On a Wild Night (16 page)

“There's no need to concern yourself. I fully accept that there's no understanding between us. No connection—you made that plain. I therefore fail to see why you're so intent
on preserving such a dog-in-the-manger attitude toward me. You can't seriously imagine that I will accept that.”

He locked his jaw, bit his tongue against the impulse to respond to the taunt in her eyes. She had him—his emotions—pegged to a tee.

When he remained silent, her brows rose, then she resurveyed the room. “If you'll excuse me, there are others I wish to speak with.”

She started to move away; his hold on her wrist prevented it. She looked down at his fingers, manacling her wrist. And waited. He had to force them to open. Her smile serene, she inclined her head and stepped out.

“Where are you going?” He couldn't hold the question back, knew she'd understand what he was asking—where was she headed with this game.

She glanced at him. “To hell and back again.” As she turned away, she added, “If I so choose.”

 

She was walking a tightrope over a pit of ravening wolves; at some point, she'd put a foot wrong—nothing was more certain. The wolves were counting on it; that was why they were patiently waiting, willing to be played on a string like the puppies they most assuredly were not.

Martin gritted his teeth and watched as night followed night, as
soirée
followed party followed rout. In the ton, the Season proper had commenced; among the demimonde, the same frenetic burst of social activity held sway.

Every night, he located Amanda; even if she had tonnish obligations, at some point, escorted by an increasingly unhappy Carmarthen, she'd appear in his world. And every night, she seemed a touch wilder, a touch less predictable.

She laughed and charmed; it appeared almost an addiction the way she added conquests to her string. Face grim, arms folded, he would prop the wall and watch; the most dangerous had noted their earlier association, and had sufficiently well-honed self-preservatory instincts to be wary. No one could fathom what lay between them, but few were game to risk stepping on his toes. It was the only weapon he
had left with which to protect her; the fact it had worked so far was his only success in their game.

Supporting the wall at Mrs. Emerson's rout party, he studied the circle of which Amanda was the focus. Some argument was brewing, yet its tone seemed intellectual rather than sexual—odd, considering the company, not so odd given Amanda was leading one side of the debate.

Then Reggie Carmarthen stepped back from the group; he scanned the crowd, the expression on his face one of incipient panic. He spotted Martin.

To Martin's surprise, Reggie made a beeline for him. Fetching up beside him, Reggie dispensed with all formality. “You've got to do something. She's”—he waved at Amanda—“about to step seriously out of her depth!”

Martin returned Reggie's earnest look impassively. “So stop her.”

Reggie's expression turned impatient. “If I could stop her doing anything, she wouldn't be here in the first place! That's obvious. I've never been able to turn her a damn once she gets the bit between her teeth.” He met Martin's gaze belligerently. “And she's had the bit between her teeth from the moment you offered to partner her at whist.”

The accusation was clear, but Martin needed no prod in that respect. He already felt responsible—certainly morally accountable—for Amanda's increasingly brazen behavior, her restless, dissatisfied state. He doubted Reggie had any idea why and how completely the blame rested with him.

To feel so might be illogical—it was her own choice, after all—yet it was how he felt.

He stirred under Reggie's righteous gaze; straightening, he glanced at the increasingly rowdy group. “What's the subject under discussion?”

“Etchings.”

Martin looked at Reggie.
“Etchings?”

Disgusted, Reggie nodded. “Precisely—
those
sort of etchings. Only Amanda has no idea, and some of the men have realized. Any minute, she's going to accept some carefully worded challenge”—he glanced at the group anxiously—“if she hasn't already.”

Martin swore and followed his gaze, relieved to see the argument still in full spate. Amanda was holding forth. “They'll let her tie herself up in her own arguments first, if they've any sense.”

“Curtin is there, and McLintock, too.”

Which answered that. “Damn.” Martin watched the drama unfold, considered how best to intervene. He'd been toying with the notion of alerting her cousins to her extracurricular activities, but he hadn't seen even one of them while tracking Amanda through the salons; going into the ton to find them was not an option—not for him.

He looked at Reggie. “If I get her out of this, might I suggest you tip the wink to one of her cousins. Devil or Vane, or one of the others?”

Reggie stared at him as if he—Martin—had misunderstood something crucial. “I can't do that.” When he frowned, Reggie offered, “I'm her friend.”

