On A Wicked Dawn

by Stephanie Laurens

  Except that Devil had used the misunderstanding over his wealth to pressure him, and he—with Devil’s daughter’s help—had now turned that pressure back on Devil.

  Acknowledging that, Devil grimaced, then inclined his head. “Very well—I’ll accept that much reassurance. However”—his green gaze steadied—“you asked for advice, and on this subject I can claim to be an expert. The longer you leave it, the harder it gets.”

  Luc held that compelling gaze for some moments, then nodded. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  Louisa turned her head and stared soulfully at him—as if practicing snaring men’s hearts.

  On leaving St. Ives House, Luc took himself off to his club for sustenance in the form of a neat lunch and the company of various friends. Suitably refreshed, he returned to Upper Brook Street.

  Amelia was out with Louise, parading in the park. Luc considered, then returned to Mount Street and sent his grooms scurrying; five minutes later, he set out in his curricle to extract his bride-to-be from the center of the by now sure to be avidly interested ton.

  He spotted her strolling the lawns on Reggie’s arm, bringing up the rear of a group that included, among others, his sisters, Fiona, and Lord Kirkpatrick. Two younger sprigs he couldn’t place were hovering earnestly at Anne’s and Fiona’s elbows.

  Drawing his greys to a stamping halt by the verge, Luc grasped the moment to study the group. Emily and Mark, Lord Kirkpatrick, had grown progressively close, more discernibly easy in each other’s company—definitely more oblivious to those around them. That was shaping up nicely. As for Anne, as he had hoped, in Fiona’s brightly chattering presence, she was less reserved, although, from the look of concentration on the face of the young man at her side, she was still distinctly quiet. The others of the group were of similar age, similar station; there was no threat there—no wolves in sheep’s clothing or otherwise.

  He shifted his gaze to Amelia. In a white muslin gown sprigged with bright blue, she was a sight for sore eyes—and more. He felt a tug at his heart, in his gut; his gaze roamed her figure, sleek yet distinctly more mature than those of the younger girls around her. She must have felt his gaze, for, quelling her flighty ribbons, blowing in the breeze, she looked around—straight at him.

  Her smile—spontaneous and unreserved in the instant before consciousness of where she was intruded—warmed him. She turned to Reggie, pointed to the carriageway; with a word to the others, they left the group and strode, swift and eager, toward him.

  His impulse was to descend and meet her, however, a single glance around confirmed that, as he’d feared, they were the unrivaled center of attention. Every eye that could reasonably roll their way was fixed on them.

  He nodded to Reggie. Reaching down, he grasped the hand Amelia held out to him. “Step up. Quickly.”

  She did, without question; he drew her up to the seat beside him. As she sat, he looked at Reggie. “Can you manage with that lot—and tell Louise I’ll return Amelia to Brook Street within the hour?”

  Reggie, struggling to hide a grin, opened his eyes wide. “Within the hour?”

  Luc narrowed his eyes at him. “Indeed.” He glanced at Amelia; she met his gaze. “Hang on.”

  She did; he backed the curricle, then flicked the reins and set the greys pacing. Without a single glance right or left—refusing to allow anyone to catch his eye, wave, and detain them—he guided the greys, not down the Avenue but straight out of the park.

  Amelia turned his way as they passed through the gates, a smile on her lips, an intrigued light in her eyes. “Where are we going?”

  He took her home—to his home, Calverton House—to his study, the one place he could think of where no one would interrupt, where they could discuss the necessary arrangements, and he could distract her if need be.

  Cottsloe opened the door to them; stepping back, he beamed. “My lord. Miss Amelia.”

  Speculation flared in Cottsloe’s eyes, stoked by the fact that he, Luc, had Amelia’s hand firmly in his. He led her into the front hall. “You deserve to be among the first to know, Cottsloe—Miss Amelia has done me the honor of consenting to be my wife. She will shortly be Lady Calverton.”

  Cottsloe’s beaming smile threatened to split his round face. “My lord—Miss Amelia—pray accept my heartfelt congratulations.”

