On a Wild Night (10 page)

With a glacial nod, she swept around—

He grabbed her hand. “No, no, my dear. Forgive my foolishness, cowhanded as I am. I seek nothing more than your approbation. Indeed—”

He went on and on until she feared she'd scream. She tried to tug her fingers free, but he wouldn't let go; there was nothing she could do but let him pour out his apologies. Grovel for her forgiveness.

Disgusted, she let him get on with it. Goodness only knew how she was going to disabuse his mind of the erroneous assumption now clearly fixed in it. She'd tried to ignore him in the hope he'd realize but the sensitivity required to recognize a subtle dismissal was clearly beyond him.

Which left the unsubtle, but she hadn't reached that stage yet.

A violin screeched; Percival paused. She seized the moment. “Very well. You may stand up with me in the cotillion.”

The smug smile that creased his face made her want to scream again—the fool thought her irritation had been feigned! Perilously close to real fury, she blocked off all thought of him and concentrated on her real objective. Reggie. He loved to dance; if he was here, he'd take to the floor.

She scanned the dancers as the sets formed. Two sets away, Luc led Emily, proud as punch and totally at ease, into formation. And in the set beyond that, Reggie was partnering a large young lady, one Muriel Brownley.

Amanda grinned. As the music commenced, she looked at Percival; his expression stated he thought she was grinning at him. Erasing all bar the most distant hauteur from her face and eyes, she gave her attention to the dance.

The instant the last chord sounded, she bobbed a quick curtsy. “I fear you must excuse me—there's someone I must catch.”

She left Percival standing staring after her. If her mother had witnessed such unladylike behavior, she'd have been called to account; luckily, her mother, her aunt and Lady Osbaldestone were at the other end of the room.

She reached Reggie and his partner before they quit the floor. She exchanged the usual greetings, noting the possessive
hold Miss Brownley kept on Reggie's sleeve, and the trapped-rabbit expression in his eyes.

Miss Brownley was a relative newcomer to the ton, no match for her. Amanda chatted brightly, engaging both Reggie and Miss Brownley in an animated discussion of upcoming events.

Miss Brownley didn't notice the time passing.

Not until the violins started up and she realized she couldn't dance the next dance with Reggie. Two dances in a row would cause comment. Having established herself as an old family friend, Amanda suggested Reggie partner her in the dance. Reluctantly, Miss Brownley agreed, and let him go.

“Thank heavens!
Thought I was going to be stuck for the rest of the night. Latched on to me the instant I set foot in the ballroom. Mama waltzed off with her mother—and there I was. Snared!”

“Yes, well—” Her arm through Reggie's, Amanda hurried him down the line of dancers. “Let's make sure we fetch up by the door at the end.” She bustled them into the position experience told her would achieve that aim.

Reggie stared at her. “Why?” The possibility he might have jumped from the frying pan into the fire was clearly rising in his mind.

“I want to visit Lady Hennessy's.”

“Again?”

The dance commenced and they parted momentarily; when they came together, she hissed, “Given what I've just rescued you from, I would have thought you'd be grateful, and only too ready to play least-in-sight.”

She let Reggie ponder that for two movements, then added, “She'll find you again if you don't.”

Which was true. When they next met, Reggie nodded grimly. “You're right—Lady Hennessy's it is. Much safer, all things considered.”

They slipped out immediately the dance ended without encountering Miss Brownley or any other likely to impede their escape. They did, however, encounter another escapee; while waiting in the hall for Amanda's cloak to be unearthed and a hackney to be summoned, they were joined by Luc
Ashford. Sauntering down the stairs, he nodded to Reggie; his gaze sharpened as he considered Amanda. “And where are you off to?”

Amanda smiled innocently, ruthlessly quashing a nearly overwhelming urge to tell him it was none of his business. This was Luc; any such response would have the worst possible effect—he'd become more intent, more determined to learn all. He was a rake with four sisters; she knew his type well. “We're off to the Farthingales'.”

Reggie had, as usual, adopted his vaguest expression and left the answers to her; now he nodded. “Cavendish Square.”

Luc looked at him. Just looked.

“And where are
you
off to?” Amanda asked. She didn't care what Luc suspected—he'd never suspect the truth—but she saw no reason to stand by and let him bolster Reggie's resistance to her schemes.

