On a Wild Night (29 page)

He knew the cause of their reservation. He would deal with it once he'd secured Amanda. From her earlier “investigations” on his behalf and all she'd subsequently said, he
knew she cared not a jot, but her family would, a stance he understood.

The old scandal would need to be tackled,
but . . .
he couldn't in all conscience lift the lid on that pot, not unless he had to, not until she was willing to marry him and the scandal was the last hurdle in his path.

Countess Lieven glided past; she nodded regally. Lady Esterhazy had earlier smiled her approbation. As for Sally Jersey—every time she saw him, she looked for Amanda.

His gaze returned to Amanda, smiling at Lord Wittingham as the dance ended and she curtsied. Then she rose, looked about—for him.

Martin pushed away from the wall. Everyone was watching, waiting . . . the next move was his.

Amanda saw him approaching through the crowd; confident, assured, she remained where she was, waiting for him to reach her. In this arena, she had nothing to fear; he couldn't pounce in a ballroom.

The worst he could do he'd already done—convinced the entire ton, certainly all those who mattered, that a match between them was appropriate, even desirable. That whatever obstacles remained would be overcome, so fated was their union.

He'd managed that, but social opinion wasn't powerful enough to make her accept the cake he was offering without the icing. Until he offered all she wished, she was perfectly prepared to stroll the ballrooms at his side, to let propinquity abrade his senses as well as hers.

Her senses were more accustomed to frustration than his.

As he neared, she thanked Lord Wittingham and turned, her smile deepening. To do the lion justice, he'd made no attempt to use society's views to pressure her. He was too expert a player to make such a mistake.

She gave him her hand; he took it, fingers caressing hers as he settled them on his sleeve. They strolled, stopping to chat here and there. The music for the first waltz sounded; one shared look, and they headed for the floor. As they revolved, she noticed he was studying her; she raised her brows.

Releasing her hand, he caught a stray curl bobbing by her ear, set it back, lightly stroked her cheek.

She caught his gaze as he retook her hand.
What?
her look asked.

“You've stopped worrying that I'll bite.”

She let mock haughtiness infuse her expression; the observation was accurate, but he didn't need to state it.

His moss-agatey eyes remained sober. “Why do you trust me?”

That was not a question she'd expected to be asked. She searched, but could find only one answer: “Because you're you.”

His lips quirked, then he looked ahead, negotiating the turn.

Should she be more wary? The only message her senses sent her was one of unequivocal satisfaction; being in his arms felt right, totally safe. Difficult to feel nervous.

The music ended; they resumed their perambulation around the room, spending time with the many who had decided to cultivate the Earl of Dexter. If she'd thought him naive, she'd have worried, but the looks they exchanged left her in no doubt that he knew how to value such acquaintances.

However, quite aside from the shared glances, she was aware of his eyes returning again and again to her face; he was trying to read her thoughts.

Her court had dispersed—his never-failing presence at her side had made his intention clear. No other gentleman could match his attractions; the rest had given up vying for her hand. Unchallenged, he led her in to supper. Seating her at a table by the wall, he fetched two plates piled with delicacies.

They'd barely settled to their feast when another gentleman and lady approached. Amanda glanced up—and blinked.

“Mind if we join you?” Luc Ashford, as ever the epitome of a heartbreaking rake, raised a fashionably weary brow. Balancing two plates, he favored Amanda with an abbreviated bow.

Beside him, Amelia smiled her thanks as Martin rose and drew up a chair for her. “We spotted you from across the room. We've hardly had a chance to exchange two words.”

Luc set down their plates, then drew up another chair,
placing it beside Amanda, diagonally opposite Martin. “I had thought the ton held no interest for you, coz.”

“So had I.” Martin's smile was easy, but his gaze had grown sharp. “There are some parts I could still do without, but”—he shrugged—“needs must.”

Amelia laughed. “You've certainly caused a stir. Why—”

Letting her twin's light chatter flow past her, Amanda inwardly frowned. She knew Martin well, but she'd known Luc forever. If she thought of Martin as a lion, Luc had always been a black leopard, sleek and lethal.

