On a Wild Night (6 page)

His face was unreadable. Eventually, he said, “Connor mentioned Upper Brook Street.”

“My parents' house is Number 12.”

He nodded. “I'll have my groom wait for you with the horses at the corner of Park Lane. After your ride, he'll return the mare to my stables.”

“Thank you.” She smiled gratefully, too wise to suggest that she would much prefer his company to that of his groom's.

“What time?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Six o'clock.”

“Six?” Martin stared. It was nearly twelve now, and at six in the morning, the park would be deserted.

“I'll need to return home before the regulars get about.” She glanced up at him. “I don't want my cousins to see the horse and ask where I got her.”

“Your cousins?”

“My male Cynster cousins. They're older than me. They're all married and have turned dreadfully stuffy.”

Martin inwardly kicked himself for not making the connection sooner. Admittedly, there were a lot of Cynsters, and he'd never heard of any girls. All the family members he'd previously encountered had been male.

The Bar Cynster—that's what they'd been called. When he'd first come on the town they'd been little short of gods, lording it over the ton's ladies. But now they'd all married . . . he hadn't met a single one in the past year while he'd been creating his own fiefdom in the world in which they'd previously reigned supreme.

He frowned. “You're first cousin to St. Ives?”

She nodded, her gaze open, direct.

If any of her cousins had been about, he would have handed her into their care forthwith, cutting short her adventures. Infinitely safer all around. However, she was here now and they weren't.

They both turned as Reggie neared, a champagne flute in one hand.

Lips compressed, Martin nodded. “Very well. Six o'clock at the corner of Park Lane.”

 

At six o'clock the next morning, it was dull, gray and cold. Amanda's heart soared as, perched on the exceedingly frisky
mare, she trotted toward Mount Gate—and the figure perched atop a huge horse waiting impatiently under a tree just inside the gates.

Clad in her riding habit, she'd slipped out of her parents' side door and hurried up the street. Reaching the corner, she'd found the groom waiting as arranged. Hopes dashed, she'd lectured herself against expecting too much too soon. Dexter knew she was out riding—one day he'd be tempted to join her.

She'd apparently tempted him enough. Mounted on a magnificent roan gelding, Dexter held the fractious horse effortlessly, long, muscular thighs clamped to the beast's sides. He was wearing a conventional riding coat over buckskin breeches and boots; cantering up, she thought he looked wilder, definitely more dangerous than he had in evening clothes.

His hair was rakishly disheveled, his gaze disconcertingly acute. He wasn't frowning, but looked distinctly grim. Joining him, she got the definite impression he wasn't pleased to be there.

“Good morning, my lord. I didn't expect to have the pleasure of your company.” She smiled sunnily, delighted to be able to make the comment truthfully. “Are you game for a gallop?”

Martin eyed her impassively. “You'll find that I'm game for almost anything.”

Her smile brightened before she looked away. “Let's head down to the Row.”

Martin flicked a glance at his groom. “Wait here.”

They set out in unison, trotting across the lawns beneath the trees. She busied herself trying out the mare's paces. Martin watched, relieved to note she was a competent horsewoman—not that he'd seriously expected less from a Cynster, female or not.

“From what Connor said, I take it your cousin—I can't remember which one—still has an active interest in horses.”

“Demon.” She experimented with the mare's reins. “He's got a stud outside Newmarket, now. He breeds racehorses, and Flick rides them.”

“Flick?”

“His wife, Felicity. She's a wonder with horses—she helps train them.”

Martin couldn't settle that image in his mind. The Demon Cynster he'd known would never have let a mere woman near his mounts. He shook that conundrum aside and refocused on the one at hand. “So if Demon sees the mare, he'll recognize her.”

“Even if someone else sees her and describes her.
Nothing
is more certain.” Amanda glanced at him. “That's why I can only ride this early, when there's no one else about.”

Martin hid a grimace; he couldn't fault her reasoning. However, the knowledge that she would be riding in the deserted park had been enough to wake him even before the ungodly hour had arrived; the mental images evoked had made falling asleep again impossible. So here he was, despite the fact he'd had no intention of dancing attendance on her.

He didn't delude himself that the next morning she rode would be any different.

