His lazy, social smile in place, Martin inclined his head. “If you think it necessary.”
“Oh, I do,” Lady Matcham informed him. “I most certainly do.”
He escorted her down the stairs into the large ballroom. For a hostess of her ilk, tonight—his presence—would greatly augment her standing. The round of introductions would set the seal on her success; for him, it was a small price to pay.
Ultimately, being reintroduced to the senior hostess might be to his advantage; as he bowed and exchanged drawled, occasionally barbed comments with the ladies who, all pretense aside, controlled the ton, he put the final touches to his latest plan. His latest ploy to win Amanda’s hand.
Most of the hostesses were simply pleased to meet him, to exchange words and extract a promise to have their next invitations given due consideration. Two—Lady Jersey, the younger, and Countess Lieven—one garrulous, the other coldly haughty, attempted in their wildly differing ways to glean the reason behind his unexpected change of heart, his reacknowledgment of the world that had for the past year been existing ignored on his doorstep; he merely smiled and left them wondering, knowing perfectly well that nothing was more certain to keep their attention fixed on him. It was obvious to them that something must have brought him here; such avid gossips as they were, they were rabid to learn what.
When, finally, he turned from speaking with old Lady Osbaldestone—he’d been stunned to discover the old tartar still alive, and still so determinedly terrifying—Lady Matcham threw him a considering glance. “Is there anyone—any young lady—to whom you’d like to be introduced?”
He glanced at her. “Yes.” Lifting his head, he looked across the room. “There’s a young lady in an apricot gown in the center of that group.”
“Oh?” Lady Matcham was too short to see over the circle of male shoulders. “Whoever she is, she doesn’t appear to need more dance partners.”
“Quite.” Martin heard the steely note in his voice. He smiled at Lady Matcham. “She’s my partner for the first waltz, but I suspect she hasn’t yet realized. I think we should break the news to her, don’t you?”
Fascinated, Lady Matcham clearly debated an order to be told all, but recognized it would gain her nought. “Very well.” Placing her hand on his sleeve, she allowed him to steer her toward the group in question. “The Season has been rather dull, thus far.”
When they neared the group and the gentlemen parted, revealing the lady who was the focus of their collective interest, her ladyship’s eyes widened, then she smiled. “Ah . . . Miss Cynster. Permit me to introduce his lordship, the Earl of Dexter.”
“Miss Cynster.”
Martin bowed, effortlessly elegant—as if he hadn’t eschewed ballrooms for the past ten years. Amanda stared, then belatedly remembered and sank into a curtsy of the required degree.
Martin took her hand and raised her. Faintly arched a brow when she remained silent. She lifted her head. “My lord. I’m surprised to see you here—I had heard you found little to interest you in the ton’s entertainments.”
His lips curved; his moss-agate eyes held hers. “Times change.”
Lady Matcham’s gaze sharpened; she turned to the gentleman on Amanda’s right. “Lord Ventris—there’s a young lady I wish to present to you. You may give me your arm.” Without waiting to be offered it, Lady Matcham twined her arm with his lordship’s and, like a galleon, towed him away.
Leaving the way clear for Martin to fill the gap at Amanda’s side, which he did with smooth grace.
“As I daresay you’ve heard,” he murmured, his voice low yet not intimate, “I’ve been . . . shall we say, out of touch? . . . for some years. Tell me—does this qualify as an average event, or is it quieter than the usual?”
It had been until he’d arrived. Clinging to wits that had not yet steadied—and probably wouldn’t with him so close—she managed a serene smile. “This is an average gathering—wouldn’t you say so, Lord Foster?”
“Oh, ah—indeed.” Lord Foster glanced around as if studying the room for the first time. “Average enough, don’t you know.”
An uneasy silence fell. Amanda bit her lip—there were six other gentlemen gathered about, but they’d all been struck dumb by the advent of Dexter—the ton’s very own untamed lion—into their midst. They were all eyeing him as if he were some exotic beast who might bite if provoked. Inwardly sighing, she opened her lips to comment on the weather—
Lord Elmhurst turned to Martin. “I say, is it true that you acted for the Government in negotiating with the maharajahs?”
