On a Wild Night (15 page)

Her frown deepened. After a moment, she said, “You do see, don't you, what could be . . . all that you could have?”

He held her gaze, succinctly replied, “Yes.” He saw all too well. Knew how much he longed to seize, to possess. Knew that in this case, trying and failing would be infinitely worse than not trying at all.

If he—they—attempted to clear his name and failed . . .

That was one scenario he didn't ever want to face. To raise the spectre of having a life he'd accepted as denied him long ago, only to see that hope dashed irretrievably. To know she would be tainted by the association; impossible for her interest to go unremarked.

And, despite all, one point had never, over all the years, escaped him—if he hadn't murdered old Buxton, who had?

Since his return to London, he'd grown even more equivocal about learning the answer to that question. Yet uncovering and publishing that answer might well be what it took to clear his name.

Dragging in a breath, he forced his gaze from her, looked out over the garden and tried to drag his senses in, tried to erect some barrier between himself and the woman he was with—usually an easy task.

He'd never managed it with her. And the balcony was so damned small. “There's no point pursuing it. There's nothing I, or even we, can do.” He added, his tone harsh, “I didn't tell you the tale to gain your support—I told you so you'd understand why I have no future in the ton.” He paused, then added, “The past is dead and buried.”

Silence, then she spoke softly, “Buried, perhaps—but not dead.”

He didn't glance her way, didn't want to see her face, her eyes.

After a moment, she went on, her tone hardening, “I find it difficult to believe that you're deliberately turning your back on your life—on what your life would be if your name was cleared.”

Would be, he noted, not could; she had a singlemindedness he found disarming.

When he didn't respond, she exploded.
“Why?”
The word rang with frustration. “I know you well enough to know you have a reason.”

He had a plethora of reasons, none of which she needed to know. He could readily imagine her opinion, her demolition of his concern for her. He forced himself to look into her brilliant eyes, saw emotion glittering in the blue, and knew
in that instant that he had to make her believe she'd misjudged him, that all she'd learned of him over the past weeks she'd misread.

Refusing to let himself consider the ramifications—her pain or his—he slowly and clearly stated, his gaze steady on her eyes, “There is no compelling reason that I can see to mount such a desperate action, to rake over coals long dead. Returning to the ton, being restored to the
grandes dames
' good graces, is
not important to me.
”

The emphasis he placed on those last four words was brutal; she drew back—he felt it physically, a sudden chill, a loss of warmth. Her expression turned neutral; her eyes, suddenly shuttered, searched his. Then she softly repeated, “Not important. I see.”

She looked toward the long windows spilling light upon them. Then she drew in a tight breath. “My apologies. Clearly, I've mistaken your . . . desire to reclaim the life you were raised to live.” Stiffly inclining her head, she reached for the doors. “I'll leave you to the life you prefer. Good-bye.”

Not “Good night.” Martin watched her open the door and step through the lace curtains; one fist clenched on the railing, he watched her, head high, walk into the room, watched the crowd swallow her. He trusted that Carmarthen would escort her home. Turning his back on the lighted room, he leaned on the railing and looked over the darkened garden, into the night his life had become.

 

“He said, ‘No.'
Refused!
Absolutely.” Amanda kicked her skirts and swung around. “He said it—me, us!—
wasn't important!
”

Amelia watched Amanda pace distractedly across her bedchamber. “Are you sure he understood all you were alluding to?”

“Oh, he understood, all right! There's nothing wrong with his
understanding!
But as for the rest of him!” With a muted shriek, Amanda whirled and paced on.

Perturbed, Amelia waited. Her sister had a greater flair for the histrionic than she, but in all their lives, she'd never seen
Amanda more sincerely overset. Overset, however, was unlikely to help her twin's cause.

After a time, she ventured, “So—are you giving up?”

“Giving up?” Amanda halted and stared at her. “Of course not.”

Amelia relaxed on the bed. “What are you going to do?”

