On a Wild Night (26 page)

She didn't pretend to misunderstand. She met his gaze directly, appeared to consider how best to explain. “I told you before, I want more. There's something only you can give me, but unless and until you agree to do so, I will not agree to marry you.”

“What is this thing?”
He managed not to roar, but the bellow vibrated in his voice.

“That,” she replied, her tone turning glacial, “is what
you
”—she jabbed his chest—“have to discover! I'm only
assuming
you have what I need. If you don't . . .”

Her gaze suddenly unfocused, she drew back, turned her head away. “If you don't, then you haven't, and that will be that.”

He gritted his teeth, then opened his lips—probably on unwise words—

Hooves clattered outside and she swung to the door, putting up the hood of her domino. “I wish to return to the masquerade, my lord.”

He closed his eyes for one instant, reshackled his temper, then reached out and wrenched the door wide. “As you please, my lady.”

 

His. She was, very definitely, that.

If it hadn't been for the hours they'd spent in his bed, he might have wondered if she'd played him for a fool, if she'd been interested only in an illicit interlude, or four, with one whom her circle would dub seriously dangerous. Even now, he wasn't sure his reputation hadn't, in part, contributed to the attraction, at least at first. But now . . . now, there was more to her motives than simple lust.

Returning to his bedchamber an hour later, having seen her back into the chaos of the masquerade, watched until she'd found her sister and Carmarthen and left, he exhaled. He was relaxed but not at peace, tired but not sleepy. Shutting the door, he headed for the huge armchair before the fire. A splotch of white glowing against the rich hues of the rug caught his eye.

The orchids he'd sent her, the orchids she'd worn at her throat so he'd known her instantly; he picked them up.

She'd left the masquerade as soon as she'd rejoined her sister and Carmarthen; at the time, he'd wondered if that was because she'd known he was watching and he wouldn't allow her to flirt with other gentlemen, or because she'd only attended the masquerade to meet with him. Dropping into the armchair, he turned the orchids between his fingers. His frame of mind, then, had not been all that rational.

Looking back on their encounters, studying the orchids, he knew full well it was the latter—she'd come to meet him, as she had so often before.

Aside from anything else, she was not that sort of woman—the sort who went easily, without thought or affection, to a man's bed. She was a Cynster—he understood her type well. She came from the same stock as he, but he'd never known a Cynster female, one born and bred, only Cynster males. His experience of her thus far suggested he'd be wise to extrapolate.

Thus far, he'd underestimated her at every turn.

He'd known from the first that she was playing some game, yet he hadn't been able to perceive her goal—what she'd wanted to win. He'd let himself be cajoled into playing with her, let himself fall under her spell, all the while confident that she—an innocent no matter her years—could not possibly wring from him anything he didn't wish to give.

He considered the orchids, the thick, milky-white petals soft, smooth, like her skin, then curled his fingers, closed his hand about the flowers.

Breathed in their scent.

Closed his eyes, let his head rest against the chair's back.

He knew what she wanted.

He'd hoped to avoid having to play for that stake, having to defend it, yet she'd taken every trick thus far, and left him with little else to toss on the table to avoid having to risk his heart.

A log in the fireplace cracked, broke. Opening his eyes, he watched the flames leap, felt their warmth roll over him.

Considered his last remaining option.

For there was one thing more, one trump he yet held, a penultimate card that just might see him through, might let him turn the tide and seize her hand—and her—without having to risk his heart's defenses.

The question was: was he willing to play it?

“These arrived for you a few minutes ago, Miss Amanda.”

Reaching the front hall, Amanda looked up as Colthorpe offered a tissue-wrapped spray of flowers on his salver. “Thank you, Colthorpe.”

Amelia joined her as she picked up the spray. Together with Louise, presently descending the stairs, they were about to leave for Lady Matcham's grand ball. “That ribbon's gold thread,” Amelia murmured.

Amanda studied the spray. The tissue protecting the blooms was caught in the ribbon so it could easily be freed. Holding the beribboned stems, she tugged; the tissue came away, revealing three perfect white orchids.

Amelia stared; Amanda did, too.

Louise arrived beside them. “How lovely!” She picked up the spray, examined the blooms. “Incredibly exotic.” She returned the spray to Amanda. “Who are they from?”

Amanda glanced at Colthorpe. “There wasn't a note.”

Colthorpe shook his head. “Delivered by a groom in dark brown livery, green-and-gold piping. I didn't recognize the house.”

“Well.” Louise headed for the front door. “You'll just have to carry it and see who comes to claim your hand.”

Amanda glanced at Amelia; Amelia stared back.

“Come along now, or we'll be late.”

“Yes, Mama.” Amelia linked her arm with Amanda's and urged her forward. “Come on—you'll have to go and see.”

“Indeed.” Amanda fell in beside her, her gaze locked on the three delicate blooms.

She would have to go and face her lion.

