On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

She was more than socially adept enough to, while listening to Anne, also glance at Penelope, the youngest, seated in the next chair. In terms of the number of words she uttered, Penelope could well have been judged "quieter" than Anne. No one, however, was at all likely ever to forget that Penelope was present. She viewed the world through the thick lenses of her spectacles — and the world knew it was being weighed, measured, and judged by a shrewd and highly intelligent mind.

Penelope had decided at an early age to become a bluestocking, a woman for whom learning and knowledge were more important than marriage and men. Amelia had known her all her life, and could honestly not remember her ever being otherwise. Presently thirteen, brown-eyed and brown-haired like Emily and Anne, but possessed of a decisiveness and confidence her older sisters lacked, Penelope was already a force to be reckoned with, but just what she planned to do with her life, no one had as yet been informed.

Portia and Penelope got on well, as did Emily and Anne, but the older sisters were forever at a loss when it came to dealing with their juniors. Which threw an added burden on Luc's shoulders, for he couldn't, as a male in his position normally would, rely on Emily and Anne, or indeed on his mother, to keep the younger two within bounds — bounds neither Portia nor Penelope truly recognized.

And they encouraged each other. Where the elder girls shared aspirations, so, too, did Portia and Penelope. Unfortunately, their aspirations did not lie within the areas generally prescribed for gently bred young ladies.

As things presently were, the pair of them looked set to turn Luc's black hair grey. Amelia glanced at Luc's dark locks, inwardly frowned.

A moment later, she caught Luc's eye. She smiled, and reminded herself she was, after all, his wife.

Which meant she had a right and a duty to ensure his black hair remained just the shade it was for the next several years.

She'd come to that conclusion, made the resolution, by the time she climbed into their bed that night. Snuffing out the candle, she lay back, and considered the hurdles she'd decided to face with a welling sense of rightness.

One of those hurdles was gaining his agreement, his understanding, his acceptance of her help, but she was too wise, when he joined her half an hour later, to mention the matter.

He himself brought it up; halting in the dimness by the side of the bed, he reached for the tie of his robe. "Did Anne give you any indication of how she felt about the Season — the ton?"

Eyes and the better part of her mind fully absorbed as he loosened the robe, then shrugged out of it, she murmured, "If you mean how she feels about the subject of a husband, I don't think she does."

He frowned, knelt on the bed, then slumped down beside her, propped on one shoulder on top of the silk sheet that covered her to her shoulders. "Does what?"

"Have any real thoughts of a husband." She twisted to face him. "She's only what? Just seventeen?"

He raised his brows at her. "You think she's too young?"

She met his gaze. "Strange though the thought may be to you, not every girl dreams of being wed as soon as she's out."

A moment passed, then, his gaze steady on her face, one dark brow arched higher. "Didn't you have girlish dreams of being wed?"

She wondered if she dared tell him that the only dreams of marriage she'd ever entertained had transformed into reality. He was the only gentleman she'd ever dreamed of marrying. Nevertheless, as she felt between them the inexorable rise of the compulsion that now ruled them here, in their bed, where neither any more pretended otherwise, she was very glad — gave thanks to the gods — that she'd waited until she was twenty-three to tackle him.

"I'd be surprised if Anne doesn't have dreams of marriage, of what she wants her marriage to be. But I sincerely doubt — no, I know — that she's not yet thinking specifically about stepping into that sphere.

She will when she's ready, but it won't be yet."

He studied her face, then lightly shrugged. "There's no need for her to do anything in that arena until she wishes to." She smiled. "Precisely."

She lay still, watching, waiting, letting her gaze roam his face while heat and desire welled and swelled and grew between them. Waited for him to make the first move, confident that whatever route he chose to take, the outcome would be novel, and as exciting, fascinating, and enthralling as she wished. In this sphere, his imagination had, she suspected, no bounds. His understanding of what she would find thrilling and pleasurable had proved, thus far, to be one hundred percent reliable.

After a long moment, his lips curved; his teeth flashed as he smiled. Then he leaned closer, bent his head, and set his lips to hers.

He didn't touch her in any other way, simply kissed her — while they both lay naked with only the flimsiest barrier of silk between their heating bodies.

And the temperature steadily escalated. Rose as he demanded her mouth, then took rapaciously when she offered. Yet with not so much as a finger did he touch her.

His body was like a flame, a source of pure heat beside her; she could feel that heat, warm, alive and so well remembered, all down the length of her. Her skin itself seemed to yearn — to burn with the need to touch, and be touched.

A yearning that only grew.

Then he drew back, looked down. Hooked one long finger into the sheet, now tight about her swollen breasts; crooking his finger between her breasts, he didn't so much as graze her skin as he drew the sheet down, easing it down to her waist.

His gaze touched her face, then he bent his head. And set his lips to her nipple. He didn't touch the soft skin of her aching breasts, but only the aureole — tortured the tightly budded peak until she arched and gasped.

The instant he released her, she slumped onto her back, giving him access to her other breast. He bent his head and repeated the exquisite torture until she cried out and reached for him.

He caught her hands before she touched him, locked them both in one of his. Anchored them above her head as he reached again for the sheet, and tugged it still lower.