On A Wicked Dawn (20 page)

Hands clasped, Dillys stood waiting at the end of the bed, eager for her thoroughness to be approved of so she could be off.

Closing the door, Amelia noted the other little touches she'd requested all in place. “Very good. Now—one last thing.”

From her reticule, she drew out the note she'd scribbled in the parlor downstairs. “When the clocks strike three, give this to the butler. The direction's on the note—simply say I asked that it be delivered immediately.”

“At three o'clock.” Dillys took the note.

Amelia glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; the hands stood at two-forty. “Whatever you do,
don't
forget. I'll ring when next I need you.”

Grinning, Dillys bobbed and departed, closing the door behind her. Amelia turned to the bed, and the garment laid out upon it.

* * *

The three heavy bongs emanating from the longcase clock in the corner of the library drew Luc from his absorption. He glanced at the other gentlemen slumped about the large room; except for two idly discussing some curricle race, the rest had their eyes closed. Some were even snoring.

Half their luck; he couldn't relax enough to nod off. Holding a news sheet before his face, he'd pretended to be catching up on events; in reality, his mind was engrossed with its now-habitual obsession.

Her image blossomed in his mind—that gentle smile that in recent days had flirted across her lips whenever he attempted to reinforce the line he'd drawn
vis à vis
herself and him. Every time that smile bloomed, he had to shackle an urge to kiss it from her lips. And then . . .

Inwardly cursing, he jerked his mind off the very track he'd insisted they would not follow. Yet. Sometime, definitely—just not yet. Unfortunately, ingrained habit was hard to break; simply being here, at a house party, a venue all but expressly designed to further the end he was so determined to delay only added to the already considerable strain of desisting. Resisting.

He shouldn't have come. Having done so amounted to self-flagellation with a very prickly scourge. Just how prickly he'd only realized when he'd held her between his hands in the forecourt—knowing they were here, in a venue he could so easily exploit to gain the ease his body longed for, in a house that was not his, not hers, and where she wasn't, courtesy of her mother's presence, specifically under his protection.

Just how strong his desire to have her had grown, he'd only then fully comprehended.

Only to have her tease him.

Eyes narrowing, he replayed yet again all she'd said, heard again the tenor of her assurance.

He trusted her not one jot. He'd be watching her closely; from this evening on, he'd keep his guard high. . . .

A moment later, he grimaced and surreptitiously shifted. His body was trapped in the most peculiar vise. On the one
hand, he was champing at the bit to have her, on the other, he was desperately reining back, fighting to postpone the very moment he so desired. If anyone had suggested he was capable of contorting himself to this extent, he'd have laughed in their faces.

The door opened. The supercilious butler looked in, saw him, entered, and shut the door. Crossing the floor, the man offered his salver. “For you, my lord. I was told it was urgent.”

Luc nodded his thanks and lifted the folded square. The man had spoken quietly; none of those resting had been disturbed. The two chatting glanced over, then resumed their discussion. The butler bowed and retreated. Luc laid aside the news sheet and opened the note.

Luc—Please come to my room at once.

A.

P.S. It's on the first floor at the very end of the west wing at the top of the stairs at the end.

He frowned, read the note again, then refolded it and slipped it into his pocket.

He might not trust her, yet . . . she couldn't have even settled in. Maybe the lock on her trunk had jammed—no, it had to be something more serious. Perhaps she'd mislaid her jewelry case. Perhaps . . . perhaps she was in some more dire trouble.

Stifling a sigh, he rose. Whatever was behind her summons, she presumably needed him specifically, and the note, hastily scribbled in pencil on a scrap of paper, bore little resemblance to an illicit invitation. With a nod to the two men still awake, he walked from the room.

He found the stairs at the end of the west wing. At this hour, there were few about whose notice he needed to avoid—all the ladies were in their rooms, fussing and unpacking and harrying their maids.

He climbed the stairs and found the right door. Very softly, he tapped.

And heard her call, “Come in.”

