On a Wicked Dawn by Stephanie Laurens

Author:Stephanie Laurens [Laurens, Stephanie]
Language: fra
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Historical
Publisher: Avon
Published: 2010-08-25T22:00:00+00:00

Luc held out his hand.

Amelia looked up, met his gaze—then smiled, and slid her fingers into his. They closed firmly; with a flourish, he turned her to their assembled staff.

"I give you your new mistress—Amelia Ashford, Viscountess Calverton!" The roar that answered was deafening; Amelia blushed, smiled, waved, then turned and let Luc lead her on, over the threshold into their home.

The staff followed quickly, streaming past as they stood in the wide front hall listening to Mrs. Higgs's arrangements.

"I've held dinner back to eight-thirty, my lord, my lady, not being sure of when you would arrive. If that's all right?"

Luc nodded. He glanced at Amelia, then raised the hand he still held to his lips. "I'll let Higgs show you up." He hesitated, then added, "I'll be in the library—join me when you're ready." She smiled, inclined her head; he released her.

He stood in his hall and watched her climb the stairs, already deep in discussion with Higgs; when she finally disappeared from his sight, he turned and strode for the library. He would have preferred to show her up to their suite himself, but then Higgs's dinner would have gone to waste, and his servants would have had a field day with their nods, winks, and knowing chuckles. Not that any of that had deterred him.

A glass of brandy in his hand, Luc stood before the long windows of the library and watched the western sky turn black. A summer storm was rolling in; his tenant farmers would be rejoicing. A flash of lightning, still distant, caught his eye.

He raised his glass and sipped, his gaze on the turbulent mass of thunderheads, evidence of a tempestuous force that mirrored the one roiling within him. The force of emotions, passions, and unslaked desire that, suppressed, had steadily escalated throughout the day until every muscle he possessed was rigid, locked in the fight to contain, to restrain, to keep the violence trapped, inside him. For now.

Turning from the window, he crossed to the hearth and dropped into an armchair before it. He didn't want to think of later. The sense, not of being out of control, but of not being fully in control haunted him. As if some part of him he'd never met before, some part he didn't recognize, was driving him. And he was helpless to resist.

He could control his actions, but not change the result; he could dictate the path, but not the ultimate goal.

While his intellect resisted, some deeply buried part of his mind rejoiced, metaphorically threw back his head and laughed at the danger, eager to taste the unexplored, the implicit, untamable wildness, to pit his wits and strength against it, to experience the promised thrill.

He took a long sip, then lowered his glass. "Thank God she's no longer a virgin." He was still sitting, sprawled in the chair, when the door opened and she entered. He turned his head, forced himself to remain still as he watched her cross the long room.

She'd changed into a gown of pale green silk, as delicate as a budding leaf seen through spring dew.

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