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.
“There’s no need to concern yourself. I fully accept that there’s no understanding between us. No connection—you made that plain. I therefore fail to see why you’re so intent on preserving such a dog-in-the-manger attitude toward me. You can’t seriously imagine that I will accept that.”
He locked his jaw, bit his tongue against the impulse to respond to the taunt in her eyes. She had him—his emotions—pegged to a tee.
When he remained silent, her brows rose, then she resurveyed the room. “If you’ll excuse me, there are others I wish to speak with.”
She started to move away; his hold on her wrist prevented it. She looked down at his fingers, manacling her wrist. And waited. He had to force them to open. Her smile serene, she inclined her head and stepped out.
“Where are you going?” He couldn’t hold the question back, knew she’d understand what he was asking—where was she headed with this game.
She glanced at him. “To hell and back again.” As she turned away, she added, “If I so choose.”
She was walking a tightrope over a pit of ravening wolves; at some point, she’d put a foot wrong—nothing was more certain. The wolves were counting on it; that was why they were patiently waiting, willing to be played on a string like the puppies they most assuredly were not.
Martin gritted his teeth and watched as night followed night, as soirée followed party followed rout. In the ton, the Season proper had commenced; among the demimonde, the same frenetic burst of social activity held sway.
Every night, he located Amanda; even if she had tonnish obligations, at some point, escorted by an increasingly unhappy Carmarthen, she’d appear in his world. And every night, she seemed a touch wilder, a touch less predictable.
She laughed and charmed; it appeared almost an addiction the way she added conquests to her string. Face grim, arms folded, he would prop the wall and watch; the most dangerous had noted their earlier association, and had sufficiently well-honed self-preservatory instincts to be wary. No one could fathom what lay between them, but few were game to risk stepping on his toes. It was the only weapon he had left with which to protect her; the fact it had worked so far was his only success in their game.
Supporting the wall at Mrs. Emerson’s rout party, he studied the circle of which Amanda was the focus. Some argument was brewing, yet its tone seemed intellectual rather than sexual—odd, considering the company, not so odd given Amanda was leading one side of the debate.
Then Reggie Carmarthen stepped back from the group; he scanned the crowd, the expression on his face one of incipient panic. He spotted Martin.
To Martin’s surprise, Reggie made a beeline for him. Fetching up beside him, Reggie dispensed with all formality. “You’ve got to do something. She’s”—he waved at Amanda—“about to step seriously out of her depth!”
Martin returned Reggie’s earnest look impassively. “So stop her.”
Reggie’s expression turned impatient. “If I could stop her doing anything, she wouldn’t be here in the first place! That’s obvious. I’ve never been able to turn her a damn once she gets the bit between her teeth.” He met Martin’s gaze belligerently. “And she’s had the bit between her teeth from the moment you offered to partner her at whist.”
The accusation was clear, but Martin needed no prod in that respect. He already felt responsible—certainly morally accountable—for Amanda’s increasingly brazen behavior, her restless, dissatisfied state. He doubted Reggie had any idea why and how completely the blame rested with him.
To feel so might be illogical—it was her own choice, after all—yet it was how he felt.
He stirred under Reggie’s righteous gaze; straightening, he glanced at the increasingly rowdy group. “What’s the subject under discussion?”
“Etchings.”
Martin looked at Reggie. “Etchings?”
Disgusted, Reggie nodded. “Precisely—those sort of etchings. Only Amanda has no idea, and some of the men have realized. Any minute, she’s going to accept some ca
refully worded challenge”—he glanced at the group anxiously—“if she hasn’t already.”
Martin swore and followed his gaze, relieved to see the argument still in full spate. Amanda was holding forth. “They’ll let her tie herself up in her own arguments first, if they’ve any sense.”
“Curtin is there, and McLintock, too.”
Which answered that. “Damn.” Martin watched the drama unfold, considered how best to intervene. He’d been toying with the notion of alerting her cousins to her extracurricular activities, but he hadn’t seen even one of them while tracking Amanda through the salons; going into the ton to find them was not an option—not for him.
