On a Wicked Dawn

Chapter 2

"Why the museum?" Amelia asked as she approached him.

Reaching out, Luc closed his fingers about her elbow and turned her around. "So we can converse in reasonable privacy, in public, and anyone seeing us will imagine we've simply and innocently come upon each other. No one ever imagines assignations occur in the museum. I'm here, clearly under duress, escorting my sisters and Miss Ffolliot—no! Don't wave. They're going to wander and meet me later."

Amelia glanced at the three girls at the other end of the room, staring wide-eyed at a display. "Does it matter if they see us?"

"No. But having seen you, they'll expect to join us, and that would be counterproductive." He urged her through an archway into a room devoted to Egyptian artifacts.

Transferring her gaze to his face, she noted his expression was, as usual, uninformative. His dark hair, black as pitch, was perfectly groomed; not a trace of dissipation marred the beauty of his classical features. Impossible to guess that ten hours before he'd been drop-at-her-feet drunk.

How to frame her question? Why are we assignating?

Looking ahead, she mentally girded her loins. "What did you want to talk about?"

The glance he threw her was sharp and dark. He drew her to a halt by the side of the room, in front of a case filled with pottery. "I would have thought, after our meeting last night, that the subject would be obvious."

He'd changed his mind — woken up, realized what he'd said, and was going to take it back. Hands clasped, fingers gripping tightly, she raised her chin, fixed her eyes on his. "There's no point telling me that you were so drunk you didn't know what you were saying. I heard you, and you heard yourself. You agreed — and I intend holding you to it."

He blinked, frowned — then his frown grew blacker. "I've no intention of claiming diminished responsibility. I wasn't so drunk I didn't know what I was doing."

"Oh." His acid tones left little doubt he was in earnest.

"That's not what we need to talk about." His frown still lingered.

Hugely relieved, she fought to hide the fact, schooling her features to simple interest. "What, then?"

He glanced about, then took her arm and urged her on, strolling slowly. Because of his height, he had to look down to speak to her, rendering their conversation private regardless of the public setting. "We've agreed to marry, now we need to take the next steps. Decide on how and when."

She brightened; he wasn't going to renege on their agreement. Quite the opposite. The sensation of her heart soaring was distracting. "I'd thought in a few days. You can get a special license, can't you?"

His frown returned. "What about a wedding dress? What about your family? A few days — doesn't that seem a mite precipitate?"

She halted, met his gaze, set her chin. "I don't care about a dress, and I can talk my parents around. I've always wanted to be a June bride, and that means getting married within the next four weeks."

His eyes narrowed; she knew — could see in his dark blue eyes — that he was debating some point, but, as usual, she couldn't tell what.

"Four weeks will work — four days won't. Just consider — what will people think when they suddenly learn, out of the blue, that we're marrying in such unseemly haste? Such behavior will raise the question of why, and there are only two possible answers, neither of which will endear the match to your family or, indeed, to me."

She considered… reluctantly conceded. "People would suspect money was at the heart of it, and after all your hard work hiding your family's state, that's the very last thing you'd want." She sighed, looked up. "You're right. Very well — within four weeks then." It would still be June.

Luc gritted his teeth, gripped her arm, and led her on. "I wouldn't want them to think the other, either."

Her brows rose. "That you and I…" She blushed lightly.

"Aside from anything else, no one would believe it." He kept her moving when she tried to stop and face him. "Pretend we're looking at the exhibits."

She turned her gaze to the glass cases lining the walls. "But we've known each other for years." Her voice sounded tight.

"And have shown not the smallest sign of having any interest in developing a relationship closer than that of family acquaintance — precisely. We need to lay some groundwork, and if you've set your heart on four weeks, then we'll do it in four weeks." She glanced up; he hurried on before she could argue. "Here's my plan."

He'd expected to have two months or more to accomplish it, but four weeks… he could seduce any woman in four weeks.

"We need society simply to accept our marriage — there's no reason it won't. As far as anyone knows, we suit to a tee. All we need do is lead them to the realization gradually, before we make any announcement."

She nodded. "Don't startle the horses."

