On a Wild Night (34 page)

After a moment, Amelia asked, “So what's the state of your game?”

“That's just it—I don't know! Every time I try to think it through”—she rubbed a finger between her brows—“my head hurts. Horribly.”

Moments passed in silence, then under the covers, Amelia found her hand and squeezed, then sat up. “I'm going back to my bed. Sleep on it—it'll all seem clearer in the morning. That's what Mama always says.”

Amanda murmured a good night, then listened as Amelia slipped away. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to follow her sister's advice.

 

She didn't succeed until dawn. Even then, her rest was disturbed and fretful. She was distantly aware that Louise came in, took one look at her, and declared she should sleep in.

Later, her mother again materialized by her bed. Louise smiled, then sat and gently brushed the curls off her forehead. “It's not easy, is it?”

Amanda frowned. “No. I thought it would be.”

Louise's smile turned wry. “It never is. But”—she stood—“it's worth persevering in the end. Now, I want you to sleep for the rest of the morning. Amelia and I will attend Lady Hatcham's morning tea, then we'll look in and see if you're well enough to come to Lady Cardigan's luncheon.”

With another fond smile, Louise left; Amanda considered the door as it shut—considered how supportive her mother had been, how much closer she now felt to, not only Louise, but all her aunts, her cousins' wives. As if she'd passed through some coming of age, another rite of passage, as if in facing a hurdle all the women in her family had faced and overcome, she'd gained a deeper insight, a fuller understanding. Of a great many things.

Like life, love and family. Like what it really took to gain a woman's—any woman's—dream. Like the fact their dreams were all the same, even through the ages—different men, different circumstances, the same yearning. The same single emotion at their core.

With a sigh, she rolled onto her back and stared, unseeing, at the canopy. Contrary to Amelia's hopes, matters did not appear any clearer, but at least she no longer felt quite so overwhelmed.

The central question still remained. Assuming Martin loved her, did he know it? If he did, did she need to hear him state it, out aloud in words, or would other forms of communication do?

But what if she got it wrong—accepted him without any
verbal declaration, and later learned he didn't accept that he loved her at all? Would he still feel compelled to clear his name of the old scandal? Or, despite the assurance she felt certain he must have given Devil to secure permission to address her, would he, once she was his, bend the rules and, for instance, acknowledge the scandal openly and retire from public life himself, leaving her and their children to provide the family's social facade?

If he went that road, there was in reality little the Cynsters could do, other than put a good face on it.

That last had to be the reason Lady Osbaldestone was adamant she settle for nothing less than a solid acknowledgment, in words or otherwise, a lever to ensure he would reopen the matter and clear his name. If he loved her and had admitted it, she could insist he did. Yet if he loved her, but didn't know it, refused to acknowledge it, she would have little power to sway him.

Amelia had asked if an acknowledgment truly mattered. Reassessing all she now knew of Dexter and Martin, earl and man, Amanda thought it might. Not just for Lady Osbaldestone's stated reason, but also for that more nebulous, worrisome concern she'd detected behind her ladyship's black eyes.

That amorphous worry was the most irksome, hard-to-get-to-grips-with feeling, but she now felt it, too. Not in her head, not in her heart, but in her stomach. Her head told her that as long as the scandal was resolved, all would be well. Her heart assured her that he loved her, regardless of what he thought. Her gut told her to beware, that there was some other, deeper wound she couldn't see, something hidden that she—they—needed resolved . . .

“Aaarrgh!”
Flinging her hands in the air, she sat up. This was getting her nowhere, other than into another headache. Tossing back the covers, she stood, then remembered. She'd told Martin she'd answer him in a day.

Which meant by tonight.

She sank back on the bed. Just the thought of seeing him sent her wits into a slow spin. “I can't do it.” If she saw him now, she'd only get more confused. She might even say
“Yes,” while all her instincts were urging her to say, “Not yet. Not until.”

Wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, she started to pace. She had to think, get her arguments formulated and verbalized so she could hit him with them when he next narrowed his agatey eyes at her and pressured her to agree. As he assuredly would. Now he had her cousins' backing—after the previous night, their true views were crystal clear—there was little doubt he would pursue that tack as far as he possibly could. They'd knowingly handed him a potent weapon none knew better than they would turn her head . . .

She gritted her teeth against a frustrated scream.

Thanks to their unholy alliance, London wasn't safe for her—not until she was fully armed and knew the ground firm beneath her feet. She had to get away, somewhere she could think, free of him, free of them all, preferably with someone who would shield her, help her to see her way . . .

She halted. “How obvious.” She considered a moment more, then, jaw firming, nodded. “Perfect.”

Invigorated, already feeling less weighed down—almost hopeful—she crossed to the bellpull.

 

Martin waited and paced and waited. At four o'clock he surrendered, quit his house and strode to Upper Brook Street. His patience was at an end. Surely she wouldn't still be gadding about, or swanning around the park, not when she'd agreed to answer him today.

All day he'd berated himself for not pressing harder last night, when she'd been swept away and vulnerable. When she'd been a soft bundle of warm, sated female in his arms, and her wits had been wandering. If he'd insisted on an answer . . . he hadn't, purely because a deeply ingrained sense of chivalry had intervened, dictating that an answer gained under duress wasn't binding, and that deliberately exploiting such a scenario purely to elicit a favorable response wasn't playing fair.

Fair
. He suppressed a snort. The woman had pursued him for weeks; now the shoe was on the other foot, she was tying
him in knots—without even knowing. When he was with her, he simply couldn't bring himself to admit to the truth—cutting off his left arm would be easier. Why it was so . . . he knew why, but dwelling on it solved nothing. Yet when they were apart, uttering the words seemed perfectly possible, if that's what it took to make her his. A strategic decision uncomplicated by emotion.

Emotion set in the instant he set eyes on her; the effect she had on him, the emotional turmoil she evoked, was nothing short of frightening. As for what he was doing to himself . . . he'd dreamed of Connor's “evil fate”; the old man's words haunted him, as he'd no doubt intended.

But he wasn't going to lose her.

Today was the day. Once he had her decision, clearly stated between them, he—they—could go on from there. After last night, she had to know that denying she loved him wasn't an option; she did—she had from the first time she'd given herself to him, and he was far too experienced not to know it. Every time she came to him, gave herself to him, she only strengthened the bond between them.

There was no further reason for her to refuse to agree. No logical reason. Her illogical reason remained, but she wasn't an unreasonable woman. She'd been weakening last night—she'd almost said yes. Today, she would.

If her father had been home, he might have asked for advice, but Arthur was not expected back for some days yet. He'd met Louise and Amanda's aunts—he knew better than to look to them for help, especially in this. They might assist if he sued for mercy, but help him avoid Amanda's demand? Not this side of hell. Which left him very much on his own as he climbed the steps of Number 12. The butler answered the door.

“Miss Amanda Cynster.” He handed the man his card.

The butler glanced at it. “I'm afraid you've missed her, my lord. But she left a message.”

“Missed her?”

“Indeed. She left just after luncheon, quite unexpected.” The butler held open the door; Martin stepped into the hall. “Mr. Carmarthen went with her. I'm sure I saw your name
on a note here . . .” The man hunted through a stack of invitations. “Ah, yes. I knew I wasn't mistaken, although why her ladyship left it here . . .”

Martin twitched the note from the butler's fingers;
“Dexter”
was inscribed across the front. Refusing to think, to jump to conclusions, he wrestled the neatly folded corners undone, spread out the single sheet.

His eyes scanned. His mind seized.

His blood turned to ice in his veins.

 

My apologies. I could not give you the answer you expect. I have taken steps to place myself beyond your reach, but I will return to town as soon as I am able, and you will have your answer then.

 

The missive was signed with a flourishing “A.”

Martin crumpled the note in his fist. For a long moment, he stared across the hall, and saw nothing. It was as if the world had stopped, and his heart with it. Then he spoke, his voice flat. “Where did she go?”

