On A Wicked Dawn (5 page)

The only way he might convince her he wasn't being kind was to admit and explain his desire to have her as his wife.

Once again, his mind seized. He couldn't even explain that desire to himself, did not understand whence its power sprang; the idea of admitting to the type of desire that of itself impelled a man to marriage, in words, to her—the object of said desire—evoked a resistance every bit as rock-solid as his intention to wed her.

He knew her, and the females in her family, very well; such an admission would be tantamount to handing over the reins to her, not something he would willingly do this side of hell. He wanted and would have her to wife, but he was implacably opposed to giving her any unnecessary hold over him.

The fact that others of his kind had ultimately succumbed and done so, most recently Martin, floated through his mind; he ignored it. He had never been inclined to let emotions or desires rule him; if anything, the last eight years had forced him to master them even more rigidly. No woman was capable of overriding his will; no woman would ever control him.

Which left him staring up at the canopy, toying with his remaining option. He considered, analyzed, extrapolated, predicted. Formulated a plan. Searched for and found the flaws, the hurdles; evaluated them, devised the means to counter them.

It was not an easy or straightforward path, yet it was one
that led to his desired destination. And the price was one he was prepared to pay.

He hesitated only long enough to run one last mental assessment; he saw nothing to deter him. Knowing Amelia, he had no time to lose. If he wanted to retain control of their interaction, he needed to act immediately.

Throwing back the covers, he rose. Dragging a sheet off the bed, he wound it around his hips as he crossed to the desk before the window. Sitting, he drew a sheet of fine paper from one pigeonhole and picked up his pen.

He was sanding the note when a footman entered with his washing water. Luc glanced up, then turned back to the note. “Wait a minute.”

He folded the note's corners, then dipped the pen in the inkstand and wrote her name. Waving the note to dry the ink, he turned to the footman. “Deliver this immediately to 12 Upper Brook Street.”

“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 my 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.