On a Wild Night

Chapter 7

She'd snared her lion only to find him wounded. For the moment, he could return to his lair, but she hadn't given up her dream. Indeed, after their stroll in Green Park, giving up was the furthest notion from her mind.

"I need to learn more." Standing with Amelia by the side of Lady Moffat's ballroom, Amanda scanned the crowd. "I need to know if it is as he says, and people believe he's a murderer."

Amelia slanted her a glance. "You're sure he isn't?"

"One needs only to meet him to know the idea's ludicrous, but with him refusing to allow anyone a chance to reassess, society's unlikely to change its collective mind."

"True. But I've never heard a whisper about murder before. It's always been something about his amorous propensities."

"Indeed, but given those are real enough, it's possible the murder was always there, but those warning us declined to sully our delicate ears with the tale."

"That, unfortunately, is perfectly likely."

"So I need to learn the truth as society sees it. I can't pretend I'm willing to throw my cap over the windmill regardless of his status-he won't accept that." Amanda looked around. "The question is: who to ask?"

"Aunt Helena?"

"She'll see straight through me, and might warn Mama."

"I should think Honoria would be difficult for the same reason."

"And it was ten years ago-I don't think Honoria would know."

Amelia joined Amanda in assessing the company. "Not so easy. You need someone who would know the details of such an old scandal-"

"Details that would have been at least partly suppressed."

"And they need to remember accurately."

"Indeed…" Amanda stopped, her gaze resting on the one person who might well be the perfect source.

Amelia followed her gaze, nodded decisively. "Yes. If anyone can help, she's the one."

"And she's far less likely to thrust a spoke in my wheel." Amanda set off across the ballroom, evading all those who wanted to chat. She had to wait, hovering beside the chaise, until a matron who'd been seeking support for her daughter's come-out departed.

Quickly, Amanda took her place, skirts swishing as she sat.

Lady Osbaldestone bent her obsidian gaze upon her, regarding her with considerably greater interest than she had the earnest matron. "Well, gel? You ain't pregnant, are you?"

Amanda stared, then stated, commendably evenly, "No."

"Ah, well-daresay there's hope yet."

Amanda grabbed her courage with both hands. "As to that… I wanted to ask if you recalled the details of an old scandal." The black eyes fixed on her face with unnerving intensity.

"How old?"

"Ten years."

Lady Osbaldestone's eyes narrowed. "Dexter," she pronounced.

Amanda jumped.

"Good God, gel! Don't tell me you've succeeded where all others have failed?"

She was torn between claiming the crown and denying all knowledge. "Possibly," she temporized. "But I was wondering about the scandal. All we ever heard was he seduced some girl who then killed herself, but I've learned there was a murder involved."

"Learned that, have you? From whom, I wonder? There wouldn't be many ready to bandy that fact about."

"Oh?" She made her expression as innocently inquiring as she could.

Lady Osbaldestone snorted. "Very well-the real tale, then, as you seem to have a need to know. What the ton heard was that Dexter seduced a local girl-the family estate is in the Peak district. The gel fell pregnant, but rather than send to Dexter, she told her father, a religious sort. The father hounded her-she ended taking her own life. Dexter heard of it on his next visit home. He set out to look for the gel's father, and, so we heard, murdered him, then stupidly stood around until the villagers found him.

"Old Dexter-the present one's father-was horrifed. He would have disowned his son, but the title and estate would have reverted to the crown. Add to that, the countess doted on her son-her one and only chick-and Dexter doted on his countess. Letting the lad stand his trial was out of the question, at least, it was in those days. So he was banished while his father lived. That was what we in London heard." Lady Osbaldestone folded her hands over her ample waist. "What we believed… that's another matter."

"The ton didn't believe he-the present earl-was the murderer?"

Lady Osbaldestone frowned. "More accurate to say that judgment was reserved. Dexter, the present one, might have been a hothead, a wild and tempestuous youth, but he'd never struck any of us as a bad apple."

Her ladyship looked at Amanda; her tone was softer when she said, "There's often one bad apple among a good crop, and no one's the wiser until it comes to the crunch-the point of seeing what each apple is made of. While Dexter might be capable of killing, what didn't sit well with many of us was that he didn't have the black heart for murder. He was a colorful young lordling, forceful and alive, devil-may-care and the doubters be damned. He'd only been on the town for some months, but we'd seen enough to judge."