  Luc grinned. Amelia smiled. “Thank you, Cottsloe.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, my lord . . . ?”

  Luc caught Amelia’s eye, saw the same unvoiced question there. “Next Wednesday. A bit rushed, but summer’s nearly here.” His gaze locked with Amelia’s, he raised her hand to his lips. “And there seems no reason to dally.”

  Her eyes widened; he could sense the questions rising in her mind. He glanced at Cottsloe. “We’ll be in the study. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  He turned and, Amelia’s hand still locked in his, strode down the hall. Flinging open the study door, he went in, towing Amelia behind him—then he turned, pushed the door shut, twirled her about and backed her against the panels. Sank one hand into her golden curls and kissed her.

  Ravenously.

  Surprise froze her for an instant, then she kissed him back—wound her arms about his neck and invited him to devour.

  And he did. The taste of her, the softness of her mouth, willingly yielded, was nectar to his soul; just over a day had passed since he’d last had her in his arms, yet he was already starving.

  Hungry, and greedy, too.

  She was very ready to appease his appetite—and hers. He felt her hands slide down his chest, then lower; he grasped her waist, lifted her, then used his weight to hold her trapped against the door, her head just lower than his, her hands no longer able to reach his hips.

  Draping her arms over his shoulders, holding him to her, she gave her full attention to the kiss—as did he.

  They were both gasping, his chest heaving, her breasts rising dramatically, when they finally broke the kiss. They didn’t move apart—didn’t move at all—but remained, foreheads touching, gazes meeting fleetingly from under heavy lids. Lips separated by a breath.

  While they waited for the thunder in their ears to subside.

  Eventually, he murmured, “I’ve seen your father, and Devil, too.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Both?”

  He nodded. “We discussed things . . .” He touched his lips to hers, savored their warmth, their clinging softness. “We went over all the points that needed to be addressed.” Angling his head, he nudged her chin up, and set his lips cruising the sensitive skin beneath her jaw.

  “And?”

  “And there’s nothing—no one—standing in the way of our wedding.”

  He felt the tension—pure anticipation—tighten her spine.

  “They agreed to Wednesday?”

  He nodded. “Wednesday.” Raising his head, he looked into her bright eyes, then bent his head again. “On Wednesday next, you’ll be mine.”

  Chapter 11

  That evening, Amelia and her mother attended Lady Hogarth’s musicale. On the list of social events Luc most hated, musicales ranked at the top. Consequently, he went to dinner with friends, then ambled around to Watier’s.

  An hour later, inwardly disgusted, he handed his cane to Lady Hogarth’s butler. The man bowed, silently indicating the long corridor that led to the music room. Hardly necessary; a pained cauterwauling emanated from that direction. Suppressing a wince, Luc strolled toward the screeching.

  Reaching the arched doorway, he paused and reconnoitered; the room was packed with ladies, mostly matrons, some of Amelia’s age but few of the younger set. There were other balls on tonight; his mother and sisters had planned to attend two. Lady Hogarth’s event had attracted those who considered themselves musical aficionados or who were, like Amelia and Louise, in some way connected.

  There were few gentlemen present. Grimly accepting he’d stand out like a crow among seagulls, Luc waited until the
soprano was well launched, then strolled nonchalantly to where Amelia was seated along one wall.

  She saw him, blinked, but managed not to gawp. Louise, beside her, glanced around to see what had distracted Amelia; her gaze fell on him—her eyes narrowed.

  He’d been a tad late—an hour late to be precise—in returning her daughter that afternoon. Amelia had slipped straight upstairs; he hadn’t waited to exchange words with Louise. Her expression stated she had no difficulty guessing precisely what to make of that.

  Bowing, first to Louise, then Amelia, he stepped into the space beside Amelia’s chair, resting his hand on its back.

  And pretended to listen to the music.

  He hated sopranos.

  Luckily, the recital lasted only another ten minutes. Just long enough for him to fabricate an answer to the fraught question of what had possessed him to appear.

