Free On A Wicked Dawn by Stephanie Laurens Page A

her brows, then shrugged. “Tonight was sooner. Anyway”—glancing down, she struggled with one of the tiny buttons closing her gloves—“it’s done now.”
    Impossible to argue that. Luc told himself it didn’t really matter. They reached the front door; he opened it. She was still struggling with her glove.
    â€œHere—let me.” He grasped her wrist, sensed more than heard the quick intake of her breath. Felt the frisson that sheered through her as his sliding fingertips found the gap in the cuff of her recalcitrant glove, found her bare skin.
    He met her gaze, then, gripping, slowly raised her hand and looked at the difficult button.
    She remained absolutely immobile—he didn’t think she even breathed—while he dealt with the tiny closure. The button slipped into place. He looked up, caught her gaze—deliberately rubbed the fine leather, smoothing the button into place, his thumb riding slowly back and forth over the sensitive inner face of her wrist.
    Her eyes sparked; she twisted her wrist—he released her. She looked down, gathering her skirts.
    Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he lounged against the doorframe. “I’ll see you tonight then. Before eight.”
    â€œIndeed.” She inclined her head, but didn’t meet his gaze. “Until then.”
    Head rising, she stepped out and descended the steps. Reaching the pavement, she turned for her home and waved one hand; her footman came quickly up the area steps, nodded to Luc, then fell in behind her.
    Luc dispelled the frown that had been about to form; straightening, he shut the front door—only then did he let his lips quirk. She might have taken it upon herself to initiate the next step, but he still held the whip.
    Satisfied, he headed for his study. Passing the side table at the back of the hall, he paused, contemplated the polished surface. Where was his grandfather’s inkstand? It had stood there as long as he could recall . . . perhaps Higgs in her annual spring cleaning frenzy had taken it for polishing and put it somewhere else. Making a mental note to ask her sometime, he strode on—to the business still waiting behind his study door.
    â€œAre you sure Minerva has room for you in her carriage?”
    Amelia glanced across her bedroom and smiled at her mother. “She said she’d use her traveling carriage. There’ll be just the six of us.”
    Louise considered, then nodded. “None of you is stout, after all. I have to say it’ll be a relief to have a quiet night at home. I still haven’t recovered from the rush of Amanda’s wedding.” After a moment, she murmured, “I suppose I can trust Luc to keep an eye on you.”
    â€œIndeed. You know what he’s like.”
    Louise’s lips quirked. Then she straightened. “No, no!” Amelia had grabbed up her reticule and shawl and was hurrying toward her—she waved her back. “Stop and let me see.”
    Amelia grinned and halted. She slid the cords of her reticule over one wrist, draped her shimmering shawl about her shoulders, then she stood straight, head high, and pirouetted. Then she glanced at Louise.
    Louise nodded approvingly. “I was wondering when you were going to wear that. That shade becomes you.”
    Amelia broke from her pose and hurried to the door. “I know.” She kissed her mother’s cheek. “Thank you for buying it for me.” Stepping on down the hall, she smiled over her shoulder. “I have to rush—I don’t want to be late. Good night!”
    Louise watched her go, a smile on her lips, a softness in her eyes. When Amelia had disappeared down the stairs, she sighed. “You don’t want to miss the chance of setting him back on his heels—I know. Good night, my dear, and good luck. With that one, you’ll need it.”
    * * *
    Decked out in black coat and black trousers, ivory cravat