On a Wild Night (5 page)

Completing an exhaustive survey, Amanda was relieved to see no one she would rather not—like one of her father's cronies. Or one of her mother's circle. Or any of her cousins' friends. That had been her only fear in embarking on this strategy. Reassured, she relaxed, and gave her mind to her immediate next step.

“I'm parched. Do you think you could get me a glass of champagne?”

“Right-o. I think the refreshments are laid out in there.” Reggie nodded to the connecting salon, and headed in that direction.

Amanda waited until he was out of sight, screened by shoulders and broad backs. Then she stepped into the crowd, and let her eye roam.

It took her five minutes to gather three admirers of precisely the right stamp. Gentlemen well favored, attractive, elegantly turned out, who were witty, charming in a bantering way, and who were all extremely interested in discovering the reason for her appearance in Lady Hennessy's salon.

Amanda had attended too many balls and parties, too many houseparties, to feel challanged by the task of crossing verbal swords with the three—Mr. Fitzgibbon, Lord Walter and Lord Cranbourne—while concealing her intentions. Indeed, the very fact she was so glib in shielding her purpose only fired the gentlemen's imaginations and anchored them within her circle.

By the time Reggie found her, she was creditably beseiged.

Greeting him with a smile, she accepted the glass he'd brought for her and made him known to her three admirers. His expression bland, Reggie acknowledged the introductions. Ignoring his severe look when he turned back to her, she smiled at Mr. Fitzgibbon. “You were describing boating on the Thames by night, sir. Is the experience truly worth the inconvenience?”

Mr. Fitzgibbon was quick to assure her it was. She took mental notes as he waxed lyrical on the sight of the stars reflected in the black waters. She had no idea how many nights she would have to spend here, keeping her trap baited with men like Fitzgibbon, Walter and Cranbourne—men only too ready to help her take her first steps into the less virtuous world they inhabited.

She had no intention of accepting their aid, but she hid that well. Logic suggested that Dexter would visit Lady Hennessy's salons; she was betting she had his real measure.

If he didn't appear, she would waste a few nights, a drop in the ocean of time she'd already spent searching for a husband. If he appeared but failed to react as predicted, she
would gain an immensely valuable insight, enough to conclude that despite all she believed, Dexter was not in fact for her.

But if all went as planned . . . she stood to win all she desired.

She thought her plan quite splendid. With a glorious smile, shamelessly deploying her eyes and her charms, she threw herself into its execution.

 

Martin saw Amanda the instant he entered Helen Hennessy's drawing room. She was standing to one side of the hearth; the light from a candelabra on the mantelpiece fell full on her, bathing her in golden light.

The effect of seeing her surprised him—the sudden clench of possessiveness, the unexpected visceral tug. He shook the sensations aside; his cynically amused mask in place, he strolled forward to greet his hostess.

Helen was delighted to see him. She chatted, drawing his attention to three separate experienced ladies who were attending that night. “They'd each and every one be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

She glanced at him, one brow raised. Martin barely glanced at the ladies in question. “Not tonight.”

Helen sighed. “I don't know whether to applaud or pout—your reticence only heightens their interest, as you well know, but continued refusals to engage . . . well, it does call into question my ability to deliver.”

“You always deliver in the end, my dear, as I'm quite sure your ladies know. But tonight they'll have to make do with someone else's talents. I . . .”—Martin considered Amanda, a golden angel dispensing smiles and laughter upon her captives—“have other fish to fry.”

He looked at Helen before, intrigued, she could follow his gaze. “And no, you needn't wonder. I suspect the role I'm scripted to play is that of knight-protector, not demon lover.”

“How fascinating.” Helen opened her eyes wide, then smiled. “Very well. You have my permission to dispense your favors as you wish—not that you'd listen to any edicts otherwise. But beware!” She slanted him an arch glance as
she turned to greet another guest. “You know what they say of rakehells visited by a sudden urge to reform.”

He didn't know and didn't need to. The warning faded from his mind as he ambled through the crowd, ostensibly looking the ladies over, in truth watching just one.

