summons, she presumably needed him specifically, and the note, hastily scribbled in pencil on a scrap of paper, bore little resemblance to an illicit invitation. With a nod to the two men still awake, he walked from the room.

He found the stairs at the end of the west wing. At this hour, there were few about whose notice he needed to avoid — all the ladies were in their rooms, fussing and unpacking and harrying their maids.

He climbed the stairs and found the right door. Very softly, he tapped.

And heard her call, "Come in."

He opened the door. The room was large. Sunlight streamed in through two sets of windows, both with their curtains wide. To the left stood the bed, a largish four-poster with diaphanous white curtains presently roped back. The counterpane was of sprigged ivory satin. A jumble of lace-trimmed pillows was massed welcomingly at the bed's head. A dressing table and stool were set against the wall beyond the bed. In the room's center a round table boasted a vase of white lilies, their scent perfuming the air. The area to his right, containing an armoire and dressing screen, the fireplace and a chair, was in relative dimness, the shadows darker in contrast with the brightness elsewhere.

His quick survey failed to locate Amelia. Hovering on the threshold was too dangerous; frowning, he stepped in and closed the door. He opened his mouth to say her name — a movement in the dimness caught his eye.

Caught his breath — every muscle he possessed froze, rigid with…

Not exactly shock yet something a long way beyond surprise.

She'd been standing by the edge of the screen, in the deepest shadows. He'd missed seeing her because of the brightness streaming in, the brightness into which, unhurriedly, she moved.

His mouth dried as he realized what she was — and wasn't — wearing. His gaze had locked on her; his wits, driven by instinct, had brutally focused. On the slender ivory goddess, her charms in no way concealed by the translucent silk robe hanging open from her shoulders.

She walked toward him; he couldn't move — couldn't drag his gaze from her. She wore not a stitch beneath the sheer robe, the delights of her body boldly and brazenly displayed.