On a Wild Night (31 page)

Beside her, Amelia stared, too. “And Devil's given his permission . . . but surely they've guessed? Perhaps the others haven't heard?”

“According to Patience, they were all there when Martin spoke with Devil.”

“Well, then, they've all met him, which means you're right—it's not believable. I'm surprised he's unmarked. They must be up to something.”

“Maybe . . .” Amanda's gaze grew distant. “Yes, that has to be it. Martin must have convinced them that, as what's done is done and he does wish to marry me, to let him manage me—my resistance—on his own.” She refocused on her cousins. “He knows how I feel about them and their interference.”

“Maybe they've realized that our lives are none of their business.”

Amanda glanced at Amelia; Amelia met her gaze.

Amanda shook her head. Stared again at her cousins. “They're up to something. But what?”

 

Whatever their plan was, it didn't include discouraging Martin's suit. Giving permission was one thing; in the circumstances, it might have proved difficult not to grant. But actually approving . . .

As she whirled through the first waltz in Martin's arms, Amanda saw both Vane, and then Gabriel, notice them, then turn away, apparently unperturbed. She refocused on Martin's face. “When you spoke with Devil, did you or he touch on the . . . degree of our relationship?”

Martin met her gaze. “If you mean did we discuss the fact of our intimacy, no. However, my interpretation of the discussion was that that aspect was understood.”

She stared at him. “Taken for granted?”

“Let's say ‘assumed.' “

“Humph!” She wasn't sure how to react—relieved her cousins had apparently accepted her right to manage her
own life, or wildly suspicious, certain they never would. She settled for being watchful, wary. Looking before she leapt.

“This is bedlam,” Martin muttered as the music ended and they halted. “Let's stroll in the foyer. At least we should be able to breathe out there.”

She was willing enough; Lady Hamilton had invited more than double the number of people her rooms could actually hold. Unfortunately, her ladyship's guests were still arriving; the foyer, although less packed, was still crowded.

They wended their way through the guests, then Martin twined his fingers with hers and drew her into the mouth of a corridor. “Let's leave this madness. The library's this way—there won't be anyone there yet.”

Feeling a touch giddy, she acquiesced. He led her down the dimly lit corridor, then opened a door, looked in, then waved her in.

The library was a medium-sized room, comfortably furnished with chaises before the fire and a handsome desk at the other end. A lighted candelabra stood on a table between the chaises, its glow illuminating a silver tray set with decanters and glasses waiting for the older gentlemen who would gravitate here as the evening wore on.

At present, however, the library was blissfully empty.

Amanda breathed in, then exhaled on a sigh. She felt Martin's gaze on her, felt her nerves prickle, then tense. Eschewing the chaises as potentially dangerous, she strolled to the desk. She halted before it, her gaze drawn to the bookshelves behind it. “This library is nothing like yours.”

“No?” Humor echoed in his voice as he prowled in her wake. “How so?”

“It lacks color.” She turned, and found him all but breast to chest with her, a familiar sensual glint in his moss-green eyes, a taunting tilt to his lips.

“Just the color?” he murmured.

She felt all three words. Reaching up, she twined her arms about his neck. “That, and a few other amenities.”

She drew his lips to hers, confident—determined. The chaises were too far away; with the desk at her back, indulging in one, albeit lengthy kiss was safe. A kiss to further
whet his appetite, to appease hers. She was hungry, hungry for all they were doing without because of his stubbornness, and hers.

He was hungry, too, perfectly ready to sink into her mouth, to take, to claim, at her invitation. His hands fas-tened about her waist, holding her steady as he angled his head and feasted. As eager as he, she gave herself up to it—reveled in the heated exchange. Urged him on, confident the situation limited the possibilities. If she wanted to tempt him to give her all, she needed to remind him of what he would gain when he did.

When his hands eased their grip, then rose to her breasts, she exulted. Felt the leap of her pulse, the sudden surge of yearning, saw no need to hide it. Let the need pour through her, glorying in the heady tide of desire, pressed her lips to his and let him sense it, then fractionally drew back, taunting him, challenging him.

