On a Wild Night (27 page)

Her relief when the music ended was acute; the knowledge
that he almost certainly knew that, and if sufficiently provoked might be willing to risk scandal to gain what he sought, left her dizzy.

Thankfully, he seemed committed to playing the role he'd scripted for himself to the hilt; with unimpeachable correctness, he bowed, then raised her from her curtsy and escorted her back to the circle of waiting gentlemen.

The fact he'd picked her as his partner for his first waltz on returning to the ton caused other gentlemen to reconsider her attractions, a situation she could have done without. Martin remained by her side as she exercised her considerable social skills, keeping the conversation tripping along the usual tonnish paths. She got the impression he was listening, learning. Accepting that she knew more than he in this sphere, she directed the talk into as many areas of current interest as she could.

She felt she'd done her bit for his reeducation when the orchestra struck up for the second dance. Lord Ashcroft solicited the pleasure of her hand; she graciously bestowed it, but was conscious of the sudden tension that coincidentally gripped the large body still planted beside her.

However when, at the end of the cotillion, Lord Ashcroft returned her to her circle, Martin was still there, watching, waiting. The spot beside him seemed to be where she was supposed to stand. Although she accepted her fate without a flicker of consciousness, she was gripped by faint unease.

Which only grew as the evening progressed, and he didn't quit her side. The impression he projected was that he
permitted
her to dance with others; it was only a matter of time before the observation occurred to the gentlemen concerned. And all the others watching. If it hadn't already.

Seizing the moment when all others in their circle were distracted by a discussion between Lord Flint and Mr. Carr, she surreptitiously tugged Martin's sleeve, quietly hissed when he turned to her, “You should circulate.”

He looked down at her. “Why?”

“Because it looks extremely particular if you single me out in this fashion.”

His lips curved. “But I am extremely particular.” He held her gaze. “Especially over the lady I want as my countess.”

Her eyes flew wide.
“Sssssshhhhhh!”

She didn't attempt to warn him off again. Instead, her smile fixed, she continued to chat and dance, ignoring the increasingly pointed stares of other young ladies, and the disapproving glares from their mamas. Not only was she, as far as they could see, monopolizing the ton's latest lion, but she was also attracting far too much notice from other eligible gentlemen.

No avenue of escape presented itself—if it had, he'd doubtless have blocked it—not until the evening drew to a close and her mother, finally quitting the conclave of matrons at the far end of the ballroom, came strolling through the crowd. Amanda nearly groaned when she saw who accompanied Louise—her aunts, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives and Lady Horatia Cynster. A curious Amelia brought up the rear, her arm in Reggie's.

“Well, my dear.” Smiling, Louise joined them. “Have you enjoyed your evening?”

“Indeed.” With no alternative offering, she gestured to Martin. “Allow me to present the Earl of Dexter. My mother, Lady Louise Cynster.”

Martin's smile was the epitome of charming. He bowed; Louise dipped.

“And my aunts, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives and Lady Horatia Cynster.”

They exchanged greetings; the Dowager made some comment about his reappearance in the ton being long overdue. Whether it was that, or the shrewd, uncannily knowing expression in her aunt's pale green eyes, Martin decided it was time to lift his paw and release her. He gracefully took his leave of them, at the last bowing over her hand.

“Until next we meet.”

That could have been merely a polite farewell. The light in his eyes, the subtle undertone in his voice, said otherwise.

It was a challenge—and a warning.

 

* * *

 

The following morning, Amanda sat at the breakfast table, sipping her tea and staring at the spray of three delicate ivory orchids that had been delivered an hour before.

Louise walked in. “Well!” She came forward, her gaze on the flowers. “Dexter, I take it?”

Once again, there'd been no note. “I presume so.” Cradling her cup, Amanda considered the blooms. She couldn't imagine any other gentleman sending her orchids; aside from the quite hideous expense, the flowers were so exotic. So decadently sensuous. Dexter, yes—others, no.