She hadn't seen him, or so it appeared; he'd yet to see her gaze turn his way and she'd given no sign of recognition. She continued to engage the three others and Carmarthen, although he was looking more worried than entranced.

Martin had to admit she was a dab hand at entrancing. Her smiles, her laughter—which he couldn't hear but wished he could—the lively chatter, the gaiety dancing in her eyes, all served to project the persona of a confident young lady brimming with sparkling, bubbling charm. Indeed, she reminded him of the very best champagne, fine wine subtly effervescent, deepened by just the right touch of age to the point where it promised liquid gold on the tongue and glory to the senses.

He couldn't tell if she knew he was present. Couldn't tell if his suspicion that her current situation had been staged with him specifically in mind owed more to his arrogance than reality.

His prowl carried him beyond her line of sight. The crowd between them thinned; he could see her clearly, yet she didn't turn his way. Instead, she laughed—light, airy, a sound both joyous and earthy, it carried to him. Caressed him, enticed him, as it did the other men before her.

It didn't matter if she'd schemed to capture his attention. She had it.

Amanda felt him approach; like a storm sweeping in, his very nearness had her tensing. The sensation unnerved her; she fought not to whirl and face what her senses screamed was danger—if she did, she'd give her game away. Then he halted beside her, his towering figure excuse enough for her to break off her tale and glance his way.

She let recognition flow across her face, let pleasure light her eyes. No difficulty there—he looked even more sinfully handsome in full light, in more formal attire than he'd worn
the previous night. She smiled and held out her hand. “My lord.”

Brazenly, she left it at that—let him, and the others, make of it what they would. He took her hand and she curtsied. He raised her; eyes on hers, he inclined his head. “Miss Cynster.”

Her smile ingenuous, she struggled to keep her fingers from fluttering in his, too wise to attempt to retrieve her hand until he deigned to let her go.

He released her; she drew in a quick breath and launched into the introductions. “And I believe you'll remember Mr. Carmarthen.”

“Indeed.”

Reggie favored him with a wary look and a polite nod. Dexter's gaze lingered on Reggie's face, then he turned it, smoothly, on her. “I admit to surprise at encountering you here. I thought, after your most recent foray into such realms, caution would . . . how does that saying go? . . . overcome valor?”

He's here! He's here! And he took the bait!
Her eyes locked on his, Amanda ruthlessly cut off the delirious litany; he might be here, but he wasn't yet snared. And if she wasn't careful,
she
might be the one in a coil.

As if pleased he'd remembered their last meeting, she smiled. “I did toy with the notion of attending Lady Sutcliffe's ball, yet”—she swept her smile over her three now earnest would-be cavaliers—“formal engagements do pall when one has spent so many years in the ballrooms.” She glanced again at Dexter. “It seems a waste not to avail oneself of the more varied
divertissements
offered by such as her ladyship. So much more entertaining. I daresay you find it so yourself?”

Martin held her gaze and debated whether to call her bluff. “My tastes, admittedly, lie somewhat beyond the diversions provided by the ton's hostesses. However, I wouldn't have imagined such esoteric distractions would hold much allure for a young lady such as you.”

Her chin lifted, her eyes sparkled, with challenge, with
humor. “On the contrary, my lord. I've a definite taste for wilder pastimes.” Her smile confiding, she briefly touched his sleeve. “I daresay you haven't heard, living retired as you do.”

“Wilder pastimes, heh?” Cranbourne grabbed the opening. “Heard a tale of wild doings at Mrs. Croxton's last night.”

“Indeed?” Amanda turned to Cranbourne.

Martin watched as she encouraged all three gentlemen to dazzle her with their wildest suggestions. He might live “retired” but he knew what he was seeing. Carmarthen was growing increasingly nervous. Yet if he, Dexter, bowed and walked away, would she continue on this path? If he declined to be her protector, would she go on without one? What sort of net was she weaving—how much was true, how much for his confusion?

Not that it mattered; he was more than capable of dealing with her whatever tack she took. And she clearly needed someone to watch over her, someone with more muscle than dear Reggie.

