On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

Amelia looked up, met his gaze — then smiled, and slid her fingers into his. They closed firmly; with a flourish, he turned her to their assembled staff.

"I give you your new mistress — Amelia Ashford, Viscountess Calverton!"

The roar that answered was deafening; Amelia blushed, smiled, waved, then turned and let Luc lead her on, over the threshold into their home.

The staff followed quickly, streaming past as they stood in the wide front hall listening to Mrs. Higgs's arrangements.

"I've held dinner back to eight-thirty, my lord, my lady, not being sure of when you would arrive. If that's all right?"

Luc nodded. He glanced at Amelia, then raised the hand he still held to his lips. "I'll let Higgs show you up." He hesitated, then added, "I'll be in the library — join me when you're ready."

She smiled, inclined her head; he released her.

He stood in his hall and watched her climb the stairs, already deep in discussion with Higgs; when she finally disappeared from his sight, he turned and strode for the library.

He would have preferred to show her up to their suite himself, but then Higgs's dinner would have gone to waste, and his servants would have had a field day with their nods, winks, and knowing chuckles.

Not that any of that had deterred him.

A glass of brandy in his hand, Luc stood before the long windows of the library and watched the western sky turn black. A summer storm was rolling in; his tenant farmers would be rejoicing. A flash of lightning, still distant, caught his eye.

He raised his glass and sipped, his gaze on the turbulent mass of thunderheads, evidence of a tempestuous force that mirrored the one roiling within him. The force of emotions, passions, and unslaked desire that, suppressed, had steadily escalated throughout the day until every muscle he possessed was rigid, locked in the fight to contain, to restrain, to keep the violence trapped, inside him. For now.

Turning from the window, he crossed to the hearth and dropped into an armchair before it. He didn't want to think of later. The sense, not of being out of control, but of not being fully in control haunted him. As if some part of him he'd never met before, some part he didn't recognize, was driving him. And he was helpless to resist.

He could control his actions, but not change the result; he could dictate the path, but not the ultimate goal.

While his intellect resisted, some deeply buried part of his mind rejoiced, metaphorically threw back his head and laughed at the danger, eager to taste the unexplored, the implicit, untamable wildness, to pit his wits and strength against it, to experience the promised thrill.

He took a long sip, then lowered his glass. "Thank God she's no longer a virgin."

He was still sitting, sprawled in the chair, when the door opened and she entered. He turned his head, forced himself to remain still as he watched her cross the long room.

She'd changed into a gown of pale green silk, as delicate as a budding leaf seen through spring dew. The silk clung to her curves lovingly, the low, scooped neckline showcasing her breasts, the fine skin over her collarbones, the delicate arch of her throat. Her golden curls were piled high; wisps bounced by her ears. She wore no jewelry bar the wedding band he'd placed on her finger earlier that day. She didn't need more. As she halted before the other armchair, facing him across the hearth, the light from the candelabra on the mantelpiece fell across her; her skin glowed like pearl.

She was his wife — his. He could barely believe it, even now. He had known her for so long, had considered her untouchable for years, yet now she was his to do with as he pleased — the primitive possessiveness the thought evoked was startling. Not that he would hurt her, physically, emotionally, or in any other way. Pleasure was his currency, and had been for a long time — long enough to know how broad a field physical pleasure truly was.

The thought of exploring that field with her… he stopped trying to block the thought. His gaze on her, on her face, then slowly traveling down her body, he let his mind imagine… and plan.

She remained standing before him, her gaze steady, her color even, no hint of any panic showing. Yet he was aware of her accelerating heartbeat as if it were his own, could sense her skin heating, saw her lips part fractionally.

Returning his gaze to her eyes, he tried to read them, but the distance defeated him. He'd kept his expression impassive, his eyes hooded. After an instant, she tilted her head, faintly raised one brow.

There was nothing he could tell her — wished to tell her — no words, no warning. He raised his glass to her, and sipped.

The door opened; they both looked.

Cottsloe stood in the doorway. "Dinner is served, my lord. My lady."

Impatience sank its claws deep; ignoring it, Luc smoothly rose, set his glass down, and offered Amelia his arm. "Shall we?"

The glance she threw him was curious, as if she wasn't entirely sure what he was truly asking. But there was a smile on her lips as she set her fingers on his sleeve and let him lead her to the door.

Chapter 13

He had absolutely no idea what Mrs. Higgs and Cook had prepared; he paid no attention to the food Cottsloe laid on his plate. He must have eaten, but as the storm gathered and built beyond the windows, he felt increasingly distanced, the violence outside calling to all he'd suppressed throughout the day until it — sating it — dominated his thoughts and his mind.

From the end of the table, shortened as much as possible but still able to seat ten, Amelia watched, and wondered. Over the years, she'd seen Luc in all his many moods — this one was new. Different.