Lady Osbaldestone paused, then continued, "And there was the undeniable fact that his father was a martinet. A good man, but righteously so and very stiff about it. The idea that his son had committed murder, let alone the other, would have scored his pride as well as his soul. Decisions were made and acted on in a matter of hours. In such circumstances, with emotions running high, mistakes could have been made."

Amanda struggled to take it all in. Eventually, she asked, "So the ton's present view of Dexter is…?"

Her ladyship snorted. "With his fortune? Let alone his looks, or so I've heard. Naturally, there are any number of mamas who would marry their daughters to him in a blink, murderer or no." Her eyes bored into Amanda's. "Your mother isn't one of them."

Amanda forced herself not to react.

Lady Osbaldestone sat back, gaze shrewd. "The present situation could best be described as undecided. When Dexter comes to his senses and re-enters the ton, he won't be ostracized-there are enough of us who remember to ensure that. However, unless the matter of that old murder is settled, there will always be a question mark over his name."

Amanda nodded. "Thank you." She went to rise, then stopped. "I meant to ask-what's the connection between Dexter and the Ashfords?"

"A blood tie-Luc Ashford is Martin Fulbridge's first cousin. Their mothers were sisters." Lady Osbaldestone paused, then added, "They were inseparable as boys, as I recall. They look alike, don't they?"

Amanda nodded.

Lady Osbaldestone crowed. "Aha! So you have met the elusive earl. Well, my gel, let me give you a piece of advice." Closing a clawlike hand on Amanda's wrist, her ladyship leaned near. "If you want something badly and you're convinced it's the right thing for you, if it takes a fight to get it-fight!"

Releasing Amanda, she watched her stand. "Remember what I said. If it's the right thing, don't give up, no matter the resistance."

Amanda met her ladyship's eyes, so dark, so old, so wise. She bobbed a curtsy. "I'll remember."

It took her two full days to convince Reggie that it was vital she return to Lady Hennessy's. Three nights after she'd walked in Green Park, she once again entered Number 19, Gloucester Street. Again, the drawing room was fashionably full; Lady Hennessy arched a brow but made them welcome.

Amanda patted Reggie's arm. "Remember what you promised."

Reggie was scanning the throng. "I don't like it. What if some other gentleman approaches you?"

"I'll come scurrying back to your side." As she stepped away, she caught his eye. "Just don't disappear altogether."

Reggie snorted. "As if I would."

Mindful of her instructions, he ambled away, heading for the side of the room. Amanda looked about her, but could see no shapely head sporting locks burnished by the sun. Praying Dexter would appear soon, she put on her smile and started strolling the room.

This time, she was careful not to encourage any gentleman to pay court to her; she joined this group, then that, using the skills honed by her years in the ton to flit without giving offence. All the while she was conscious of steadily increasing tension, of her nerves, notch by notch, drawing tight.

She had no idea how Dexter would react to seeing her once more gracing such a venue. It had been his principal condition in fulfilling her desired adventures-that she would not seek further excitement in this sphere for the rest of this Season. He'd delivered on their bargain-now here she was, apparently reneging on her vow. He wouldn't be impressed, but she was ready to defend her actions. What worried her more was that he would view her presence as a stupidly defiant gesture, a deliberate courting of trouble, and decide she and her actions were beneath his notice.

If, instead of reacting hotly-possessively and protectively-he viewed her coldly and turned his back… she wasn't sure what she would do then.

She needn't have worried-he appeared like an avenging angel, all black frown and narrowed eyes, tight lips and burning gaze. In evening black, he stepped directly in front of her, cutting her off, towering over her. "What the devil are you doing back here?"

"Oh!" She'd jumped; her hand had instinctively risen to her breast-beneath it, her heart thumped. Then relief flooded her. "Good-you're here."

His eyes narrowed even more.

She stepped closer, clutching his lapel, hoping no one noticed. "We can't meet in the park anymore-the sun's rising so early there are others out by six. And I'm having to attend multiple balls every night, so earlier than six is impossible." Searching his face, she detected no softening in his stony expression. "I need to speak with you."

A wary frown appeared in his eyes, dispelling the thunderclouds. "You are speaking with me."

"Yes." She glanced about. "But I can't discuss the matter I wish to speak of here." In public was her clear message. "Is there somewhere…?"

After a pregnant pause, she thought she heard him sigh.

"Where's Carmarthen?" Lifting his head, he looked around. "I assume he escorted you here?"

"He's waiting by the wall. He knows I came here to speak with you."