"Exactly. As I see it, the easiest, most believable path for us to follow is for me to start looking around — I won't need to look far for my eye to fall on you. You were bridesmaid to ray groomsman at Martin and Amanda's wedding. You're in Emily and Anne's company much of the time. Given we've known each other for so long, there's no reason I can't fix my interest on you more or less at first glance."

Her expression told him she was following his reasoning, seeing the picture he was painting. "Then," he stated, "we go through the customary stages of courtship, although as you insist on a June wedding, it'll have to be a whirlwind one."

A slight frown marred her brow. "You mean we should pretend that we're… attracted in the usual way?"

There wouldn't be any pretense involved, not if he had any say in the matter; he fully intended their courtship — her seduction — to be real. "We do the usual things — meet at balls and parties, go on outings, and so on. With the Season slowing down and Emily and Anne to be entertained, we won't have any difficulty inventing occasions."

"Hmm… that's all very well, but do we really need four weeks?" They'd reached the corner of the room; she halted and faced him. "Everyone already knows I've been looking around."

"Indeed — that will fit, too." He looped his arm in hers and drew her on, still progressing slowly as if scanning the cases. "We can mutually notice each other, and go on from there. You've had plenty of experience flirting over the last years — just play it by ear and follow my lead."

She narrowed her eyes at him; her chin set. "I still don't see why we need take four weeks. I can pretend to fall in love in one."

He bit his tongue on an unwise rejoinder and narrowed his eyes back. "Four weeks. You offered, I accepted, but I call the play from now on."

She halted. "Why?"

He met her belligerent gaze, held it. When she simply glared back, unwavering, he quietly stated, "Because that's the way it's going to be."

He was adamant about that, and not at all averse to having the point broached thus early in their relationship. With any other woman, it wouldn't need to be stated, but Amelia was a Cynster — wise to have the lines drawn, the chain of command established. And this was undoubtedly the moment; she couldn't argue, not without risking what she'd already gained — his agreement to their wedding.

Abruptly, nose elevating, she looked away. "Very well. Have it your way. Four weeks." She stepped out, not waiting for him to take her arm. "But not a day more."

The stipulation reached him as she walked on; he didn't immediately follow, instead grasped the moment to tamp down the impulse she had, all but deliberately, evoked. He couldn't press her yet — not for a week or so. But once he had her tied up tight…

She paused, ostensibly to study a case of knives; he watched her, noting the way the light glinted on her curls.

Deception was not the best foundation on which to base a marriage, but he'd told no lies, and wouldn't; he'd merely omitted mentioning a pertinent fact. Once she was his and he was sure of her, then he could tell her the truth — once her feminine heart was committed, she wouldn't care why they were marrying, only that they were.

None of that, of course, required a public courtship. Whether he seduced her now or after they wed made no difference to his plan. However, while he felt no qualms over her imagining that he was marrying her for her money — given it was her idea in the first place — he had an absolute aversion to society imagining any such thing. That, in his lexicon, would be unacceptable conduct, conduct unbefitting a gentleman. Not only would the image be a lie, letting society think he was marrying her purely for monetary reasons, without any real affection, wouldn't reflect well on her. Especially coming hard on the heels of Martin and Amanda's love-inspired union.

In his view, she deserved better.

With a haughty toss of her curls, she moved on. He stepped out, prowling in her wake, his longer strides eating the distance between them despite his languorous pace.

She deserved to be wooed, resistant and suspicious though she was, impatient and dismissive. And it would give him the opportunity he needed to tie her to him with something other than prosaic pragmatism. With something that would render his reason for wedding her inconsequential.

By declining to examine what that reason was, he hoped it would remain in its nascent state, ephemeral — less demanding. Why such a compulsion had surfaced now, why it was so focused on her, the sudden realization that she was the only wife he wanted all contributed to his underlying unease; despite the craving she and that reason evoked in him, she'd shown no sign of any reciprocal emotion.

Yet.

Reaching her side, he took her hand. Met her gaze as she faced him. "I'll need to meet with Emily and Anne soon — it'll be better if they don't see us together."

She arched a brow. "Plotting?"

"Indeed." He held her gaze, then bowed. "I'll see you at the Mountfords' tonight."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Until tonight."

