On a Wild Night (30 page)

The others looked at Vane, then, as one, they all turned to Richard.

“I saw them briefly, during the last waltz,” Devil said. “I'm fairly certain Dexter saw me.”

“But did he recognize you?” Richard raised his brows, then continued, “What I saw occurred shortly after, more or less on the heels of that waltz.” He described all he'd seen. “In short, it appeared Dexter was calmly talking—it was Amanda who was more forceful. And given the way she swanned off at the end, nose in the air, and the way he watched her go, as if he was trying to figure it all out . . .” Richard sighed, “Truth to tell, I felt sympathetic.”

Demon humphed. “The man's a certified wolf of the worst sort.”

“Just as we once were,” Devil murmured.

“Which is precisely my point. We
know
what he's thinking . . .” Demon let his words die.

“And that's
my
point,” Richard stated. “Do you remember when you stood there, in a ballroom or wherever, and watched her stalk off—and wondered what the hell was going on?”

Devil's lips twitched. “I don't have to exercise my memory for that.”

There were smiles and grins all around, then Devil sobered. “All right. Let's accept the fact that Dexter appears, on the face of it, to be wooing Amanda. I can't see any reason he'd go to the lengths he has to seduce her. For whatever reason, he's playing by society's rules. So, what do we know of him? I don't remember him personally.” Devil glanced at Vane, who shook his head. “He was much younger than us.”

“Younger than me, too,” Demon said, “but I remember he was a hellion. But he was only on the town for a brief time.”

“Up until the scandal.” Briefly, Richard filled in all he knew of that, ending with, “The
grandes dames
and many others felt it was an overreaction on his father's part—basically, few believed Dexter, the present earl, could be guilty, but no one was asked for their opinion. The thing was done, decided by his father up north, and he was hustled out of England before anyone knew.”

Devil asked, “What's the current feeling?”

Richard shrugged. “Innocent until known to be guilty, but still in the dock.”

“I've dealt with him once.” Gabriel leaned forward. “In the City, he's a legend among the nabobs. He led a syndicate
we took an interest in, and he knew his business. We made a nice profit from that venture. The areas he deals in are exotic, occasionally esoteric, but always, always highly profitable. His reputation is formidable; he's known as a man of his word, a trader who deals squarely and straightforwardly, and who does not suffer either fools or rogues gladly.”

“He's also a legend in collecting circles.” Beside his brother on the chaise, Lucifer stretched out his long legs. “I'd
pay
to get into that old tomb on Park Lane. Hardly anyone has, but those who have set eyes on his library have come away with stars in their eyes. Absolutely lost for words. It's not the books alone, although they're apparently amazing, but all the oriental art he's collected over the years. Seems he has a real eye for beauty.”

Demon softly snorted.

Devil tapped his blotter with his pen. “So . . . there's no reason to oppose a match, provided that old scandal is laid to rest.”

“And provided he's thinking in such terms.” Vane pushed away from the bookshelves.

“Indeed.” Devil's face hardened. “Regardless of our ladies' fond imaginings, I believe I should demand some straight answers from the earl.”

“I'll come with you,” came from five other throats.

A tap on the door had them all glancing that way. The door opened; Sligo, Devil's majordomo, slipped in. “The Earl of Dexter has called, Your Grace. He's asked to speak with you privately.”

Devil stared. “Dexter?”

Sligo proffered his salver on which a card lay. Devil took it, studied it, then asked, “Where is he?”

“I left him in the drawing room.”

“Where's Her Grace?”

“Out.”

Devil's lips curved. “Very good. Show his lordship in.”

Martin stepped into His Grace of St. Ives' study—every self-protective instinct he possessed immediately snapped to full alert. Six pairs of eyes had locked on him; no prizes for guessing the most recent topic of conversation.

Strolling into the large room, he seized the moment to study the other occupants—far more than he'd expected, yet he wasn't all that surprised. He'd heard they operated as a pack.

Led by the man who came slowly to his feet behind the desk and nodded. “Dexter.” He held out a hand.

Martin returned the nod. “St. Ives.” He gripped the proffered hand.

“Do you have any reservations over speaking before my cousins?”

Martin let his gaze briefly touch the stony faces. “None.”

“In that case . . .” Devil introduced them, using their nicknames, then waved to a straightbacked chair before the desk. “Sit down.”

Martin looked at the chair, then picked it up and set it down to one side of the desk, so he wouldn't be sitting with four Cynsters at his back.

Demon scowled as he sat. Martin looked at Devil, without preamble stated, “I've just come from Upper Brook Street where I learned that your uncle, Lord Arthur Cynster, is
presently from home and not expected to return for a week. I'd wished to apply for permission to pay my addresses to his daughter Amanda. In the circumstances, as you're the head of the family and currently in town, I'm here to apply to you in Lord Arthur's stead.”

Absolute silence greeted his pronouncement, confirming his supposition of what they'd been discussing before he'd walked in.

