On a Wild Night (9 page)

Her hand slid down his arm—he caught it, held it. Eyes on hers, he raised it to his lips, pressed a kiss to her trapped fingers.

“Come.” He kept hold of her hand. “The carriage awaits.”

 

The return journey was as uneventful as their outward leg, but differed in one notable respect. Amanda prattled. All but continually; despite the fact she constantly made sense—a feat, considering the distance—Martin was not deceived.
She'd gained more than she'd expected; the degree of excitement she'd experienced had shaken her.

Leaving his carriage and horses to his grooms, he strode into his house. Serve her right if she was shaken—just look what she'd done to him.

Carrying the silk wrap, still warm from her body, he entered the house and headed for his library. Only when he was ensconced in its luxurious embrace, slumped on the daybed, the silk wrap flung beside him, a glass of brandy in his hand, did he allow his thoughts to drift back over the night.

The embers glowing in the grate slowly died as he revisited their earlier meetings, comparing, analyzing. Two things seemed certain: she was following some plan. And that plan now involved him.

Two aspects remained hidden, unknown. Had she from the first intended him to be the one to assist her in her quest for excitement, or did she only settle on him later as the best choice available? A supremely pertinent point, given the other aspect of her plan of which he remained in ignorance.

Where was she heading? What was her ultimate goal?

Was she simply pursuing a final fling before settling to marriage with some socially acceptable peer? Her citing of the start of the Season proper as the limit for her adventures suggested that might be the case.

But what if it wasn't? What if, behind her artlessness, which he accepted not at all, she was focused on achieving rather more?

What if her goal was marriage . . . to him?

He frowned, waited, took a long sip of brandy, savored it—and still his expected reaction didn't show. The determination to cut her off, keep her at a distance . . . where was his instinctive, never-before-in-abeyance response?

“Good God!” He took another swig of brandy. That's what she'd done to him—tempted that part of him he'd thought buried long ago.

He shied from thinking too far along that line, but the sensation of his mind clearing, thoughts settling, told him he was right. He waited, sipping, eyes on the nearly dead embers,
until he could, with some degree of impassivity, view the question of where he—they—now were.

They were playing some game, one of her choosing, in which, despite all, he was now a committed player. Stepping back, quitting the game, was not an option he wished to pursue. So much for that. As for where they were headed, he didn't know, couldn't see—he would have to follow her lead. That was part of the game. She'd managed to take the reins into her small hands, and he could see no way of getting them back just yet.

Which meant he was being driven, managed, manipulated by a woman.

Again he waited for his inevitable reaction; again, it didn't materialize. For the first time in his life, he wasn't totally averse to running in a woman's harness. At least, for a time.

With a self-deprecatory grimace, he drained his glass.

Given the field on which their game was to be played, given his expertise in that sphere, ultimate control—the ability to stop, redirect the play, even rescript the rules—lay in his hands. And always would.

He wondered if she'd realized that.

 

After strolling in Richmond Park by moonlight, Amanda found it hard to pretend to any great interest in such a mundane event as a ball.

“I wish I could escape,” she whispered to Amelia as they promenaded down Lady Carmichael's ballroom in their mother's wake.

Amelia shot her a worried glance. “You can't have another headache. I only just stopped Mama from sending for Doctor Graham last time.”

Amanda eyed the flower of the ton with a jaundiced eye. “It'll have to be another party, then. Aren't the Farthingales entertaining tonight?”

“Yes, but you'll have to do the pretty for another hour before you can leave.
And
you'll have to find Reggie.”

“True.” Amanda scanned the crowd in earnest. “Have you seen him?”

Amelia shook her head. Louise settled on a chaise with Lady Osbaldestone and their aunt, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives. After curtsying and exchanging greetings, the twins strolled on through the gathering crowd.

“There's Emily and Anne.”

Amanda followed Amelia's gaze to where two girls, patently nervous, stood by one wall. Emily and Anne Ashford were to make their come-outs that Season. The twins had known the Ashfords all their lives. With identical, reassuring smiles, they made their way to the younger girls' sides.

Emily's and Anne's faces lit.

“This is your first ball, isn't it?” Amelia asked as they joined them.

The girls nodded, brown ringlets dancing.