Right now, Luc's hackles were up, but he was wary, not aggressive. Yet. Why, she couldn't fathom, but as she contributed her share to keep the conversation rolling, she grew increasingly certain the lion and the leopard were assessing each other, and communicating, too, on some male-cousin animalistic plane. Lady Osbaldestone's recollection that they knew each other well—had grown up together—was patently true. Martin showed no sign of feeling threatened, but he was watching Luc closely, trying to see past Luc's guard.

For his part, Luc was projecting . . . a warning. For the life of her, she couldn't understand why. Luc and she had never got on; he was one of the few males whose tongues she respected. He could use it like a saber, and frequently had—on her. While they appreciated each other's strengths, there was little love lost between them; she couldn't imagine why he would suddenly ride like a knight to her aid, against his own cousin. If that's what he was doing.

Opposite Luc, sprawled in his chair, Martin was wondering the same thing. He and Luc had been closer than brothers, once. Ten years of absolutely no contact had gouged a chasm between them, yet he could still read Luc well. Knew Luc could guess better than most what he was thinking, how he would react. They'd rubbed shoulders on only a few occasions since he'd returned to England, exchanged no more than a few stilted words. Yet . . .

Amelia paused to sip her champagne. Luc seized the moment; he looked at Martin. “Have you decided to open up Fulbridge House?”

Martin met Luc's dark eyes. “That depends.” He let his
gaze flick to Amanda, noted the hardness that infused Luc's face, the face of a fallen angel.

There was challenge and warning in the look Luc sent him; Martin was sorely tempted to ask what the devil he meant. There was nothing between Luc and Amanda; he was perfectly sure of that. Yet his well-exercised instincts recognized Luc's motives; he wanted to protect—

Amelia smiled brightly. “Tell me, is it really true—”

Martin saw the light—caught the fractional softening in his cousin's eyes, so dark a blue they were almost black and therefore difficult to read—in the instant before he followed Luc's gaze—to Amelia's delicate face.

Luc was protecting not Amanda, but her twin. Knew anything that harmed Amanda would impinge on Amelia.

The discovery fascinated, but there was little he could do to ease his cousin's suspicions. Close to the Cynsters as the Ashfords were, Luc would hear the latest soon enough, and realize that Amanda, and therefore, Amelia, were safe from him.

With supper disposed of, they rose as a group and strolled back to the ballroom. Amelia fell silent; Amanda glibly took up the conversational reins, questioning Luc about his sisters. He answered with increasing asperity; when the musicians started up, he turned to Amelia and requested the dance.

She gave him her hand; with nods, the four parted. As Amanda turned into his arms, Martin caught the last glimmer of her satisfied smirk.

“I was right.” He steered her into the sea of swirling couples. “There's some understanding between Luc and your sister.”

Amanda frowned, then admitted, “I don't actually know, but I think they would suit.” She looked into his face. “What do you think? You know Luc well.”

As they revolved, he considered it. “It might work.” He caught her gaze. “Your sister is not entirely like you.”

Her lips quirked. “No—she's more stubborn.”

Martin wished Luc luck, if that were true. His choice—the current bane of his life—was bad enough.

She was watching those around them with an easy smile,
unperturbed, content in his arms. He wanted her like that, always, yet to secure that . . .

She trusted him completely, without reserve. How would she react when he took the next step, made the move everyone was waiting on, played the card he'd held back, up his sleeve? She hadn't realized; she was so much at ease in this sphere, so confident as she swanned through the ballrooms, so assured at every turn, that she hadn't stepped back and considered, hadn't seen the option he had.

He had to exercise it, take the next step, yet . . .

Lifting his gaze, he looked across the room, and saw a tall, dark-haired gentleman strolling about the floor stop, arrested, his gaze locking on them. St. Ives—Martin recognized the height, the dominant stance, the arrogant features. Their gazes barely touched before the duchess bustled up and distracted her husband.

Martin felt his aggression subside; recognized the fact. Recalled Luc's attitude. He had to act, or risk a clash with her cousins.