Cranbourne, Fitzgibbon and Walter were intent; given how long she'd spent allowing them to entertain her, they'd expect her shortly to choose from among them. And contrary to what she was expecting, accustomed as she was to the rules pertaining in ballroom and drawing room, a charming dismissal would not be well received.

Reaching out, he took her hand; surprised, she glanced his way, throwing Walter, concluding some tale, off his stride. “My dear, I promised Helen—Lady Hennessey—that, given this is your first visit, I would make sure you became acquainted with all she has to offer.” He looked into Amanda's blue eyes as he placed her hand on his sleeve. “It's time we strolled on, or you'll never see all before dawn.” He glanced at Walter, Cranbourne and Fitzgibbon. “I'm sure these gentlemen will excuse you.”

They had little choice; none was game to challenge one of Helen's edicts, a fact Martin had counted on. The three made their adieus, then withdrew. Martin considered Reggie. “I believe Miss Cynster would like another glass of champagne.”

Reggie looked at Amanda.

Who nodded, ringlets dancing. “Yes, I would.”

Frowning, Reggie flicked a glance at Martin. “Just as long as you don't do a bunk while I'm gone.”

Martin suppressed a grin; perhaps Reggie was not as spineless as he'd thought. “She'll be in this room, but we'll be strolling.” He paused, eyes on Reggie's. “It's not wise to remain stationary for too long.”

He saw horrified comprehension dawn, then Reggie nodded. “Right. I'll find you.” With a disapproving glance at Amanda, he headed for the secondary salon.

Martin scanned the room, then lowered his arm and waved Amanda on before him. Keeping her hand on his arm—keeping her that close—would be unwise. He wanted it seen that she was under his protection in the social sense; the last thing he wanted was for her ladyship's guests to imagine that protection extended to a more personal state.

As she walked ahead of him, tacking slowly through the crowd, she glanced back at him. “Are you really friends with Lady Hennessy?”

“Yes.” Helen was another who had the entree to the ton but had chosen to turn her back on it.

Amanda slowed. “What did I do wrong?”

He caught her eye, realized she meant the question to be as simple as it sounded. “If you spend much more than fifteen minutes conversing with one man, it will be inferred that you're interested in pursuing some of those wilder pastimes you mentioned with him.”

Her beautiful face blanked. “Oh.” Facing forward, she continued their slow amble. “That's not what I intended.”

She paused to acknowledge a greeting; he performed three introductions before they moved on. Closing the distance between them, he bent his head and murmured, “What did you intend?”

She stopped; he nearly walked into her. Halted with a bare inch between her shoulders and his chest, her silk-clad bottom and his thighs. She looked back and up at him, met his eyes.

He fought an urge to slide his arms about her and draw her back against him.

“I want to live a little before I grow old.” She searched his eyes. “Is that a crime?”

“If it is, half the world's guilty.”

She looked forward and started strolling again. He took a firmer grip on his impulses, then followed. She glanced back. “I understand you've had a great deal of experience in ‘living.' “

“Not all of it pleasant.”

She waved airily. “I'm only interested in the pleasurable aspects.”

Her tone was straightforward, not facetious. She intended to seek out the pleasures of life while avoiding the pitfalls.

If only life was that simple.

They continued their peregrination, stopping to spend a few minutes in this circle or that before moving on again, she a foot before him, he prowling, relaxed but watchful, in her wake. He doubted she'd encountered many pitfalls to date; her faith in life, in its ultimate joy, remained undimmed. The light in her eyes, the exuberance of her smiles, all spoke of innocence intact.

It was not his place to shatter it.

Reaching an empty space by the side of the room, Amanda turned. “Actually, speaking of life's pleasures . . .”

He halted before her, broad shoulders blocking her view of the room. He met her gaze, and raised a too-knowing, distinctly suspicious, odiously superior brow.

She smiled up at him. “I was thinking I might ride the mare tomorrow morning. Early. In the park. Do you think your groom could oblige me?”

He blinked, once; she smiled more brightly.

And prayed it wasn't too soon to play that card. Elusive as he was, if she didn't set up another meeting, he might, after tonight, simply fade back into the shadows—and she would have tonight's work to do again.