On A Wicked Dawn by Stephanie Laurens

contender was too much for Melrose.
    â€œI say! But is there really any likelihood of that? I mean, it’s not as if Cartwright needs the outing—he was in action only two weeks ago on the Downs. Why risk—“
    â€œNo, no! You see, it’s the challenge.”
    â€œYes, but—“
    Luc turned to Amelia. Smiled. “Would you care to stroll?”
    â€œIndeed.” She gave him her hand.
    He tucked it possessively in his arm. The other two barely broke off their argument to acknowledge their farewells.
    â€œYou’re wicked,” she said the instant they were out of earshot. “One of the matrons will overhear, and then they’ll be in trouble.”
    He raised his brows high. “Did I force them to it?”
    â€œHumph!” Amelia looked ahead, and tried to quell the fluttery sensation that had developed in her stomach. It couldn’t be nervousness; she was at a loss as to its cause.
    Then Luc leaned nearer, guiding her around a trio of gentlemen. The sudden frisson that flashed down her side—the side he’d brushed—opened her eyes.
    Of course! She’d never been this physically close to him, except when he’d been non compos mentis . He was now wide-awake, and closer than the merely polite; she could sense him, hard, strong, and very male, a potent living force beside her.
    A distracted moment later, she realized the emotion evoked by his nearness wasn’t panic, or fear, but something far more giddy. Decidedly more pleasurable.
    She glanced at his face. He felt her gaze and looked down. Then his gaze grew intent; his eyes searched hers.
    Her lungs seized.
    The introduction for the first waltz cut through the conversations. Luc glanced up; she dragged in a huge breath.
    Held it again as he looked back at her. His fingers closed about her hand; he lifted it from his sleeve, then elegantly bowed, his eyes never leaving hers. “My dance, I believe?”
    At that precise instant, she would have felt far safer dancing with a wolf, but she smiled, inclined her head, and let him draw her to the floor. What had Amanda called him? A leopard?
    And lethal to boot.
    She had to agree with her twin’s estimation as he gathered her close and steered her into the swirling throng.
    Her chest felt tight; her skin came alive. Her wits were giddy, her senses taut. With anticipation, expectation. Of what, she wasn’t sure, but that only increased the excitement.
    It was ridiculous—they’d waltzed before, on numerous occasions, yet it had never been like this. Never before had his eyes, his attention, been focused, fixed on her. He didn’t even seem to hear the music, or rather, the music became part of some sensory whole that included the way their bodies revolved, swayed, touched, brushed as he effortlessly guided them down the long room.
    Never before had she been so aware; never had she waltzed like this, with him or anyone else. Drawn into the music, into the moment, into . . .
    Something had changed. Something fundamental—he wasn’t the same man she’d danced with before. Even the planes of his face seemed harder, more chiseled, more austere. His body seemed more powerful, the fashionable screen more transparent. And there was something in his eyes as they rested on hers—something . . . she couldn’t place it, but her instincts recognized enough to make her shiver.
    He felt it; his lids lowered, long lashes screening his dark eyes. His lips twisted wrily; his hand shifted on her back, reassuring, soothing.
    She stiffened. “What are you about?”
    The words tumbled out before she’d thought, their tone as suspicious as her glance.
    Luc opened his eyes wide, resisted the urge to laugh—to ask what the hell she thought he was about. Then the implication struck, and all thought of laughing fled—but he still had to fight to hide his possessive gloat, to keep a smug smile from lifting his