Martin studied Reggie's open countenance, then grimaced and looked back at Amanda. Inwardly sighed. “It seems it's up to me, then.”

Amanda had all but given up hope—completely and utterly—when Dexter suddenly loomed beside her. For the past week, she'd played an increasingly desperate hand, her smile night by night growing more brittle, her behavior more outrageous. She was now skirting the unforgivable, and part of her didn't care.

It had been frightening to discover just how little she cared for what was left on her plate if Martin Fulbridge was not to be a part of her life. Frightening to realize what her future would hold—a dull and virtuous marriage. Despite her professed interest in the excitement of the demimonde, she was already weary of their entertainments, a poor imitation of those of the ton, the company less erudite, less honestly engaging; she did not approve of the cold eyes of the gentlemen or the brassy insincerity of the women.

Tonight, she'd passed beyond desperation to a state where flirting with a potentially destructive situation seemed acceptable. In her heart, she knew it wasn't so, but her heart was too heavy to save her.

Dexter's reappearance should have sent that organ soaring, but one look at the stony cast of his features was enough to douse her reaction. “Well, my lord.” She met his eyes as boldly as any woman present, and a great deal more challengingly. “Which way would you argue—yes, or no?”

He held her gaze. “Yes or no to what?”

“Why, to the thesis that the most noble specimens of the art of etching are guaranteed to inflame a lady's passions.” She returned his regard evenly, hiding her contempt for the subject, as she'd done throughout. When, coming upon a conversation on the irresistible lure of a recently acquired etching, she'd given her opinion that such artworks were greatly overrated as to their effect on women, every gentleman within hearing had converged to patronizingly dismiss her view.

That had been all she'd needed, in her present mood, to make her dig in her heels and stick to her theory. The fact that every gentlemen involved assumed it was indeed a theory, and that if suitably encouraged she'd talk herself into an experiment, formed the wellspring of her contempt.

Just how naive did they think she was?

Of course
she knew what sort of etchings they meant—she was
twenty-three!
She'd viewed a few firsthand, had heard of others, and had been exposed to the works of artists such as Fragonard from her earliest years. Her opinion was no theory but established fact—artwork, no matter the subject, had never done anything to her passions.

That was a point she'd yet to make clear; starved of entertainment, she'd perhaps unwisely fanned the argument. Her current tack was to discover how long it would take for the assembled gentlemen to realize she was not about to volunteer to test her thesis by viewing one of their collections.

That, of course, was before Dexter appeared. Now he had . . .

She raised a brow. “Surely you have an opinion, my lord? One would suppose you to be quite knowledgeable on the subject.”

His eyes held hers, then his lips curved in a smile that sent
a shiver down her spine. “I've rarely found them ineffective, although, of course, the sensitivity of the lady in question has a signal bearing on the outcome.”

The drawled yet perfectly articulated words fell into a sudden hush.

Amanda stared, trapped in his eyes. She'd assumed he'd glower and try to douse the discussion, not ruthlessly throw down the very gauntlet every other gentleman had been trying to find an opportunity to toss. Behind her polite mask, she was honestly aghast.

“Quite right,” Mr. Curtin purred. “That's been my experience, too.”

“Indeed,” Lord McLintock chimed in. “Which means, my dear, that you'll have to view a set of suitable etchings to prove your point. I'd be happy to offer my collection for your assessment.”

“No, no. My collection is more extensive—”

“Ah, but I fancy mine would be preferable—”

A cacophony of offers assailed her ears. Within seconds, an altercation threatened over whose collection was most suitable to test her mettle.

Dexter's deep voice cut across the din. “As it was my observation that sensitivity is key, and as my library contains an extensive collection of such works, including rare volumes from the East, I suggest Miss Cynster should test her thesis by viewing a selection from my collection.”

Amanda drew in a slow breath. Not one of the assembled rakes dared protest; they waited, ready to leap in should she refuse Dexter's offer.

She looked up at him, let him alone see her narrowed eyes. He'd deliberately cut short her evening's entertainment, doubtless on the grounds it was for her own good. Well and good—
he
could provide compensation.

Lifting her chin, she smiled. “What a splendid idea.” The wariness that flashed into his eyes was a pleasure to behold; she beamed at their audience. “I will, of course, report back to you all on my findings.”