If the ton learned she was riding with him alone, so early in the morning, there would be whispers and raised brows aplenty, but she was an experienced, sensible, well-bred twenty-three-year-old; her reputation would be examined, but would not, by the fact of their riding alone in a public place, actually be blemished. Her family—her cousins—would not be pleased, but she and he would have to transgress more direfully to invite intervention.

On the other hand, if her cousins learned that he'd known she was riding alone in the deserted park, and had done nothing beyond roll over and fall asleep,
then,
he was sure, he'd be the recipient of remarkably speedy intervention.

He couldn't decide if it was a lucky circumstance that the latter scenario would never take place. The only fact that lightened his grim mood was the certainty that she hadn't realized what his position was. Her delight at finding him waiting for her had been transparently genuine; she hadn't counted on seeing him. At least he had that much rein to work with.

He glanced at her as she made the mare prance, then dance, then drew the horse back into line.

“She's wonderfully responsive.”

He looked at the sky—it was the color of black pearls, night softening its hold before the approaching dawn. “If we're going to gallop, we'd better get on.”

She set the mare for the tan track specially prepared for galloping. Turning onto it, she shot him a glance as he brought the roan alongside, then sprang the mare. She surprised him, but the roan went with her; the mare was fast but the roan's longer strides quickly closed the distance until they were riding neck and neck. The park was empty, silent and still as they thundered down the track. The roan would have outdistanced the mare but he held the horse back. So he could see her face, see the unfettered joy that lit her features, sense the exhilaration that gripped her.

The heavy pounding of the hooves swept up and over them until it echoed in their blood. The air whipped past them, slicing through their hair, leaving skin tingling, eyes bright.

She slowed; ahead the tan ended. They eased from gallop to canter, finally dropping to a walk; their mounts blew horsey breaths in the quiet stillness. Harness jingled as the roan shook his head; Martin turned back toward Mount Gate, running an expert eye over the mare as he did.

She'd pulled up well. So had her rider.

He'd seen too much feminine beauty to be easily susceptible, yet luxurious colors and even more textures never failed to catch his eye. Her velvet habit was the color of her eyes; he hadn't been able to appreciate the shade earlier but the light was strengthening—as she turned to him, smiling, dizzy with delight, he saw her clearly.

Under a jaunty cap the same color as the habit, her hair caught the first light of dawn and reflected it in shades of pure gold. Last night, when the curls had been piled high, he'd imagined her hair to be shoulder-length. Now he could see it had to be longer—mid-back, at least. A display of sheening, lustrous curls, the mass was caught up, anchored under her cap, loose ends brushing her throat, wisps curling lovingly about her small ears.

Her hair made his palms tingle.

Her skin made him ache.

The ride had tinged the flawless alabaster a delicate rose. He knew if he touched his lips to her throat, if he skated his fingers over her bare shoulder, he would be able to feel the heat of her blood coursing beneath that sumptuous skin. Knew desire would evoke the same effect. As for her lips, parted, rosy red . . .

He dragged his eyes from her, looked across the park. “We'd better get back. The regulars will soon be arriving.”

Still catching her breath, she nodded and brought the mare in beside the roan. They walked, then trotted. They were within sight of the groom, waiting by the gates, when she murmured, “Lady Cavendish is hosting a dinner tonight—one of those affairs one
has
to attend.”

Martin told himself he was relieved. No need to feel obliged to play knight-protector tonight.

“But later, I'd thought to look in on the
soirée
at the Corsican Consulate. It's just around the corner from Cavendish House, I believe.”

He fixed her with a stony look. “Who sent you an invitation?” The Corsican Consulate's
“soirées”
were by invitation only. For a very good reason.

She glanced at him. “Leopold Korsinsky.”

The Corsican Consul. And when had she met Leopold? Doubtless during her travels through the underside of the ton. Martin looked ahead, jettisoning any thought of dissuading her. The woman was intent on tasting the wilder side of life; attending Leopold's
soirée
unquestionably fitted her bill.

“I'll leave you here.” Gentlemen were emerging, ambling down the streets of Mayfair heading for their morning ride. He reined in. “The groom will ride with you to Upper Brook Street, then bring away the horse.”

She smiled. “Then I will thank you for your company, my lord.”

A polite nod and she turned away, with not a hint, not a wink, not the slightest indication that she expected to meet him that night.

