On a Wild Night (3 page)

“No!” Reggie hissed
sotto voce
.

Amanda knew she should coolly dismiss Connor and let Reggie lead her away, but she couldn't—simply could not—stomach the thought that Connor and every gentleman present
would smirk knowingly at her departing back, and laugh about her once she was gone.

“Whist?” she heard herself say. Beside her, Reggie groaned.

She was well versed in the game and was indeed lucky with cards, but she wasn't fool enough to think herself in Connor's league. She pretended to consider his proposal, conscious that all eyes had turned their way, then she shook her head, a dismissive smile on her lips. “I think—”

“I've a pretty little mare, pure Arab—bought her for breeding, but she's proving deuced picky, altogether unamenable. She should suit you well.” The comment was just glib enough not to rate as an insult. Connor smiled, very definitely too knowing. “Beat your cousin to her, as a matter of fact.”

That last comment, thrown in no doubt to pique her interest, pricked her pride instead.

“No!”
Reggie insisted, his whisper despairing.

Amanda locked gazes with Connor and raised a haughty brow; her smile had disappeared. “A mare, you say?”

Connor nodded, somewhat distracted. “Worth a small fortune.” His tone suggested he was having second thoughts about the wisdom of his wager.

For one instant, Amanda teetered on the brink of accepting his challenge, then caution reared its head. If she rejected Connor, playing a rubber with some of the blades watching would be sufficient to prevent her being labelled a silly chit out of her depth, a dilettante. She couldn't afford to be contemptuously dismissed by the crowd she suspected harbored her future husband. But how to slide out of Connor's trap?

The answer was blindingly obvious. Letting her lips curve, she murmured, “How intriguing. Unfortunately, I have nothing I'd care to wager against such a valuable stake.”

Turning away, she let her gaze meet those of the two blades who had started to approach. Blatantly considered them. They straightened.

Connor growled, “Not even three hours of your time?”

She swung back to face him. “Three hours?”

“Three hours, to be spent by my side”—Connor waved magnanimously—“in whatever surroundings you choose.” The last phrase was delivered with an intense leer.

He was laughing at her. If she ran away, everyone would laugh at her.

She'd laugh derisively at herself.

Amanda lifted her chin. “My time is exceedingly valuable.”

Connor's lip curled. “You don't say?”

“But I daresay this mare of yours is valuable, too.” Her heart was thumping. She smiled condescendingly. “Well, she must be if Demon was interested.” She brightened. “If I win, I'll give her to him.”

He'd wring her neck.

Reggie's groan was audible. Amanda smiled into Connor's pale eyes. “A rubber of whist, I believe you said?”

She'd finally stepped over the line into real danger. Even as she said the words, even as she registered the hardening in Connor's eyes, Amanda felt a thrill beyond anything she'd ever known. Anticipation laced with dread flowed through her; exhilaration drove her. “Your partner?” She looked inquiringly at Connor.

Expressionless, he waved back into the gloom. “Meredith.”

A thin gentleman rose from an armchair and stiffly bowed.

“He says little but has an excellent head for cards.” Connor's gaze traveled to Reggie. “And who will partner you, Miss Cynster? Carmarthen, here?”

“No.” Reggie's tone declared he'd drawn a line and would not be tempted over it. He shook Amanda's arm. “This is madness! Come away
now!
What do you care what such hellions think of you?”

She did care—therein lay the rub. She couldn't explain it, yet she couldn't imagine any of her cousins walking away from Connor's thinly veiled insults. Not before they'd exacted retribution.

His Arab mare sounded like just the right amount of retribution. And if she lost, she'd take great delight in stipulating just
where
she would spend her three hours at his side. Retribution indeed. That would teach him to make game of Cynster ladies, however young.

But first she had to find a partner, preferably one who would help her win. She didn't waste a second persuading Reggie—he could barely remember the suits. Smiling reassuringly, trying to ease his concern, she turned to survey the tables at which all activity had ceased.

There had to be some gentleman willing to come to her aid . . .