A few grumbled; others accepted the loss with good
grace, doubtless anticipating she would return with a heightened appetite they could offer to slake. Amanda inwardly humphed, fully intending to curtail her forays into the demimonde. The only reason she'd ventured there in the first place was to find the man currently by her side. She gave him her hand; he tucked it in his arm. With a nod to the others, Dexter led her away. Straight for the door.

“You don't think,” she murmured, “that you're going to get away without showing me a book from your collection— one of those ‘rare volumes from the East'?”

He glanced down at her, his expression hard. “You don't need to look at such a book.”

She opened her eyes wide, went to draw her hand from his sleeve—his fingers locked hard about hers. She looked down at her trapped hand, then lifted her gaze to his eyes. “If you deem their company too risky for me, then you must provide an alternative. You offered to show me your etchings—I accepted. They all heard you.”

“Are you seriously holding me to that?” His tone suggested she was daft.

She held his agatey gaze. “Yes.”

Martin swore beneath his breath. He looked away, over the sea of heads, then released her hand and reached into his coat pocket. Drawing out a tablet, he scribbled a note to Reggie Carmarthen, merely stating that in rescuing his friend, he'd had to take her home. The brusque tone of the missive would be entirely comprehensible to Reggie. After dispatching a footman with the folded note, he reclaimed Amanda's hand.

“Come on.”

“I don't suppose,” Martin inquired acerbically, as his carriage turned into Park Lane, “that you'll let me set you down by your parents' house and call this evening ended?”

Amanda glanced at him through the shadows. “No.”

So much for that. He'd had no choice, yet he'd regretted hijacking her evening from the moment of quitting Mrs. Emerson's door. Why he was so jumpy, he didn't know—he'd take her to his library, show her one of the damned books, then bundle her back out and take her home. And that would be that. For tonight.

The carriage turned into his drive; as per his customary orders, it headed around to the rear yard. Martin inwardly swore, then remembered the front door hadn't been opened for years. The carriage halted. He descended and handed Amanda down, telling himself his nerves were twitchy simply because she was the first member of his ex-circle he'd allowed into this house since it had become his. Yet as he escorted her in via the dark kitchen and on through the dim corridors, his nerves tightened further.

Amanda was glad of the lack of light; other than a candle Dexter had picked up from the kitchen table, the house was in darkness. Not, however, pitch dark—she could see furniture swathed in holland covers, sense the brooding atmosphere of an empty house. The wavering light of the candle
didn't reach her face, so she could gawk as much as she liked.

This was his lair.

A shiver snaked down her spine. It was horridly cold, just one notch from chilled, and she suspected that one notch was due to the kitchen hearth. But he couldn't possibly spend his days there. The immense staircase that rose on their right as they entered the mausoleumlike hall was of classical design, its steps leading up to a gallery shrouded in impenetrable shadows. Glancing around, she suppressed another shiver; most doors stood open—not one room showed any evidence of being used.

This was no home. He might be unmarried and live alone, yet this house had had all life sucked out of it. There was nothing left, no human warmth or gentleness, no comfort for a restless spirit.

Without pause, Dexter led her down a second corridor, wider than the first, but equally neglected.

Bleak
. The word echoed in Amanda's mind. How could he live here?

Then he opened a door. Light spilled out, a startlingly welcome sight. He waved her in; she stepped forward—and stopped on the threshold.

This
was where he lived.

She looked this way, then that, eyes darting, trying to take it all in at a glance—impossible. Trying to reconcile this wonder with the desolate emptiness she'd traversed in the last minutes. Mesmerized, she walked in, only to stop again, unabashedly swivelling to stare about her.

The huge room—massive in proportion, possibly an early ballroom, for the house was old—was now a library. The term didn't do it justice. Yes, every wall was covered with bookshelves, wood glowing all the way to the ceiling; yes, the shelves were packed with tome upon leatherbound tome, many spines heavy with gold or silver. There was a hearth big enough to roast the proverbial ox in the middle of the long inner wall. The opposite wall hosted a regimented row of long windows giving onto a courtyard in which moonlight played on lush greenery surrounding a square lawn and
a fountain. The courtyard's high stone walls were covered in vines.