Martin looked into her eager, trusting face, into cornflower blue eyes that held none of the defiance he'd expected to see. Every instinct he possessed was screaming that whatever it was she wished to say to him, he would be better off not hearing. Yet, if he didn't, he'd always wonder…

Just the sight of her had been enough to make him forget all the rational, logical arguments for staying away from her.

"Very well." Lips compressing, he took her arm. "This way."

He steered her past the fireplace to a pair of French doors curtained with lace. Reaching between the curtains, he set one door swinging wide. Without hesitation, Amanda slipped through and out; he followed, closing the door, leaving them isolated on a narrow balcony overlooking the garden. Totally private, yet not private enough to cause a scandal.

"What did you wish to discuss?"

She glanced at him; he could almost see her girding her loins as she faced him. "You told me of your past. You made it clear it-or rather its consequences-stand between us. I've quietly investigated how people view what happened, how the ton views you now." Her eyes searched his. "There are many who do not and never have accepted your guilt as a given."

He let his brows rise fractionally; he'd never really considered what the ton at large thought. The ton had never, of itself, been important to him. "How…" How what? Heartening? Hardly that. Interesting? The last thing he wished was to encourage her. He shrugged. "It matters little."

Her head rose. "On the contrary-it matters a great deal."

Her tone, the determined light in her eyes, the defiant tilt of her chin, alerted him to her direction. If he were resurrected in the ton's eyes…

The vision she was seeing, the impossible dream she was determined to pursue, broke across his mind. Acceptance, his true position… her. All that and so much more, all he'd blocked from his mind for the past ten years-

Wrenching his mind away, cutting off the thoughts, drowning the vision, took an effort that left his gut knotted, his lungs tight. "No."

She frowned, opened her lips-

"It won't work." He had to stop her from raising the spectre, stop it from gaining further flesh. "It's not that I haven't considered clearing my name." All too frequently during the past week. "But it happened ten years ago, and even at the time there was not a whisper of proof to support my tale-no one able to bear me witness."

Her frown deepened. After a moment, she said, "You do see, don't you, what could be… all that you could have?"

He held her gaze, succinctly replied, "Yes." He saw all too well. Knew how much he longed to seize, to possess. Knew that in this case, trying and failing would be infinitely worse than not trying at all.

If he-they-attempted to clear his name and failed…

That was one scenario he didn't ever want to face. To raise the spectre of having a life he'd accepted as denied him long ago, only to see that hope dashed irretrievably. To know she would be tainted by the association; impossible for her interest to go unremarked.

And, despite all, one point had never, over all the years, escaped him-if he hadn't murdered old Buxton, who had?

Since his return to London, he'd grown even more equivocal about learning the answer to that question. Yet uncovering and publishing that answer might well be what it took to clear his name.

Dragging in a breath, he forced his gaze from her, looked out over the garden and tried to drag his senses in, tried to erect some barrier between himself and the woman he was with-usually an easy task.

He'd never managed it with her. And the balcony was so damned small. "There's no point pursuing it. There's nothing I, or even we, can do." He added, his tone harsh, "I didn't tell you the tale to gain your support-I told you so you'd understand why I have no future in the ton." He paused, then added, "The past is dead and buried."

Silence, then she spoke softly, "Buried, perhaps-but not dead."

He didn't glance her way, didn't want to see her face, her eyes.

After a moment, she went on, her tone hardening, "I find it difficult to believe that you're deliberately turning your back on your life-on what your life would be if your name was cleared."

Would be, he noted, not could; she had a single-mindedness he found disarming.

When he didn't respond, she exploded. "Why?" The word rang with frustration. "I know you well enough to know you have a reason."

He had a plethora of reasons, none of which she needed to know. He could readily imagine her opinion, her demolition of his concern for her. He forced himself to look into her brilliant eves, saw emotion glittering in the blue, and knew in that instant that he had to make her believe she'd misjudged him, that all she'd learned of him over the past weeks she'd misread.

Refusing to let himself consider the ramifications-her pain or his-he slowly and clearly stated, his gaze steady on her eyes, 'There is no compelling reason that I can see to mount such a desperate action, to rake over coals long dead. Returning to the ton, being restored to the grandes dames' good graces, is not important to me."

The emphasis he placed on those last four words was brutal; she drew back-he felt it physically, a sudden chill, a loss of warmth. Her expression turned neutral; her eyes, suddenly shuttered, searched his. Then she softly repeated, "Not important. I see."