Martin hesitated, then inclined his head. “In certain matters.”
“Did you travel much on the subcontinent?”
“Did you meet any Pathan warriors? Fearsome fellows, I hear.”
So much for the weather. Amanda stood and listened as Martin fended question after query on his activities in India. She tried to turn her mind to the highly pertinent question of what he intended with this latest start, but found it impossible to concentrate. More gentlemen joined the circle, drawn by the male voices and the potent sense of excitement.
“My cousin works for the Company there—he writes that you were an acknowledged hero within the Company’s ranks.”
“I heard that you singlehandedly convinced the Maharajah of Rantipopo to allow us to trade in his emeralds.”
She pricked up her ears at such details, tucked them away for later dissection, to be added to the sum of all she knew of him.
“Did you ever visit one of their harems?” The eager question from young Mr. Wentworth overrode the first notes emanating from the orchestra.
Martin smiled at Mr. Wentworth, then turned that smile, rather more intently, on her. “That’s the prelude to the first waltz, I believe.” With a nod, he indicated the orchids she carried in her hand.
She looked down, saw them, remembered.
Heard him softly say, “As you’ve done me the honor of carrying my token, I presume you’ll do me the honor of granting me this dance.”
It wasn’t any kind of question; she was carrying the orchids, and he’d just claimed them. Plastering a smile on her lips, she looked up, offered her free hand. “The honor is mine, my lord.” Then she opened her eyes wide. “You do waltz, don’t you?”
His smile was feral as his fingers closed about hers. “You may judge for yourself.”
She knew he waltzed like a god, but she wanted everyone else to think they’d never met before. She had to let him lead her to the floor, let him take her in his arms, in front of the entire ton. In front of a host of extremely interested eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Despite having to speak through her smile, she imbued the words with an angry hiss.
He met her gaze as they started to revolve. His lips kicked up at the ends. “Changing the rules.”
“What rules?”
“The rules of our game.”
That did not sound promising, not from where she stood, within the circle of his arms in the middle of a tonnish ballroom.
She’d expected him to appear tonight—the orchids had been a clear warning. But she’d assumed he’d materialize as before, on the outskirts of the crowd, and whisk her away to some private place where they could continue their “discussion” of marriage.
Not that she would again allow him to practice any sexual arguments. After he’d let slip his views on paternity, she wasn’t about to take further risks on that front. But she’d hoped to dangle the carrot of further intimate moments as an inducement for him to think more deeply about what he felt for her.
The very last thing she’d imagined he’d do was to walk into the light and come straight for her.
Consequently, on gaining the ballroom, she’d drifted away from her mother, Amelia and Reggie, drifted toward the other end of the room, dodging those intent on paying court to her. Then she’d heard him announced, looked up, seen him stroll in. She hadn’t known how to react. In a flurry, she’d gathered gentlemen willy-nill
y to protect her; the instant she’d heard the name “Dexter” intoned, she’d known she’d need protection.
Some protection. And once those tidbits of information he’d let fall did the rounds of the clubs, the lion would be lionized and she’d have no chance of securing better—indeed, any—effective protection next time.
There would be a next time—she had little doubt of that.
As to his purpose, however . . .
Refocusing on his agatey eyes, she smiled serenely. She, after all, was much more at home in this arena than he.
He searched her eyes, trying to read her mind; she wished she could read his. Failing that, she gave herself up to enjoying the waltz.
A mistake—one she didn’t realize until he drew her fractionally closer as they turned at the end of the room. By then, her senses had succumbed to his nearness, had come alive to the compulsive, primitive call of his too-well-remembered body so close to hers, to the effortless strength with which he steered her through the revolutions. Her nerves had tensed in expectation, in educated anticipation; as his thighs brushed hers, desire rose, achingly sweet.
She caught her breath, felt her smile fade as she fought the urge to step closer, to move into his arms, to feel his body against hers. She let her lids veil her eyes, not wanting him to see, then realized that he knew. That he felt the same.