He opened the door. The room was large. Sunlight streamed in through two sets of windows, both with their curtains wide. To the left stood the bed, a largish four-poster with diaphanous white curtains presently roped back. The counterpane was of sprigged ivory satin. A jumble of lace-trimmed pillows was massed welcomingly at the bed's head. A dressing table and stool were set against the wall beyond the bed. In the room's center a round table boasted a vase of white lilies, their scent perfuming the air. The area to his right, containing an armoire and dressing screen, the fireplace and a chair, was in relative dimness, the shadows darker in contrast with the brightness elsewhere.

His quick survey failed to locate Amelia. Hovering on the threshold was too dangerous; frowning, he stepped in and closed the door. He opened his mouth to say her name—a movement in the dimness caught his eye.

Caught his breath—every muscle he possessed froze, rigid with . . .

Not exactly shock yet something a long way beyond surprise.

She'd been standing by the edge of the screen, in the deepest shadows. He'd missed seeing her because of the brightness streaming in, the brightness into which, unhurriedly, she moved.

His mouth dried as he realized what she was—and wasn't—wearing. His gaze had locked on her; his wits, driven by instinct, had brutally focused. On the slender ivory goddess, her charms in no way concealed by the translucent silk robe hanging open from her shoulders.

She walked toward him; he couldn't move—couldn't drag his gaze from her. She wore not a stitch beneath the sheer robe, the delights of her body boldly and brazenly displayed.

For him.

The knowledge shook him. He knew he should turn and escape, now, yet he stood rooted to the spot as she neared,
incapable of turning away, of refusing what she was so blatantly offering.

She didn't stop until her breasts met his chest, until her silk-screened thighs brushed his. Reaching up, she looped one all but bare arm about his neck; her other hand splayed on his chest, she met his gaze fearlessly. Expectantly.

His control quaked; he managed to draw enough breath to rasp, “You
promised
. . .”

Her lips curved gently—that sweet, understanding, patronizingly challenging smile. “I told you there was no reason to worry—and there isn't.”

Without conscious direction, his hands fastened about her waist, his intention to put her from him immediately corrupted by the feel of her—the warmth of her skin reaching through the delicate silk, the suppleness, the reality of her body under his hands, so nearly skin to skin.

Sheer seduction.

He knew it—saw the truth, and her understanding, in her face, in the brightness of her blue eyes, in the inherently feminine set of her lips.

Felt the reality rise through him in response, a desire infinitely stronger than any that had come before, a passion immeasurably more compelling.

He made one last attempt to cling to reason, to whatever the reason was that had made him deny this. He could no longer recall what it was, from where or what it sprang.

Her gaze fell to his lips. He dragged in another breath. Opened his lips—

She stretched up, drew his head down, brought her lips close to his—murmured, “Stop thinking. Stop resisting. Just—“

He covered her lips with his, stopped her last entreaty; he didn't need to hear it. He kissed her voraciously, deliberately let the reins he'd been gripping so desperately slide—simply let go. Could do nothing else. Hands splaying, sliding over the fine silk, he closed his arms about her, pulling her close, molding her to him.

Let his senses exult—let them free.

She was right—there was no point trying to resist, not this. Any chance he'd had of escaping had died the instant he'd set eyes on her, on all she was so set on offering him. All but naked in his arms, she clung, and returned his kisses greedily, avidly—flagrantly encouraged him to seize, take, and claim.

Her heart soaring, Amelia felt his arms lock tight, felt, in the lips bruising hers, hard and demanding, his decision. His surrender. He straightened, locking her to him; without interrupting the kiss, he lifted her and walked to the side of the bed.

Halting, he let her down, sliding her body down his, his hands cupping her bottom, pressing her to him, molding her softness against his erection while his tongue plundered her mouth, wreaking havoc with her senses. Within her, heat bloomed, burgeoned, grew—but this time she wanted more.

This time, she wanted it all.

She drew back from the kiss, found breath enough to gasp, “Your clothes.”

Hands on his chest, she pushed his coat wide, trapping his arms. With a curse, he let her go, stepped back, wrenched the coat off and flung it aside.