  As the applause died, Amelia twisted in her chair and looked up at him. “What . . . ?” Her hand rose to grip his on the chair back.

  He’d met her gaze, but her touch distracted him. He looked at their hands, after a frozen instant managed to catch his breath, then smoothly turned his hand, closing his fingers around hers. Beneath his fingertips, the feel of the ring he’d placed on her finger that afternoon elicited a primitive jolt of satisfaction.

  “There’s no difficulty—no problem.” He answered the question he’d seen flaring in her eyes. Meeting them again, he bent closer. “I wanted to warn you I’ve placed a notice in the Gazette—it’ll appear tomorrow morning.”

  Glancing at the female crowd about them, most only just noticing his presence, knowing the hiatus that had permitted him even this much private speech would continue for mere seconds, he added, “I didn’t want you to be taken by surprise when half the ton descends on Brook Street in the morning.”

  She studied his eyes, then smiled—a natural, artless smile, yet behind it he sensed a lingering trace of that other smile that never failed to tease him.

  “I’d assumed you’d do something of the sort, but thank you for the confirmation.” She rose, shaking out her turquoise silk gown.

  He caught her slipping shawl, draped it over her shoulders. She looked back at him, smiled again—this time, in commiseration. “I’m afraid we’re for it.”

  They were; those who’d attended the Hightham Hall house party had had a whole day to spread their news. Expectations were running high; his appearance tonight had only fanned the flames.

  Besieged, he had no option than to stand by Amelia’s side and deflect the arch queries as best he could. His temper growled, but he reined it in, aware its irritation was entirely his own fault. The temptation to see her, to confirm that she was there, happy and content—that she’d recovered from being introduced to the concept that a desk could be used for activities other than writing—had crept up on him, niggling until it had seemed the easier of all evils simply to give in. Having surrendered to such weakness, this—coping with the avid interest of the matrons—was the price he had to pay.

  Having appeared at all, he felt compelled to remain and escort Amelia and Louise home; his social mask anchored in place, he stoically remained by Amelia’s side and refused to be drawn, refused to be tempted into any confirmation of what the Gazette would reveal tomorrow.

  Tomorrow was soon enough for these harpies to learn of his fate. They could gloat then, out of his sight.

  Amelia held to the same line, neither confirming nor denying what everyone suspected was the truth. Tomorrow they’d all know, and she’d have to share; tonight was her moment to hug the knowledge to herself, to savor her victory.

  Incomplete though it was. Yet she’d never imagined that he’d fall in love with her just like that, purely because she suggested they marry. But they’d soon be wed, and she’d have time and opportunity aplenty to open his eyes, to lead him to see her as something more than just his bride.

  She was used to social discourse, accustomed to the frequent need to slide around or ignore impertinent questions. Dealing with the inquiries of the many who flocked about them, those who’d spoken stepping back to let others take their place, was as easy as breathing. Under cover of the incessant conversation, she slanted a glance at her husband-to-be.

  As usual, she could divine little, not now, not in public. Yet in those private moments they shared . . . she was becoming more adept at reading him then. The hour and more they’d spent that afternoon in his study had been one such moment. One thing she was now quite confident of: he had never given his heart to any other woman.

  It was there, hers to claim if she was willing to brave the fates and seize it. She knew him well; at some instinctive level she sensed his mind, was already close enough to him to, sometimes, know what he felt. That afternoon, when he’d had her laid across his desk, his to savor and take as he wished, there’d been something in his eyes, some recognition that with her, between him and her, there was something more than the merely physical.

  The suspicion that he might already have recognized some deeper link between them had intensified later, when, with her slumped, deliciously exhausted, on his lap, he’d slipped the pearl-and-diamond ring—the betrothal ring that had been in his family for generations—on her finger. The moment had, at least for her, shimmered with emotion; she was willing to wager he hadn’t been immune.

  A first glimmer of the ultimate victory she sought, or so she hoped.

