On a Wild Night

Chapter 2

Exiting Mellors, Martin sauntered out into Duke Street. He walked along, senses honed in a more dangerous world instinctively noting that there were no miscreants lurking in the ink-black shadows.

A projecting store front cast its own front door into stygian gloom. He stopped, cloaked in the darkness, and waited.

Three minutes later, a footman hauled open the door of Mellors, peered out, then whistled and beckoned; a small black carriage that had been waiting down the street rumbled forward. Martin inwardly nodded in approval. Mellors appeared, escorting Amanda Cynster and Reggie Carmarthen to the carriage. They entered, the door was shut, then the driver shook his reins and the carriage lumbered off.

A statue in the dark, Martin watched it roll past-caught a fleeting glimpse of honey gold hair, saw Carmarthen leaning forward, lecturing determinedly. Martin grinned; quitting the shadows, he continued on his way.

The night enveloped him. He felt completely at home walking the London streets in the small hours, completely at peace. Why that should be so was a mystery, but he'd long ago learned the futility of questioning fate. Peculiar indeed that here, surrounded by the society into which he'd been born, the society he now eschewed, was one of the few places on earth he felt at one with all about him, even though all those who would rush to recognize him were snoring in their beds, oblivious as he walked past their doors.

Turning into Piccadilly, he lengthened his stride, his mind sliding back to the fascinating question of what game had been played out that night.

His initial interpretation had been that Connor, the lecherous old toad, had set his sights on Amanda Cynster, but as the challenge had played out, he'd grown increasingly unsure. Connor's wording of the wager had left her, win or lose, in no danger, but playing a rubber with Connor had prevented her from interacting with Mellors' other patrons. What Connor hadn't foreseen was that Carmarthen wouldn't-presumably couldn't-partner her, landing her in an invidious position that Connor hadn't, he felt sure, intended at all.

He'd watched her, those huge blue eyes scanning the room, looking for a savior…

Inwardly he shook his head, wondering at his unexpected susceptibility. When had he become so ridiculously chivalrous, prey to a pair of admittedly fine eyes? There were many in London and far beyond who would laugh at the very idea, yet when faced with the sight of Amanda Cynster struggling to hang on to her pride, to his immense surprise he'd found himself on his feet, offering to be her champion.

Even more surprising, he'd enjoyed it. The game had been more challenging, more riveting than any he'd enjoyed since returning to England, doubly amazing given his partner had been female. Not only had she demonstrated uncommon wit and intelligence, she'd also had the sense not to gush, not to be excessive in her thanks. He thought again of her reactions, and smiled. To some extent, she'd taken his support as her natural due, even though she hadn't, then, known who he was. She was in some degree a princess-it was only right she have a knight as her champion.

Connor's contribution intrigued him. His suspicions of the other man's benevolent intentions had been all conjecture, until that revoke. Not in a month of Sundays would he believe Connor had made the mistake. Sometime during the course of the game, Connor had decided that losing and leaving Amanda Cynster in debt to him was an acceptable risk.

Martin was not at all sure what he should make of that. Perhaps nothing beyond the fact that Connor was inordinately shrewd. For he was perfectly correct-Amanda Cynster stood in no danger from the raffish Earl of Dexter. He harbored no designs on her at all. He knew precisely who he was, who she was, and she wasn't for him. He'd enjoyed the past hours in her company, but he wasn't about to let a pair of jewel eyes and rosebud lips-not even a skin like satin and hair like silk-change his careful ways.

Ladies such as Amanda Cynster had no place in his life. Not now, not ever again. Ignoring the regret that whispered, a faint, suppressed echo through his mind, he turned into Park Lane and strode for his house.

"I've found him!" Eyes alight, Amanda dragged Amelia into her bedchamber and shut the door. "He's perfect. Simply magnificent-I couldn't wish for more."

Amelia squeezed her hands. 'Tell me."

Amanda did. When she finished, Amelia looked as stunned as Amanda had. "Dexter?"

"The mysterious, elusive, rumor-cloaked Earl of Dexter."

"And he's handsome?"

"Devastatingly. He's…" Amanda struggled for words, then waved. "Simply better than any other I've seen."

"What else do you know of him?"

"He's intelligent, astute-he actually thought enough to get Mellors to change my wine for water and to do it so no one knew." Amanda flopped back on her pillows; they'd taken refuge on her bed. "In short, on a physical and intellectual level, Dexter's perfect. Add to that he's as rich as Croesus-far too rich, anyway, to be after my dowry-and that, if half the rumors are true, he's led the most amazingly exciting life, far, far wilder than anything I would even think of doing, and his perfection takes on an even brighter gloss."

