On a Wicked Dawn

from Somersham Place, will be worth a small fortune?'

Kirby nodded.

'So if I take something from there, and give it to you, then Edward will have enough to live on.'

Kirby's nod was immediate. 'It'll keep him from starving.'

'Or doing anything else?'

'That's in the lap of the gods, but at least it'll give him a chance.'

The young lady stared across the square, then she drew in a breath, and nodded. 'Very well.' Lifting her chin, she met Kirby's gaze. 'I'll find something — something good.'

Kirby studied her for a moment, then inclined his head. 'Your devotion is to be applauded.'

Briefly, he told her where to meet him, where and when she should bring her next contribution to Edward's well-being. She agreed and they parted. Kirby watched her cross the square, then turned and strode in the opposite direction.

Why the devil had he decided on Wednesday?

Returning to Calverton House on Monday afternoon, Luc stalked into his study, shut the door, then flung himself into an armchair and stared at the empty hearth.

If he'd said Monday instead…

He'd avoided Upper Brook Street on the day the notice announcing their nuptials had appeared in die Gazette. Predictably, all fashionable London, or so it had seemed, had descended on the Cynsters to congratulate Amelia and gossip about the wedding. Even here, at Calverton House, his mother had been besieged by callers throughout the morning; after luncheon, she'd shrewdly decided to join Amelia and Louise in Brook Street, so the wishful could have at them all at once.

Saturday evening they'd spent under the full glare of avid — not to say rabid — scrutiny at Lady Harris's soiree, one of the last major engagements before the ton retired to their estates for summer. The weather had already turned warm, the ladies' gowns commensurately revealing. To his relief, Amelia had restrained herself; she'd appeared in a demure sheath of gold silk to parade on his arm, ineffably calm and courteous to all those who paused to wish them well.

He hadn't had a chance for so much as a moment in private with her. Lecturing himself that the evening was, after all, a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, he'd accepted the fact with what he'd thought at the time to be reasonable grace. The intent look Amelia had bent on him when they'd ended the evening and parted, under her mother's watchful eye, had suggested that she, at least, had seen past his mask — sensed the restless dissatisfaction he'd concealed.

Deciding he wasn't averse to her sensing his impatience, he'd called the next afternoon — Sunday — expecting to whisk her away, to spend at least some moments alone with her, moments with her attention all his, only to discover the females of her family had congregated to confer and plan the wedding.

Vane, having escorted his wife, Patience, to the gathering, was leaving as he arrived. 'Take my advice — White's would be much more to your taste.'

It had taken less than a second for him to consider, and disgustedly agree. White's at that hour was thoroughly unexciting; it was, however, safe.

On Sunday evening, he and his mother had hosted the more or less traditional formal dinner for the families of bride and groom. He'd never seen his staff so excited; Cottsloe spent the entire evening beaming fit to burst. Mrs. Higgs exceeded her own high standards; despite once again being denied any chance of a private word with Amelia, he had to admit the evening had gone well.

Devil, of course, had been present. They'd come upon each other in the drawing room later in the evening. Devil's eyes had searched his, then he'd grinned. 'Still not broached the painful subject?'

He'd calmly turned to survey the company. 'You can talk.' He'd waited only a heartbeat before adding, 'However, I can assure you no mention of that particular topic will occur before the wedding.'

'Still determined?'

'Absolutely.'

Devil had sighed exaggeratedly. 'Don't say I didn't warn you.'

'I won't.' Turning, he'd met Devil's eyes. 'You could, of course, send me pointers…'

Devil had humphed and slapped his shoulder. 'Don't press your luck.'

They'd parted amicably, their common difficulty a bond. The fact had only served to raise the issue more definitely, embed it more firmly in his mind.

He would have to tell her sometime.

The knowledge only fueled his impatience.

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