On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

He realized before he'd taken even one step — one arm lay draped across the counterpane, a different one from yesterday, her fingers, lightly curled, in a patch of sunshine. Hand and arm were totally relaxed, the deep relaxation achieved only in sleep.

His feet took him to the side of the bed, to where, beyond the diaphanous swatches, he could stand and look down on her.

She was lying on her side, her cheek pillowed on one hand. Her curls, pure gold, framed her features, delicate, fine, rendered in alabaster silk. Her long lashes, light brown, lay still in slumber; her cheeks held a faint blush, courtesy of her morning's excursion. Soft and vulnerable, fractionally parted, her lips tempted and tantalized…

How would she react if he kissed her? Roused her from her nap but didn't let her open her eyes. Pulled her from one dream, to another, and from there into ecstasy.

He shifted his gaze, let it roam. Drew a slow breath. The rise and fall of her breasts, soft mounds revealed above her round neckline, confirmed just how deeply she slept. His gaze traveled on, over the indentation of her waist, over the swell of her hips, down the sleek curve of her thighs.

She'd kicked off her shoes. Her bare toes, bare feet, peeked from under the hem of her gown. He studied them, the graceful arch, the pearly nails — he was reaching to touch when he stopped, and drew back.

If he woke her — here, like this — what then?

They wouldn't talk, even though verbal communication had supposedly been his goal; he knew himself better than that. Yet wouldn't she — she who knew him too well — wonder at his change of tack?

Glancing around, he saw the stool before the dressing table; stepping back, he sat, leaned back, settled his shoulders against the table behind him — and let his gaze rest on her while he considered the questions that had plagued him since he'd last been in this room.

Since he'd had her, and discovered there was more to his need than mere lust. More than desire, more than passion.

Just what the emotion, so elusive yet so powerful, that had threaded through his need and, like a clinging vine, shackled it, and him, was, he didn't know. He suspected his cousin Martin could give it a name; that was more than he could, for he'd never believed that emotion — the one the poets glorified — existed, at least not for him. He'd never felt it before.

Yet it or something like it had hold of him now, a disconcerting, discomfiting experience. If he'd been given a choice, he'd have avoided it — turned down the opportunity to experience it. Why any sane man would willingly accept what he could foresee developing without at least putting up a fight was a continuing mystery.

When she realized… if she guessed that he hadn't, in fact, been looking for her to speak with her, but had fabricated the excuse to explain his reaction to not knowing where she was, to learning that her attention had not been firmly fixed on him when his was so obsessively fixed on her, what then? Would she see through him?

His gaze shifted to her face, to the delicate features relaxed and at peace. Had she already guessed?

He recalled their words on the terrace. She'd reacted to his anger — illogical unless one invoked that telltale emotion, a fact that did not improve his view of its qualities and only deepened his distrust — yet she'd responded with straightforward anger of her own, irritated by what she'd seen as his domineering stance. If she'd realized the truth of why he'd been so exercised, she'd have been smug.

He stared at her face and the minutes ticked by; gradually, he relaxed, his tension draining away.

An odd contentment stole over him as he watched her sleep. The idea of waking her still teased, but… it was barely twenty-four hours since he'd been buried deep inside her, and he knew just how deep. On top of that, she'd gone hiking God knew how far all through the morning. Small wonder sleep had claimed her.

He studied her, then smiled. Rising, he stretched, then headed for the door. Let her sleep, let her refresh herself — then he could claim her night hours with an unfettered conscience.

A sudden thought stopped him just before the door — if she woke and thought he hadn't found her, she'd come searching for him, expecting him to be angry. She'd be braced for a clash — not helpful, given his revised plan.

Swinging back into the room, he confirmed there was no escritoire. Digging out his note tablet and a pencil, he scanned the room, then saw what he needed. He considered, then wrote four words: Tonight at midnight. Here. Tearing off the sheet, he replaced tablet and pencil in his pocket as he crossed to the center table.

Selecting one of the white lilies whose exotic perfume hung heavy in the room, he broke off most of its stem,

curled the note around the stub as he returned to the bed.

Amelia was still deeply asleep. She didn't stir when he gently threaded the lily's stem, carrying his note, into her curls so the flower lay just behind her ear.

He stood looking down at her for some minutes more, then silently left the room.

Midnight was a long time coming. Amelia waited with feigned patience through afternoon tea, followed by a few hours of charades, then dutifully dressed and allowed herself to be distracted by Mr. Pomfret all through dinner.

When Luc joined her in the drawing room, she suppressed a sigh of relief and waited for him to single her out; instead, he merely stood by her side and conversed easily with Lady Hilborough, Miss Quigley, and her fiancé, Sir Reginald Bone.

She kept waiting, lips curved, teeth mentally gritted. He'd wanted to talk to her; he'd been insistent and irritated, ready to make some point. Now he was behaving as smoothly as usual, as if not an ounce of temper — or wildness — lurked behind his sophisticated mask. She swallowed a humph, then nearly groaned aloud when, clapping her hands, Lady Hightham urged them to gather around for some music.

Music? At this time? Oh, please…

But no helpful deity heard her plea; she had to endure a full two hours of harp, pianoforte, and harpsichord — she even had to make a contribution herself, one she kept severely abbreviated. She was no longer a young young lady, one needing to impress potential suitors with her talents. On top of that, her husband-to-be was not, she knew, particularly partial to music, and thus unlikely to be swayed by her skill with the keys.

When she returned to her chair in the back row, Luc, at ease in the one beside it, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, met her gaze, then raised a cynical brow. "Supposedly it soothes the savage breast."