On a Wicked Dawn

She looked slightly put out. 'There's no one I really want to meet.'

'Nevertheless.' When she glanced at him, he murmured, 'We can't instantly, after one perfectly ordinary waltz, cleave to each other's company.'

She grimaced, then waved ahead. 'Very well — lead on.'

He did, much against his wishes, especially knowing it was against hers, too. But a plan was a plan, and his was sound. He found a knot of mutual friends; they stood and conversed with their customary facility. They were both at home in this sphere; neither needed the other's support.

It came as a surprise when he realized he'd retreated from the conversation, content to listen to Amelia's chatter, to her laughter and quick-witted sallies. She had a tongue almost as keen as his, and a mind equally agile; he was taken aback at how often she voiced his silent thoughts.

He caught a glance or two directed their way, and inwardly smiled. His relaxed but watchful presence by her side was not going unremarked. By dint of strolling on at just the right moment, he kept her to himself for the next dance; watching the other dancers twirl through a reel, they strolled about the floor.

Unfortunately, he couldn't, yet, keep her to himself entirely. Lord Endicott appeared and, with an irritatingly pompous air, claimed the second waltz.

He had to endure the sight of her smiling and laughing up at Endicott for the entire measure. Then, at the end of the dance, the witless woman didn't return to him; he had to stalk after her.

When Reggie Carmarthen appeared through the crowd, he very nearly fell on his neck. Reggie was not at all surprised to find him pushing Amelia into his arms for the next dance; they all knew each other well.

Consequently, when he reappeared at the end of the dance to reclaim Amelia's hand, Reggie looked stunned.

Amelia grinned and patted Reggie's arm. 'Don't worry.'

Reggie stared at her, then at him. Eventually, Reggie mumbled, 'Whatever you say.'

Impatient though he was, he bided his time. He didn't chase off Reggie, a safe companion, even though Reggie kept slanting glances at him, expecting him to bare his teeth. Together with some others, they went into supper, filling one of the larger tables, exchanging easy, good-natured banter. He sat beside Amelia, but other than that, was careful to make no overly possessive gestures.

They returned to the ballroom just as the orchestra struck up for the next waltz. He smiled, with easy charm solicited Amelia's hand.

Amelia returned his smile and bestowed her hand — just as Lord Endicott, who'd been barreling toward them, reached them.

'I'm so sorry.' She smiled at his lordship. 'Lord Calverton was before you.'

Lord Endicott bore the loss gracefully; he bowed. 'Perhaps the next dance, then?'

She let her smile deepen. 'Perhaps.'

Luc pinched her fingers. She turned from his lordship. Her eyes met Luc's — she glimpsed a hardness, a something that made her breath catch — then he lifted his gaze and nodded to Endicott. Then he led her to the floor.

She didn't get another chance to look into his face until they were whirling down the room. His eyes — a true midnight blue — were always difficult to read; when half-screened by his distractingly long, thick lashes, guessing their expression became impossible. But the planes of his face were hard, uncompromising, not aloof as they usually were…

'What is the matter? And don't say nothing. I know you better than that.'

Hearing her words, she realized they were even truer than before; she now knew the tension investing his lean frame was not usual.

'It would help our cause considerably if you could refrain from encouraging other gentlemen.'

She blinked. 'Endicott? I wasn't—'

'Not smiling at them would be a good start.'

She stared at his face, at his hard expression and even harder eyes — he was serious. His acerbic tone told her he was in one of his tempers. She had to struggle not to grin. 'Luc, do listen to yourself.'

His eyes met hers briefly; he frowned. 'I'd rather not.'

He drew her closer — a fraction too close for propriety — as they revolved through the turns. And didn't ease his hold as they swept back up the room.

Being held so firmly, whirled through the dance so effortlessly, was distractingly pleasant, yet… she sighed. 'All right — how do you want me to behave? I thought I wasn't supposed to pretend to fall in love with you all in one week. Are we rescripting our performance?'

It was a moment before he answered, through his teeth, 'No. Just… don't be so animated. Smile vaguely, as ü you're not really focusing on them.'

When she could keep her lips straight, she looked at him nodded. 'Very well. I'll try. I take it,' she murmured as the music slowed, 'that I'm supposed to focus on you?'

She caught his eye, thought the blue darkened, saw his jaw set. He gave her no answer. Instead, one hand locking about hers, he towed her from the floor.

Eyes widening, she saw the terrace doors approaching. They were open. The flagged terrace beyond was bathed in moonlight. 'Where are we going?'

'To advance our script.'

Chapter 3

He led her onto the terrace, where numerous couples were strolling, taking advantage of the mild night. The moon, a silver half disc, rode high, bathing the scene in shimmering light.

Luc glanced around, then wound her arm in his and turned along the terrace. 'It's customary,' he said, as if in answer to the question in her mind, 'for courting couples to spend time together in conducive surrounds.'

Conducive to what? She glanced at him, but he said no more. She looked ahead. 'Do you think anyone's noticed yet?'

'They have, but it'll take a few nights to convince them there's more to our interaction than mere socializing.'

'So how do you propose advancing our script?'

She felt his glance. 'All we need do is follow the age-old plot. The gossips will wake up soon enough.'

Age-old plot. She was perfectly certain his version would differ significantly from hers. Not that she intended arguing with what she hoped his plan would be — not when it bade fair to fall in so well with hers.

They continued along the increasingly sparsely populated terrace; most couples remained within the area illuminated by the ballroom's light. At the terrace's end, Luc cast a swift glance about, then closed his hand hard over hers; three long strides, drawing her with him, and they were around the side of the mansion. Shallow steps led down, then the terrace continued beneath a loggia supporting a rioting white rose. Once beneath it, they were screened from above, and from anyone on the terrace. The garden beyond the loggia was deserted, the room that gave onto it dark, not in use. They were alone. Private.

Luc halted, drew her to face him. She looked up, caught only the briefest glimpse of his face as he bent his head and, one hand cradling her jaw, set his lips to hers. Gently.

The fact penetrated her whirling mind; she'd braced for an assault. She'd been kissed before; in her experience all men were greedy. Not Luc.

Not that she doubted, not for one instant, that he would want, and would take, more, but he didn't grab, seize, demand. He lured.

Touch by touch, caress by caress. It was she who moved into him, into the kiss. His hand shifted from her jaw to her nape, long fingers hard against her sensitive skin. His other hand still grasped hers, fingers twining, locking.

His lips moved on hers, subtly shifting, encouraging… unthinking, she parted her own; he surged in. Not aggressively, yet powerfully. His habit of slow grace seemed even more pronounced in this arena. Every movement