Her heart plummeted. There was no lighthearted interest, none of the game-to-be-part-of-any-lark expressions she'd expected to see. Calculation, raw and undisguised, filled every man's eyes. The equation they were weighing was easy to grasp: How much would she give to be rescued from Connor?

One glance was enough. To them she was a succulent, innocent pigeon ripe for a plucking. Exhilaration deserted her; a deadening, sinking feeling dragged at her.

Given the precise words of their wager, she was confident she had Connor's measure, but if, in order to satisfy her pride, she took one of these men as her partner, where would that leave her at the end of the game?

Triumphant regardless of the outcome, but with another, possibly more dangerous debt hanging over her head.

She met eye after eye; her heart sank to her slippers. Surely there was
one
gentleman honorable enough to partner her purely for the hell of it?

Smiles slowly dawned; chairs scraped. A number of gentlemen stood . . .

It would have to be Reggie, no matter how much she had to plead.

As she turned to him, the attention of the gentlemen facing them was deflected, caught by some sight in the shadows behind them, deeper in the room.

Both she and Reggie turned.

Something large stirred in the gloom.

A dark shape rose from a chair at the end of the room—a man, broad-shouldered and tall. With a languid grace all the more compelling, given his size, he walked unhurriedly toward them.

The shadows fell from him as he neared; light reached him and illuminated details. A coat that could only have come from one of the ton's foremost tailors topped trousers that skimmed muscled thighs before sweeping down long legs; an ivory cravat intricately tied and a rich satin waistcoat completed the picture, one of expensive elegance. His carriage, effortless and aloof, exuded confidence and more—an absolute belief in his ability to succeed, regardless of the challenge.

His hair was thick, brown, falling in fashionable disarray about his head, shading his broad brow, brushing his collar. Candlelight reflected from lighter strands, turning the whole into a tawny mane.

He neared, his approach in no way threatening, yet there was a sense of force distilled and harnessed in each long, prowling stride.

At the last, the shadows gave up their hold and revealed his face.

Amanda caught her breath.

Sharp bones rode high above the austere sweep of his cheeks, lean, lightly shadowed where they met his jaw, uncompromisingly square. His nose was straight, definite, a clear indication of his antecedents; his eyes were large, heavy lidded, set beneath sweeping brows. As for his lips, the upper was straight, the lower full and frankly sensual. His was a face she recognized instantly, not in specific but in general. A face as elegantly aristocratic as his clothes, as powerful and definite as his carriage.

Eyes the color of moss agates met hers, held her gaze as he halted before her.

Not a hint of the predatory reached her; she searched but could find no trace of disguised intent in his changeable eyes. Understanding was what she saw, what she sensed—that, and self-deprecatory amusement.

“If you're in need of a partner, I would be honored to assist you.”

The voice suited the body—deep, slightly gravelly—rusty, as if underused. Amanda felt his words as much as heard them, felt her senses leap. His gaze didn't shift from her face, although his eyes left hers to travel quickly over her features before returning, once more, to her eyes. Although he hadn't looked at Reggie, Amanda knew he was aware of her friend tugging at her sleeve, hissing disjointed injunctions.

“Thank you.” She trusted him—trusted those moss agate eyes. Even if she was wrong, she didn't care. “Miss Amanda Cynster.” She extended her hand. “And you are?”

He took her hand; his lips curved as he bowed. “Martin.”

She sincerely doubted he was Mr. Martin—Lord Martin, then. She vaguely recalled hearing of a Lord Martin.

Releasing her hand, Martin turned to Connor. “I assume you have no objection?”

Following his gaze, Amanda realized that Connor did indeed have an objection. A serious one, if the scowl in his eyes spoke true. Perfect! Perhaps Connor would now draw back . . .

Even as the thought formed, she realized how unlikely that would be. Men and their ridiculous rules!

Sure enough, Connor brusquely nodded in assent. He would have liked to protest, but felt he couldn't.

Amanda glanced at Reggie. His expression was utterly defeated, utterly aghast. He opened his mouth—his gaze flicked past her, then slowly he shut his lips tight. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

His mutter reached her as she turned to her new partner.