"Hmm, but there is that old scandal, don't forget."

Amanda waved the caveat aside. "If none of the matrons nor any of the grandes dames consider it worth remembering, who am I to argue?" She frowned. "Did you ever hear what it was about?"

"Only that it involved some girl whom he supposedly seduced who then took her own life, but it was all years ago when he first came on the town. Whatever the truth, he was banished by his own father-"

"And only returned to England last year, a year after he'd succeeded to the title-that much I know."

"How old is he?"

Amanda raised her brows. "Thirty? About that. I think he appears older than he is. He's… serious."

Amelia stared. "Serious?"

"Not that sort of serious. I mean… deep. Reserved-no!-controlled. That always makes men seem older."

Amelia nodded. "Very well-I'll allow he seems just perfect for you, but how are you going to tackle the big problem? Every hostess in the ton has been trying to lure him back into society, but he refuses every invitation."

"Let's be perfectly frank-he ignores every invitation."

"Precisely. So how are you going to meet him often enough to convince him…" Amelia's words trailed away. She studied her twin's face. "You're not going to try to draw him into our world-you're going to go into his world instead."

Amanda grinned. "That's my plan, at least until he's well enough snared so he'll follow me anywhere."

Amelia giggled. "You make him sound like a dog."

"Hardly a dog-a lion, perhaps. A huge tawny beast who delights in lazing in his lair and who hunts at night." Amanda nodded, her expression determined. "That's exactly what I need to do-snare and tame my lion."

She wasn't fool enough to think it would be easy. Amanda spent the day evaluating various approaches. The horse was one, but she didn't want to appear too eager, and besides, if she played that card too early, he might do exactly as he'd said and send a groom with the mount, preserving a cool, sensible distance. Cool, sensible distance was not what she needed.

But she couldn't go back to Mellors, not when he'd warned her away. Aside from being supremely foolish, that would show her hand far too clearly. And he wouldn't approve…

That thought triggered another, and another in quick succession; suddenly she knew exactly how to bring her lion to heel.

"Last night, Mellors-tonight, Lady Hennessy's. Have you taken leave of your senses?" Through the gloom in the carriage, Reggie glared at her. "If m'mother finds out I've accompanied you to such a place, she'll disinherit me!"

"Don't be silly." Amanda patted his knee. "Both she and my mother think we're joining the Montagues at Chelsea. Why would they imagine we're anywhere else?"

As the years had rolled by, she and Reggie, often accompanied by Amelia, had taken to making their own selection among the ton's proffered entertainments. As their choices did not always match those of their parents, they consequently and increasingly went their own way. Not a gossip-monger in the ton would make anything of it; it was common knowledge Reggie Carmarthen had known the Cynster twins from childhood.

The arrangement provided benefits to all concerned. The twins gained an acceptable escort who they could twist around their little fingers, Reggie gained a reprieve from the mamas who would otherwise pressure his mother to have him escort their simpering daughters, and both sets of parents rested comfortable in the knowledge their offspring were safe.

Reasonably safe.

"And you needn't carry on as if visiting Lady Hennessy's will ruin me."

"You're not married yet!" Reggie's tone suggested that event could not occur too soon for his liking. "Every other lady there will be."

"That's by the by. I'm twenty-three. I've been out for six years. No one could imagine I'm an innocent miss."

Reggie uttered a strangled sound, slammed his arms across his chest and slumped back against the seat. He said nothing more as the carriage joined the line leading to the discreetly lit door of Number 19, Gloucester Street.

The carriage stopped; tight-lipped, Reggie descended and helped her down. Amanda shook out her skirts and looked up at the door. A liveried footman stood beside it. Reggie gave her his arm. "Say the word and we'll leave."

"Onward, Horatio!"

Reggie grumbled but complied, leading her up the steps. He gave the footman their names; instantly, the door swung open and the footman bowed them through. In the marble-floored hall, Reggie looked about as Amanda surrendered her cloak to a very correct-looking butler.

"Always wanted to know what this place looked like inside," Reggie confided as Amanda rejoined him.

"See." Taking his arm, she turned him toward the drawing room. "You were just waiting for me to give you a valid excuse to come."

"Humph!"

They entered the drawing room, stopped and looked about.

Lady Hennessy's was a world apart from Mellors-here a lady's touch reigned supreme. The walls were hung with cream silk bearing a delicately worked turquoise pattern. The cream, gold and turquoise theme was reflected in the satin-striped upholstery of chaises and chairs, in the heavy curtains screening long windows. Expensive Chinese rugs covered the floor, muting the click of fashionable heels.