He kissed her voraciously; his hands closed, kneading, then through the fine silk of her gown, his fingers found her nipples, closed, squeezed. She gasped, drew back from the kiss, arched her head back; she'd forgotten the intensity, the sheer sensual force. His lips traced the line of her throat, then returned to capture hers again. To pull her ruthlessly back into the fire and the rising flames.

Martin had intended to go slowly, to coax her into passion, to guide her along the road to sensual desire, and its ultimate satisfaction. To lay before her all the splendors like the expert he was, a king wooing his queen, to show her the beauties of the landscape that together they could travel.

He hadn't counted on her fire, on the rush of desire and passion that rose at his touch, welled and poured through their kiss. Hadn't calculated on the arousing effect of her fingers sliding through his hair, then gripping, wordlessly evocative. Hadn't anticipated his own response.

She drove him giddy. Drove him wild.

His lungs locked; suddenly, he could think of nothing beyond the moment of having her, the incredible sensation of sinking into her willing body and feeling her clamp, hot and wet, about him.

He wanted—that, her—with a simple, uncomplicated, ravenous hunger utterly unlike his characteristic elan and all the more powerful for that.

Powerful enough to send his hands skating over her, eager to possess. To repossess, to have again. Devastating enough for his lips to devour hers, to claim her mouth in a primitive prelude. Gripping her waist, he lifted her to sit on the desk, pushing back her skirts, pressing her knees apart.

Gentleness had flown; neither he nor she minded.

Quite the opposite.

One hand was beneath her skirts, frothed up between them, fingers sliding, sinking, over and over, repetitively probing the slick heat of her sheath, all to her urgent murmurs, to the thunder in their veins, when the door latch clicked.

Unsurpassed instincts, lightning-fast reflexes had saved him in the past.

By the time the door swung open, he was concealed behind a Chinese screen that stood five feet from the desk. Slumped against the bookshelves, his chest heaving, his pulse pounding in his ears—Amanda clutched against him, one hand clamped over her lips to stifle her indignant protest. One with which he fervently agreed.

From beyond the screen came silence, then: “This
is
the library.”

They both recognized the voice, both held their breath.

Footsteps entered the room. After a moment, Lady Jersey inquired, somewhat disgruntled, “Now what?”

Above his hand, Amanda's eyes were huge. She tugged his hand from her face, mouthed, “Who?”

Martin shook his head slightly. Wondered how long they could stand as they were without making the slightest sound. The faintest rustle.

Who the devil was Sally Jersey, the ton's greatest gossip, talking to? And why were they here? More important, when would they leave?

Heels tapped as Sally wandered the room; luckily, she'd headed for the fireplace.

Then a firm footstep sounded in the corridor; an instant later, someone else paused on the threshold.

“Sally? What are you doing here, all by yourself?”

Amanda stiffened. It was Devil's drawl.

“Truth to tell, St. Ives, I really don't know.” They heard the crackle of paper. “I received a note asking me to come here—well, to the library. There isn't another in this house, is there?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How strange.”

“Are you planning to wait, or can I escort you back to the ballroom?”

“You may give me your arm—and the next dance, too, come to that.”

Devil chuckled. “If you wish.”

An instant later, the door closed—and they were, once more, alone.

“Great heavens!” Amanda wriggled.

Martin winced, and set her back on her feet.

“That was . . .” She blinked at the desk, remembered all that had happened, and what, just, had not. She blushed. “A very near-run thing.”

Tight-lipped, she shook out her skirts, rearranging them, the action and her expression stating louder than words that the interlude was over.

Martin dragged in a huge breath, exhaled through his teeth.

When she threw him a suspicious glance, he offered his arm. “We'd better return to the ballroom.”

 

“Heaven knows what would have happened if Silence hadn't walked in!” Amanda halted, frowned. “No—that's not true. I
do
know what would have happened, and it would have worked more to his advantage than mine.”

