Stephanie Laurens - On a Wicked Dawn

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."

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.

That was what he'd wanted, intended to achieve with his advancing of their "script." He'd moved to set his mark on her, a first declaration, a preliminary statement of absolute intent.

She was in absolute agreement. He'd set the scene, pledged his troth — now it was her turn. If she would.

She wasn't sure how to do it. Tentatively, she stepped nearer; her bodice brushed his coat. The steely tension holding him increased; the fingers at her nape tightened… with an inward shrug, she boldly kissed him back.

And he froze.

Emboldened, she sent her free hand sliding up to his shoulder, then higher still to trace his lean cheek. She pressed another long, tempting kiss on him, then flicked her fingers free of his slackened grip. Lifting that arm, she draped it on his shoulder, slid her fingers into his silky hair — and stepped closer yet, kissed him more determinedly—

His arms closed around her. He didn't crush her, yet there was no disguising the possessiveness behind the act. She twined her arms about his neck, but she didn't need to hold him to her; she offered her mouth again and he took control, wrested it from her.

His next kiss curled her toes.

Heat flooded her. Not in a searing rush but in a steady relentless tide. It poured down her veins, filled her up, took her over… she clung, and drank, felt her senses slide beneath the heating waves. Let herself sink against him, hard as steel beneath his elegant clothes, felt the vise of his arms close in.

His languidness — always a veneer — had flown. Every kiss seemed deeper, stronger, like a current steadily eroding her ability to resist. Not that she was resisting, a fact he knew. He didn't demand — he asked for no permission at all — but simply took, claimed, opened her eyes, ripped aside the veils, and showed her how far a simple kiss could go.

She was with him every inch of the way.

It was the tensing of her fingers at his nape, the arching of her spine — the sudden, blinding need to take the kiss much further — that jerked Luc back to reality. To sanity.

What the hell were they doing?

Abruptly, he drew back, broke the kiss. Struggled to draw breath, to steady his whirling head.

Couldn't do it with her in his arms, with her slender, pliant, oh-so-feminine body pressed so invitingly to his. His heart thundered. He forced his arms to unlock, forced his hands to grip her waist and set her back from him.

She swayed; he steadied her as she blinked at him in surprise.