The wealthy relict of a Scottish peer, Lady Hennessy had decided to enliven her life and that of a good portion of the ton by creating a salon in the tradition of the previous century. Her rooms were furnished with an eye to luxurious comfort and fashionable elegance; her ladyship's refreshments were always of the best. As for the play, on the few nights on which gaming was permitted, the wagers were rumored to be astronomical.

For the most part, however, Lady Hennessy concentrated on providing entertainment guaranteed to attract the most blue-blooded rakes in town. This in turn ensured the attendance of the cream of the married ladies looking for distraction, which in turn guaranteed that every rake worthy of the name invariably returned to Gloucester Street. Her ladyship's genius lay in perceiving the connection between her two principal groups of guests, and promoting it; there was an excellent string quartet playing softly in one corner, and the lighting, provided by lamps large and small, wall sconces and candelabra, created patches of soft light and shadow more conducive to the discreet pursuit of passion than the harsh light of a chandelier.

There were whispers of other rooms which were occasionally given over to private parties. Although curious, Amanda was certain she wouldn't need to experience such functions. Lady Hennessy's public rooms should be more than sufficient for her purpose.

Reggie frowned. "Rather quiet, ain't it? Not what I expected at all."

Amanda hid a smile; Reggie had expected a cross between a bordello and a public house. Yet while the elegant crowd conversed in quiet, well-modulated tones, while the murmurs, chuckles and laughter were distinctly well bred, the tenor of the comments, the tension that passed between couples in close converse was anything but mild. As for the glances exchanged, some could have set flame to coal.

Almack's was the ton's marriage mart; Lady Hennessy's was a market of a different stamp, frequented by the same class of both sellers and buyers. It was said that on any given evening during the Season, more aristocratic male blood was to be discovered in Gloucester Street than at any other venue in the capital.

Completing an exhaustive survey, Amanda was relieved to see no one she would rather not-like one of her father's cronies. Or one of her mother's circle. Or any of her cousins' friends. That had been her only fear in embarking on this strategy. Reassured, she relaxed, and gave her mind to her immediate next step.

"I'm parched. Do you think you could get me a glass of champagne?"

"Right-o. I think the refreshments are laid out in there." Reggie nodded to the connecting salon, and headed in that direction.

Amanda waited until he was out of sight, screened by shoulders and broad backs. Then she stepped into the crowd, and let her eye roam.

It took her five minutes to gather three admirers of precisely the right stamp. Gentlemen well favored, attractive, elegantly turned out, who were witty, charming in a bantering way, and who were all extremely interested in discovering the reason for her appearance in Lady Hennessy's salon. Amanda had attended too many balls and parties, too many houseparties, to feel challenged by the task of crossing verbal swords with the three-Mr. Fitzgibbon, Lord Walter and Lord Cranbourne-while concealing her intentions. Indeed, the very fact she was so glib in shielding her purpose only fired the gentlemen's imaginations and anchored them within her circle.

By the time Reggie found her, she was creditably beseiged. Greeting him with a smile, she accepted the glass he'd brought for her and made him known to her three admirers. His expression bland, Reggie acknowledged the introductions. Ignoring his severe look when he turned back to her, she smiled at Mr. Fitzgibbon. "You were describing boating on the Thames by night, sir. Is the experience truly worth the inconvenience?"

Mr. Fitzgibbon was quick to assure her it was. She took mental notes as he waxed lyrical on the sight of the stars reflected in the black waters. She had no idea how many nights she would have to spend here, keeping her trap baited with men like Fitzgibbon, Walter and Cranbourne-men only too ready to help her take her first steps into the less virtuous world they inhabited.

She had no intention of accepting their aid, but she hid that well. Logic suggested that Dexter would visit Lady Hennessy's salons; she was betting she had his real measure.

If he didn't appear, she would waste a few nights, a drop in the ocean of time she'd already spent searching for a husband. If he appeared but failed to react as predicted, she would gain an immensely valuable insight, enough to conclude that despite all she believed, Dexter was not in fact for her.

But if all went as planned… she stood to win all she desired.

She thought her plan quite splendid. With a glorious smile, shamelessly deploying her eyes and her charms, she threw herself into its execution.

Martin saw Amanda the instant he entered Helen Hennessy's drawing room. She was standing to one side of the hearth; the light from a candelabra on the mantelpiece fell full on her, bathing her in golden light.

The effect of seeing her surprised him-the sudden clench of possessiveness, the unexpected visceral tug. He shook the sensations aside; his cynically amused mask in place, he strolled forward to greet his hostess.

Helen was delighted to see him. She chatted, drawing his attention to three separate experienced ladies who were attending that night. "They'd each and every one be delighted to make your acquaintance."