  Her gaze had remained on his face too long; he turned, met it, raised a brow. She only smiled and turned back to the matrons eager to extract her news. And let her mind dwell on that ultimate victory.

  The evening was drawing to a close when Miss Quigley approached. Although as curious as the others, Amelia and Luc’s putative relationship was not uppermost in her mind. “I wondered, Miss Cynster”—Miss Quigley lowered her voice, turning a little aside from the rest—“did you by any chance see Aunt Hilborough’s lorgnettes lying about anywhere at Hightham Hall?”

  “Her lorgnettes?” Amelia remembered them—anyone who’d met Lady Hilborough would; she wielded the item more to point than to look. “No.” She thought back, then shook her head decisively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

  Miss Quigley sighed. “Ah, well—it was worth inquiring.” She glanced around, then lowered her voice further. “Mind you, now I’ve learned Mr. Mountford is missing his snuffbox, and Lady Orcott her perfume flask, I have to say I’m beginning to wonder.”

  “Good heavens.” Amelia stared. “But perhaps the items were misplaced . . . ?”

  Miss Quigley shook her head. “We sent back to Hightham Hall the instant we reached London. Lady Orcott and Mr. Mountford did the same. You can imagine—Lady Hightham must have been quite beside herself. Hightham Hall has been searched, but none of the missing items were found.”

  Amelia met Miss Quigley’s serious gaze. “Oh dear.” She looked to where Louise stood not far away, chatting to some others. “I must tell Mama—I doubt she’s checked her jewelry case, let alone all those other little things one takes. And Lady Calverton, too.” She looked back at Miss Quigley. “Neither she nor her girls are here tonight.”

  Miss Quigley nodded. “It appears we all need to be on our guard.”

  Their gazes met—neither needed to specify just what they needed to guard against. There was, it seemed, a thief among the ton.

  At eight the next morning, Luc sat alone at his breakfast table and studied his copy of that morning’s Gazette.

  He’d deliberately risen early—long before his sisters would be up and about. He’d come down to see—to stare at, to ponder—his fate, his destiny, printed in black-and-white.

  There it was—a short, sensible notice informing the world that Lucien Michael Ashford, sixth Viscount Calverton, of Calverton Chase in Rutlandshire, was to marry Amelia Eleanor Cynster, daughter of Lord Arthur and Lady Louise Cynster of Upper Brook Street, at Somersham Place on Wednesday, June 16.

  Laying the paper down, he sipped his coffee, and tried to define what
he felt. The primary emotion he could identify was a simple one: impatience. As for the rest . . .

  There was a great deal more swirling inside him—triumph, irritation, anticipation, deprecation—even a faint lick of desperation, if he was truthful. And underneath them all ranged that unnameable force, grown stronger, more powerful—more compelling, more demanding.

  Just where it would lead him—how far it would drive him—he didn’t know.

  His gaze fell to the paper, to the notice therein.

  A moment later, he drained his mug, rose and strolled from the breakfast parlor. He paused in the front hall to collect his riding gloves.

  It no longer mattered where the path led—he was committed, publicly and privately, and despite all uncertainties, he did not, not for a minute, question the rightness of his direction.

  The future was his, to make of it what he pleased.

  Drawing his gloves through his hands, he grimaced. Unfortunately, his future now contained her, and she wasn’t a force he could completely control.

  The clop of hooves on the cobbles reached him; with a nod to the footman who hurried to open the door, he strode out of his house.

  Pausing on the porch, he lifted his face to the morning sunshine and mentally looked ahead, weighed up the immediate future. When all was considered, he still felt the same.

  Impatient.

  While Luc rode in Hyde Park, not far away, a young lady entered the garden at the center of Connaught Square, and approached a gentleman garbed in a long, drab driving coat standing beneath the branches of an ancient oak.

  As she neared, the lady inclined her head stiffly. “Good morning, Mr. Kirby.”

  Her voice squeaked.

  Kirby stirred and nodded brusquely. “What did you get this time?”