Luc didn't immediately turn her way, but when he did, his dark blue gaze was acute. “I plan to spend the rest of the evening in”—his long lashes veiled his eyes as he straightened a cuff—“rather more private surrounds.”

A footman approached. “Your carriage is waiting, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Luc turned to the door, glancing again at Amanda. “Can I offer you two a lift?”

Amanda smiled sweetly. “I doubt Cavendish Square is on your way.”

Luc held her gaze, then nodded. “As you say.” With a nod to Reggie, he strolled to the door.

Leaving Reggie looking uncomfortable; Amanda looped her arm in his and chatted to distract him.

She managed well enough; by the time they were admitted to Lady Hennessy's, Reggie's usual amenable temper was restored. After greeting their hostess, Amanda pressed his arm. “I want to check who's here. Why don't you fetch some champagne?”

“Right-o.”

Five minutes later, she'd verified that Dexter was not gracing any of her ladyship's rooms—at least, not the public ones. She didn't want to think that he might be gracing one
of the private rooms. Determinedly, she envisioned him at Mellors, or one of the other exclusive hells.

Hiding in the shadows. Out of her reach.

Damn him—he was clearly not going to make his conquest easy.

She found Reggie loitering by a well-stocked table. Munching on a pastry, he handed her a glass of champagne. She took one sip, then set the glass aside. “There's no one here I want to meet. We may as well go home.”

“Home?” Reggie stared. “But we've only just arrived.”

“Without the right company, any place is boring. And I've just remembered I have an appointment tomorrow morning at six o'clock.”

“Six?
No one has appointments that early, not even with modistes.”

“I do.” She tugged at his sleeve. “Come on. I need to get home.” In time to send a footman with a note to Fulbridge House.

Looking over the table, Reggie sighed. “Dashed fine salmon patties.”

She let him take another, then dragged him away.

When she saw the dark figure atop the pawing roan waiting under the tree the next morning, Amanda knew a moment of abject relief. That much, at least, she could count on. Trotting up, she smiled sunnily. “Good morning.”

It was damp, cold and grey, a light drizzle turning all about them fuzzy, indistinct. His expression impassive, Dexter inclined his head and turned his horse toward the distant track.

She'd half-expected a grunt. Falling in beside him, she set the mare pacing alongside the roan.

How to prod him into arranging for the rest of her adventures? Into spending more time with her, alone.

She glanced at him, waited to catch his eye.

He didn't look her way. He rode straight to the start of the tan, then, with barely a glance at her, sprang the roan.

Jaw setting, she went with him. That he was determined to be difficult could not have been clearer. Through the thunder and rush of the ride, it occurred to her that he knew perfectly well what she wanted to ask.

It irked her that she felt too wary to demand openly, as she would with any other man. Dexter was hard enough, untamed enough, simply to refuse. And then where would she be? Dealing with him was like a game of snakes and ladders—one foot wrong and she'd be back at the start.

The end of the track neared; they slowed, then turned aside onto the turf. He drew rein and halted; she did the same. They were both breathing hard, the exhilaration of the ride still streaking through their veins. She lifted her head, looked into his face. Fell into his moss-agatey eyes.

Green, gold flecked, they held her gaze; in the cool of the morning, she again felt the heat, the rush of sweet warmth she'd experienced in his arms. The fire still burned, embers now, perhaps, but the heat and the promise of flame were still there.

Still exerted their tug, a powerful fascination that made her want to go to him, to plunge into the heart of the fire, bathe in the flames.

Give herself up to them and burn.

She blinked, refocused. What he had read in her face she had no idea, but he looked away over the park.

“You said you wished to attend a party at Vauxhall, one hosted by someone your parents don't know. I plan to host a private party at the Gardens two nights from now. Will you be able to attend?”

She forced herself to wait, to pretend to consider before inclining her head. “Yes.” He was untamed, ruthless, difficult to manage; she was determined to snare him.

His gaze returned to her face; she met it, cool challenge in her eyes.

“Very well. My carriage will be waiting as before, at nine o'clock at the corner.” He hesitated, then added, “Wear a cloak with a hood.”

 

As before, the black carriage was waiting; as before, his hand reached for hers and he helped her in. Amanda suppressed a shiver of anticipation as the carriage rumbled off, wending south through the streets to the river and Vauxhall Gardens.