She glanced at him, one brow raised. Martin barely glanced at the ladies in question. "Not tonight."

Helen sighed. "I don't know whether to applaud or pout-your reticence only heightens their interest, as you well know, but continued refusals to engage… well, it does call into question my ability to deliver."

"You always deliver in the end, my dear, as I'm quite sure your ladies know. But tonight they'll have to make do with someone else's talents. I…"-Martin considered Amanda, a golden angel dispensing smiles and laughter upon her captives-"have other fish to fry."

He looked at Helen before, intrigued, she could follow his gaze. "And no, you needn't wonder. I suspect the role I'm scripted to play is that of knight-protector, not demon lover."

"How fascinating." Helen opened her eyes wide, then smiled. "Very well. You have my permission to dispense your favors as you wish-not that you'd listen to any edicts otherwise. But beware!" She slanted him an arch glance as she turned to greet another guest. "You know what they say of rakehells visited by a sudden urge to reform."

He didn't know and didn't need to. The warning faded from his mind as he ambled through the crowd, ostensibly looking the ladies over, in truth watching just one.

She hadn't seen him, or so it appeared; he'd yet to see her gaze turn his way and she'd given no sign of recognition. She continued to engage the three others and Carmarthen, although he was looking more worried than entranced.

Martin had to admit she was a dab hand at entrancing. Her smiles, her laughter-which he couldn't hear but wished he could-the lively chatter, the gaiety dancing in her eyes, all served to project the persona of a confident young lady brimming with sparkling, bubbling charm. Indeed, she reminded him of the very best champagne, fine wine subtly effervescent, deepened by just the right touch of age to the point where it promised liquid gold on the tongue and glory to the senses.

He couldn't tell if she knew he was present. Couldn't tell if his suspicion that her current situation had been staged with him specifically in mind owed more to his arrogance than reality.

His prowl carried him beyond her line of sight. The crowd between them thinned; he could see her clearly, yet she didn't turn his way. Instead, she laughed-light, airy, a sound both joyous and earthy, it carried to him. Caressed him, enticed him, as it did the other men before her.

It didn't matter if she'd schemed to capture his attention. She had it.

Amanda felt him approach; like a storm sweeping in, his very nearness had her tensing. The sensation unnerved her; she fought not to whirl and face what her senses screamed was danger-if she did, she'd give her game away. Then he halted beside her, his towering figure excuse enough for her to break off her tale and glance his way.

She let recognition flow across her face, let pleasure light her eyes. No difficulty there-he looked even more sinfully handsome in full light, in more formal attire than he'd worn the previous night. She smiled and held out her hand. "My lord."

Brazenly, she left it at that-let him, and the others, make of it what they would. He took her hand and she curtsied. He raised her; eyes on hers, he inclined his head. "Miss Cynster."

Her smile ingenuous, she struggled to keep her fingers from fluttering in his, too wise to attempt to retrieve her hand until he deigned to let her go.

He released her; she drew in a quick breath and launched into the introductions. "And I believe you'll remember Mr. Carmarthen."

"Indeed."

Reggie favored him with a wary look and a polite nod. Dexter's gaze lingered on Reggie's face, then he turned it, smoothly, on her. "I admit to surprise at encountering you here. I thought, after your most recent foray into such realms, caution would… how does that saying go?… overcome valor?"

He's here! He's here! And he took the bait! Her eyes locked on his, Amanda ruthlessly cut off the delirious litany; he might be here, but he wasn't yet snared. And if she wasn't careful, she might be the one in a coil.

As if pleased he'd remembered their last meeting, she smiled. "I did toy with the notion of attending Lady Sutcliffe's ball, yet"-she swept her smile over her three now earnest would-be cavaliers-"formal engagements do pall when one has spent so many years in the ballrooms." She glanced again at Dexter. "It seems a waste not to avail oneself of the more varied divertissements offered by such as her ladyship. So much more entertaining. I daresay you find it so yourself?"

Martin held her gaze and debated whether to call her bluff. "My tastes, admittedly, lie somewhat beyond the diversions provided by the ton's hostesses. However, I wouldn't have imagined such esoteric distractions would hold much allure for a young lady such as you." Her chin lifted, her eyes sparkled, with challenge, with humor. "On the contrary, my lord. I've a definite taste for wilder pastimes." Her smile confiding, she briefly touched his sleeve. "I daresay you haven't heard, living retired as you do."

"Wilder pastimes, heh?" Cranbourne grabbed the opening. "Heard a tale of wild doings at Mrs. Croxton's last night."

"Indeed?" Amanda turned to Cranbourne.

