On A Wicked Dawn by Stephanie Laurens Page A

room. It took them half an hour to manage it; they were constantly stopped by ladies and gentlemen, the ladies to comment on her gown, some genuinely complimenting, others ingenuously exclaiming over her daring in wearing it, the gentlemen to flatter and compliment, albeit largely in nonverbal vein.
    When they finally won free and gained the terrace doors, Luc’s jaw was set, his expression unrelentingly grim—at least to Amelia’s eyes. She could sense the breadth and depth of his temper, could sense his increasingly strained control.
    Considered ways to further exacerbate it.
    â€œHow pretty!” She stepped onto the terrace flags.
    Luc’s fingers slid from her elbow—where they’d been locked ever since they’d arrived—to her wrist, then he grasped her hand and came up alongside, placing her hand on his sleeve—trapping it there. “I hadn’t realized their gardens were so extensive.” He scanned the shadowy walks leading down and away. “You can barely hear the river from here.”
    â€œJust a faint lapping and the occasional splash of oars.” She was looking around herself. “It appears they’re having the dancing out here.” She nodded to a group of musicians, resting with their instruments at one end of the wide terrace.
    â€œLet’s stroll.”
    If they didn’t, others would soon join them; she had no interest in conversing with anyone but Luc. Even with him, she’d prefer to exchange something other than words, and the garden promised to be the best venue for that. She went down the terrace steps at his side.
    The gravel walks spread in numerous directions; they took the least frequented, leading away under the leafy branches of a grove. They walked through successive bands of moonlight and shadow; she held her tongue, aware ofLuc’s gaze, aware that it returned as if against his will to her bare shoulders, to the bared upper curves of her breasts.
    She wasn’t surprised when he eventually growled, “Where the devil did you find that gown?”
    â€œCelestine had it brought in from Paris.” She glanced down, fluffed up the ruffle that formed the bodice, supremely conscious that his gaze followed her every move. “Different, but hardly outrageous. I like it, don’t you?”
    She glanced up; even in the dim light she saw his lips thin.
    â€œYou know damned well what I—and every other male present this side of senility—think of that gown. Think of you in that gown.” Luc bit his tongue, stifling the words: Think of you out of that gown . Narrow-eyed, he glared at her. “As I recall, we’d agreed that you would follow my lead.”
    She opened her eyes wide. “Isn’t this”—slipping her hand from beneath his, she spread her shimmering skirts—“along the path we’re supposed to walk—that society expects us to tread?” Halting, she faced him. They were far enough from the terrace, and there were no other guests in the vicinity; they could speak without restraint. “Isn’t it expected that I’d wish to dazzle you?”
    His eyes couldn’t get any narrower; he gritted his teeth, spoke through them. “You’re dazzling enough without the gown.” What was he saying? “I mean an ordinary, usual gown would have sufficed. That”—with one finger, he indicated the scintillating garment—“is going too far. It’s too dramatic. It doesn’t suit you.”
    He meant that things dramatic didn’t suit her; Amanda was dramatic, Amelia was . . . whatever she was, it was something else.
    Courtesy of the overhead branches, her face was in shadow, even when she lifted her chin. “Oh?”
    There was nothing in the syllable to suggest she’d taken offense; indeed, her tone seemed light. It was the set of her chin that sent a warning snaking down his spine, sent him rushing into speech,