On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

Luc thought of his grandfather's inkstand. Reggie was undoubtedly right.

Chapter 7

The evening of the next day loomed as a disaster; if Luc could have avoided the Countess of Cork's masquerade, he would have, but the old harridan was a longtime friend of the family — attendance for him was compulsory. That being so, there was no argument powerful enough to prevent Amelia attending, too; she was — and had made it perfectly clear she was — flown with high hopes for the evening.

Ascending the steps of the Cork mansion with Amelia, cloaked and masked, on his arm, he was uncomfortably aware of the irony; he'd never felt so torn in his life. At least his mother, and hers, and their cronies, would not be attending. Tonight was largely for those of his and Amelia's ilk, and those more youthful who aspired to similar status.

Handing their invitations to the butler, he ushered Amelia into the crowd thronging her ladyship's front hall. Those new to such entertainments had paused there; masked and unidentifiable in dominos, they were looking around, trying to recognize others. A hand at her back, he urged Amelia on.

"The ballroom," he said when she hesitated and glanced back at him. "It'll be less packed in there."

At one point, he had to take the lead and shoulder a way through, but his prophecy proved correct; in the ballroom, they could at least breathe.

"I'd no idea it would be such a crush. Not so late in the Season." Up on her toes, Amelia was craning her neck, trying to get her bearings.

"If masquerades aren't crowded, they tend to miss the mark."

She looked at him. "Because it's too easy to guess who everyone is?"

He nodded brusquely and took her arm. Not that anyone would have trouble identifying her regardless of the crowds; those cornflower blue eyes, wide behind her mask, were distinctive, especially when combined with the flash of golden curls beneath her domino's hood.

"Here." Halting, he tugged her hood forward, further shielding her face and hair.

She looked up at him. "It doesn't really matter if people guess who I am. I've already found my partner for the night."

True, but… "Given your hopes for the evening, it would be wiser to avoid drawing unnecessary attention our way."

She was wearing a half mask; he watched her face clear, saw a seductive smile curve her lips as she inclined her head. "On that I must bow to your greater experience."

Sliding her hand onto his arm, she came alongside — into the position where he now expected her to be; he felt most comfortable when she was there, beside him, her hand on his sleeve. Stifling a sigh, he consented to stroll down the ballroom.

In more normal circumstances, he would be assessing the room and the house for places to which he might later whisk the lady he had on his arm so they could indulge in private pleasures. Tonight, with the lady who currently commanded most of his waking thoughts, he was more concerned with, if at all possible, avoiding precisely those same pleasures.

"Amelia." Nothing for it but to take up the slack in her reins. And try to turn her. "Despite what you're thinking, we're still rolling too fast down our chosen road."

It was a moment before she looked up at him, and by then her chin had set. "You aren't, by any chance, going to suggest we backtrack?"

"No." He knew she'd never accept that. "But…" How to explain that despite what he'd led her to believe, there were only so many temples prior to intercourse at which it was possible to worship? At least while retaining his sanity. "Take it from me, we can't go much further than we've already gone. Yet."

To his surprise, she didn't stiffen, fix him with a glare, and argue. Instead, she halted, faced him; her eyes searched his, then she smiled — one of those smiles that every instinct he possessed distrusted — and stepped closer so they could converse without being overheard.

"Are you saying you won't seduce me yet?"

He felt his face harden; his eyes locked on hers, he thought carefully before confirming, "Yet."

Her smile deepened; she stepped closer still. Raised a hand and laid her fingers along his cheek. "Stop being so noble." She kept her voice low, a sirenlike murmur. "I'm perfectly ready to be seduced. By you." She studied his eyes, then tilted her head. "Is it because you've known me for so long?"

It was so tempting to say yes — to claim that as his excuse and trade on her empathy.

"It's got nothing to do with how long I've known you." He bit the words out, but she didn't take umbrage, instead simply waited, her eyes steady on his, her brows faintly rising in question.

Her hand had fallen to his chest; she was so close, she was almost in his arms. A quick glance around confirmed that, despite his distraction, his rake's instincts had been functioning normally; they were at the end of the ballroom in a shadowy alcove where a corridor joined the main room. In the circumstances, it seemed natural to slide his arms around her and keep her where she was.

While his mind raced, trying to formulate a reason she'd accept for delaying her seduction until he'd come to grips with what said seduction now meant — would mean — to him. "I've only been openly wooing you for ten days. Full-scale seduction at this point would be distinctly precipitate."

She laughed and settled against his chest, her face tilted up to his. "Why? How long do you usually take to inveigle a lady into bed?"