Amanda met her gaze, then came and flopped on the bed alongside her. She stared up at the canopy. Her chin was set, her expression mulish. “I don't know.” An instant later she added, “But I'll think of something.”

 

Three nights later, Martin returned to Gloucester Street, summoned by Helen Hennessy. He'd had no intention of attending, but Helen's note had been succinct and to the point—she wanted him there. They were friends enough that, given he had nothing better to do, he'd felt obliged to humor her.

She greeted him warmly, as always smoothly sophisticated.

“Cut line,” he informed her. “I'm here—why?”

She raised both brows at him. “Your manners are deteriorating—always a telling sign.”

He frowned. Before he could ask what his deterioration signified, Helen waved to a corner of the room. “But as to why you're here, I suspect you need to be aware of your lady friend's activities.”

Martin met her gaze. “Which lady friend?”

“Miss Cynster, of course. And pray don't waste your breath telling me she's not your friend.” Helen prodded his arm. “Carmarthen didn't accompany her tonight—she came alone. And rather than glower at me, I suggest such expressions might better serve us all over there.” Her nod indicated the corner; her mask fell and she was serious. “Truly, I think you'd better take a look. Whatever you do after that is entirely up to you.”

Martin held her gaze, then nodded. “I'll look.”

Helen's brows rose; he ignored the sign and turned to the corner she'd indicated. If she thought he'd thank her for summoning him to Amanda Cynster's aid, she would need to think again.

It didn't occur to him to leave without seeing whatever Helen had wanted him to see, not until, skirting the walls, he caught sight of the group in the corner.
Then
he swore under his breath, and wished he'd left. But it was too late then.

He wasn't fool enough to charge in without assessing the situation. He could see why Helen was concerned; the group before him was without precedent, a volatile and likely explosive mix.

Amanda had assembled an extraordinary number of the most eligible but lecherous rakes in town, thus attracting the attention of the well-bred madams who cruised Helen's rooms. Few could hold a candle to Amanda—they would have seen her as an upstart competitor.
Should
have seen her as such, but something had got twisted. And Martin knew who'd done the twisting.

Instead of hissing and showing their claws, the other, more mature ladies and
Miss Cynster
had come to some mutual understanding. Martin could guess what such an understanding might entail, but from the enthralled looks on the gentlemen's faces, the fact that Amanda herself was not about to play their game tonight had not yet sunk in.

Then again . . .

He watched her flirt with an elegant roué, and wondered whether he should be so cocksure. She was a prize at any price but in this arena, she promised an experience well beyond the norm. She was not only beautiful, sensually attractive, untarnished and intelligent, she was also quick-witted, independent—defiantly feminine. There were connoisseurs enough in the circle around her who would appreciate that.

Not, however, tonight. Regardless of her plans.

After a narrow-eyed assessment, he rejected a frontal assault. Turning away, he beckoned a footman.

 

Laughing up at Lord Rawley, Amanda lifted the note from the salver, flicked it open—and nearly dropped it. She hadn't known Dexter was present; she'd been so intent, so on edge, she hadn't felt his gaze . . . hadn't seen him.

“I say—what is it? Bad news?”

She glanced up to find Lord Rawley and all the other gentlemen
looking seriously concerned. “Ah . . . no.” The instant brightening of their expressions told her why they'd been concerned. “That is . . .” She crumpled the note, suppressed an urge to rub her forehead. “I'm not sure.”

This was what she'd wanted, schemed to get. But why was he waiting in the front hall?

She smiled at her admirers. “There's a messenger in the hall I must speak with. If you'll excuse me for a moment?”

Lady Elrood led the chorus. “Of course, my dear.”

Amanda slipped away before any gentleman could offer to accompany her.

Stepping from the crowded drawing room into the front hall, she looked toward the front door, and saw no one bar two footmen. Before she could turn and look toward the stairs, her cloak fell over her shoulders.

Before she could react, the hood was yanked down over her face. Arms like steel wrapped about her and lifted her from the floor.

“The door, you dolts—open it!”

