On A Wicked Dawn (7 page)

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 if 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.”

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 was unhurried, languid, yet laced with absolute mastery.

She shivered, realized how completely he'd captured her—her wits, her senses. She couldn't see, couldn't hear—was distant from the world and had no wish to go back, no wish to be distracted from the sheer wonder of the kiss. As if he understood, he angled his head and pressed deeper, drew her with him.

Excitement shimmered through her. The intimacy touched her; she found herself eagerly, wantonly, surrendering her mouth—pleasure coursed through her when he took. Claimed.