On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

With calm deliberation, she sat, and quietly informed him, "I would infinitely rather it incited, instead."

He had to smother his surprised laugh, but the sound made her feel insensibly better.

A few moments later, under cover of a particularly noisy crescendo, he murmured, "Did you get my note?"

She glanced sideways at him; he was facing forward, his gaze on the pianist. "Yes."

"Good. In that case…" Uncrossing his legs, he sat up.

"I'm off — I've had enough of this." His fingers closed about her wrist; his eyes met hers as he raised it and pressed his lips fleetingly to the inner face. "Until later."

With that promise — its nature underscored by the expression in his eyes — he released her, rose, and unobtrusively left the room.

She followed him with her eyes, and wished she could follow him in person. Instead, with a resigned sigh, she settled back to listen to the rest of the performances.

It was as well that she did; when the ladies finally decreed they would retire, she noted Lady Hilborough, Lady Mackintosh, and others of their ilk sharply observing that although Luc was absent, she was still among them. A fortunate circumstance; those ladies were most deserving of the tag "gossipmongers" and would undoubtedly recount any suspicious happenings, heavily embroidered, to the ton at large on their return to town.

While everyone knew of, and indeed expected, scandalous doings at house parties, that did not mean that those who indulged could hope to escape social censure were they unwise enough to have their behavior remarked. Thus far, she and Luc had given no one any grounds for comment.

Climbing the stairs beside her mother and his, Amelia realized he would definitely expect to keep it that way. And she agreed. Consequently, when the house grew silent a full hour before midnight, she gathered the last shreds of her patience. And waited.

A rattle at her window woke her. She'd nodded off in the chair before the hearth. She glanced at the clock, squinting in the weak light of the single candle she'd left burning; it was ten minutes past midnight.

The rattle came again; she glanced at the door, but the sound definitely came from her curtained windows.

Rising, reassuring herself that she'd latched the windows earlier, she tiptoed to one side of the pair and peeped out past the heavy curtain.

A familiar dark head greeted her. With a muttered, "Good heavens!" she rushed to pull the curtains wide and unlatch the tall windows. Luc hauled himself up to sit on the window ledge, then swung his legs into the room. Signaling her to silence — she'd been so surprised she'd simply stared to that point — he rose and crossed silently to the door; she watched, dumbfounded, as he very, very carefully eased the key on her door around. Then he straightened and turned; she presumed he'd locked the door, but she hadn't heard the tumblers fall.

She looked back at the window, went to the ledge and peered out, and down. A thick creeper covered the outside wall; no mystery how he'd reached the window. Why was another matter.

"Latch it again and draw the curtains."

His voice came to her, soft and dark, from the shadows behind her. Ignoring the shivery thrill that raced down her spine, she hurriedly obeyed. Then she turned — and found herself in his arms. She pushed back to look at his face. "Why—"

"Sshh." He bent his head and whispered, "Lady Mackintosh is haunting the bottom of the stairs."

She drew back to stare at him. "She isn't?"

The look he threw her spoke volumes. "You don't think I risked climbing that damned creeper just to look romantic?"

His disgusted tone made her giggle.

He hauled her close, smothered the sound with a kiss — a kiss that quickly shifted from practical maneuver to seductive exchange, from light caress to long, slow, explicit invasion.

When he finally released her lips, he murmured, "We'll have to keep quiet."

"Quiet?" she breathed.

He kissed her briefly, demandingly. "Totally and absolutely silent," he confirmed. "No matter what."

The tenor of that last phrase, the words a hot whisper feathering her hungry lips, made it clear he hadn't forgotten his declaration that, this time, she'd scream.

The essential contradiction tightened her nerves, made her wish she could question him, but he was kissing her again, drawing her deeper into the exchange, his arms closing around her.

When he finally paused to let her breathe, she did, and quickly said, "I thought you wanted to talk."

In answer, he took her mouth, her lips, again. His hands wandered over her back, her hips — he drew her tight against him, molded her to him, making it patently clear rational discussion did not feature on his immediate agenda.