The violence behind the movement had her blinking. He noticed, and stilled. His eyes, dark, burning, narrowed on hers, then he reached for her; palm curving about her jaw, he tipped up her face, drew her close. He studied her eyes—she didn't try to mask her curiosity. He bent his head, murmured, “You should beware of what you ask for. You might get it.”

She met his lips brazenly, hoping she would—hoping she would meet the wildness she'd glimpsed so fleetingly a moment before. It was a part of him she'd always known was there, lurking behind his facade, a part he kept most deeply hidden—a vibrant, ruthless vital part she suspected was closest to his real nature.

A nature she'd always found fascinating—something different, illicit, veiled. At base, it was why she found him so attractive, why he and only he would do for her.

That revelation was simply there, its truth resonant and clear. She acted on it, grappled with the buttons of his shirt and yanked the halves apart, splayed her hands and touched, searched, grasped—purred with satisfaction. The skin under her palms was hot, the muscles beneath it rigid and locked. His chest was a wonder of rasping black hair and male hardness; her lips, her mouth, flagrantly welcoming, urgently inciting, she filled her hands and filled her senses.

He stripped off his shirt, but made no move to take charge; taking that as acquiesence, she moved on.

Spreading her hands wide, reaching around to hold him to her as he plundered her mouth, his hands closing about, then provocatively kneading the globes of her bottom. The long muscles framing his back flexed like steel beneath her wandering hands. She ran them down, marveling, then followed the heavy line of his ribs forward to caress the rippling bands across his abdomen. They flickered at her touch; he sucked in a breath as she sent her fingers questing lower. Held that breath as she lightly traced the line of his erection.

His attention shifted—she sensed it. He stilled, but didn't stop her when she reached for the buttons at the waistband of his breeches. The tenor of their kiss changed; he was breathing more shallowly, his senses distracted . . .

Inwardly smiling, she slid one hand inside the opened flap, and found him. Rigid, as she'd expected, yet so hot, and with skin so very fine . . .

They both held to their kiss, yet their attention was not there, but on her questing fingers as she explored, and learned. Solid, as wide as her wrist, he more than filled her hand. Closing her fingers, she circled him, and felt him shudder.

She experimented, taking her time even though instinct warned that commodity would be limited, that the surge of heated passion she could feel rising through him, evoked, provoked by her touch—even though he ruthlessly held it back, soon, the dam would break.

And he'd let the tide loose, let it sweep her up, sweep her away.

He proved strong enough to give her the moment, to take advantage himself, despite her continuing ministrations. She was only dimly aware when he stripped her robe from her, releasing her prize to free her arms from the silk only to take him in hand again. Only to set her mind to provoking him further.

Luc clenched his jaw and endured, while his control grew more brittle by the second. She was still a novice, thank the gods, but even so, her instincts were sound, and her hands pure heaven. Yet her body promised ecstasy, and that was his fell aim. That, and more.

He couldn't fault her arrangements; the light was a boon, letting him see her, all of her, now, and later, when he finally had her beneath him. When he finally took her.

The thought sent another surge of heat, of pure unadulterated desire rising through him, hardening and lengthening that part of his anatomy that was currently the object of her fascination even more. She noticed, hesitated; he looked down as she sent her thumb stroking over his aching head.

He didn't need to look to know she'd found a latent drop. Before she could think further, let alone act, he caught his breath, nudged her face up and found her lips again, drew her into a drugging kiss, then ruthlessly, deliberately, let the walls fall, seized and devoured, claimed her mouth, her lips, and sent her senses spinning.

Capturing her wrist, he drew her hand from him, then drew her close, then closer, reveling in the sensation of her silken skin caressing his chest, his arms, his erection, while he plundered her mouth, holding her and her senses captive. She couldn't break free, and wouldn't. From here on, their script was his to dictate.

Amelia knew it; she was helpless against not just his strength, but the power he controlled. She didn't fight it—had no intention of doing so, now or ever. This was what she wanted—for him to make her his. Far from resisting, she sank into his arms, gave herself up to the commanding kiss, surrendered and waited, nerves tight with anticipation, for him to claim her.