His hand tightened about hers; the hand at the back of her waist hardened, muscles tensing, resisting the impulse to draw her to him.
She did nothing to break his concentration; the idea of either of them succumbing to such impulses in the middle of a ballroom . . . aside from causing a scandal, it would play directly into his hands.
Her relief when the music ended was acute; the knowledge that he almost certainly knew that, and if sufficiently provoked might be willing to risk scandal to gain what he sought, left her dizzy.
Thankfully, he seemed committed to playing the role he’d scripted for himself to the hilt; with unimpeachable correctness, he bowed, then raised her from her curtsy and escorted her back to the circle of waiting gentlemen.
The fact he’d picked her as his partner for his first waltz on returning to the ton caused other gentlemen to reconsider her attractions, a situation she could have done without. Martin remained by her side as she exercised her considerable social skills, keeping the conversation tripping along the usual tonnish paths. She got the impression he was listening, learning. Accepting that she knew more than he in this sphere, she directed the talk into as many areas of current interest as she could.
She felt she’d done her bit for his reeducation when the orchestra struck up for the second dance. Lord Ashcroft solicited the pleasure of her hand; she graciously bestowed it, but was conscious of the sudden tension that coincidentally gripped the large body still planted beside her.
However when, at the end of the cotillion, Lord Ashcroft returned her to her circle, Martin was still there, watching, waiting. The spot beside him seemed to be where she was supposed to stand. Although she accepted her fate without a flicker of consciousness, she was gripped by faint unease.
Which only grew as the evening progressed, and he didn’t quit her side. The impression he projected was that he permitted her to dance with others; it was only a matter of time before the observation occurred to the gentlemen concerned. And all the others watching. If it hadn’t already.
Seizing the moment when all others in their circle were distracted by a discussion between Lord Flint and Mr. Carr, she surreptitiously tugged Martin’s sleeve, quietly hissed when he turned to her, “You should circulate.”
He looked down at her. “Why?”
“Because it looks extremely particular if you single me out in this fashion.”
His lips curved. “But I am extremely particular.” He held her gaze. “Especially over the lady I want as my countess.”
Her eyes flew wide. “Sssssshhhhhh!”
She didn’t attempt to warn him off again. Instead, her smile fixed, she continued to chat and dance, ignoring the increasingly pointed stares of other young ladies, and the disapproving glares from their mamas. Not only was she, as far as they could see, monopolizing the ton’s latest lion, but she was also attracting far too much notice from other eligible gentlemen.
No avenue of escape presented itself—if it had, he’d doubtless have blocked it—not until the evening drew to a close and her mother, finally quitting the conclave of matrons at the far end of the ballroom, came strolling through the crowd. Amanda nearly groaned when she saw who accompanied Louise—her aunts, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives and Lady Horatia Cynster. A curious Amelia brought up the rear, her arm in Reggie’s.
“Well, my dear.” Smiling, Louise joined them. “Have you enjoyed your evening?”
“Indeed.” With no alternative offering, she gestured to Martin. “Allow me to present the Earl of Dexter. My mother, Lady Louise Cynster.”
Martin’s smile was the epitome of charming. He bowed; Louise dipped.
“And my aunts, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives and Lady Horatia Cynster.”
They exchanged greetings; the Dowager made some comment about his reappearance in the ton being long overdue. Whether it was that, or the shrewd, uncannily knowing expression in her aunt’s pale green eyes, Martin decided it was time to lift his paw and release her. He gracefully took his leave of them, at the last bowing over her hand.
“Until next we meet.”
That could have been merely a polite farewell. The light in his eyes, the subtle undertone in his voice, said otherwise.
It was a challenge—and a warning.
* * *
The following morning, Amanda sat at the breakfast table, sipping her tea and staring at the spray of three delicate ivory orchids that had been delivered an hour before.
Louise walked in. “Well!” She came forward, her gaze on the flowers. “Dexter, I take it?”