Any doubt she might have harbored over the identity of her attacker fled. She wriggled, tried to kick—all to no avail. By the time she thought of screaming, Dexter had carried her over the threshold and started down the steps. She quieted, waiting to be put down.

He reached the pavement, took two strides, hefted her—and tossed her unceremoniously onto a carriage seat.

Fury erupting, she fought to free herself from the folds of her cloak.

The carriage door slammed; she heard a shout. The carriage shot forward as if fleeing from the devil himself. She struggled free of the cloak—and saw the facades along Belgrave Road flashing past. Absolutely stunned, she slumped back against the seat.

How dared he?

She was so shocked, then so incensed, she couldn't form a coherent thought. The carriage rocketed along, barely slowing to take corners; she had to hang onto the strap to keep upright. Not until the carriage slowed, then rocked to a stop, could she collect her scattered wits.

Gathering her cloak and reticule, she opened the door and stepped down, unsurprised to find herself at the corner of North Audley and Upper Brook Streets, a few steps from home. Turning, she opened her reticule.

The jarvey coughed. “Y'r pardon, ma'am, but the g'ntleman paid h'ndsomely.”

Of course he had. Amanda looked up, and smiled. Unsweetly. “In that case, I suggest you leave.”

The jarvey didn't argue. She waited until the hackney rounded a corner, then hitched her cloak over her shoulders and trudged home.

 

“At least it shows he cares.”

“It shows he's a
dolt
—an overbearing, conceited, arrogant
ass!
An entirely typical Cynsterlike male.”

“So now what?”

“I start on plan B.”

 

Her nemesis next caught up with her at Mrs. Fawcett's
soirée
. Mrs. Fawcett was a widow of not entirely unblemished reputation whose evening entertainments were highly considered amongst the demimonde.

“What the
devil
do you imagine you're doing?”

The deep-throated growl was music to Amanda's ears. Without turning from the game of silver-loo she was supposedly watching, she glanced back at Dexter, just behind her. “I'm enjoying myself.”

A smile on her lips, she looked back at the play.

After a moment's brooding silence came: “If you won't think of your reputation, think of Carmarthen—you're placing him in an invidious position.”

In this venue, she'd brought Reggie as escort; he was deep in discussion with another gentleman of much the same age. “I don't think he's in any danger.” Cocking a brow, she looked up and back to meet Dexter's aggravated gaze. “Would you rather I came without him?”

“I'd rather you didn't come here at all. Or anywhere like it.”

Looking away, she shrugged. “I can't conceive why you imagine your opinion is likely to sway me.”

“You
promised
if I gave you the adventures you requested—all of them—you'd stay away from venues such as this for the rest of the Season.”

He was speaking through clenched teeth.

She turned; they were so close, her breasts brushed his chest. Reaching up, she traced a finger down one lean cheek. And smiled, directly into his eyes. “I lied.” Then she widened her eyes at him. “But why should you care?” With a mock salute, she stepped around him. “Now, if you'll excuse me, there're gentlemen present I've yet to meet.”

She left him, idly ambling away. But she hadn't missed the jolt of tension that had locked his large frame. Nor the gaze that burned between her shoulder blades for the rest of the night.

 

Martin wrapped his fingers about Amanda's wrist as she paused on the threshold of Mrs. Swayne's drawing room. He'd seen her slip away to the withdrawing room, and had lain in wait for her; that was what she'd reduced him to.

He drew her out of the flow of guests. “So tell me, just what is your plan?”

He stopped by the wall; she opened her eyes wide. “Plan?”

“Your objective in turning the better part of the ton's rakes into slavering slaves just waiting for you to take your pick.”

“Ah—that plan.” She looked across the sea of raffish rogues and rakes filling the small drawing room.

Martin grimly held onto his temper. He deeply regretted giving way to it at Helen's—satisfying though it had been at the time, just look where it had landed him. He'd spent the last week attending every blasted function throughout the demimonde, searching for Amanda through the salons and parties. Keeping an eye on her. People were beginning to notice. And the very last thing he wished was to focus attention on his interest in Amanda Cynster.