He pressed her fingers, then released them. She turned and looked at the glass case.

Two heartbeats later, he left her.

There was one person who had to know the truth. On returning home, Luc glanced at the clock, then repaired to his study and busied himself with various financial matters awaiting his attention. When the clocks chimed four, he set aside his papers and climbed the stairs to his mother's sitting room.

She would have been resting, but she always rose at four o'clock. Reaching the upstairs gallery, he glimpsed Mrs. Higgs in the front hall below, heading for the stairs, a well-stocked tray in her hands. At his mother's sitting room door, he tapped; hearing her voice bid him enter, he opened the door.

She'd been reclining on the chaise, but was now sitting up, rearranging cushions at her back.

A still beautiful woman, although her dramatic coloring — black hair, fair complexion, dark blue eyes the same as his — had faded, there remained some indefinable quality in her smile, in her fine eyes, that reached out to men and made them eager to serve her. A quality of which she was not oblivious but had not, as far as he knew, employed since his father's death. He'd never understood his parents' union, for his mother was intelligent and astute, yet she'd been unswervingly faithful to a shiftless wastrel, not just during his life, but to his memory, too.

She saw him and raised both brows. He smiled, entered, then held the door for Mrs. Higgs, who inclined her head and swept past to set her tray on the low table before the chaise.

"I've brought two cups, as it happens, and there's plenty of cakes — will you be wanting anything more, m'lord?"

Luc surveyed the small feast Higgs was busily laying out. "Thank you, Higgs, no. This will be sufficient."

His mother added her smiling thanks. "Indeed, thank you, Higgs. And is everything in train for dinner as we discussed?"

"Aye, ma'am." Higgs straightened and bestowed a beaming smile on them both. "All's well on the way, and everything's right with the world."

On that triumphant note, she bobbed and whisked herself out of the room, closing the door behind her.

His mother's smile deepened; she held out her hand and he gripped it, felt her fingers curl tight. "She's been bouncing about all day as if she was eighteen again." Lifting her gaze to his face, she continued, "You brought us around, my son — did I tell you how proud I am of you?"

Looking down into her lovely eyes, glowing and suspiciously bright, Luc quelled a schoolboy urge to shuffle his feet and duck his head. He smiled easily, squeezed her hand, then released it and waved dismissively. "No one is more relieved than I."

He sat in the armchair facing the chaise.

Minerva's shrewd gaze traveled his face, then she reached for the teapot. "I've invited Robert to dine tonight — that was an excellent idea. We'll be serving at six — early for us, but you know how he is."

Luc took the cup she held out to him. "Emily and Anne?"

"I've told them they've been gadding rather too much. As we've no formal dinner to attend tonight, I suggested they nap until seven, then have dinner in their rooms before they get ready for the Mountfords' ball."

Luc's lips twitched. His mother was as ruthless a manipulator as he.

"Now." Minerva sat back with her cup, sipped, then fixed her gaze on his face. "What's troubling you?"

He smiled easily. "I doubt you would call it'trouble'—I've decided to marry."

She blinked, stilled, then widened her eyes. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that decision somewhat sudden?"

"Yes, and no." He set down his cup, wondering how little he could get away with revealing. His mother was remarkably acute, especially when it came to her offspring. The only one she'd been unable to read well was his brother Edward, recently banished for crimes they all still found hard to comprehend.

Shifting his thoughts from Edward, he glanced at his mother. "The decision's recent in that prior to yesterday, as you know, I was in no position to think of marriage. The notion's not recent in that I've had my eye on the lady in question for some time."

Minerva's gaze remained steady. "Amelia Cynster."

It was an effort to mask his shock. Had he been that unknowingly transparent? He pushed the thought aside. Inclined his head. "As you say. We've decided—"

"Wait." Minerva's eyes grew round. "She's already agreed?"

He backtracked. "I came up with her briefly last night." He avoided mentioning where; Minerva would imagine he'd looked in at some ball. "We met again this afternoon and took our discussions further. It's tentative, of course, but…" No matter which way his mind darted, he could see no way to avoid making a reasonably clean breast of the whole. He sighed. "The truth is, she suggested it."