Once again, there’d been no note. “I presume so.” Cradling her cup, Amanda considered the blooms. She couldn’t imagine any other gentleman sending her orchids; aside from the quite hideous expense, the flowers were so exotic. So decadently sensuous. Dexter, yes—others, no.
Louise noted her expression. Brows faintly rising, she passed on to her chair at the end of the table, waited until Colthorpe had poured her tea and stepped back. Amelia sat opposite Amanda, silently tending her own thoughts, letting her twin cogitate undisturbed. Shaking out her napkin, Louise looked at Amanda. “I imagine it’ll be the talk of the ton. For a gentleman of Dexter’s rank, let alone his peculiar status, to emerge from his seclusion with his eye fixed so definitely from the outset on you . . .”
She didn’t complete her thought, but fell to buttering a slice of toast. Crunching a corner, she meditatively chewed, then took a sip of tea. Glanced again at Amanda. “One thing you’d be wise to bear in mind.”
Amanda looked up; Louise caught her eye.
“Whatever the emotion that’s moved him to forsake his determined isolation, it won’t be anything mild.”
Louise’s words rang in Amanda’s ears as she stood on the verge in the park later that morning, and considered the large hand extended toward her.
Arrogant. Commanding. Impatient. Definitely not mild.
Also difficult, not to say dangerous.
Gripping her parasol, she laid her fingers in his, let him pull her up to the phaeton’s seat. She settled her skirts. With a brief salute to Amelia and Reggie, left standing on the lawn, Martin clicked the reins and they were off.
“Tell me,” she said, having determined to take the lion by the mane, “why have you decided to rejoin the ton?”
He flicked her a glance. “As I told Lady Matcham, it seemed to be decreed.”
“Decreed?”
“By some higher authority.”
She ruminated on that. “So you intend to reclaim your rightful place?”
The glance that gained her was somewhat harder. “If necessary.” They were nearing the most popular s
ection of the route, currently jam-packed with carriages. “Now you may tell me—who the devil are all these women?”
As “these women” were all nodding graciously, eyes avidly alight, and as their number included the majority of the principal hostesses, she considered it wise to oblige. “That’s Lady Cowper—you must remember her?”
He nodded. “Is the one in green Lady Walford?”
She glanced at him. “Your memory’s quite remarkable, but she’s now Lady Merton.” The lady had been an acknowledged beauty before her second marriage some years before.
His lips twitched, but he continued peppering her with questions, not all reflecting felicitously on their subjects. His recollections were erratic, sometimes devastatingly detailed; he’d last seen these people ten years before through the eyes of a youthful hellion. Some of his observations made her laugh; she learned a surprising amount she’d never known, yet equally, there was much he didn’t know that she dutifully told him.
When they reached the end of the crowded section and he set the horses trotting, she slanted him a considering glance. She’d wanted to bring him back into this world, his world and hers; part of her rejoiced in his presence—her success. Another, more cautious part warned her not to count her chickens yet.
She’d lured him out of his lair, but he’d come for only one thing.
He was focused on getting it. That became clear as the days progressed. Every morning brought three white orchids; everywhere she went, he was there, waiting for her.
To claim her attention, her hand, the first waltz and if there was one, the supper waltz, too. Regardless of the nature of the entertainment, he would remain by her side, impossible to shift. His attentions, however, were perfectly gauged—socially acceptable, yet what those watching couldn’t see was the sensuality behind every look, every touch. They couldn’t see the net he wove, link by link about her. She knew, but could do nothing to prevent it, to deny the hold he already had over her senses and her heart.
He had indeed changed the rules of their game. Between them, there was no longer any pretence that desire didn’t burn just beneath their skin, waiting to flare into passion. That they wouldn’t much rather be alone, by the fire in his library or anywhere else, rather than whirling about countless dance floors. But he was after her submission, after her agreement to marry him as he now was, to accept him as he had thus far revealed himself to be. To place her hand in his, to give herself up to him, without further promises. He’d shifted the field to the ton, changed the rules to those society played by, but what he was after hadn’t changed.
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