He looked at Reggie. “If I get her out of this, might I suggest you tip the wink to one of her cousins. Devil or Vane, or one of the others?”
Reggie stared at him as if he—Martin—had misunderstood something crucial. “I can’t do that.” When he frowned, Reggie offered, “I’m her friend.”
Martin studied Reggie’s open countenance, then grimaced and looked back at Amanda. Inwardly sighed. “It seems it’s up to me, then.”
Amanda had all but given up hope—completely and utterly—when Dexter suddenly loomed beside her. For the past week, she’d played an increasingly desperate hand, her smile night by night growing more brittle, her behavior more outrageous. She was now skirting the unforgivable, and part of her didn’t care.
It had been frightening to discover just how little she cared for what was left on her plate if Martin Fulbridge was not to be a part of her life. Frightening to realize what her future would hold—a dull and virtuous marriage. Despite her professed interest in the excitement of the demimonde, she was already weary of their entertainments, a poor imitation of those of the ton, the company less erudite, less honestly engaging; she did not approve of the cold eyes of the gentlemen or the brassy insincerity of the women.
Tonight, she’d passed beyond desperation to a state where flirting with a potentially destructive situation seemed acceptable. In her heart, she knew it wasn’t so, but her heart was too heavy to save her.
Dexter’s reappearance should have sent that organ soaring, but one look at the stony cast of his features was enough to douse her reaction. “Well, my lord.” She met his eyes as boldly as any woman present, and a great deal more challengingly. “Which way would you argue—yes, or no?”
He held her gaze. “Yes or no to what?”
“Why, to the thesis that the most noble specimens of the art of etching are guaranteed to inflame a lady’s passions.” She returned his regard evenly, hiding her contempt for the subject, as she’d done throughout. When, coming upon a conversation on the irresistible lure of a recently acquired etching, she’d given her opinion that such artworks were greatly overrated as to their effect on women, every gentleman within hearing had converged to patronizingly dismiss her view.
That had been all she’d needed, in her present mood, to make her dig in her heels and stick to her theory. The fact that every gentlemen involved assumed it was indeed a theory, and that if suitably encouraged she’d talk herself into an experiment, formed the wellspring of her contempt.
Just how naive did they think she was?
Of course she knew what sort of etchings they meant—she was twenty-three! She’d viewed a few firsthand, had heard of others, and had been exposed to the works of artists such as Fragonard from her earliest years. Her opinion was no theory but established fact—artwork, no matter the subject, had never done anything to her passions.
That was a point she’d yet to make clear; starved of entertainment, she’d perhaps unwisely fanned the argument. Her current tack was to discover how long it would take for the assembled gentlemen to realize she was not about to volunteer to test her thesis by viewing one of their collections.
That, of course, was before Dexter appeared. Now he had . . .
She raised a brow. “Surely you have an opinion, my lord? One would suppose you to be quite knowledgeable on the subject.”
His eyes held hers, then his lips curved in a smile that sent a shiver down her spine. “I’ve rarely found them ineffective, although, of course, the sensitivity of the lady in question has a signal bearing on the outcome.”
The drawled yet perfectly articulated words fell into a sudden hush.
Amanda stared, trapped in his eyes. She’d assumed he’d glower and try to douse the discussion, not ruthlessly throw down the very gauntlet every other gentleman had been trying to find an opportunity to toss. Behind her polite mask, she was honestly aghast.
“Quite right,” Mr. Curtin purred. “That’s been my experience, too.”
“Indeed,” Lord McLintock chimed in. “Which means, my dear, that you’ll have to view a set of suitable etchings to prove your point. I’d be happy to offer my collection for your assessment.”
“No, no. My collection is more extensive—”
“Ah, but I fancy mine would be preferable—”
A cacophony of offers assailed her ears. Within seconds, an altercation threatened over whose collection was most suitable to test her mettle.
Dexter’s deep voice cut across the din. “As it was my observation that sensitivity is key, and as my library contains an extensive collection of such works, including rare volumes from the East, I suggest Miss Cynster should test her thesis by viewing a selection from my collection.”
