On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

The question was: how? How did one encourage a man like him to deal with an emotion like love? An emotion he almost certainly would prefer to avoid.

She knew all about the way gentlemen like Luc, like her cousins, tried to slide around love. And Luc was unmanipulable; she'd always known the battle she now faced would be the most difficult.

So what was her best strategy?

Lying amid the rumpled sheets, the scattered pillows, she applied her mind to the question. Sifted through her memories, through all she'd learned of him in the

past weeks…

A plan took shape — a plan to educate Luc as to the full potential of their union using the only form of argument to which, on such a subject, he would listen. The only language guaranteed to capture his attention.

A wicked plan. Even a trifle underhanded — she was sure he would think so. Yet when a lady had to deal with a gentleman like him… it was said all was fair in love as well as war.

And the perfect opportunity had just presented itself. To pursue such a plan, they had to be alone, without family or friends in the house. Once Minerva returned with Luc's sisters, the visits from their wider families would start, but she had four days before the others arrived.

Four days in which, already confident in her new role, she could turn her sights on something else.

On her husband.

Luc walked into the dining room and found it empty. The sound of the lunch gong had faded minutes ago; he wondered where Amelia was. Brows quirking, he walked to his chair and sat. Cottsloe had just poured him a glass of wine when footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Amelia's footsteps.

Sitting back, Luc lifted his glass and fixed his gaze on the doorway. Ever since he'd realized he had to draw a line, had to check his desire for her company, and her, and keep both within excusable limits, all had gone well. During the days, she flitted about his house and grounds, rode with him about the estate and played with his pups; each day saw her more and more occupied with the day-to-day business of being his wife.

As for the nights… she welcomed him into her arms with open passion, with a desire so blatantly honest it seared his soul.

Her footsteps had halted, now they came on, and she appeared in the doorway. She paused, looked straight at him, and smiled.

Luc blinked; before he could prevent it, his gaze raced over her — hungrily devouring. The gown she wore was of muslin so fine it would be translucent but for the fact the gown was overhung by a half gown of the same material. Two flirty layers — that was all that concealed a luscious form he now knew very well. A form his imagination could supply without conscious effort.

The peach-colored gown drew attention to her skin, so white, so perfect. She approached, and the upper swells of her breasts, revealed by the scooped neckline, made his fingers tingle, his palms itch.

Shifting his gaze, he forced himself to take a nonchalant sip of his wine as Cottsloe held her chair and she sat.

She smiled at him. "Did Colonel Masterton find you?"

Luc nodded. The Colonel, one of their neighbors, had come looking for him that morning; Amelia had charmed the Colonel, then pointed him in the direction he himself had gone. "He wanted to discuss the covert on the north boundary. We'll need to thin it this year."

They discussed this and that; with an estate of this size, there was always something needing attention, and after the years of enforced parsimony, there was much to be done. While Amelia waxed lyrical about the new furnishings — he'd given her cane blanche, assuring her there were more than sufficient funds to do whatever she wished — Luc watched her face, drank in her animation.

Tried not to let his mind drift whither it wanted to go.

To her animation in another sphere, in other circumstances. To seeing it again, soon.

Her eyes were bright, her lips full and rosy. Being outside had lent a faint golden tone to the fine skin of her arms.

One errant curl, luscious golden silk, bobbed by her ear, again and again drawing his gaze. She always wore her hair up; the strand must have slipped loose. He glanced at the knot on the top of her head; it appeared well anchored, yet that teasing tendril… he almost reached out and touched it, caressed it. Only just managed to stop himself.

Forced his gaze away — to her lips, then her eyes. Shifting, he leaned back, sipped his wine, and tried to keep the sight of her from sinking into his mind.

By the time the meal was over, he was decidedly warm, definitely uncomfortable, very ready to rise and depart.

He drew out her chair. She stood and smiled her thanks. "I'm going to play with the puppies — are you heading for the kennels?"

He had been. He met her gaze. Their bodies were mere inches apart; he'd never been so conscious of a woman in his life. "No." He looked ahead, gestured for her to precede him. "I've work to do in my study."

She led the way from the room, paused in the corridor to throw him a smile. "I'll leave you to it, then."