Louise noted her expression. Brows faintly rising, she passed on to her chair at the end of the table, waited until Colthorpe had poured her tea and stepped back. Amelia sat opposite Amanda, silently tending her own thoughts, letting her twin cogitate undisturbed. Shaking out her napkin, Louise looked at Amanda. “I imagine it'll be the talk of the ton. For a gentleman of Dexter's rank, let alone his peculiar status, to emerge from his seclusion with his eye fixed so definitely from the outset on you . . .”

She didn't complete her thought, but fell to buttering a slice of toast. Crunching a corner, she meditatively chewed, then took a sip of tea. Glanced again at Amanda. “One thing you'd be wise to bear in mind.”

Amanda looked up; Louise caught her eye.

“Whatever the emotion that's moved him to forsake his determined isolation, it won't be anything mild.”

 

Louise's words rang in Amanda's ears as she stood on the verge in the park later that morning, and considered the large hand extended toward her.

Arrogant. Commanding. Impatient. Definitely not mild.

Also difficult, not to say dangerous.

Gripping her parasol, she laid her fingers in his, let him pull her up to the phaeton's seat. She settled her skirts. With a brief salute to Amelia and Reggie, left standing on the lawn, Martin clicked the reins and they were off.

“Tell me,” she said, having determined to take the lion by the mane, “why have you decided to rejoin the ton?”

He flicked her a glance. “As I told Lady Matcham, it seemed to be decreed.”

“Decreed?”

“By some higher authority.”

She ruminated on that. “So you intend to reclaim your rightful place?”

The glance that gained her was somewhat harder. “If necessary.” They were nearing the most popular section of the route, currently jam-packed with carriages. “Now you may tell me—who the devil are all these women?”

As “these women” were all nodding graciously, eyes avidly alight, and as their number included the majority of the principal hostesses, she considered it wise to oblige. “That's Lady Cowper—you must remember her?”

He nodded. “Is the one in green Lady Walford?”

She glanced at him. “Your memory's quite remarkable, but she's now Lady Merton.” The lady had been an acknowledged beauty before her second marriage some years before.

His lips twitched, but he continued peppering her with questions, not all reflecting felicitously on their subjects. His recollections were erratic, sometimes devastatingly detailed; he'd last seen these people ten years before through the eyes of a youthful hellion. Some of his observations made her laugh; she learned a surprising amount she'd never known, yet equally, there was much he didn't know that she dutifully told him.

When they reached the end of the crowded section and he set the horses trotting, she slanted him a considering glance. She'd wanted to bring him back into this world, his world and hers; part of her rejoiced in his presence—her success. Another, more cautious part warned her not to count her chickens yet.

She'd lured him out of his lair, but he'd come for only one thing.

 

He was focused on getting it. That became clear as the days progressed. Every morning brought three white orchids; everywhere she went, he was there, waiting for her.

To claim her attention, her hand, the first waltz and if
there was one, the supper waltz, too. Regardless of the nature of the entertainment, he would remain by her side, impossible to shift. His attentions, however, were perfectly gauged—socially acceptable, yet what those watching couldn't see was the sensuality behind every look, every touch. They couldn't see the net he wove, link by link about her. She knew, but could do nothing to prevent it, to deny the hold he already had over her senses and her heart.

He had indeed changed the rules of their game. Between them, there was no longer any pretence that desire didn't burn just beneath their skin, waiting to flare into passion. That they wouldn't much rather be alone, by the fire in his library or anywhere else, rather than whirling about countless dance floors. But he was after her submission, after her agreement to marry him as he now was, to accept him as he had thus far revealed himself to be. To place her hand in his, to give herself up to him, without further promises. He'd shifted the field to the ton, changed the rules to those society played by, but what he was after hadn't changed.

Day by day, night by night, he continued to stalk her. Through ballrooms, drawing rooms, at the opera house, in the park. He never, not once, stepped over the line, yet he continued to single her out, not simply as above all others, but to the exclusion of all others. He was uninterested in any other lady; he hadn't shied from making that brutally plain.