He travelled in silence; she could feel his gaze on her face, on her figure, concealed by her long velvet cloak, the hood up to cover her hair. She'd spent hours deciding what to wear beneath the cloak—whether to dazzle or entice. She'd settled on enticement; he was too experienced to dazzle.

The horses' hooves clopped hollowly as they turned onto
the bridge. Ahead, the lights of the pleasure gardens bobbed through the trees, their reflections dancing on the water.

“How many others are in your party?” A question that had intrigued her ever since his invitation.

She glanced his way. Shrouded in shadows, he studied her, then said, “You'll see in a few moments.”

She doubted she'd misjudged him. Nevertheless, the knowledge that she'd placed herself and her reputation in his hands set an edge to nerves already taut, further heightened senses set alive simply by his nearness.

Confirming her judgment, the carriage halted, not at the main entrance, but at an exclusive side entrance. Infinitely more discreet. Dexter descended, looked briefly around before handing her down, his gaze passing approvingly over her hood, pulled forward, shadowing her face. Thus attired, unless someone came close and peered at her face, she was unidentifiable.

An attendant greeted them, bowing low as Dexter ushered her through the gate. “Your booth is prepared, my lord.”

Dexter nodded. The attendant turned and led them down a heavily shaded path.

She'd been to Vauxhall often, yet had never ventured into this part of the gardens. The rotunda, well lit, the source of plentiful music, lay some way ahead, screened by trees. The path curved under spreading branches, the thick shrubs bordering it interrupted now and then by the square shape of a booth. Each booth was well spaced from its neighbors, shuttered and private. Stopping before one such dark outline, the attendant opened a door, spilling soft candlelight onto the path; he bowed them in.

Amanda stepped over the threshold, uncertain what she would find—eager to see. The booth was smaller than those in the public part of the gardens, but was furnished in considerably better style. A rug covered the floor; the table was set with a damask cloth, sparkling glasses, white dishes and cutlery for two. Two upholstered chairs stood ready. A single candle burned in a holder at the table's center; a two-armed candelabra shed light from a sidetable set beside a comfortable
chaise. By the table, an ornate stand supported an ice-bucket containing a bottle of champagne.

The answer to her question was none. Reassured, she set back her hood.

“You may bring our meal.” Martin closed the door on the attendant. He hesitated, then strolled to where temptation stood. He lifted the cloak from her shoulders as she slid the strings free; she glanced back, smiled her thanks.

He used the moment taken in laying her cloak on the chaise, in adding his to it, to steel himself. Then he turned back to her.

And saw her clearly for the first time that evening, knowing she was here, alone with him in a completely private setting.

Limned by the candlelight, she was half turned his way, the fingers of one hand resting on the back of the nearer chair. The weak light deepened the gold of her hair but did nothing to conceal its luster, to hide her flawless complexion or the intensely feminine curves of breast, hip and thigh, all draped in cornflower silk the exact shade of her eyes.

The gown made the most of her charms. Severely simple, it led the eye to see, showcased the bounty it concealed.

All that, he'd foreseen. What he hadn't expected was the aura of anticipation, blatantly sensual, that filled the space between them, that invested her expression, widened her eyes, lingered in the curve of her lips.

The effect was worse—far worse—than he'd expected.

He couldn't recall taking the steps, but he was suddenly beside her. She'd lifted her head to keep her eyes on his; raising one hand, he trailed the backs of his fingers up the exposed line of her throat, then turned his hand, cupped her jaw and bent his head to hers.

Her lips met his confidently. Not overeagerly, but she was ready and willing to follow wherever he led.

It was her control that gave him his, gave him the strength to raise his head without taking the caress any further. Hearing a sound outside the door, he reached around her and drew out her chair. Her eyes met his briefly, then she turned
and sat, settling her skirts as the attendant entered pushing the trolley carrying their meal.

Once the trolley was positioned and the dishes displayed, Martin dismissed the man and took his seat. Amanda helped herself to the various delicacies; he reached for the bottle and filled her glass, then his.

“You've been here before.”

Across the table, her eyes quizzed him.

“On occasion.” He had no intention of letting her imagine he was any less dangerous than society had painted him.

Her lips curved; a dimple winked. She raised her glass. Obligingly, he lifted his and clinked the edge to hers.

