On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

When he lowered his hands, she glanced at him, then turned and stepped nearer. One hand touching his cheek, she stretched up and kissed him lightly. "No more?" she murmured as their lips parted.

He didn't attempt to mute his growl. "That was more than enough for one night."

Chapter 6

More than enough torture. He doubted she realized the effect she had on him, especially when he had her under his hands, his to do with as he pleased. He had absolutely no intention of telling her, or of letting her guess.

He wasn't that foolish.

Inwardly wincing at the memory of what had transpired the last time he'd uttered that word, he watched his torment trip down Lady Hammond's dance floor in a country dance. Her partner was Cranwell; ever since Lady Orcott's ball five nights ago, Cranwell and the others with whom she'd flirted had grown overtly attentive. They were watching to see if he'd lose interest and walk away, then they'd pounce.

Stifling a dismissive humph, he focused on Amelia. She was enjoying herself as she always did these days — bright-eyed and expectant, anticipating the moment when he'd whisk her off somewhere private, and they would grab as many minutes of illicit indulgence as they could.

Compounding frustration wasn't his idea of fun, yet he wasn't about to invite another display of her talents like the one she'd staged at the Orcotts'. He'd capitulated as soon as he'd realized she'd found a real chink in his armor and taken the necessary steps to deal with her, albeit under duress.

Subsequently, he'd accepted that he had, at least in part, to dance to her tune. By letting her believe he was, he remained in control of their interludes, specifically how far those interludes went.

Which, thus far, was no further than at Lady Orcott's.

Self-preservation was a wise and sensible goal.

Feminine fingers touched his sleeve; knowing who it was, he turned, drawing his mother's hand into the crook of his arm.

She smiled. "Come, my son — let's stroll a little way."

He raised his brows faintly but complied; simultaneously, he scanned the room, checking on Emily, Anne, and Fiona. Amelia might claim the best part of his attention, but he hadn't forgotten his responsibilities.

"No, no — they're well. Indeed, very creditably engaged. It's you — and the lady you've been watching — I wanted to speak with you about."

"Oh? Why?"

"I've been approached by no less than three of the senior hostesses, as well as any number of the lesser gossips. Speculation is rising that the relationship that in the past existed between you and Amelia has undergone a fundamental transformation."

His lips twitched; that was an accurate way of describing it. "On what evidence do the good ladies base such speculation?"

"It's been noted that you're both spending an unusual amount of time together, that you, especially, have gone out of your way to facilitate that, and, of course, it's been noted that you both have a tendency to disappear from the central venue, to return within a reasonable time, admittedly, yet that frequent fact is viewed with suspicion."

"That sounds as it should at this point." Luc glanced at Minerva. "What have you said?"

She opened her eyes wide. "Why, that you've known each other for years and have always been close."

He nodded. "It's possible you might actually start wondering yourself…"

Minerva raised her brows. "Just what date are you aiming for?"

There was a note in her voice that had him temporizing, "Well, not just me—"

"Luc." Minerva fixed him with a straight look. "When?"

He knew when to capitulate; he'd had recent practice. "About the end of the month."

"And the ceremony?"

He set his jaw. "By the end of the month."

Her eyes opened wide, then a thoughtful expression swept her face. "Ah. I see. That does explain a few things." She re-focused on his face, then patted his arm. "Very well. At least I now know what to expect — and how to manage the gossips. You may leave them to me."

"Thank you."