Martin was looking at Connor. “Perhaps we should get started.” He waved into the shadows.

“Indeed.” Turning, Connor stumped into the gloom. “The night hours are winging.”

Considering the shadows, Amanda suppressed a grimace. She looked up to find Martin's gaze on her face, then he looked over her head toward the main door. “Two fresh packs, Mellors.” Martin glanced down at her again. “And two lighted candelabras.”

He hesitated, then offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

She smiled and placed her hand on his sleeve, instantly aware of the steely strength beneath it. He guided her toward the corner where Connor and Meredith stood waiting.

“Are you a good player, sir?”

Lips quirking, he glanced down at her. “I'm considered to play a tolerable hand.”

“Good, because Connor's an expert, and I'm not. And I think he plays often with Meredith.”

After an instant, Martin asked, “How well do you play?”

“Reasonably well, but I'm not in Connor's class.”

“In that case, we shall do.” He lowered his voice as they neared the others. “Play straight—don't try to be clever. Leave that to me.”

Those were all the instructions he had time for, but they were clear enough. Amanda adhered to them as the first game got under way. They had the corner to themselves. Reggie slouched in an armchair some yards away, broodingly watching. Connor sat on her left, Meredith to her right. When Mellors arrived with the candelabras, both Connor and Meredith flinched.

Unperturbed, Martin instructed Mellors to place the candlesticks on small tables on either side of her chair. Connor shot Martin a venomous look but said nothing; Martin, it seemed, wielded the sort of authority few dared question. Bathed in golden light, she felt a great deal more comfortable; relaxing, she found it easier to concentrate.

The first game was a series of trials, Connor testing her strength and Martin's, too, while Martin assessed both Connor and Meredith, at the same time watching her play closely. As often happened, the cards fell her way, but capitalizing against an opponent of Connor's caliber was no easy task. Nevertheless, with Martin's guidance, they triumphed and took the first game.

With the rubber decided on the best of three games, Amanda was delighted. Sitting back, she stretched her arms, smiling at Mellors when he served her a glass of champagne. Glasses were dispensed all around; she took a gulp,
then sipped. The men finished theirs in two mouthfuls; Mellors topped up the glasses, including hers.

Martin cut, Connor dealt and the second game began.

As hand followed hand, Martin was, for the first time in a long time, unsure whether he would win. Even more surprisingly, he cared, not for himself, but for the angel who sat across from him, candlelight laying a tracery of gold over her fair hair. It was lush, thick, lustrous. His fingers itched to touch, to stroke, and not only her hair. Her complexion was flawless, that milky perfection found only among certain English damsels. Many struggled to attain the same effect with potions and creams, but in Amanda Cynster's case, her skin was natural, unblemished alabaster.

As for her eyes, they were cornflower blue, the same shade as the most expensive sapphires. Jewels by any name, those eyes were curiously innocent, aware yet . . . she was not naive, but was as yet untouched by worldly cynicism. The dross of life had yet to tarnish her. She was a virgin, he had not a doubt.

For a connoisseur of his highly developed, distinctly exotic tastes, she was the perfect English rose.

Just waiting to be plucked.

She very likely would have been as an outcome of this night if he hadn't stepped in. What the devil she was doing here, swanning through the latest hell like a lure in a pond full of hungry trout, he couldn't conceive.

In truth, he didn't want to think too much of her, of her thoughts, her actions, her desires. His only motive in hauling her out of the hole she'd fallen into was purely altruistic. He'd seen her trying to avoid old Connor while still retaining her pride; he'd understood why she'd dug in her heels, made a stand, then flown in the face of all wisdom and accepted Connor's wager.

He knew very well what it meant to lose one's pride.

But once they won and she was safe, he'd walk away, return to the shadows where he belonged.

Regretfully, admittedly, but he'd do it nonetheless.

She was not for him and never would be. He'd left her world long ago.

The last trick fell to Connor. Martin scanned the tally Connor was keeping on the table between them. One more hand, and unless the gods intervened, Connor and Meredith would take the current game, evening the score.