Eschewing her pacing, she climbed onto her bed where Amelia lay listening. “Being alone with him is too dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Amelia looked concerned.

Amanda bit her lip, then went on, “I thought if we loved more, it would prove my point, because
when
we love, the fact he truly loves me is so patently obvious I don't see how he can continue to ignore it! But . . .”

She grimaced and looked down at her stomach, smoothed
her gown over the curve. “If we do, I risk falling pregnant.” She frowned at the slight bulge. “Who knows? I might already be carrying his child.”

She heard the wistfulness in her voice, wasn't surprised when Amelia softly asked, “Don't you want to have his child?”

“Yes. More than anything.” A simple truth; she dragged in a huge breath. “But I don't want him marrying me because of it, and that's how he'll make it seem!”

She thumped the bed, then fell back and stared up at the canopy.

Amelia grimaced. After a moment, she asked, “Does what ‘seems' truly matter when weighed against what ‘is'?”

 

That, indeed, was the question. Amanda faced it squarely, yet couldn't formulate a clear answer. Until she did, she decided to play safe—to talk, but not to kiss. To encourage, yes, but to draw a clear line over which she would not be tempted. Again. Not until . . .

“Miss Cynster?”

She turned; a footman bowed and proffered a salver on which lay a note. She took it; stepping away from the chaise on which her mother and aunts sat, she unfolded the note.

 

If you come to the ballroom terrace now, I believe you will be intrigued with what you will discover.

 

The note was unsigned. And it wasn't from Martin. His scrawl was bold and lazy; this writing was cramped, each letter squeezed by a tight fist.

It was early and the ballroom was half empty, yet there were sufficient people about should she need to call for assistance. Refolding the note, she stuffed it into her reticule, excused herself to her mother and aunts and glided across the room.

The doors to the terrace were closed; she peered through, but could see no one. Opening one door, she stepped outside, clutching her shawl as the brisk breeze tugged.

She couldn't leave the door open, not with the curtains
billowing. Looking around, she saw only empty flags, but the terrace was a wide one, bordered by thick bushes that cast dense shadows. Reluctantly, she pulled the door shut. Wrapping her shawl about her, she strolled along, going only as far as the ballroom windows, keeping within the light they shed.

No sound reached her ears bar the sibilant hiss of the wind.

Turning, she retraced her steps, eventually reaching the other end of the ballroom. Increasingly cold, she frowned, then, muttering a curse, swung away—

“Miss Cynster . . . Miss Amanda Cynster . . .”

She halted, peered into the dense shadows of what she now saw was the entrance to a shrubbery. The disembodied voice called again.

“Come to me, my dear, and in the moonlight, we'll—“

“Show yourself!” Scowling, she tried to define just which of her acquaintances it was. She recognized the cadence, but the voice was disguised, syrupy and girlish. Yet it was definitely a man. “Who are you? Only a knave would behave in this manner.”

“Which manner is that?”

Amanda whirled; relief flooded her as Martin stepped through the ballroom door, tugging it shut. Distant rustling, then retreating footsteps reached them. Martin came toward her, a frown in his eyes. He scanned the terrace; his gaze settled on her face. “Who were you talking to?”

“I don't know!” She gestured to the shrubbery. “Some fool was in there, trying to lure me to join him.”

“He was?”

It was his tone that alerted her, irritated her. She jerked her head up, saw him staring menacingly at the shrubbery. Narrowed her own eyes. “Yes. He was. But he didn't succeed, and he wouldn't have, either!”

Swinging around, she headed for the ballroom.

Martin was at her back in two paces. “Why did you come out here?”

“Because he—whoever he is—sent me a note.”

“Let me see it.”

She halted; he ran into her, steadied her. She hunted in her reticule and dragged out the crumpled note. “There! See—I'm not inventing him.”

He studied the note, then, frowning, slipped it into his coat pocket.

Amanda hummed in her throat, then made for the door. She didn't care about the note or its author.

“You shouldn't have come out here alone, not in response to an anonymous note.”