“Don't worry,” Amanda said. “I know it's hard to believe, but you will survive the night without doing anything to sink yourselves.”

Emily smiled, nervous but grateful. “It's just so . . . overwhelming.” She gestured at the throng filling the room.

“At first,” Amelia said. “But after a few weeks, you'll be as used to it as we are.”

Together with Amelia, Amanda chatted of inconsequential matters, skillfully encouraging the younger girls to relax.

She was looking about for some suitable young gentlemen to snare for Emily and Anne when Edward Ashford, one of their brothers, emerged from the crowd. Tall, well built, soberly dressed, Edward bowed to the twins, then, taking up a stance beside his sisters, considered the crowd. “A relatively small gathering. Once the Season proper starts, it'll be much worse than this.”

Emily shot Amanda a startled glance.

She suppressed an urge to kick Edward. “One hundred or five hundred, there's not much difference. You can only ever see twenty bodies at a time.”

“And by the time the larger balls start, you'll be feeling much more at home,” Amelia put in.

Edward glanced at his sisters assessingly, censoriously. “This Season is your chance to make a good match. It might
be wise to make a greater effort to attract the right notice. Hiding by the wall—”

“Edward.” Amanda smiled daggers at him when he looked at her. “Can you see Reggie Carmarthen?”

“Carmarthen?” Edward lifted his head, looked about. “I wouldn't have thought he'd be much use.”

More use than Edward. At twenty-seven, he was a certified bore, pompous and prideful. Amelia seized the moment to draw the girls' attention; Amanda shifted to keep Edward's gaze from his sisters.

“I can't see . . . oh.”

A familiar blankness infused Edward's features. Following his gaze, Amanda was unsurprised to see his older brother, Lucien Ashford, Viscount Calverton, step from the crowd, his customary taunting, oddly crooked smile lifting his long lips.

“There you are.”

Amanda knew Luc was perfectly aware of Amelia and herself, yet his hooded gaze was all for his sisters. They blossomed—unfurled like buds in the sun—under its impact. Rakishly elegant, he bowed, then raised them from their answering curtsies, twirling first Emily, then Anne, his razor-sharp gaze taking stock of their new dresses, approval writ large in his face.

“I suspect you'll do very well,
mes enfants,
so I'd better get in quick. I'll dance the first dance with you”—he solemnly inclined his dark head to Emily—“and the second dance with you.” He smiled at Anne.

Both girls were delighted; their glowing expressions transformed them from pretty to bewitching. Amanda bit back the caustic observation that Luc would now have to remain in a ballroom for at least two dances, something he rarely did. The fact he'd committed to do so contrasted strongly with Edward's contribution to his sisters' success.

Although the brothers were similar in height and build, Luc was blessed with a frankly sensual beauty, and the character and aptitude to match. That fact had for years placed the brothers at odds, forming the touchstone of Edward's frequent carping over his older brother's rakehell ways.

Glancing at Edward, Amanda noted the ill-concealed sullenness in his eyes as they rested on Luc. There was anger there, too, as if Edward resented the affection that flowed so easily Luc's way. Amanda suppressed a humph; there was an easy solution if only Edward would take a page from Luc's book. Luc could be supercilious and odiously patronizing and he had a fiendishly sharp tongue, but he never pontificated, sermonized or lectured—Edward's favorite pastimes. Moreover, Luc also possessed a genuine kindliness any female worthy of the name recognized, appreciated and responded to.

Amanda watched as Amelia joined forces with Luc, bantering, bolstering the younger girls' confidence. Her twin was a good foil for Luc's dark, Byronic beauty. Her gaze lingered on his profile. It was familiar; she'd known Luc for years . . . she blinked, glanced at Edward, also presently presenting her with his profile. Both were exceedingly like one even more familiar.

She swung her gaze back to Luc.
Are you related to Dexter?
She only just bit back the words. The certain response had she been fool enough to utter them flashed across her brain; Luc would slowly turn, an intense, unnervingly acute look in his eye, and softly ask,
How do you know Dexter?