His pale green gaze steady on Martin's face, Devil murmured, “A week isn't a long time.”

Martin returned that unwavering regard; he was not prepared to endure another week of inaction. “Much could occur in a week, as I'm sure you'll agree.”

Two of the others stirred at his deliberate words; Martin didn't shift his gaze from Devil.

Who sat back, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

Martin didn't bother to misunderstand. “Because it's time.” He paused, selecting his words, then continued, “In my view, matters have progressed to a point where a wedding is in order. Hence . . . here I am.”

There wasn't one of them who didn't immediately comprehend what particular matters had progressed, and to where; muffled oaths and none-too-thinly veiled threats, including one to hang him by a sensitive part of his anatomy, rose around him.

Devil waved the others to silence, his gaze locked on Martin's face. “You've only recently returned to the ton—stalking Amanda. I take it that was after those matters had progressed. Where did you meet her in the first place?”

Martin held Devil's gaze. “At Mellors.”

“What?” “That den?” and various other mutterings came from the sidelines.

Martin glanced down, straightened his cuff. “She'd just accepted a wager to play whist. Against Connor. She didn't have a partner.”

The silence that greeted that was one of abject—positively scandalized—disbelief.

“The second time I saw her was in Helen Hennessy's salon.”

The room erupted. Various epithets were heaped on Amanda's head. Numerous questions were flung at him; recognizing them as rhetorical, Martin kept silent. Eventually, at a sign from Devil, now seriously displeased, the others quieted.

“Very well.” Devil's eyes were hard. “What happened then?”

“She had a list of outings she wished to experience, beyond the ton but not of themselves scandalous. A moonlight drive in Richmond Park, boating on the Thames by night, a visit to Vauxhall in non-approved company, and attending a Covent Garden masquerade.”

A wave of low growls swept the room.

“You offered to take her on these outings?”

“No.” Martin felt his expression harden. “I had little choice—it was either fall in with her plans, or watch her organize with some other who would. She had Lord Cranbourne in her sights for the drive to Richmond.”

“Cranbourne! That slug?” Demon's scowl was black.

“There were others she'd met in Gloucester Street. She had real alternatives. I deemed it safer not to call her bluff.”

“And during these outings . . .”

“No.” Martin met Devil's gaze. “I took her on the outings on condition she return thereafter to the ballrooms—where she belonged. However, as it transpired, the outings weren't her true goal. Once they were over, she rescripted the rules and returned to Gloucester Street and other venues even less appropriate.” His gaze steady on Devil's, he stated, “What happened thereafter was entirely at her behest, if not precisely as she'd planned.”

There wasn't one of them who didn't sympathize; he was admitting to being stalked, and caught, by their cousin. Knowing the moment was right, he pressed on, “In the circumstances, a wedding is the prescribed outcome. So . . . do I have your permission to address her?”

Devil blinked, frowned. “Wealth, birth, station, estate—all those are in order. But what of the past?”

He inclined his head. “The past will be dealt with.”

“Did you do it?”

“No.” After a moment he added, “But the inescapable fact is, someone did.”

Devil's uncannily penetrating gaze searched his eyes; Martin endured the scrutiny without shifting. Devil nodded. “Very well—I agree. Provided the old scandal is resolved in your favor, a marriage between you and Amanda is clearly appropriate. You have my permission to address her. I'll speak with my uncle on his return.”

“Good. And you'll make the family's stance clear?”

Devil shrugged. “To the ton? Of course.”

“I meant to Amanda.”

That last was met with silence, a different, slightly uneasy one. Devil broke it. “Why?”

“Because, while she's ‘agreed' in a manner we'd all accept, on several occasions, she's yet to manage the word ‘yes' in the appropriate context.”

“Ah.” Devil's eyes widened. “You've asked her.”

Martin frowned. “Of course. Immediately and several times thereafter. Why else do you imagine I've been chasing her through the ton, not an arena I particularly relish, if not to tighten the noose a few notches before I ask her again?”

“Has she said why she won't agree?” It was Richard who put the question.

Martin hesitated, then replied, his tone hard, “She wants ‘something more,' by which I take it she means something that would not feature in any marriage contract.”

The look on their faces told him they knew exactly what he meant.

Devil's grimace was heartfelt. “Commiserations.” After a moment, he asked, “I take it you're not of a mind simply to give it to her?”

“No.” Martin considered, then added, “Not if there's any other way.”

“And if I was to tell you there probably won't be any other way?”

Martin met Devil's green gaze. “I won't know until we get to that point.”

Devil sighed. Nodded. “I'll do what I can, but, conversely, there's little I can do.”

“You could speak with her.”

“I could, but all that will yield will be a glare, a pert recommendation to mind my own business and a guaranteed wall of feminine disapprobation mobilized to ensure we can do no more to assist your suit.”

Vane nodded. “And within the ton,
they
rule.”

