On a Wild Night (13 page)

 

The pit of Covent Garden, cleared and crammed with revelers, was a scene lifted from Amanda's wildest imaginings. When Dexter escorted her into their box in the first tier, she didn't know where to look first.

Everyone wore masks, but many ladies had already dispensed with their black cloaks, revealing gowns the likes of which Amanda had never seen. Eyes round, she drank in the sights—and corrected her thoughts. Not ladies. No lady would ever wear such provocative attire. Sinking into a chair at the front of the box, she viewed this one, then that, with voyeuristic fascination; these were the demimonde in all their glory. The Cyprians, the ladybirds, the opera dancers who more frequently appeared on the stage of the huge hall, presently hosting an orchestra laboring to be heard over the din. Ribald comments, raucous laughter, rose from all quarters. Arch glances, teasing titters captured men's senses and tempted them nearer.

The gentlemen were unremarkable, the same crowd she saw every night in the ton. What enthralled her was their behavior, their open worship of the bold and brazen who flaunted their charms directly beneath their noses.

The flagrant play—the inciting of desire and the subsequent negotation over its satisfaction—intrigued her. Although aware of Dexter's frowning gaze, she continued to sit and stare. After a time, he sprawled in a chair beside her, large, watchful—intensely lionlike.

Once she'd drunk her fill and confirmed that, as far as she could tell, there were no familiar faces hidden among the throng, she turned and regarded him through the slits in her halfmask. “Can we go down?”

He wanted to say “No.” She could see it in his eyes—he hadn't worn a mask. Little point; he was easily recognizable—there was no other with hair of his particular shade, so richly burnished. The gold overlaying the brown was doubtless one of the changes his years in India had wrought.

Indolently, he stirred; his gaze drifted to the crowd. “If you wish.”

He stood; she gave him her hand and let him raise her. His gaze returned, slid down, over her, taking in her gown of apricot silk revealed as her domino parted. She'd chosen the gown carefully; its hue made her skin glow and turned her hair a deeper gold.

For one instant, he stared, then, reaching out, twitched the cloak closed. “It would be wise to remain incognito. One look at that gown and the cogniscenti will be rabid to learn who you are.”

An angel slumming in hell.
Her hand anchored on his sleeve, Martin escorted her down the stairs to the vestibule. As they reached the pit and the noise engulfed them, he reminded himself it wasn't truly hell; if it had been, he'd never have brought her here.

Here, however, was a place she didn't need to be, didn't need to see—she didn't need to be exposed to this kind of company. At least in his opinion.

He knew better than to argue. Jaw set, he guided her into the throng, intent on ensuring that what she did see was, if not acceptable, then at least not shocking. He was counting on the fact he had a woman on his arm to ward off any approaches; nevertheless, numerous arch glances, come-hither pouts and knowing winks were directed his way. A fact his partner didn't miss.

She stiffened; her fingertips sank into his arm. But as they penetrated further into the crowd, her tension gradually eased.

He glanced at her face, but with her mask on and her gaze on the crowd, he couldn't see her expression, couldn't guess her thoughts.

Didn't forsee her direction.

Amanda's openmindedness over the women parading the pit ended the instant she realized they were as aware of her escort's potential as she. Fifteen feet of slow progress, however, demonstrated that he had no interest in them—his attention remained firmly rivetted precisely where she wanted it.

On her.

Which left her free to take in all she would, to catalogue the flourishes, the teasing glances, the flirting whisk of a fan, to glean all she could from experts in the field. Yet the fact he seemed immune suggested that she would need more subtle weapons.

She'd turned her mind to evaluating exactly what subtle weapons she possessed when a jocularly jostling couple bumped her, sent her careening—

Dexter hauled her to him—she fetched up against his chest, breathlessly locked against him. Protectively shielded.

She glanced up. His face was a stony warrior's mask, his gaze fixed beyond her. She could hear some gentleman gabbling his apologies. Beneath her hands, in the arms around her, she felt tension swell, muscles flex. Dragging in a breath, she fought to turn—but only succeeded in turning her head. “That's quite all right.” She glanced up as Dexter looked down.