Her gaze drifted to the ceiling; she sucked in a reverent breath and stared. It was a work of art, each segment of the dome depicting a constellation with various deities, animals, fish and fowl. One could stare, spellbound, for hours; she dragged her gaze away, noting the row of crystal chandeliers, all presently unlit.

Glancing around, she felt like she was drowning in sumptuous splendor. Everywhere she looked, there was some object or item, some unexpected sight to engage the senses. His years in the Orient were evident in the delicate ivory ornaments, in the jade figurines that stood on wooden pedestals, the silk runners that covered the tops of heavily carved sideboards. Across the polished floor, bright carpets stretched, sheening in the candlelight, their jewel hues vibrant even in the relative gloom.

Facing each other across the hearth in which a fire blazed, confirming this was the room to which he habitually retired, stood a chaise and a daybed, the latter piled with gold-embroidered silk cushions and draped in a veritable rainbow of silk shawls, their bright, knotted fringes winking in the candelight.

Dragging in a breath, she looked down the room to gain perspective.

It wasn't just the scale that stunned—it was the color. The richness. The sheer sensory delight.

The house was like him. The thought burst into her mind with the clarity of truth, the conviction of accuracy. The outside was classical yet forbidding, the entrance bleak, but at the heart lay a place of unfettered warmth where beauty, knowledge and sensual pleasures held sway.

She turned and saw Dexter crouched by the fire, building it high. Strolling to the nearest bookcase, she let her gaze roam the spines. Art, the Classics, poetry—all were represented. Essays, philosophies, diaries in Latin, Greek, German and French—the collection was extensive.

Picking up a jewelled egg from one shelf, she examined the intricate work. Replacing it, she turned—to find Dexter
standing, watching her, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Well.” She waved at the shelves. “Which is the tome I need to peruse?”

His features hardened. He started toward her with his usual prowling gait, the firelight behind him gilding his hair. Steeling her senses, she held her ground. Tilted her chin.

He stopped in front of her, met her gaze. “You don't need to peruse any book.”

She tried to read his eyes. Failed. “But I do. It's the least entertainment you can offer me, considering that little scene earlier.” Intimidation poured from him; helpfully she added, “And don't forget—one of your volumes from the East.”

His jaw set. Through eyes harder than stone, he considered her, then reached up, high above her head, and slid a brown leather-covered tome free. He placed the heavy book in her hands—the spine was more than three inches wide—then waved her to the fire. “Pray be seated.”

He'd lighted a candelabra and set it on the low table at the end of the chaise. Amanda headed for the daybed, irresistibly drawn by the silks. She settled among the cushions; they shushed as she wriggled. The daybed was wide, unusually large; the perch was unbelievably comfortable. She looked at the low table, then at Dexter.

Stony-faced, he moved the table and candelabra to the end of the daybed beside her. Setting the book on her lap, she trailed her fingers over the cover, heavily encrusted with gold leaf. “Did you get this on your travels?”

He hesitated, then replied, “It was given to me by a maharanee.”

When he remained standing, she looked up at him, let challenge fill her eyes. He stared down at her, then surrendered and sat on the daybed's other end, leaning back amid the cushions, arms wide. He looked so much at home, she suspected the daybed was his favorite resting place. Most un-English, yet the liking of luxurious comforts was definitely a leonine attribute.

Satisfied, she gave her attention to the book. Opening it, she turned to the first page to find it covered with wildly curling characters.

“Sanskrit.”

“Can you read it?”

“Yes, but the text is immaterial to your purpose. Go on to the illustrations.”

She could think of no way to force him to translate. She turned the page. And came to the first etching. Her first intimation that, no matter that she had not led a truly sheltered life, in comparison with him, assuming this book to be no revelation, she'd spent her entire life in a cloister.

Oddly, she didn't feel the least bit shocked. No telltale blush rose to her cheeks. She did, however, feel as if her eyes couldn't open wide enough, as if she hardly dared breathe.

Not shocked. She was fascinated. Enthralled.

Amazed.

Martin watched the firelight play across her face, watched the change in her expression as she turned the page. Tried not to recall what she was looking at. Then, to his consternation, discovered that he couldn't.

He studied her face. She seemed absorbed. Intrigued. Then she tilted her head, angling her gaze . . . unable to bear it, he stealthily shifted sideways so he could see her more clearly.

