On A Wicked Dawn by Stephanie Laurens Page B

disguising his disquiet behind an exasperated grimace. “I didn’t mean—“
    â€œNo, no.” She smiled. “I quite understand.”
    That smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Amelia—“
    He reached for her hand, but with a silken swish, she turned back along the path.
    â€œI really think, if that’s the tack you believe we should take, that we ought to get back to the terrace.” She continued in that direction. “We wouldn’t want any of the gossipmongers to overinterpret our state.”
    He caught up with her in two strides. “Amelia—“
    â€œPerhaps you’re right and we should take this more slowly.” A note had crept into her voice, one that gave him pause. “That being so . . .”
    They’d reached the terrace; she stopped before the steps in a patch of light cast by the lanterns. He halted beside her, saw her scan the platoon of guests waiting on the flags for the orchestra to start up. Then she smiled—not at him. “Indeed.” Glancing his way, she inclined her head in dismissal. “Thank you for the walk.” Turning, she started up the steps. “Now I’m going to dance with someone who does appreciate my gown.”

Chapter 4
    The words reached Luc a second too late for him to grab Amelia back. Gaining the terrace, she plunged into the crowd; although he followed in a flash, by the time he located her she was part of a group, chatting animatedly with Lord Oxley, one hand on his lordship’s arm.
    The musicians chose that moment to strike up; the introduction to a cotillion had the guests quickly forming into sets. Jaw clenched, Luc retreated to where shadows draped the house wall; folding his arms, he leaned his shoulders against the wall, and watched Amelia—his bride-to-be—dip and sway through the figures.
    That wretched gown floated about her, a fantasy of shimmering light. He saw at least two accidents caused by gentlemen getting distracted. The emotions that scored him were not familiar, the tension gripping him only partially so. Desire he was accustomed to, could deal with without effort, but this other . . .
    His temper felt raked, rawly sensitive. Overreactive, yet he was rarely that. How had she so easily provoked him to this state?
    At least the damned dance wasn’t a waltz.
    That thought had him cursing. The next dance almost certainlywould be—and he didn’t trust himself to take her in his arms, not in public, not in that excuse for a gown. Yet he knew perfectly well what would happen if he tried to endure watching her waltz—in that gown—with some other man.
    Comprehensively cursing all women—Cynster females especially—he watched and waited. And planned.
    Amelia knew he was watching her; she only smiled more brightly, laughed and charmed Lord Oxley, but only so far. She had no intention of exchanging his lordship for one difficult viscount. Luckily, Luc couldn’t be totally, incontrovertibly, sure of that.
    At the end of the dance, she studiously avoided looking Luc’s way, instead encouraged other gentlemen to gather around. She was watching Mr. Morley bow over her hand when Luc strolled up.
    The instant Morley released her fingers, Luc appropriated them, directed a negligent, possibly bored nod her way, then wound her arm with his and set her hand on his sleeve—leaving his hard palm heavily over it.
    She opened her eyes wide. “I wondered where you were.”
    His dark eyes met hers. “Wonder no more.”
    The four gentlemen who’d surrounded her looked from him to her, confusion in their faces. They would know she’d entered the house on Luc’s arm, but would have assumed their association was as before—a convenient family connection, nothing more.
    Nothing deeper.
    The currents now surging between them, around them, spoke otherwise.
    Wishing his eyes were easier to read, she smiled at