“There's a better way.” Perched on the arm of the chaise, Demon looked at Martin. “You tell her Devil's given your suit the nod. She'll expect us to hound her. We won't. She'll credit us with better sense than she'd expected, and very likely not mention the matter to our mothers or wives.” Demon grinned. “Then we can help you.”

Martin considered the committed glint in Demon's eyes, the sense of fellow-feeling now pervading the room. He nodded. “How?”

 

He told her that evening, on the Fortescues' terrace.

“Devil?”

“He is the head of your house.”

Amanda humphed. Resettling her shawl about her elbows, she continued to stroll at his side. “What he or any of them think is beside the point.
I
have to agree—and I haven't.”

“I know.” His hard tone had her glancing up; he caught her gaze. “What will convince you to say yes?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I told you before—you need to discover that on your own.”

He glanced ahead. Although a dozen other couples were strolling the wide terrace, none had ventured in this direction, to where the terrace was overhung by thickly leaved branches creating a grotto of shadows. “In that case, I assume you're not averse to allowing me to . . . explore.”

She glanced at him. Other sounds reached them; they both turned. Everyone else was returning to the ballroom, drawn by the strains of a waltz.

Martin smiled. “My dance, I believe.”

He reached for her, drew her into his arms; she came, but warily. His smile deepened; he began to revolve in the area
lit by the wall flares, until she relaxed, until she let the moment and the music sweep her away, and she followed his steps without thought.

Amanda wasn't surprised when he whirled her into the shadows, wasn't surprised when his steps slowed and he drew her closer still.

His words ruffled the curls about her ear. “I've waltzed with you often, so presumably what you want will not be found in the dance.” His lips touched her ear, traced the outer curve, then slid into the sensitive hollow behind. “I wonder . . .”

The hand at her back held her hard against him; his lips caressed so lightly she shuddered. As if that were a signal, he shifted his attentions to her lips, and she suddenly found herself drowning in an inexpressibly sweet kiss.

Not a kiss of claiming, but a kiss that lured, that tempted with promises not just of glory, but . . . her head spun as she tried to adjust to the sudden shift in his attack. Their steps slowed, halted, as their senses sank deeper and deeper into the enthralling exchange.

His hand didn't leave her back, the hollow just beneath her waist where it habitually rode; his other hand curled about her wrist, lightly stroking.

She was trapped, but not physically. The sensual web he wove was insubstantial yet unbreakable—because she couldn't bring herself to break it, to pull away from the landscape that with his tongue, his lips, his mouth, his breath, he created. It was a landscape where she ruled, and he served. Where, empresslike, she could command, demand, then lie back and have her every desire lavished upon her.

She tried to slip her hand free and reach for him, touch his cheek, but his fingers firmed; he held her hand, drew her closer yet so that the heat and hardness of his body wrapped about her. Shielding her from all else but the communion of their mouths, the drugging promise of the kiss.

“You'll feel much more the thing once you've had a breath of air.”

The words, uttered in a voice she recognized, broke their
kiss, shattered the magic. Blinking, peering back along the terrace, Amanda saw Edward Ashford escorting Emily, Anne and their friend Miss Ffolliot out from the ballroom from which music still wafted.

Martin swore softly; she felt the same. He set her back on her feet; the loss of his heat only added to her irritation. They were in the shadows, as yet unseen, but they weren't sufficiently screened to ignore the interruption. Setting her hand on his sleeve, Martin turned her; as if they'd been doing nothing else, they strolled out from the branches' shadow.

Having led the way from the ballroom, Edward was standing waiting for the girls to join him. He saw them first; he stiffened, then adopted an even more supercilious expression than usual.

The girls, juggling shawls and reticules, saw them, smiled and came bustling forward. Edward hesitated, then fell in on their heels.

“Hello! It's quite mild out here, isn't it?”

“Edward thought I looked peaked, so he brought us out here.”

“Good evening, my lord.”

All three girls had met Martin previously; all were in awe of him, but Amanda's presence gave them courage.

After greeting the girls, Amanda looked at Edward. He was observing Martin narrowly, then he noticed her and inclined his head. Somewhat more stiffly, he nodded to Martin. “Dexter.”

Martin nodded back.

Amanda felt like throwing her hands in the air. They were first cousins, for heaven's sake! At least Luc had conversed reasonably. Edward's stiffness, his uneasiness, projected the clear impression he'd be happier gathering the girls and her, too, and retreating from Martin's contaminating presence.

Martin's eyes had narrowed; Amanda gave him credit for not reacting further to Edward's irritating attitude.

Taking Martin's arm again, she smiled at the girls. “We'll leave you to your perambulation. But don't remain out too long—people do notice.”

 

* * *

 

“I can't believe it—they haven't lectured, they haven't growled. Demon even smiled at me!” Amanda stared narrow-eyed at her cousins, currently standing with their wives on the other side of Lady Hamilton's ballroom.