Amanda drew in a slow breath. Not one of the assembled rakes dared protest; they waited, ready to leap in should she refuse Dexter’s offer.
She looked up at him, let him alone see her narrowed eyes. He’d deliberately cut short her evening’s entertainment, doubtless on the grounds it was for her own good. Well and good—he could provide compensation.
Lifting her chin, she smiled. “What a splendid idea.” The wariness that flashed into his eyes was a pleasure to behold; she beamed at their audience. “I will, of course, report back to you all on my findings.”
A few grumbled; others accepted the loss with good grace, doubtless anticipating she would return with a heightened appetite they could offer to slake. Amanda inwardly humphed, fully intending to curtail her forays into the demimonde. The only reason she’d ventured there in the first place was to find the man currently by her side. She gave him her hand; he tucked it in his arm. With a nod to the others, Dexter led her away. Straight for the door.
“You don’t think,” she murmured, “that you’re going to get away without showing me a book from your collection— one of those ‘rare volumes from the East’?”
He glanced down at her, his expression hard. “You don’t need to look at such a book.”
She opened her eyes wide, went to draw her hand from his sleeve—his fingers locked hard about hers. She looked down at her trapped hand, then lifted her gaze to his eyes. “If you deem their company too risky for me, then you must provide an alternative. You offered to show me your etchings—I accepted. They all heard you.”
“Are you seriously holding me to that?” His tone suggested she was daft.
She held his agatey gaze. “Yes.”
Martin swore beneath his breath. He looked away, over the sea of heads, then released her hand and reached into his coat pocket. Drawing out a tablet, he scribbled a note to Reggie Carmarthen, merely stating that in rescuing his friend, he’d had to take her home. The brusque tone of the missive would be entirely comprehensible to Reggie. After dispatching a footman with the folded note, he reclaimed Amanda’s hand.
“Come on.”
“I don’t suppose,” Martin inquired acerbically, as his carriage turned into Park Lane, “that you’ll let me set you down by your parents’ house and call this evening ended?”
Amanda glanced at him through the shadows. “No.”
So much for that. He’d had no choice, yet he’d regretted hijacking her evening from the moment of quitting Mrs. Emerson’s door. Why he was so jumpy, he didn’t know—he’d take her to his library, show her one of the damned books, then bundle her back out and ta
ke her home. And that would be that. For tonight.
The carriage turned into his drive; as per his customary orders, it headed around to the rear yard. Martin inwardly swore, then remembered the front door hadn’t been opened for years. The carriage halted. He descended and handed Amanda down, telling himself his nerves were twitchy simply because she was the first member of his ex-circle he’d allowed into this house since it had become his. Yet as he escorted her in via the dark kitchen and on through the dim corridors, his nerves tightened further.
Amanda was glad of the lack of light; other than a candle Dexter had picked up from the kitchen table, the house was in darkness. Not, however, pitch dark—she could see furniture swathed in holland covers, sense the brooding atmosphere of an empty house. The wavering light of the candle didn’t reach her face, so she could gawk as much as she liked.
This was his lair.
A shiver snaked down her spine. It was horridly cold, just one notch from chilled, and she suspected that one notch was due to the kitchen hearth. But he couldn’t possibly spend his days there. The immense staircase that rose on their right as they entered the mausoleumlike hall was of classical design, its steps leading up to a gallery shrouded in impenetrable shadows. Glancing around, she suppressed another shiver; most doors stood open—not one room showed any evidence of being used.
This was no home. He might be unmarried and live alone, yet this house had had all life sucked out of it. There was nothing left, no human warmth or gentleness, no comfort for a restless spirit.
Without pause, Dexter led her down a second corridor, wider than the first, but equally neglected.
Bleak. The word echoed in Amanda’s mind. How could he live here?
Then he opened a door. Light spilled out, a startlingly welcome sight. He waved her in; she stepped forward—and stopped on the threshold.
This was where he lived.
She looked this way, then that, eyes darting, trying to take it all in at a glance—impossible. Trying to reconcile this wonder with the desolate emptiness she’d traversed in the last minutes. Mesmerized, she walked in, only to stop again, unabashedly swivelling to stare about her.
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