On A Wicked Dawn Read Free Page B

arm’s reach.
    Her eyes narrowed, glittering in the weak light. “So what’s your considered opinion—do you think our marrying is a good idea?”
    He met her gaze, then raised one hand, lightly traced her jaw, tipped up her face. Openly, unhurriedly, studied her features, wondered what she would do if he simply . . . he fixed his gaze on her eyes. “Yes. Let’s get married.”
    Wariness stole into her eyes. He wondered what she’d seen in his face; he reassembled his social mask. Smiled. “Marrying you”—his smile deepened—“will be entirely my pleasure.”
    Releasing her, he swept her a magnificient bow—
    A mistake. One he had only the most fleeting inkling of before his vision went black.
    He collapsed on the floor at her feet.
    Amelia stared at his crumpled form. For one moment, she was completely at a loss—half expected him to rise and make some joke. Laugh . . .
    He didn’t move.
    â€œLuc?”
    No answer. Wary, she edged around until she could see his face. His long lashes were black crescents smudged over his pale cheeks. His brows, the planes of his face, looked oddly relaxed; his lips, long, thin, so often set in a severe line, were gently curved. . . .
    She let out her breath in an exasperated hiss. Drunk! Damn him! When she’d wound up her courage, come out solate at night, stood in the cold dark for hours, then managed to get through her rehearsed proposition without a single fluster—and he was drunk ?
    In the instant before her temper took flight, she remembered he’d agreed. Perfectly lucidly. He might have been giddy, but he hadn’t been incapable—indeed, until he’d fallen, she’d had no idea, hadn’t been able to tell from his manner or his speech. Drunks slurred their words, didn’t they? But she knew his voice, his diction—he hadn’t sounded the least bit odd.
    Well, the fact he’d kept quiet and let her talk without interruption had been odd, but it had worked to her advantage. If he’d made his usual barbed comments, picked at her arguments, she’d never have got them all out.
    And he’d agreed. She’d heard him, and, more importantly, she was sure he’d heard himself. He might be all but unconscious now, but when he awoke, he’d remember. And that was all that mattered.
    Euphoria—a sense of victory—seized her. She’d done it! Staring down at him, she could hardly believe it—but she was here, and so was he; she wasn’t dreaming.
    She’d come to his house and made her proposition, and he’d accepted.
    Her relief was so great it left her giddy. A chair stood nearby, against the wall; she sank onto it, relaxed back, and studied his recumbent form.
    He looked so peaceful, slumped on the tiles. She decided it was a good thing he’d been drunk—an unexpected bonus; she was perfectly certain he didn’t normally imbibe to excess. The concept was so un-Luc-like; he was always so rigidly in control. It must have been some special occasion—some friend’s great good fortune or some such—to have resulted in his present state.
    His long limbs were tangled; his face might look peaceful, but his body . . . she sat up. If she was going to marry him, then presumably she should ensure he didn’t wake with a cricked neck or a twisted spine. She considered him; shifting,even dragging him, wasn’t an option. He was over six feet tall and broad-shouldered and while he was rangy and lean, his bones were typical of men of his background—heavy. The remembered thud as they’d hit the floor assured her she’d never manage to meaningfully move him.
    With a sigh, she stood, gathered her cloak, and walked into the drawing room. The bellpull was by the mantelpiece; she tugged it, then returned to the door. Almost closing it, she stood in the dark drawing room and watched.
    Minutes