Hell!
Eyes glued to the page, he realized he'd forgotten how lifelike the illustrations in that particular book were, how detailed. She flipped a page, fell to studying the next image avidly. He stared at the work, then glanced at her face, imagined what must be going through her mind.

His mouth went dry; his whole body reacted.

He looked back at the book, fought to ease the vice slowly tightening, notch by notch, about his lower chest.

She turned the next page—to a picture of a couple, on a daybed very like the one they were on, engaged in flagrant intercourse.

Arousal rushed through him; he couldn't stop his gaze going to her face, couldn't not watch, his breath shallow, as she examined the finely drawn work.

She felt his gaze. She glanced at him; her eyes met his, locked on them. Then she stilled.

A wash of color spread across her collarbones, swept into her porcelain cheeks. Her lips softened; she glanced down at the book, considered the picture again.

The pulse at the base of her throat leapt; her fingers fluttered at the edge of the page. He sensed the change in her breathing, could, through the tension suddenly binding them, feel the rise of her desire.

Hesitantly, she looked at him. Her eyes were dark, pupils dilated, ringed with an intense sapphire blue.

“So you see,” he ground out, the words gravelly, deep, “the pictures do affect you.” He reached for the book—knew he had to take it from her, bring the moment to an end. Quickly.

“No. You're wrong.” She shifted the book away from his hand. Lost her grip. The book slithered from her silk-covered lap, thudded onto the floor.

They both reached for it.

He slid forward—the movement brought him close to her.

His weight sinking into the bed pitched her into him.

In a slither of silk, Amanda squirmed around, spread her hands across his chest and stayed him. “No—leave it.” She struggled to breathe, to think, to keep her eyes on his rather than on his lips. “It's proved my point.”

The muscles under her hands were rigid; she felt his control quake. It held, but only just. The heat of his body washed about her, engulfed her; something primitive prowled just behind his mask. She glanced at his lips. Saw him moisten them, saw them form the words, “How so?”

She looked into his eyes; he continued, “The pictures aroused you.”

“No.” Triumph warmed her, but it was getting harder and harder to think. “It wasn't the pictures. They were . . . interesting. Revealing. Nothing more.” Boldly, she trailed a finger down his lean cheek, her gaze locked on the path she traced until her fingertip touched the corner of his lips. Her wits were slowly spinning away, as if speech, as if thought, no longer mattered.

She looked up; his eyes were a dark, mesmerizing deep
green. “It was you—watching
you
look at the picture. Imagining you imagining me . . .” She slid her hand back, curled her fingers about his nape, drew his lips to hers. “Watching you imagining us . . . like that.”

Their lips touched, and they were lost.

She didn't know it, but every instinct reacted. To the fact that she had her lion in thrall, that she'd finally breached his walls and captured the sensualist at his core. Gloried in the fact that he was hers, here and now, without reserve.

And she was his.

The realization streaked through her, not a thought but pure feeling, something she felt in her skin, in her blood, a knowledge that sank to her marrow.

She was with him from the instant that kiss set spark to tinder, followed eagerly as the conflagration grew, as the caress evolved into an explicit exchange. He eased back into the cushions; she went with him, sinking against him, luxuriating in the feel of his hard body beneath hers. Her arms about his neck, she locked him to her as the kiss went on and on.

As they fell deeper under the sensual spell fate had woven about them.

Later, she realized it was that that had driven them, overwhelmed them; at the time all she knew was an inchoate need to be his—female to his male, woman to his man. A need so elementally simple, so emotionally at one with her desires, she had no reason to think, to question.

It felt so right.

His hands speared into her hair and sent her pins flying. The mass tumbled down but he closed his hand in it, held it, savored the feel of the heavy locks sliding through his fingers, then filling his hand again. And again.

Eventually leaving her hair in tumbled disarray, his hands trailed down, fingers skimming the sensitive skin of her throat. Then his lips left hers to follow the trail. She felt a tug, then her cloak slid away, sliding off the bed to pool on the floor. He laid a hand on her breast; she pressed her flesh to his palm, sighing with content, with an anticipation he swiftly fulfilled. His lips returned to hers, appeasing their
hunger while between them his hands closed, kneading gently at first, then more deliberately, until her breasts were swollen, aching, pulsating. But he didn't touch her as she wished to be touched. Instead, his fingers went to her laces, swiftly undoing them—then she could breathe again, albeit shallowly.