Martin narrowed his eyes on her departing back. Once she'd joined his groom and, without a single glance back,
quit the park, he trotted back down to the Stanhope Gate, crossed Park Lane and rode in between the pair of huge gates that guarded the drive to Fulbridge House.

He entered through the kitchens and headed into the huge house. Ignoring the furniture draped in holland covers, the many closed doors and the sense of pervasive gloom, he strode for the library.

Other than the small dining parlor, of the many rooms on the ground floor, the library was the only one he used. He flung open the door and entered, into a den of decadent luxury.

Like any library, the walls were covered with bookshelves packed with books. Here, the display, by its diversity and order, demonstrated wealth, pride and scholarship, a deep respect for accumulated wisdom. In all other respects, the library was unique.

Velvet curtains were still drawn over the long windows. Martin crossed the parquet decorated with exquisite inlays partly concealed by deep-toned rugs and flung the curtains wide. Beyond the windows lay a walled courtyard, a fountain rising from a circular pool at its center, stone walls hidden by the rampant growth of ivys and creepers.

Martin turned, his gaze skating over the satin-covered chaise and the daybed draped with brightly colored silk shawls, over the jewel-hued cushions piled here and there, over the ornately carved tables standing amidst the glory. Everywhere his eye touched, there was some delight of color and texture, some simple, sensual gratification.

It was a room that filled his senses, compensation for the bleak emptiness of his life.

His gaze came to rest on the pile of invitations stacked on the end of the marble mantelpiece. Crossing the room, he grabbed them, swiftly sorted through the pile. Selected the one he sought.

Stared at it.

Returning the others to the mantelpiece, he propped the selected card on a mahogany side table, dropped onto the daybed, propped his feet on an embossed leather ottoman—and scowled at Leopold Korsinsky's invitation.

If the minx was setting her cap at him, she was going about it in a damned unusual way.

From a corner of the Consulate ballroom, one shoulder propped against the wall, Martin watched Amanda Cynster as she stood on the threshold, looking about. No hint of expectation colored her fair face; she projected the image of a lady calmly considering her options.

Leopold swiftly came forward. She smiled charmingly and held out her hand; Leopold grasped it eagerly, and favored her with a too-elegant, too-delighted bow.

Martin's jaw set. Leopold talked, gestured, clearly attempting to dazzle. Martin watched, wondered . . .

He'd been the target for too many ladies with matrimonial intentions not to have developed a sixth sense for being stalked. Yet with Amanda Cynster . . . he wasn't sure. She was different from other ladies he'd dealt with—younger, less experienced, yet not so young he could dismiss her as a girl, not so inexperienced he was daft enough to think her, or her machinations, of no account.

He hadn't amassed a huge fortune in trade by underestimating the opposition. In this case, however, he wasn't even sure the damned female had him in her sights.

Two other gentlemen approached her, bucks of the most dangerous sort on the lookout for risky titillation. Leopold
sized them up in a glance; he introduced them to Amanda, but gave no indication of leaving her side, far less of relinquishing her attention. The bucks bowed and moved on.

Martin relaxed, only then realizing he'd tensed. He fixed his gaze on the cause, taking in her tumbling curls, glossy gold in the strong light, let his gaze linger on the lissome figure draped in soft silk the color of ripe peach. Wondered how succulent the flesh beneath the silk would be . . .

He caught himself up, wiped the developing image from his mind.

Focused on the reality, on the conundrum before him.

Thus far, every time he'd appeared, she'd clearly been pleased to see him, willing—even glad—to accept the protection he offered. However, he'd yet to see any sign that she was
specifically
interested in him. She was used to protective males—like her cousins; the possibility existed—lowering thought—that she would with equal ease accept the protection of some other, similar gentleman. He couldn't offhand think of any other who might appear to squire her platonically, but the prospect remained. Her transparent liking for and encouragement of his company might simply reflect a natural gravitation toward the sort of male in whose company she felt comfortable.

She wasn't stalking him—she was haunting him. An entirely different circumstance, for as of that moment, he had no idea if she intended to or not.

That, he decided, was the issue he had to deal with—the point he needed to clarify.

He pushed away from the wall. Leopold had monopolized her for long enough, and the bucks who'd approached earlier hadn't gone far.

Her attention on Leopold, she didn't see him approach. Nor did Leopold, a willing captive, his dark gaze locked on her face. Only when he loomed beside her did she break off and look up—then she smiled gloriously and held out her hand.

