On a Wild Night (28 page)

Amanda nodded. “Exactly.”

“A good sign, but whatever you do,
don't waver
. Don't let him, or anyone or anything, turn you from your purpose.”

Her ladyship glanced up; Amanda followed her gaze and saw Martin wending his way back to them.

Lady Osbaldestone spoke quickly. “As for the scandal, you'll have to trust my reading of him and his family, but the scandal will only be resolved if
he
wishes it, and he'll only wish it for a reason more compelling than all the reasons to let dead scandals lie, and for him there will be a few of those.”

Martin was nearing; Lady Osbaldestone's black eyes bored into Amanda's. “Do you follow, gel?” Her clawlike hand tightened on Amanda's wrist. “There's only one reason I can see that will ever be important enough to make him seek to clear his name.”

Easing back, Lady Osbaldestone smiled and accepted her glass of orgeat. Martin looked at her, then at Amanda. He offered the glass of water he'd brought.

Amanda accepted it with a vague nod, and drained it.

In the days and evenings that followed, Amanda increasingly felt like an antelope cut out from the herd by a lion. A lionized lion—even worse. That fact dealt him far too many aces, which he was never slow to use.

She'd taken to urging her mother and sister to arrive early at every major event so she could assemble a useful circle of gentlemen to serve as a screen. She accepted that she had to deal with Martin, that she could do nothing other than to wait him out, holding steadfast in her requirement for “something more.”

If he was the rock, she was the tide, and so on.

If she understood Lady Osbaldestone correctly, then the nature of their future hinged on her stubbornness.

Lady Musselford's ball was certain to be a crush. The Mussleford girls were ravishing and both were making their formal bow to the ton that night. Amanda prayed one or other would do something to keep the ton's collective eye on them—away from her and her determined would-be consort.

She was growing rather tired of having her every move remarked.

“Miss Cynster! I had great hopes you would attend tonight.”

Amanda started; she blinked as Percival Lytton-Smythe bowed before her. “Ah . . . good evening, sir.”

“I daresay”—Percival beamed delightedly at her—“that you've been wondering where I've been these past two weeks.”

She hadn't even noticed his absence. “Have you been in the country?” She continued to watch for Martin's arrival.

“I travelled to Shropshire—one of my maternal aunts is aging. She wished to make her will, confirming me as her heir.”

Amanda caught a glimpse of burnished locks at the far end of the ballroom. “How fortunate.”

“Fortunate, indeed! Miss Cynster—my dear Amanda, if I might make so bold—”

Percival grasped her hand, jerking her attention from approaching danger. “Mr. Lytton-Smythe!” She tried to pull free, but he stubbornly held on.

“No, no—my apologies, dear lady. The violence of my feelings has startled you, but you must make allowances for my natural enthusiasm at the prospect that, courtesy of my aunt's generosity, now lies before us.”

“Us?” Aghast, Amanda stared.

Percival patted her hand. “My dearest Amanda, only the disparity of our fortunes, the idea that some might consider our match too uneven in standing, has prevented me from speaking ‘ere now, yet you cannot be unaware that a match between us will confer great benefits upon us both.”

“Benefits?” Her temper rose; she fought to suppress it. The ballroom was fast filling.

“But of course. Innocent as you are, your parents have doubtless deemed it unnecessary to burden your mind with the more businesslike aspects of matrimony. No need, indeed, for your father and I will ensure that you are well looked after, you may be sure.”

That last was delivered with a paternalistic smirk; before she could erupt, Percival released her and continued, “Regardless of the recent deplorable tendency to invest the institution of marriage with heated emotions, it is absurd to base a serious union on any but sound considerations of wealth and consequence. On the furtherance of the age-old ideals.”

“Precisely
which
‘age-old ideals' do you imagine a union between us would serve?” The belief that she had to stop Percival in his tracks was the only reason she asked.

“Why, it will be obvious to all that marriage to me will stem your regrettable levity, the same levity that has kept you from marriage for the last several years. It's clear you require a firm hand on your reins, and I am just the man to supply it.”