 

Martin waited until the very last minute, until the last stragglers had arrived and Lady Matcham and her spouse were about to abandon their post at the top of their ballroom stairs. When he handed the butler his card, the man nearly dropped it, but he recovered well enough, stepping forward to announce to the assembled company that the Earl of Dexter had arrived.

If he'd announced the plague, the butler couldn't have gained greater notice. Silence spread, rippling out from the foot of the stairs until it engulfed the entire ballroom. Conversation died as every head turned, necks craning to get a better look.

Martin walked forward. Taking her ladyship's instinctively extended hand, he bowed easily. “Ma'am.”

For one instant, Lady Matcham simply stared, then triumph wreathed her features. “My lord. Might I say that it's a signal . . .”—she ran an eagle eye over him, from his elegantly cropped locks, over shoulders encased in fashionable evening black, over perfectly tied cravat and impeccable waistcoat—after all, she had been one of his mother's bosom-bows—then she nodded in approval—“pleasure to see you finally out of your lair?”

In the ballroom below, the whispers commenced—ferociously.

Martin nodded to Lord Matcham, who nodded back, clearly intrigued by Martin's unexpected attendance. Martin replied, “It was time and the arrival of your invitation seemed a stroke of fate.”

“Indeed?” With a wave, Lady Matcham dismissed her spouse, took Martin's arm and turned to the stairs. “As I recall you always did have a silver tongue—be warned, you're going to need it. I intend to introduce you to every hostess you've spent the last year hiding from.”

His lazy, social smile in place, Martin inclined his head. “If you think it necessary.”

“Oh, I do,” Lady Matcham informed him. “I most certainly do.”

He escorted her down the stairs into the large ballroom. For a hostess of her ilk, tonight—his presence—would greatly augment her standing. The round of introductions would set the seal on her success; for him, it was a small price to pay.

Ultimately, being reintroduced to the senior hostess might be to his advantage; as he bowed and exchanged drawled, occasionally barbed comments with the ladies who, all pretense aside, controlled the ton, he put the final touches to his latest plan. His latest ploy to win Amanda's hand.

Most of the hostesses were simply pleased to meet him, to exchange words and extract a promise to have their next invitations given due consideration. Two—Lady Jersey, the younger, and Countess Lieven—one garrulous, the other coldly haughty, attempted in their wildly differing ways to glean the reason behind his unexpected change of heart, his reacknowledgment of the world that had for the past year been existing ignored on his doorstep; he merely smiled and left them wondering, knowing perfectly well that nothing was more certain to keep their attention fixed on him. It was obvious to them that
something
must have brought him here; such avid gossips as they were, they were rabid to learn what.

When, finally, he turned from speaking with old Lady Osbaldestone—he'd been stunned to discover the old tartar still alive, and still so determinedly terrifying—Lady Matcham threw him a considering glance. “Is there anyone—any young lady—to whom you'd like to be introduced?”

He glanced at her. “Yes.” Lifting his head, he looked across the room. “There's a young lady in an apricot gown in the center of that group.”

“Oh?” Lady Matcham was too short to see over the circle of male shoulders. “Whoever she is, she doesn't appear to need more dance partners.”

“Quite.” Martin heard the steely note in his voice. He
smiled at Lady Matcham. “She's my partner for the first waltz, but I suspect she hasn't yet realized. I think we should break the news to her, don't you?”

Fascinated, Lady Matcham clearly debated an order to be told all, but recognized it would gain her nought. “Very well.” Placing her hand on his sleeve, she allowed him to steer her toward the group in question. “The Season has been rather dull, thus far.”

When they neared the group and the gentlemen parted, revealing the lady who was the focus of their collective interest, her ladyship's eyes widened, then she smiled. “Ah . . . Miss Cynster. Permit me to introduce his lordship, the Earl of Dexter.”

“Miss Cynster.”

Martin bowed, effortlessly elegant—as if he hadn't eschewed ballrooms for the past ten years. Amanda stared, then belatedly remembered and sank into a curtsy of the required degree.

Martin took her hand and raised her. Faintly arched a brow when she remained silent. She lifted her head. “My lord. I'm surprised to see you here—I had heard you found little to interest you in the ton's entertainments.”

His lips curved; his moss-agate eyes held hers. “Times change.”

Lady Matcham's gaze sharpened; she turned to the gentleman on Amanda's right. “Lord Ventris—there's a young lady I wish to present to you. You may give me your arm.” Without waiting to be offered it, Lady Matcham twined her arm with his lordship's and, like a galleon, towed him away.

Leaving the way clear for Martin to fill the gap at Amanda's side, which he did with smooth grace.

“As I daresay you've heard,” he murmured, his voice low yet not intimate, “I've been . . . shall we say, out of touch? . . . for some years. Tell me—does this qualify as an average event, or is it quieter than the usual?”