“My lord.”

He closed his fingers about hers. She curtsied. He raised her and bowed. “Miss Cynster.”

Her lips remained curved, her eyes alight with a delight that had not been there before. The frown growing in Leopold's eyes as they flicked from him to her suggested that the last was not a fabrication of his imagination.

“Dexter.” Leopold's nod was curt. “You are acquainted with Miss Cynster.”

Not a question—at least, not the obvious one; Martin met Leopold's gaze. “We're . . . friends.”

Leopold's frown grew more definite; “friends” uttered in that way could mean just about anything. Leopold, however, knew Martin quite well.

If the object of their discussion had any inkling of the communication passing over her head, she gave no sign, but glanced from one to the other, the expectation of entertainment in her eyes. Her gaze came to rest on Martin.

Looking down, he smiled easily. “Would you care to stroll and see who else is present? You've been here for a while—I'm sure Leopold has other claims on his time.”

He'd meant the last sentence as a warning; a sudden gleam in her eye, the deepening of her smile had him rapidly replaying his words. As she prettily took her leave of Leopold, Martin inwardly kicked himself. He'd just told her he'd been watching her—for a while.

As host, Leopold couldn't scowl, but the look he cast Martin as they parted stated he'd be back—back to pry Amanda from Martin's side. Leopold liked nothing better than to cross swords, metaphorically, with a peer.

Martin offered his arm; Amanda laid her hand on his sleeve.

“Do you know Mr. Korsinsky well?”

“Yes. I have business interests in Corsica.” And Leopold's family were the biggest bandits on the island.

“Is he . . .”—she gestured—“trustworthy? Or should I view him in the same light as the other two he introduced?”

Martin went to answer, caught himself, then inwardly shrugged. She knew he'd been watching. “Leopold has his own brand of honor, but it isn't English. I'm not even sure it falls within the realms of ‘civilized.' It would be wiser to
treat him as you would the other two.” He paused, then added in tones rather less drawled, “In other words, avoid them.”

Her lips quirked; she glanced up. “I'm more than seven, you know.”

He caught her gaze. “They, however, are more than eight.”

“And you?”

They'd slowed. Ahead, a lady waved to attract their attention. Martin saw, but didn't respond, absorbed in studying the face turned up to his—it could be that of an angel except it held too much vitality. He drew breath, glanced up. “I, my dear, am beyond your ken.”

She followed his gaze; the hiatus that had held them dissolved. Smoothly, they made the transition to social discourse, stopping to chat with a group they'd met at Lady Hennessy's.

Martin was content to stand beside Amanda and let her animation carry the day. She was assured, confident, and quick-witted, glibly turning aside an arch query as to their friendship. The ladies in the group were intrigued; the gentlemen simply enjoyed her company, watching her face, her eyes, listening to her musical laugh.

He did the same, but with a different intent, trying to see past her facade. He'd felt the tensing of her breathing, the tightening of her fingers on his sleeve during that one, taut moment. He'd tried, again, to warn her; only once he'd uttered the words, heard them, glimpsed—so fleetingly he wasn't sure he'd seen aright—a steely stubbornness behind her delicate features, had he considered that she might interpret those words differently.

Might see them as a challenge.

She was, after all, looking for excitement.

Watching the flow of expression across her features, through the blue of her eyes, he couldn't tell what her reaction was. Would be.

Worse—he was no longer sure how he wanted her to react. Whether he wanted her to run from him, or to him.

Inwardly, he frowned; the surrounding conversation slid from his mind. Logically, he knew what he wanted. She was
not for him; he didn't want to become involved with her. Logically, all was clear.

Why, then, this sense of confusion?

A screech from a violin hauled him from his thoughts. Everyone turned, looked, confirmed that a waltz was about to begin. He glanced down, met Amanda's blue eyes. She arched a brow.

He gestured to the dance floor. “Shall we?”

She smiled and gave him her hand. He led her to the floor, determined to find answers to his questions.

Waltzes at the Corsican Consulate had never conformed to the style approved by the patronesses of Almack's. Martin drew Amanda into his arms, drew her closer still as couples crowded onto the floor.

