On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

He'd called in Upper Brook Street that morning, early enough, so he'd thought, only to have the butler, old Colthorpe, gravely inform him that Amelia and Louise were already in the drawing room with four other ladies.

Swallowing his curses, he'd considered sending in a note, asking her to slip away. Then the front door bell pealed. Colthorpe had caught his eye. "Perhaps, my lord, you might prefer to wait in the parlor?"

He had, listening as the bevy of elegant matrons who'd come to call were shown into the drawing room. In to see Amelia.

With a growing sense of disappointment, and a hollow, indefinable unease, he'd accepted the inevitable and departed the house. He hadn't left a note.

He'd gone to his club; various friends had taken him to lunch. Some would travel down to Cambridgeshire tomorrow, as would he; that afternoon had been the last time they and he could celebrate as all bachelors. And celebrate they had, yet although he'd laughed and outwardly enjoyed their company, his mind had already moved on — his thoughts had been fixed not on old friends, but on the woman who would be his wife.

Eyes trained unseeing on the cold hearth, he tried to decide what he felt — how he felt. Why he felt as he did. When the clock struck six, no further forward, he rose and went up to change.

Lady Cardigan's grand ball had one thing in its favor — it was a ball, it therefore featured dances. Times during which he would have Amelia in his arms, albeit in the middle of a dance floor. In his present state, he was thankful for even that.

"Are you all right?" she asked, the instant they stepped out in the first waltz. "What's the matter?"

He stared — very nearly glared — at her. "Nothing."

Amelia let her joyful mask slip long enough to flash him a disbelieving look. "Don't." She deliberately used his earlier injunction. "I can see it in your eyes."

They were not just dark but turbulent; the sight left her certain something was wrong. In her opinion, they were too close to the vital moment — exchanging their vows — to let anything stand in their way.

"Stop being difficult." She felt her own chin setting and had to force her features to ease.

When he simply hid behind his impassive mask, she drew a deep breath, and broached what she'd decided had to be the problem. "Is it money?"

"What?" He looked thunderstruck, but that might simply be his reaction to any lady discussing such a subject with him.

"Do you need funds for something — now, before the wedding?"

His features were no longer impassive. He looked as horrified as she'd ever seen him. "For God's sake! No. I don't need—"

His eyes flashed. She'd obviously hit a nerve, but remained unrepentant. "That just goes to show that you ought simply to tell me, rather than leave me to guess." She waited while they went through the turns at the end of the room, conscious of his arms tightening, drawing her close — and then of him forcing them to ease so they wouldn't cause a sensation.

"So what is the matter then?" she demanded as, in acceptable order, they swung back up the room.

He looked down, trapped her eyes. "It's not money I need."

She searched his eyes, somewhat relieved. "Very well — what then?"

Exasperation and frustration reached her clearly, yet he didn't rush to answer her. They were halfway back up the room before he replied, "I just wish it was Wednesday already."

Her brows rose; she smiled spontaneously. "I thought it was brides who were eager for their wedding."

His midnight blue eyes locked with hers. "It's not the wedding I'm eager for."

If she'd had any doubt of his meaning, the expression in his eyes — not just heated, but knowing, awakening — quite deliberately stirring — memories of their previous intimacies-dispelled it. Warmth, definite but not too intense, rose in he cheeks, but she refused to lower her eyes, refused to play the innocent when, thanks to him, she was no longer that. "An you sure you want to travel on that afternoon?" Brows lightly rising, she held his gaze. "We could always remain at Somersham for the night."

The line of his lips eased; the intensity in his eyes did not "No. With the Chase only a few hours away…"

The waltz ended and the music died; he whirled her to a halt, caught her hand. Trapped her gaze as he brushed a kiss on her fingers. "It'll be infinitely more appropriate for us to retire there."

She had to quell a shiver — an instinctive reaction to the subtle suggestion in his voice, to a situation that was looming as an unknown. While he'd let her organize the wedding entirely as she pleased, he'd insisted that after the wedding breakfast they would leave for Calverton Chase. Her first night as his wife, therefore, would be passed in his ancestral home.

A sense of, a commitment to, starting out as they meant to go on seemed to hover between them, as if they both knew it in themselves, and now recognized it in the other.

Somewhat cautiously, she acknowledged the fact with an inclination of her head, a smile, not light but intent, curving her lips. He saw — distracted, he glanced up as others bustled toward them — quickly looked back and nodded, his eyes serious as they touched hers.

With that mutual, unvoiced agreement, they turned to smile and chat with those who gathered about them.