"Great heavens!" Brows flying, Minerva looked her question.

"She'd seen through our facade. From a lot of little things she realized we were hard-pressed. She wishes to marry, reasonably and well — I think Amanda's marriage has left her lonely in a way she's never been before — but she feels no compelling wish to marry any of the eligibles lining up to pay court to her."

"So she thought of you?"

He shrugged. "We have known each other for a very long time. Realizing our family's financial straits, she suggested a marriage between us would serve all our ends. She would become my viscountess, and gain the status of married lady, and the family finances would be repaired."

"And what of you?"

Luc met his mother's dark eyes. After a moment, he said, "I'm agreeable."

She didn't press for more; she studied his expression, then nodded, and sipped. After a long moment, she met his eyes again. "Am I right in assuming you haven't told her you're now fabulously wealthy?"

He shook his head. "It would create a not-inconsiderable degree of awkwardness — you know how she'd feel. As it is…" He stopped himself from shrugging again, picked up his cup, and sipped instead. Prayed his mother would not further pursue his motives.

She didn't, not with words, but she let the silence stretch; her gaze, dark, shrewd, and understanding, remained on him — he felt it like a weight. He had to fight not to shift in the chair.

Eventually, Minerva set her cup on her saucer. "Let's see if I have this straight. While some men pretend to love or at least to a pretty passion to conceal the fact they're marrying for money, you propose to pretend you're marrying for money to conceal—"

"That's merely temporary." He met her eyes, and felt his jaw firm. "I will tell her, but I prefer to choose my own time. Naturally, her confusion will remain entirely between us — as far as society and all others are concerned, we're marrying for the customary reasons."

Minerva held his gaze; a minute passed, then she inclined her head. "Very well." Her voice held a note of compassion. She set aside her cup, her expression gentle. "If that is what you wish, I will engage to say nothing that will preempt your revelation."

That was the undertaking he'd come there to get; they both understood that.

He nodded, finished his tea. Minerva leaned back and chatted on inconsequential matters. Eventually, he rose and took his leave of her.

"Don't forget."

He heard the murmur as he reached the door; hand on the knob, he looked back,

She hesitated; although he couldn't see it, he sensed the frown in her eyes. Then she smiled. "Dinner at six."

He nodded; when she said nothing more, he inclined his head and left.

Later that evening, they walked into the Mountfords' ballroom and joined the queue waiting to greet their host and hostess. Beside Minerva, Luc glanced around. The ballroom was fashionably full, but he couldn't see any head of bouncing golden ringlets.

Behind him, Emily and Anne were sharing breathless confidences with Anne's best friend, Fiona Ffolliot. Fiona was a neighbor's daughter from Rutlandshire; her father's property adjoined Luc's principal estate. Fiona had come to London for part of the Season with her widowed father; they were staying with General Ffolliot's sister in Chelsea. Although well-to-do, the family was not well connected; Minerva had offered to take Fiona about with Emily and Anne, so she could see more, and be seen by more.

Luc had approved. Having Fiona artlessly breezy beside her gave Anne, always timorous and shy, more confidence and in some measure released Emily, older by a year, from Anne's side. It seemed likely that Emily would receive an offer from Lord Kirkpatrick at the end of the Season. They were both young, but the match would be a good one, and was looked upon with favor by both families.

The line of guests shuffled forward. His mother leaned nearer, lowering her voice so that no one else could hear. "I think our dinner was an unqualified success. A nice way to set the seal on our past affairs."

Luc arched a brow. "Prior to burying them?"

Minerva smiled and looked away. "Precisely."

After an instant's pause, he continued, "I'll still be seeing Robert — I don't intend giving up my interest in such endeavors."

His mother opened her eyes at him, then smiled and patted his arm. "Darling, if your interests truly lie in that direction — rather than the other — then I'm certainly not going to complain."

The laughter in her voice, the light that now glowed undimmed in her eyes — the way her spirits in the space of a day had lifted — made all his hard work worthwhile. As he led her on to greet the Mountfords, and heard Emily and Anne's gowns shushing as they followed, Luc mentally acknowledged that, despite the trials of the years — despite his father's efforts and those more recently of Edward — he was yet a lucky man.