Percival beamed at the surrounding crowd. “And, of course, merging your fortune with mine will create a nice estate, one I will manage to our advantage. The connection with St. Ives will benefit my standing, and all that I undertake. Indeed, an alliance between us will be of inestimable value, as I'm sure, even innocent as you are of such matters, you will agree.”

Smugly triumphant, he smiled at her.

Eyes narrowed, she trapped his gaze. “You err.” His smile faded; he opened his lips—she silenced him with an upraised hand. “You are wrong. First, in imagining I value the ‘age-old ideals' you worship—wealth and status are mine regardless of whom I wed. You also insult my family in believing that any consideration beyond my own happiness will weigh with them.”

Her gaze was caught by the tall, commanding figure purposefully heading their way. “While my family will discourage any alliance they believe would not be in my best interests, I assure you they will equally discourage any suitor who does not find favor in my eyes.”

“Pish-
posh!
”

Percival's contemptuous tone had her returning her gaze to him; she raised her brows haughtily. “I believe our discussion is at an end, sir. I bid you a good evening.”

She turned to sweep away, to slip into the crowd and gather a circle of protective admirers before Martin caught up with her—

Percival grabbed her wrist. “Nonsense! It's past time you gave up such flighty, affected behavior. It may pass well enough in the schoolroom—”

“Unhand me!”

Her furious yet glacial tones struck Percival like a whip.
He jerked upright, tried to look down his nose at her, noticed the spray of orchids she held in her trapped hand. She tugged; Percival held on. His face a study in astonishment, he forced her hand up, examining the exotic spray.

In the tone of a schoolmaster discovering a pupil in severe transgression, he asked, “What is this?”

“Sensual beauty personified,” came the deep, drawled reply.

Percival started, looked around.

Martin halted beside him; his gaze touched the orchids, then moved on to Amanda. “Don't you agree?”

The question was clearly addressed to Percival, its object equally clearly not the orchids.

Shocked, Percival relaxed his grip. Amanda twisted her wrist free.

And smiled, delightedly, at Martin. “Dexter—how fortunate. Do let me make you known to Mr. Lytton-Smythe.”

“Sir.” Martin bowed easily.

Percival's eyes widened; after an instant's hesitation, he bowed stiffly. “My lord.”

“Why fortunate?” Martin's gaze met Amanda's.

“Because I was just bidding Mr. Lytton-Smythe farewell before continuing around the ballroom. Now I need not do so alone.”

She offered her hand.

Percival stuck out his arm, positively huffed, “I will be more than happy to escort you, my dear.”

Martin smiled. “Ah, but I'm before you, you see.” One long finger pointed to the orchids. There was a fractional pause as his gaze met Percival's, then, with his usual ineffable grace, Martin offered her his arm.

Ruthlessly ignoring the undercurrents—all of them—Amanda laid her fingers on Martin's sleeve. With a regal nod to Percival, she coolly stated, “Good-bye, sir,” then let Martin lead her away.

She was unsurprised when, after less than ten feet, Martin murmured, “Who, exactly, is Mr. Lytton-Smythe?”

“Not who—what. He's a pest.”

“Ah. In that case, we must trust he's taken the hint.”

“Indeed.” Which hint—Martin's or hers—she didn't bother to ask; either would do. Unfortunately . . . she inwardly grimaced, and wished she'd been more explicit in refusing what had all but amounted to Percival's declaration.

Martin watched the irritation, the annoyance, fade from Amanda's eyes, and needed no further assurance of what Lytton-Smythe meant to her. But a faint frown remained, clouding the cornflower blue, lightly furrowing her forehead; the sight didn't meet with his approval.

They'd been ambling around the growing crowd filing into her ladyship's rooms. An alcove containing a bust of some long dead general lay just ahead. Closing his fingers about Amanda's hand, Martin slowed.

Pausing by the alcove, he raised her hand, still holding his orchids; he examined not the flowers, but her wrist, fine-boned, veins showing blue beneath her porcelain skin. “He didn't hurt you, did he?”