“Why to Scotland, my lord. Didn't she say . . . ?”

His jaw set. Stuffing the note in his pocket, he turned on his heel and stalked from the house.

 

An hour later, he was whipping his horses up the Great North Road, cursing everything and anything that got in his way. Cursing the few minutes he'd wasted writing a short note to Devil, telling him what had occurred.

Telling him he'd bring her back.

Most of all, he cursed himself. For not saying the words she'd wanted to hear, for not having the courage to admit the truth and damn the past to perdition. He'd had the perfect opportunity last night, but had jibbed and taken the easy way out. Insisted she be the one to bend, to adjust to accepting only as much as he was willing to give. He'd had the chance to open his heart to her; instead, he'd chosen to keep it shielded. Even from her. He'd shied away from the risk—they were both close to paying the price.

His curricle flew onward, weaving around slower conveyances,
racing along the flats. He changed horses at Barnet and frequently thereafter, cursing the necessity of travelling without a groom. He hadn't wanted any other witness present when he caught up with her carriage. Having to deal with Carmarthen and their coachman would be bad enough.

But she and Carmarthen wouldn't be racing, they wouldn't be constantly changing horses to keep up their pace. He'd wondered about her note, then he'd realized. It had been left to be delivered later that night, once pursuit was an impossibility. Instead, he was less than five hours behind them, and his curricle was much faster than a coach.

Fate—that fickle female—had given him one last chance. If he'd been less restless, more confident of her answer, he wouldn't have gone to Upper Brook Street at the unexpected hour of four o'clock. But he had, so he had one last opportunity to give her the words she wanted—to pay the price for her “yes.” One last opportunity to convince her to be his.

And not Carmarthen's.

The light slowly faded as he flicked his whip and sent the horses careening on. He could hear Connor's cynical, mocking laugh on the wind.

 

Amanda closed her eyes as the lights of Chesterfield faded behind them. She'd dozed for most of the journey; she wasn't sleepy, but Reggie, seated opposite, had shut his eyes the instant they'd left Derby. At least he'd stopped lecturing her.

She'd been waiting with her plan when Louise and Amelia had returned from Lady Hatcham's morning tea. Louise had listened, then agreed, but had stipulated she had to have company on the long trip to the Vale. Louise had glanced at Amelia—who had stared, silently, at Amanda. It was then Reggie was announced; he'd arrived to escort them to Lady Cardigan's luncheon.

The instant she applied to him, he'd stiffened his spine, and like the true friend he was, declared himself willing to journey north with her. He'd visited the Vale with them before and enjoyed it; he'd shot off home to pack his bag. She'd picked him up in the coach, and they'd headed out of town.

Only after Barnet had fallen behind them did it occur to Reggie to ask why, exactly, she was heading north so precipitously. Where was Dexter?

She'd explained—entirely unexpectedly, Reggie had taken Martin's part. He'd been as angry as she'd ever seen him; he'd lectured her for miles on her “unrealistic expectations,” on why holding to such an intransigent line when Dexter had shown himself willing to accommodate her in so many ways was exceedingly bad form. He'd gone on and on and on.

Luc she'd expected, not Reggie.

She'd sat there stunned and let his words flow past her. There'd seemed little point trying to argue or defend herself. On this one point, it appeared there was a masculine view, one instantly espoused by each and every male, while the feminine stance was diametrically opposed.

Reggie had finally shut up when they'd reached Derby. They dined in silence at the Red Bells, then set off again. He'd taken his seat, folded his arms, glared coldly at her, then shut his eyes.

He hadn't opened them since; she'd heard a small snore.

The coach rocked along. It was a long, tiring journey to the Vale, but she'd made it many times in the years since Richard and Catriona had married. Then had come the twins, and they now had a second little daughter, Annabelle . . . her mind drifted over the happiness that stood at the heart of the Vale. What she wanted for Martin and herself had never seemed so clear.