And about to get luckier. The thought echoed in his mind when, having settled his mother on a chaise beside Lady Horatia Cynster, Amelia's aunt, he finally caught sight of his bride-to-be. She was whirling down a country dance, oblivious as yet of his presence. Curls jouncing, she was laughing up at Geoffrey Melrose, her partner; Luc wasn't enamored of the sight.

His sisters' and Fiona's hands had also been claimed; they, too, were on the floor. Luc fixed his gaze on Amelia, waited…

She glanced around, saw him — and missed her next step. She quickly looked away, readjusted to the dance; she didn't glance his way again. However, at the end of the measure, she glided over to join his sisters. As throughout this Season both she and Amanda had been assiduous in easing Emily's and Anne's way — a selfless act for which he was more grateful than he had any intention of ever telling either twin — no one saw anything unusual in her making one of their circle.

Not one gossipmonger so much as raised a brow when he strolled across the ballroom to join the group.

They were a colorful and handsome company; the three younger girls, all brown-haired, all somewhat shorter than Amelia, wore gowns of pastel blue and pink, petals surrounded by the gentlemen's darker coats. At the center, Amelia glowed in a silk gown of muted gold. The shade emphasized the ivory perfection of her skin, turned her hair a more definite gold, made her eyes a more intense, more startling blue.

Emily's, Anne's, and Fiona's partners had lingered to chat; three other young gentlemen had come up, hoping to secure the girls' hands for the next dance. To Luc's irritation, Melrose had followed Amelia, and Hardcastle had ambled up, casting covetous eyes over her slender form. Hiding his instinctive snarl behind an easy smile, he bowed to Amelia, nodded to both gentlemen, adroitly maneuvering so he ended by Amelia's side.

She noticed, but other than one glance, gave no sign. After casting a comprehensive glance over his sisters, Fiona and their beaux, he left them, for once, to fend for themselves and turned his attention to Amelia.

To eliminating a potential problem.

"I heard," he murmured into the first lull in the conversation, "that Toby Mick was likely to meet The Gnasher at Derby."

Amelia stared at him; Melrose looked slightly shocked. It was an unwritten rule that gentlemen did not discuss such bloodthirsty subjects as the exploits of the Fancy in the presence of ladies.

Hardcastle, however, positively vibrated with pent-up enthusiasm. He bent a pleading look on Amelia. "You don't mind, do you, my dear?" Without waiting for any reply, he pounced. "It's quite true — I had it from Gilroy himself.

They say it'll be all over in three rounds, but—"

Melrose was torn. Luc merely waited, feigning mild interest, pretending not to notice Amelia's sharp glance.

"And there's talk that now they've doubled the purse, Cartwright is considering throwing his hat into the ring."

The mention of the latest contender was too much for Melrose.

"I say! But is there really any likelihood of that? I mean, it's not as if Cartwright needs the outing — he was in action only two weeks ago on the Downs. Why risk—"

"No, no! You see, it's the challenge."

"Yes, but—"

Luc turned to Amelia. Smiled. "Would you care to stroll?"

"Indeed." She gave him her hand.

He tucked it possessively in his arm. The other two barely broke off their argument to acknowledge their farewells.

"You're wicked," she said the instant they were out of earshot. "One of the matrons will overhear, and then they'll be in trouble."

He raised his brows high. "Did I force them to it?"

"Humph!" Amelia looked ahead, and tried to quell the fluttery sensation that had developed in her stomach. It couldn't be nervousness; she was at a loss as to its cause.

Then Luc leaned nearer, guiding her around a trio of gentlemen. The sudden frisson that flashed down her side — the side he'd brushed — opened her eyes.

Of course! She'd never been this physically close to him, except when he'd been non compos mentis. He was now wide-awake, and closer than the merely polite; she could sense him, hard, strong, and very male, a potent living force beside her.

A distracted moment later, she realized the emotion evoked by his nearness wasn't panic, or fear, but something far more giddy. Decidedly more pleasurable.

She glanced at his face. He felt her gaze and looked down. Then his gaze grew intent; his eyes searched hers.