To her astonishment, amazement—to her increasing consternation—he proved adept at bending society's dictates to his own advantage. And worse. She hadn't thought it possible that on this field—one where she was so much more experienced than he—he could run her to earth.

Yet he was winning.

The hostesses were starting to come around, to lean his way.

She could barely believe her ears when at the Castlereaghs' ball she overheard Emily Cowper, kindly as ever, murmur to Martin before she moved on, “An excellent choice, my boy—she'll do very well as your countess.”

Glancing around, ceasing to hear the story Mr. Cole was
relating, she saw Martin smile, incline his head and reply, “Indeed. So I think.”

Lady Cowper smiled sweetly, patted his arm and drifted away.

Martin met her gaze—and smiled, lionishly.

Just how dangerous the shift in sentiment threatened to be was brought home when Countess Lieven tapped her on the wrist with her fan. She nodded regally at Martin, engaged with Lord Woolley. “I am pleased that you have finally settled your interest. Flitting forever through the ton's gentlemen might be acceptable at eighteen, but at twenty-three . . .” She raised her brows haughtily. “Suffice it to say that an alliance with Dexter would find general favor. There is, of course, the old scandal, but . . .” With a shrug, she continued, “One would expect you to see that buried, one way or another.”

With a stiff nod, the countess swanned off, leaving Amanda staring in her wake. One way or another?

She knew what that meant—that she should marry Martin, keep her head high and bear him an heir or three, and make sure neither he nor she caused another scandal. Redemption through association; if she remained as pure as the driven snow, his supposed transgressions would be overlooked.

The thought horrified her. She turned back to Martin to find him frowning at her, then he transferred his frown to Countess Lieven's back. “What did that harridan say?”

She could almost see his hackles rising. “Nothing, nothing. There are the violins—come and dance.”

She succeeded in dragging him onto the dance floor; he allowed her to distract him but was not deceived. As she whirled in his arms, some part of her whispered that perhaps she should give in. He'd come into the ton after her, braved the bright lights and the hostesses to win her—did she need more declaration than that?

The answer was an unequivocal yes. She wanted a clear acknowledgment that he loved her, and she'd seen nothing resembling that. And there was a bigger hurdle yet—one that wouldn't bend to either her will or his. Not even society's.
Her family was not convinced—at least, not convinced enough to agree to her marrying him.

She'd only recently realized, only recently seen the frown in her mother's eyes, noticed the whispered conferences between her mother and her aunts. As the music died, she felt a strong urge to rub her forehead. Her straightforward, easy-to-navigate world had suddenly developed unexpected reefs and shoals.

“Here! Gel!”

Amanda turned. Lady Osbaldestone was sitting on a chaise nearby.

“Yes, you!” Her ladyship beckoned with her cane. “I want to speak with you.”

Martin by her side, she crossed to the chaise.

“Sit down.” Lady Osbaldestone indicated the chaise beside her. Then she looked at Martin and smiled. Evilly. “
You
can fetch me a glass of orgeat, and a glass of water for Miss Cynster. She'll be grateful for it later.”

Impossible to refuse. Martin accepted the commission with good grace, bowed, and headed for the refreshment room.

“So nice to know I guessed right.” Facing Amanda, Lady Osbaldestone studied her. “Well? Have you decided yet?”

Meeting those black, bottomless eyes, Amanda sighed. “I've decided—and so has he, obviously—
but
. . .”

“In my experience, there usually is a but. What's it in this case? And for God's sake, cut line—he won't be long.”

Amanda dragged in a breath. “There's two buts. The first is, not
if
he loves me—I'm as sure as I can be that he does—but if
he
knows he loves me. The second might be more serious, more insurmountable. The scandal is still there. I know the ton will gloss over it, but I don't think my family will.”

Lady Osbaldestone nodded. “You're right. They won't. You may trust me on that. However, you're wrong about what's serious and what's not.” She caught Amanda's gaze and leaned nearer. “Listen, and listen well. You're absolutely right in digging in your heels and demanding an acknowledgment,
at least between the pair of you, that he loves you. I presume that's what this week's been about? That he's followed you into the ton to force your hand?”