On A Wicked Dawn (6 page)

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?”