Possessiveness rippled beneath the drawled words; he made no effort to disguise it. He met her wide eyes, held her gaze as he slid his fingers over her wrist in a featherlight caress to close, gently, over the spot where her pulse beat, then leapt beneath his fingertips.

He sensed the catch in her breathing, saw her pupils di-late, saw her make the decision to boldly continue to meet his eyes, to let desire rise briefly between them—the warm, beckoning promise of passion—before, of necessity, they let it ebb.

Only then, when they could both breathe easily again, did she incline her head and murmur, “Thank you for rescuing me.”

His lips lifted briefly; eyes still on hers, he raised her hand. “The pleasure,” he murmured, “was all mine.” His last words brushed the sensitive skin of her wrist an instant before his lips touched, pressed.

He returned her hand to his sleeve. In perfect accord, they strolled on.

On the other side of the ballroom, Vane Cynster frowned. He watched his golden-haired cousin and her escort until the crowd blocked his view.

“There you are!” Vane's wife, Patience, swept up and linked her arm with his. “Lady Osbadlestone wishes to speak with you.”

“Just as long as she keeps her cane to herself.” Vane let Patience tug him into motion, then the crowd parted and he saw Amanda and her escort again. Vane stopped; of necessity, Patience stopped, too. She looked inquiringly up at him.

“Who the devil is that?” Vane nodded across the room. “The fellow with Amanda.”

Patience looked, then smiled. “Dexter.” She tugged Vane on. “I would have thought you'd have heard—his return to the ton has been a major topic in the drawing rooms.”

“You know perfectly well that I and all the others avoid drawing rooms wherever possible.” Vane studied his wife's expression, the smile that curved her lips. “What's the speculation?”

“Current speculation concerns just
what
has lured Dexter out of that huge house in Park Lane and back into the ton.”

Vane halted—swung Patience around to face him. “Not Amanda?”

Horrified comprehension filled his eyes; Patience laughed. Twining her arm through his, she patted it reassuringly and urged him on. “Yes, Amanda, but there's no need to worry. She's managing perfectly well, and although there is that old scandal which will have to be addressed, there's no reason whatever for you or any of the others to interfere.”

Vane said nothing; if she'd looked into his face, Patience would have detected a grimness in his grey eyes that boded ill for her last injunction, but distracted by the greetings of another lady, she simply towed him along. “Now come and do the pretty—and
don't growl
.”

 

On the subject of Amanda, Martin's feelings were not that dissimilar from Vane's. As he now considered her indisputably his, the nights spent in the ballrooms watching over her—establishing his right to her by deed rather than decree—were the ultimate in frustration, a token bow to tonnish expectations.

His own expectations were growing more definite by the
day, increasingly more difficult to subdue. He wanted her his, recognized as his. Now. Today. Yesterday.

Watching as she danced a cotillion with Lord Wittingham, Martin ignored the irritation—the abrasion of his temper caused by seeing her in another man's arms—and turned his mind to his most urgent question: when could he end this charade?

His sole purpose in rejoining the ton had been to establish the
bona fides
of his suit—his pursuit—of Amanda. He'd spent nearly two weeks projecting a patience he didn't possess, his well-honed instincts insisting that establishing the link between them as accepted fact in the ton's collective mind was the surest road to victory.

The Season was rushing on, building to its height, to the weeks when there would be three or more major balls to attend every night. The very thought made him weary; balls, even those spent by Amanda's side, did not offer what he needed to engage and soothe his restless senses.

Amanda by herself, alone, preferably naked, did.

Two weeks had passed since he'd seen her like that—his, all his. How much longer would he need to wait? More specifically, did he need to wait any longer?

The incident with Lytton-Smythe nagged. Not that he imagined Amanda being captivated by another and stolen away—more a case of a primitive reaction against any man casting covetous eyes at her.

While she twirled and linked hands in the dance, he scanned the company. The crowd had swelled to a certified crush; everyone was here, even her cousins. He'd glimpsed two, had heard the St. Iveses announced, but he hadn't come up with any male Cynsters in the crowd. Over the last weeks, he'd been introduced to all their wives, who'd conveyed without words just what the score was—what their familial verdict would be.

They approved of him,
but . . .