Martin watched as she encouraged all three gentlemen to dazzle her with their wildest suggestions. He might live "retired" but he knew what he was seeing. Carmarthen was growing increasingly nervous. Yet if he, Dexter, bowed and walked away, would she continue on this path? If he declined to be her protector, would she go on without one? What sort of net was she weaving-how much was true, how much for his confusion?

Not that it mattered; he was more than capable of dealing with her whatever tack she took. And she clearly needed someone to watch over her, someone with more muscle than dear Reggie.

Cranbourne, Fitzgibbon and Walter were intent; given how long she'd spent allowing them to entertain her, they'd expect her shortly to choose from among them. And contrary to what she was expecting, accustomed as she was to the rules pertaining in ballroom and drawing room, a charming dismissal would not be well received.

Reaching out, he took her hand; surprised, she glanced his way, throwing Walter, concluding some tale, off his stride. "My dear, I promised Helen-Lady Hennessey-that, given this is your first visit, I would make sure you became acquainted with all she has to offer." He looked into Amanda's blue eyes as he placed her hand on his sleeve. "It's time we strolled on, or you'll never see all before dawn." He glanced at Walter, Cranbourne and Fitzgibbon. "I'm sure these gentlemen will excuse you."

They had little choice; none was game to challenge one of Helen's edicts, a fact Martin had counted on. The three made their adieus, then withdrew. Martin considered Reggie. "I believe Miss Cynster would like another glass of champagne."

Reggie looked at Amanda.

Who nodded, ringlets dancing. "Yes, I would."

Frowning, Reggie flicked a glance at Martin. "Just as long as you don't do a bunk while I'm gone."

Martin suppressed a grin; perhaps Reggie was not as spineless as he'd thought. "She'll be in this room, but we'll be strolling." He paused, eyes on Reggie's. "It's not wise to remain stationary for too long."

He saw horrified comprehension dawn, then Reggie nodded. "Right. I'll find you." With a disapproving glance at Amanda, he headed for the secondary salon.

Martin scanned the room, then lowered his arm and waved Amanda on before him. Keeping her hand on his arm-keeping her that close-would be unwise. He wanted it seen that she was under his protection in the social sense; the last thing he wanted was for her ladyship's guests to imagine that protection extended to a more personal state.

As she walked ahead of him, tacking slowly through the crowd, she glanced back at him. "Are you really friends with Lady Hennessy?"

"Yes." Helen was another who had the entree to the ton but had chosen to turn her back on it.

Amanda slowed. "What did I do wrong?"

He caught her eye, realized she meant the question to be as simple as it sounded. "If you spend much more than fifteen minutes conversing with one man, it will be inferred that you're interested in pursuing some of those wilder pastimes you mentioned with him."

Her beautiful face blanked. "Oh." Facing forward, she continued their slow amble. "That's not what I intended."

She paused to acknowledge a greeting; he performed three introductions before they moved on. Closing the distance between them, he bent his head and murmured, "What did you intend?"

She stopped; he nearly walked into her. Halted with a bare inch between her shoulders and his chest, her silk-clad bottom and his thighs. She looked back and up at him, met his eyes.

He fought an urge to slide his arms about her and draw her back against him.

"I want to live a little before I grow old." She searched his eyes. "Is that a crime?"

"If it is, half the world's guilty."

She looked forward and started strolling again. He took a firmer grip on his impulses, then followed. She glanced back. "I understand you've had a great deal of experience in 'living.'"

"Not all of it pleasant."

She waved airily. "I'm only interested in the pleasurable aspects."

Her tone was straightforward, not facetious. She intended to seek out the pleasures of life while avoiding the pitfalls.

If only life was that simple.

They continued their peregrination, stopping to spend a few minutes in this circle or that before moving on again, she a foot before him, he prowling, relaxed but watchful, in her wake. He doubted she'd encountered many pitfalls to date; her faith in life, in its ultimate joy, remained undimmed. The light in her eyes, the exuberance of her smiles, all spoke of innocence intact.

It was not his place to shatter it.

Reaching an empty space by the side of the room, Amanda turned. "Actually, speaking of life's pleasures…"

He halted before her, broad shoulders blocking her view of the room. He met her gaze, and raised a too-knowing, distinctly suspicious, odiously superior brow.

She smiled up at him. "I was thinking I might ride the mare tomorrow morning. Early. In the park. Do you think your groom could oblige me?"

He blinked, once; she smiled more brightly.

And prayed it wasn't too soon to play that card. Elusive as he was, if she didn't set up another meeting, he might, after tonight, simply fade back into the shadows-and she would have tonight's work to do again.

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 soiree 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 "soirees" 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 soiree 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.