“To my adventures,” she declared, and drank.

To sanity
. He took a fortifying swallow.

“Can we go out and about the gardens?”

He took another gulp. “After we've eaten.”

She applied herself to the food with unfeigned appreciation. However, other than commenting on the culinary skills of the unknown cook, she did not speak. Prattle. Fill his ears with the usual babble, as women were wont to do.

He found her reticence disconcerting. Disorienting.

As he tended to keep silent, having long ago discovered the advantage that conferred, the ladies he escorted usually felt obliged to fill the vacuum. Consequently, he was never consumed by any wish to know what was going on in their heads; if they were talking, they weren't thinking.

Now, however, Amanda's silence focused his attention as no feminine discourse ever would. What was going on under her golden locks? What plot was she hatching? And why?

That last nagging question rang warning bells. Why did he want to know? He mentally shrugged the quibble aside—he definitely wanted to know
why
she'd selected him as her partner in adventure.

On a sigh of pleasant repletion, she laid down her knife and fork. He drained the last of the champagne into his glass and sat back, sipping.

Across the table, she met his gaze. “It's odd—although we're in the gardens, you can't hear the crowd.”

“The bushes absorb the sound.” Including any sound from the isolated booths. Pushing back his chair, he stood. “Come. Let's take the air.”

Amanda was very ready to do so; the strain of not giving way to nervous babble was wearing her down. Outside among the crowd there would be plenty of distraction, and ease for her overstretched nerves. Sharing an enclosed space with a large, intensely predatory male, one who looked like sin personified, was not a calming experience; she knew she was safe, yet her senses insisted on screaming she was not.

In her cloak with the hood up, shielding her face, she left the booth on Dexter's arm. They retraced the path, then took another turning. It opened into one of the main walks. Immediately, they were surrounded by couples and groups all flown with good cheer. As they walked toward the rotunda, the center of the garden's entertainments, the crowd steadily increased.

It was not a Gala Night, so when they reached the area where couples were waltzing, there was space enough for Dexter to draw her into his arms and steer them into the swirling throng.

She glanced at his face; he was watching her. He studied her eyes, her expression, then had to look up as they turned. The lanterns bobbing overhead sent light, then shadow, dancing across his features. Illuminating the strong patrician lines, then veiling them.

Following his lead without thought, she let her mind drift, allowed her senses to appreciate as they would. She was aware of his strength, of the ease with which he steered her, of the sudden tensing of his arm, drawing her protectively closer when more couples joined in and limited their space.

Those about them were of all walks, all types, including others of their ilk, ladies and gentlemen enjoying an evening in the gardens, others even more like them with the lady cloaked and in some cases veiled. A
frisson
of daring tickled her spine; for the first time in her life, she was flirting with the illicit.

Dexter's gaze returned to her face. She met it boldly, her lips curved, awareness naked in her eyes. They continued to
twirl, neither willing to look away, to risk missing the next moment. Breathing became a secondary concern; absorption in the moment was all.

Magic shimmered in the shifting light, touching them fleetingly, teasing their senses. It was as mesmerizing an experience as she'd hoped for, twirling through the shadows with him. They were surrounded, but they might as well have been alone, so intent on each other were they.

The music ended and they slowed; she broke the contact, mentally reaffirmed her plan. She'd lured him this far; now she had to tempt him to take the next step.

Martin noted the faint crease between her brows. “Would you care for some punch?” What was she plotting?

“Please.” She flashed him a brilliant smile, banishing the frown. “I haven't been here for years.”

“I doubt the punch has changed.” He took two cups from a passing waiter, handed her one, watched her sip. Watched red liquid stain her lips, watched her tongue slide across the lower.

He raised his cup and drained it in one gulp.

“Dexter!”

Martin turned and saw Leopold Korsinsky pushing through the crowd. Mentally cursing, he tossed his empty cup to a passing attendant and reached for Amanda's hand. “Careful,” was all he had time to growl before Leopold reached them, a cloaked lady on his arm.

Barely nodding to Martin, Leopold bowed elaborately before Amanda. “
Madame
—have we met?”

Using the cup to shield her lower face, Amanda looked out from the shadow of her hood, noting the sharpness of the Corsican's gaze as he scanned all he could see. She lowered her voice to a deeper key. “I believe we have met, sir, although you might not recall.”