He looked ready to argue.

She smiled. Patted his chest. “No harm done.”

The couple took advantage of his distraction to melt into the crowd; Martin looked up and they were gone—he felt as if he'd been deprived of his rightful prey. It took an instant more to shackle his instincts. To quell his reaction enough so he could ease his arms from . . .

Damn!
He refused to meet her gaze as he forced his arms from her. Closing one hand about hers, he twined her arm with his and anchored her hand on his sleeve. “What now?”

The growled words were barely polite, but . . . she was the one who had wanted to come here.

He felt the glance she threw him, declined to meet it.

“Let's amble. I want to see all there is to be seen.”

There was not a chance of him permitting that. He steered her through sections of the crowd that he'd first ascertained were safe, avoiding any group whose behavior he considered too lewd for her angelic blue eyes.

And reminded himself why he was here.

Because he'd agreed to bring her here, because he'd extracted
a promise that if he did, she'd return to the ballrooms where she belonged. The years had taught him wisdom; he knew she'd keep her word. She had her own brand of honor, as did he. His demanded that once this night was over, he retire from her life. And he would. Regardless. All he had to do was survive tonight, and all would be well.

The shrill shrieks, the high-pitched gibber of excitement that always seemed to occur beyond her view, informed Amanda that she was missing a good deal of what she had ostensibly come to see.

She no longer cared. The game she and Dexter were engaged in demanded her entire attention. Tonight would be her last chance to breach his walls. While he might be a superior card player, in this particular game they were more evenly matched. All she had to do was tip the scales her way.

As the crowd grew more unruly, she considered every opportunity, ready to seize any advantage. Before the stage, they came upon an area filled with waltzing couples. Abruptly stopping, she turned. Into Dexter's arms.

“Can we dance?” Suppressing her reaction at the sudden contact, breast to chest, hip to thigh, she ignored the tension locking his frame, the possessive grip of his hand at her waist. Eyes wide, she looked up at him.

He glanced at her, then at the dancers. His jaw hardened. “If you wish.”

Smiling, she lifted her hand to his shoulder. He gathered her close and steered her into the twirling couples. Here, the waltz was a different dance to that performed in the ballrooms. Slower, more intimate. Infinitely more useful.

He'd used the dance for seduction before—the moves came too easily, second nature to him. Even now, when she knew he wished it otherwise. They slowly revolved; the floor was too crowded for him to hold her at any distance. The domino he'd brought for her shifted constantly against his coat, against her silk gown, making it hard for him to hold her firmly. Then she misread his direction and was jostled again. Jaw set, he flicked the domino open and slid his hand beneath, to rest at the back of her waist, firm against
her gown. He drew her to him—not close so that their bodies shifted against each other, teasing and tantalizing—but all the way, so she was locked flush against him, held, trapped. His.

For one instant, she couldn't breathe, then she leaned closer, rested her temple against his shoulder. Lips curving, she relaxed into his tight embrace, let her body flow with the suddenly intense tide. He felt like hot rock against her; they slowly whirled, hips and thighs caressing, pressing close.

Excitement, a hot streak of sensation, raced through her, then pooled, liquid heat, deep inside. Barely able to breathe, she raised her head, looked up—fell into his mesmerizing eyes. Soft, deep green flecked with gold, they burned with the promise of limitless passion, limitless but restrained. She couldn't look away, wondered what he could read in her eyes.

That he wanted her was plain; the desire she'd sought to evoke was there, and even more potent than she'd guessed. The knowledge thrilled her—unexpectedly scared her. This was what she'd plotted to get; now she'd got it . . . the thought of what came next set her heart pounding.

Shifting her hand, she grazed her fingertips through his silky locks, then, wonderingly, ran the backs of her fingers along his jaw. With his habitual languor, he bent his head; her heart stood still, her lips throbbed, parted.

As he had once before, he touched his lips to the very corner of hers. “Don't worry.” His voice was deep, a rumbling purr. “I won't eat you.”