Her lungs seized.

The introduction for the first waltz cut through the conversations. Luc glanced up; she dragged in a huge breath.

Held it again as he looked back at her. His fingers closed about her hand; he lifted it from his sleeve, then elegantly bowed, his eyes never leaving hers. "My dance, I believe?"

At that precise instant, she would have felt far safer dancing with a wolf, but she smiled, inclined her head, and let him draw her to the floor. What had Amanda called him? A leopard?

And lethal to boot.

She had to agree with her twin's estimation as he gathered her close and steered her into the swirling throng.

Her chest felt tight; her skin came alive. Her wits were giddy, her senses taut. With anticipation, expectation. Of what, she wasn't sure, but that only increased the excitement.

It was ridiculous — they'd waltzed before, on numerous occasions, yet it had never been like this. Never before had his eyes, his attention, been focused, fixed on her. He didn't even seem to hear the music, or rather, the music became part of some sensory whole that included the way their bodies revolved, swayed, touched, brushed as he effortlessly guided them down the long room.

Never before had she been so aware; never had she waltzed like this, with him or anyone else. Drawn into the music, into the moment, into…

Something had changed. Something fundamental — he wasn't the same man she'd danced with before. Even the planes of his face seemed harder, more chiseled, more austere. His body seemed more powerful, the fashionable screen more transparent. And there was something in his eyes as they rested on hers — something… she couldn't place it, but her instincts recognized enough to make her shiver.

He felt it; his lids lowered, long lashes screening his dark eyes. His lips twisted wrily; his hand shifted on her back, reassuring, soothing.

She stiffened. "What are you about?" The words tumbled out before she'd thought, their tone as suspicious as her glance.

Luc opened his eyes wide, resisted the urge to laugh — to ask what the hell she thought he was about. Then the implication struck, and all thought of laughing fled — but he still had to fight to hide his possessive gloat, to keep a smug smile from lifting his lips. Despite his efforts, it must have showed; he quickly moved to dampen the temper building in her eyes. "Don't worry — I know what I'm doing. I told you this afternoon, just follow my lead."

He shifted his hand on her back again, drawing her closer as they went through the turns. "I won't bite, but you can't expect me to change my spots overnight."

Or, indeed, at all, but he left that unsaid. After a moment, the grim look in her eyes eased; he felt her relax once more into his arms — indeed, relax more than before. "Oh — I see."

He sincerely doubted it. He didn't either; it took him a few moments to follow her train of thought, then he realized — she thought the effect he knew he was having on her was simply part of his… mystique. The natural outcome of the application of his popularly acclaimed talents.

In part, she was right, but that didn't fully explain her reaction, or his. Or his to hers, for that matter.

Experience, and his was extensive, told him she was remarkably sensitive, stunningly responsive. The fact that had startled her strongly suggested such responses had been limited, at least thus far in her life, to him.

Hence his surge of appreciation. She was a sensual prize, untouched, unawakened, and she was his, all his. Small wonder he felt like gloating.

He knew, had known for years, that the response she evoked in him was stronger, different, more powerful than with any other woman he'd met. In all those years, concentrating on subduing his own reactions, he'd never thought to look for hers. Why so? He'd never thought of pursuing her. Before.

It took effort to resist the impulse to draw her closer still and push ahead with his plan to tie her to him sensually, yet the wisdom of the years warned that going too fast would risk her guessing his plan — and resisting. She'd become even more suspicious than she had been a moment ago.

However, if he took things gradually, seduced her step by deliberate step, then she, now thinking her responses merely the norm, the usual, nothing out of the ordinary… by the time she realized the strength of her own desire, she'd be too addicted to break free, too enthralled to quibble over why they were marrying, even when he confessed he didn't need her dowry.

The music wound down and they slowed. His senses, every last ounce of his awareness focused on her. On the physical her, on the promise inherent in her slender form, on her skin, her eyes, her lips — the cadence of her breathing.

His, all his.

He had to force his arms to release her, had to screen his intent behind the black veil of his lashes. Had to smile easily, tuck her hand in his arm, and turn back to the other guests. "We'd better stroll."

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."