As was common with most married gentlemen of their station, the male Cynsters had not appeared at the early balls. Their wives had clearly seen no reason to apprise them of his pursuit of Amanda, else he'd have heard from them—most likely sustained a private visit—long before now.

The Cynster ladies had given him time to draw Amanda as far as he could along the road they'd both chosen. That time had just run out. He had to play his next card.

“What
is
it?”

He glanced down to find Amanda searching his face.

“You've been behaving strangely all night.”

He could have smiled charmingly, turned the accusation aside; instead, he held her gaze as the music slowed, then ceased. “I need to talk with you.” He glanced around. “Somewhere private.”

At the nearby end of the ballroom, a bay window overlooked the gardens. The area before it was empty. Martin led her to it. Reaching the bay, Amanda stepped into its shadows and faced him, brows rising, yet still assured.

Still certain he couldn't take her by surprise.

He stopped before her, screening her from the company. No one could hear them or see their faces, yet they were in full view of half the ton.

“I intend, tomorrow, to ask for your hand.”

“You already have . . .” Her words trailed away, her eyes grew round, then flared wide. “You can't . . .”

“Ask for your hand formally? Believe me, I can.”

“But . . .” She frowned, then shook her head, as if to shake aside his suggestion. “There's no point. Until I agree, they won't.”

She still hadn't seen it.

“That point is understood—your agreement to our wedding has yet to be gained. However, that's not the purpose of a formal request. I'll be applying for your family's permission to address you.”

She continued to frown, imagining . . . then horror poured into her eyes. She grabbed his sleeve, looked into his face. “Good God—you
can't!
” She shook his arm. “Promise me you won't—that you absolutely
will not
mention . . .” She gestured wildly.

“I assure you no mention of our recent intimacies will pass my lips.”

She drew back, drew her hand from his sleeve, finally took the long step back she should have taken weeks ago. Horrified, she stared at him. “You won't have to say a word! They'll look at you—and
guess!”

He raised his brows fleetingly. “Be that as it may, it's not possible to continue as we are without some declaration of intent on my part. Your cousins, if not your father, will demand that much.”

He'd seen her defiant before, but now militance flamed in her eyes.

“No! Once they guess, once they know, they'll—”

She broke off, following some line of thought he couldn't for the life of him see. Eyes narrowing, she smiled, thin lipped. “It won't work.”

Refocusing on him, she nodded. “Very well. You may take that tack if you wish, if you deem it necessary. However”—
head high, she stepped past him, her eyes holding his—“my father has left London. He'll be traveling through the west country on business for the next week.”

With a regal nod, she glided out of the bay. Frowning, Martin watched as she disappeared into the at-last-thinning crowd.

Six yards away, one hand resting on the back of the chaise on which his wife, Catriona, sat talking to Lady Forsythe, Richard Cynster, his expression impassive, watched Martin.

 

“We should string him up by his—”

“I'm not sure that's warranted.”

Cut off in mid-tirade, Demon stared at Richard. “Not warranted? You say he was pressuring her—”

“Yes.” From the armchair facing Devil's desk, Richard continued, “But not in the way you're imagining.”

Demon frowned, then sank into a straightbacked chair facing the large desk. “What the hell's going on?”

All six of them exchanged glances. Sitting behind his desk, Devil sighed. “Knowing Amanda, it won't be straightforward.”

“As far as I could see,” Richard put in, “it wasn't.”

“Their . . .”—shoulders propped against the bookshelves behind Devil, Vane gestured—“
interaction
is apparently the talk of the ton.”

From his place on the chaise before the fireplace, Gabriel asked, “Tell us—what exactly did you see?”

“I saw them first,” Vane said. “They were strolling, then stopped a little apart from the crowd. They spoke, then he kissed her wrist—not innocently. It looked like he'd have been perfectly happy to devour her on the spot, and she, silly nitwit, would have urged him on. Then they moved on.” He shifted. “Patience said Amanda's managing perfectly well, and although that old scandal needs to be addressed, there's no reason for us to interfere.”