Damn!
She rapidly reassessed, read again the tension holding him, the strength of his restraint. He was going to spare her. Noble of him, but not what she had in mind. How to explain—

“Oh! You
dreadful man!
”

The words and the slap that followed had them glancing to their right. Raucous laughter engulfed a group surrounding the protesting woman. She was smiling and laughing, too—she'd merely slapped a gentleman's straying hand away.

Amanda's eyes nearly started from her head. The woman's gown . . . the bodice was transparent. Her breasts,
nipples erect, were displayed for all to see. A number of gentlemen were looking.

Her faint “Good God!” was overridden by Dexter's much more decisive “Come on.”

He whisked her around; holding her close, he steered her in the opposite direction.

Scanning the crowd, Martin mentally cursed. The waltz had distracted him; he'd missed the moment he'd been watching for—the moment when, by general consensus, the tenor of the evening changed. From the licentious to the determinedly bawdy. From what he could see as he glanced about, matters would soon descend to the outright lewd.

The change had happened early tonight, as it sometimes did. Normally, he would retire to his box with whichever lady he had on his arm, there to indulge as they would in privacy; over the past year he might have eschewed the ton, but he hadn't lived the life of a monk.

Tonight, however, celibacy was definitely his fate. As he bundled Amanda up the stairs to their box, the idea of spending any length of time with her there, alone, his behavior rigidly correct when what he wanted to do—

He cut off the thought with another mental curse.

She stepped into the box. Before he could stop her, she went straight to the front and looked out. “Great
heavens!
” After scanning the throng, her gaze fixed on one spot. Her jaw fell. “Good Lord—look at that!”

He didn't need to; she didn't, either. Martin grasped her elbow—

A muffled shriek jerked their attention to the next box. Other sounds followed—panting, incoherent exclamations, garbled directions. Martin gave thanks that the occupants had had the foresight to draw the curtains. Tightening his grip, he drew Amanda back. “Come on—we're leaving.”

“Leaving? But—”

“No.”

On that uncompromising syllable, Amanda found herself drawn irresistibly to the door. One part of her wanted to dig in her heels; this was her last night with him, her last chance at him, and he was cutting it short. On the other hand, the
venue had not proven as amenable as she'd hoped—not romantic, not subtly seductive—not subtle at all. Subtle was what she needed, she was sure of that.

The behavior of the revellers they passed as Dexter grimly escorted her out of the building reinforced the notion that Covent Garden was the wrong place for her purposes. Fighting her blushes, disguising her shock, was too distracting; she needed her wits about her.

She was actually relieved when Dexter handed her into his carriage, but she had no time to relax, although she pretended to do so when the door shut and he sat beside her. The carriage rocked, rolled forward. She glanced at the street and racked her brains for inspiration. She'd got him where she'd hoped to get him—burning with desire for her. But how to capitalize when he was so determined to resist? How to snatch victory from his jaws?

The horses clopped along Pall Mall as she frantically searched for some way to prolong her time with him. Tried to think what she could do to further weaken his defenses; if he escaped her now in the mood in which he presently was, she would not, she felt sure, see him again. The carriage passed St. James; the dark shadows of Green Park lay ahead. Amanda glimpsed them, and suddenly knew what to do. A sense of calm descended; she waited until the carriage had turned into the street bordering the park before glancing at Dexter. “It's still early, the night's mild. Can we walk in Green Park for a while?”

Martin looked at the park, designed for strolling, gravel walks spread beneath tall trees. During the day, it was the preferred venue of governesses and nursemaids with young children; by night, it was deserted. It was free space, not fenced; safe enough given it was all lawns and trees, no bushes or anywhere any miscreant could hide.

“I
did
expect a whole evening at Covent Garden. However . . .” Amanda shrugged as he glanced at her. “In the circumstances, let's stroll under the trees and I'll be satisfied.”

He smothered a “humph,” yet it was a reasonable suggestion. That he was acutely conscious that this would otherwise be his last moments with her—that strolling in the park
would put off the instant when he would bid her good-bye for the last time—he steadfastly ignored, along with the unwelcome yearning that he could instead keep her, take her to his house and shut her in his library, his to enjoy for all time.