She couldn't ask, but now she thought of it, she'd heard of a connection between the Ashfords and the Fulbridges. She studied Luc afresh, then looked again at Edward; compared to Luc, he cut a less visually compelling figure. Luc was a fraction more lean, more rangy, and had black hair and dark blue eyes. Brown haired, hazel eyed, Edward more closely resembled Dexter, yet with his disdainful, pompous hauteur and that underlying sullenness, he seemed somehow less than—less than either Dexter or Luc. In features and form, they'd all been struck from the same mold, but in Edward's case, something had gone awry and flaws had crept in, rendering him less attractive, physically and otherwise.

“And now, my dears, I must leave you.” Luc's voice cut across her thoughts. “Nevertheless, at the first screech, I'll be back.”

He tugged one of Emily's ringlets, bent a fond smile on
Anne, then bowed to Amelia, and with an inclination of his head extended the courtesy to Amanda. Then he straightened and looked at his brother. “Edward, if I might have a word . . .” With a crooking of one long finger, Luc strolled away, forcing Edward to stalk after him.

Leaving his sisters in peace. Amanda inwardly nodded approvingly, and saw her approbation mirrored in Amelia's eyes. She looked around. “Now . . .”

Five minutes later, she viewed the circle of admirers she and Amelia had gathered about Emily and Anne. Most gratifying. In its own way, satisfying. She caught Amelia's eye. “I'm going to look for Reggie. If I'm not here when you leave, will you tell Mama?”

Smiling, Amelia nodded; her gaze was more somber. “Take care.”

Amanda smiled reassuringly. “I always do.”

She slipped into the crowd. The first dance could not be far off. Reggie would be somewhere in the room; her mother had been expecting to meet his here, and Reggie would attend in her train given they'd made no other arrangements.

She hadn't made any because she hadn't been sure. Not over what she wanted;
that
was engraved on her heart. Her uncertainty stemmed from something more nebulous. Something about that kiss in the moonlight—perhaps the ease with which Dexter had drawn her into the heat, made her yearn for more. Or was it simply some lingering missish reaction? Whatever, caution had unexpectedly reared its head. A wary sort of caution she'd never felt before—a playing-with-fire, tempting-a-wild-beast-unwisely sort of edginess, purely instinctive.

But wariness, edginess and caution could not stand against that other emotion born in the moonlight.

Impatience.

It was an itch under her skin, a need insisting on fulfillment as its only cure. Every time she recalled the sensations she'd felt while locked in Dexter's arms, feeling his strength surrounding her, his lips on hers, his tongue—

“Well, my dear Miss Cynster—well met, indeed!”

She blinked twice before she managed to focus on the
gentleman bowing before her. Hiding her frown behind a weak smile, she bobbed a curtsy and gave him her hand. “Mr. Lytton-Smythe.”

Blond, brown eyed, Percival Lytton-Symthe clasped her fingers and smiled his usual superior smile. “Lady Carmichael assured me you'd be attending tonight. I had wondered whether I could be bothered with such gadding thus early in the Season, but the thought of you drifting alone through the crowd, starved of suitable companionship, stiffened my spine. So here I am, come once more to lend you my arm.”

He offered it with a flourish.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Knowing there would be no easy escape, she laid her hand on the proffered sleeve. “I've just left some friends.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

He didn't believe her. Amanda gritted her teeth, a frequent reaction in Percival's presence. She scanned the crowd. Percival was a half-head taller but good manners forbade her asking him to find Reggie so she could escape him.

Good manners, let alone wisdom, did not raise their heads when Percival, considering her gown with a growing frown, cleared his throat. “Ahem! Miss Cynster—I fear I must comment, given the understanding between us, that your gown strikes me as somewhat . . . well, fast.”

Understanding?
Fast?

Amanda halted. Taking her hand from Percival's sleeve, she faced him. There was nothing wrong with her apricot silk gown with its heart-shaped neckline and tiny sleeves. Percival had been dropping hints ever since he'd stumbled on her during the last Season that he considered they would make a good match. From his perspective, maybe; not from hers. “Mr. Lytton-Smythe, I fear I must comment on your presumption. There is no understanding between us, no connection whatsoever that would excuse your making such unflattering and inaccurate statements regarding my appearance.” She looked down her nose at him, grabbed the opportunity he'd presented with both hands. “I am insulted, and would appreciate it if you refrained from approaching me in future.”