It had been until he'd arrived. Clinging to wits that had not yet steadied—and probably wouldn't with him so close—she managed a serene smile. “This is an average gathering—wouldn't you say so, Lord Foster?”

“Oh, ah—indeed.” Lord Foster glanced around as if studying the room for the first time. “Average enough, don't you know.”

An uneasy silence fell. Amanda bit her lip—there were six other gentlemen gathered about, but they'd all been struck dumb by the advent of Dexter—the ton's very own untamed lion—into their midst. They were all eyeing him as if he were some exotic beast who might bite if provoked. Inwardly sighing, she opened her lips to comment on the weather—

Lord Elmhurst turned to Martin. “I say, is it true that you acted for the Government in negotiating with the maharajahs?”

Martin hesitated, then inclined his head. “In certain matters.”

“Did you travel much on the subcontinent?”

“Did you meet any Pathan warriors? Fearsome fellows, I hear.”

So much for the weather. Amanda stood and listened as Martin fended question after query on his activities in India. She tried to turn her mind to the highly pertinent question of what he intended with this latest start, but found it impossible to concentrate. More gentlemen joined the circle, drawn by the male voices and the potent sense of excitement.

“My cousin works for the Company there—he writes that you were an acknowledged hero within the Company's ranks.”

“I heard that you singlehandedly convinced the Maharajah of Rantipopo to allow us to trade in his emeralds.”

She pricked up her ears at such details, tucked them away for later dissection, to be added to the sum of all she knew of him.

“Did you ever visit one of their harems?” The eager question from young Mr. Wentworth overrode the first notes emanating from the orchestra.

Martin smiled at Mr. Wentworth, then turned that smile, rather more intently, on her. “That's the prelude to the first waltz, I believe.” With a nod, he indicated the orchids she carried in her hand.

She looked down, saw them, remembered.

Heard him softly say, “As you've done me the honor of carrying my token, I presume you'll do me the honor of granting me this dance.”

It wasn't any kind of question; she
was
carrying the orchids, and he'd just claimed them. Plastering a smile on her lips, she looked up, offered her free hand. “The honor is mine, my lord.” Then she opened her eyes wide. “You do waltz, don't you?”

His smile was feral as his fingers closed about hers. “You may judge for yourself.”

She knew he waltzed like a god, but she wanted everyone else to think they'd never met before. She had to let him lead her to the floor, let him take her in his arms, in front of the entire ton. In front of a host of extremely interested eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Despite having to speak through her smile, she imbued the words with an angry hiss.

He met her gaze as they started to revolve. His lips kicked up at the ends. “Changing the rules.”

“What rules?”

“The rules of our game.”

That did not sound promising, not from where she stood, within the circle of his arms in the middle of a tonnish ballroom.

She'd expected him to appear tonight—the orchids had been a clear warning. But she'd assumed he'd materialize as before, on the outskirts of the crowd, and whisk her away to some private place where they could continue their “discussion” of marriage.

Not that she would again allow him to practice any sexual arguments. After he'd let slip his views on paternity, she wasn't about to take further risks on that front. But she'd hoped to dangle the carrot of further intimate moments as an inducement for him to think more deeply about what he felt for her.

The very last thing she'd imagined he'd do was to walk into the light and come straight for her.

Consequently, on gaining the ballroom, she'd drifted
away from her mother, Amelia and Reggie, drifted toward the other end of the room, dodging those intent on paying court to her. Then she'd heard him announced, looked up, seen him stroll in. She hadn't known how to react. In a flurry, she'd gathered gentlemen willy-nilly to protect her; the instant she'd heard the name “Dexter” intoned, she'd known she'd need protection.

Some protection. And once those tidbits of information he'd let fall did the rounds of the clubs, the lion would be lionized and she'd have no chance of securing better—indeed,
any
—effective protection next time.

There would be a next time—she had little doubt of that.

As to his purpose, however . . .

Refocusing on his agatey eyes, she smiled serenely. She, after all, was much more at home in this arena than he.

He searched her eyes, trying to read her mind; she wished she could read his. Failing that, she gave herself up to enjoying the waltz.

A mistake—one she didn't realize until he drew her fractionally closer as they turned at the end of the room. By then, her senses had succumbed to his nearness, had come alive to the compulsive, primitive call of his too-well-remembered body so close to hers, to the effortless strength with which he steered her through the revolutions. Her nerves had tensed in expectation, in educated anticipation; as his thighs brushed hers, desire rose, achingly sweet.

She caught her breath, felt her smile fade as she fought the urge to step closer, to move into his arms, to feel his body against hers. She let her lids veil her eyes, not wanting him to see, then realized that he knew. That he felt the same.

His hand tightened about hers; the hand at the back of her waist hardened, muscles tensing, resisting the impulse to draw her to him.

She did nothing to break his concentration; the idea of either of them succumbing to such impulses in the middle of a ballroom . . . aside from causing a scandal, it would play directly into his hands.