They started to revolve; Amanda looked about them as she struggled to master her breathing, to give no sign of the breathlessness that had assailed her the moment Dexter's hand had come to rest on her back. It was large, strong—effortlessly he steered her through the throng. But the heat, not just from his hand, burning through silk, but the pervasive heat of his large body so close, a bare inch from hers . . . little wonder that ladies swooned on crowded dance floors.

Not that she'd ever been in danger of joining their ranks before, and she'd danced on crowded floors aplenty.

Out of her ken
. She focused on those words, on all they promised—all she intended to have. From him. Serve him right. He was as arrogantly superior as her cousins; truth be known, she didn't mind at all. It would make his conquest all the sweeter.

She glanced at his face, smiled lightly. “You waltz well, my lord.”

“You're an expert, I take it.”

“After six years in the ton? Indeed I am.”

He hesitated; she couldn't read anything in his changeable green eyes. “You're not, however, an expert in this arena, as Connor rightly stated.”

“Connor told me I was out of my depth in gaming with such as he, and in that I agree.” She glanced at the dancers
surrounding them. “In other respects, I see little here I would feel challenged managing.”

When he said nothing, she glanced at his face. He was waiting—he trapped her gaze. “What are you after?”

You
. “I told you. I want to live a little—I want to experience entertainments more exciting than can be found within the ton.” She met his gaze boldly. “As you agreed, that's no crime.”

“No crime, perhaps, but it's dangerous. Especially for such as you.”

She glanced about. “A little danger adds spice to the excitement.”

Martin couldn't believe the battery of emotions she so effortlessly evoked. “And if the danger is more than just ‘a little'?”

She looked back at him; again he glimpsed steel. “If that was the case, then I wouldn't be interested. I've been out for six years—I know where the lines are drawn. I'm not interested in stepping over them.”

Again she looked away.

Deliberately, he drew her closer, held her to him as they went through the turns so his thighs parted and brushed hers, so their hips met, slid apart, met again, so her gown shifted, shushing, against his coat, his thighs. He felt the hitch in her breathing, felt the tremor that raced down her spine. She glanced briefly at his face, but remained supple, gloriously light in his arms.

He waited until they were precessing up the long room. “These entertainments you wish to experience. I take it you have some specific event in mind.”

“Events.”

She said nothing further; he was forced to prompt, “And they are?”

His tone brought her gaze to his face, then, her decision to oblige him clear, she recited, “To drive—or more correctly to be driven—around Richmond Park by moonlight. To go boating to see the stars reflected in the Thames. To attend Vauxhall in a private party organized by someone my parents
don't know. To attend one of the masquerades at Covent Garden.”

She fell silent; he tersely inquired, “Nothing else?”

Amanda ignored his tone. “For the present, that's the limit of my ambition.”

His lips thinned. “If you're discovered doing any of those things—if it becomes known you have—you'll be—”

“Exclaimed over, dubbed foolish beyond permission, lectured until my ears ache, then closely watched for the duration of the Season.” She let her gaze rest on his face, noting the hard, uncompromising lines. “That prospect is hardly likely to sway me. At my age, nothing short of a proven indiscretion is going to harm my standing.”

He made a derisive sound. She smiled and let her gaze wander. “If you must know, my list is so short precisely because of society's demands.” The waltz concluded; they swirled to a halt. “I have only so many weeks before the Season gets into full swing. Once it does, my calendar will fill with socially obligatory events, and I won't have time to seek excitement.”

She stepped back, out of his arms; he let her draw her fingers from his, but slowly. As if, at any moment, he might change his mind and seize them, and her. Freed, she turned, feeling his hand fall from her. Missed its heat. She looked at the gentlemen about them. “I wonder who would be willing to squire me to Richmond.”

Eyes narrowing, Martin reached for her hand to yank her back and tell her what he thought of that idea—
and
that he didn't appreciate being baited—when Agnes Korsinsky, Leopold's sister, materialized before them.

“Dexter,
mon cher!”

Agnes launched herself into his arms; he had no choice but to catch her. She planted two noisy kisses, one on each cheek—then for good measure, went back and repeated the greeting.

He gripped her waist and set her away from him. “Agnes.” He kept his gaze on her face. She was all but indecently dressed, her voluptuous charms very much on display. That
she harbored designs on him, on his title, his wealth and his person, he was well aware; she had for years and was as dangerous as her brother. Amanda was watching, assessing; he said the first thing that came into his head. “You've had an excellent turnout—you must be delighted.”