She looked toward the long windows spilling light upon them. Then she drew in a tight breath. "My apologies. Clearly, I've mistaken your… desire to reclaim the life you were raised to live." Stiffly inclining her head, she reached for the doors. "I'll leave you to the life you prefer. Good-bye."

Not "Good night." Martin watched her open the door and step through the lace curtains; one fist clenched on the railing, he watched her, head high, walk into the room, watched the crowd swallow her. He trusted that Carmarthen would escort her home. Turning his back on the lighted room, he leaned on the railing and looked over the darkened garden, into the night his life had become.

"He said, 'No.' Refused! Absolutely." Amanda kicked her skirts and swung around. "He said it-me, us!-wasn't important!"

Amelia watched Amanda pace distractedly across her bedchamber. "Are you sure he understood all you were alluding to?"

"Oh, he understood, all right! There's nothing wrong with his understanding! But as for the rest of him!" With a muted shriek, Amanda whirled and paced on.

Perturbed, Amelia waited. Her sister had a greater flair for the histrionic than she, but in all their lives, she'd never seen

Amanda more sincerely overset. Overset, however, was unlikely to help her twin's cause.

After a time, she ventured, "So-are you giving up?"

"Giving up?" Amanda halted and stared at her. "Of course not."

Amelia relaxed on the bed. "What are you going to do?" Amanda met her gaze, then came and flopped on the bed alongside her. She stared up at the canopy. Her chin was set, her expression mulish. "I don't know." An instant later she added, "But I'll think of something."

Three nights later, Martin returned to Gloucester Street, summoned by Helen Hennessy. He'd had no intention of attending, but Helen's note had been succinct and to the point-she wanted him there. They were friends enough that, given he had nothing better to do, he'd felt obliged to humor her.

She greeted him warmly, as always smoothly sophisticated.

"Cut line," he informed her. "I'm here-why?" She raised both brows at him. "Your manners are deteriorating-always a telling sign."

He frowned. Before he could ask what his deterioration signified, Helen waved to a corner of the room. "But as to why you're here, I suspect you need to be aware of your lady friend's activities."

Martin met her gaze. "Which lady friend?"

"Miss Cynster, of course. And pray don't waste your breath telling me she's not your friend." Helen prodded his arm. "Carmarthen didn't accompany her tonight-she came alone. And rather than glower at me, I suggest such expressions might better serve us all over there." Her nod indicated the corner; her mask fell and she was serious. "Truly, I think you'd better take a look. Whatever you do after that is entirely up to you."

Martin held her gaze, then nodded. "I'll look." Helen's brows rose; he ignored the sign and turned to the comer she'd indicated. If she thought he'd thank her for summoning him to Amanda Cynster's aid, she would need to think again.

It didn't occur to him to leave without seeing whatever Helen had wanted him to see, not until, skirting the walls, he caught sight of the group in the corner. Then he swore under his breath, and wished he'd left. But it was too late then.

He wasn't fool enough to charge in without assessing the situation. He could see why Helen was concerned; the group before him was without precedent, a volatile and likely explosive mix.

Amanda had assembled an extraordinary number of the most eligible but lecherous rakes in town, thus attracting the attention of the well-bred madams who cruised Helen's rooms. Few could hold a candle to Amanda-they would have seen her as an upstart competitor. Should have seen her as such, but something had got twisted. And Martin knew who'd done the twisting.

Instead of hissing and showing their claws, the other, more mature ladies and Miss Cynster had come to some mutual understanding. Martin could guess what such an understanding might entail, but from the enthralled looks on the gentlemen's faces, the fact that Amanda herself was not about to play their game tonight had not yet sunk in.

Then again…

He watched her flirt with an elegant roue, and wondered whether he should be so cocksure. She was a prize at any price but in this arena, she promised an experience well beyond the norm. She was not only beautiful, sensually attractive, untarnished and intelligent, she was also quick-witted, independent-defiantly feminine. There were connoisseurs enough in the circle around her who would appreciate that.

Not, however, tonight. Regardless of her plans.

After a narrow-eyed assessment, he rejected a frontal assault. Turning away, he beckoned a footman.

Laughing up at Lord Rawley, Amanda lifted the note from the salver, flicked it open-and nearly dropped it. She hadn't known Dexter was present; she'd been so intent, so on edge, she hadn't felt his gaze… hadn't seen him.

"I say-what is it? Bad news?"

She glanced up to find Lord Rawley and all the other gentlemen looking seriously concerned. "Ah… no." The instant brightening of their expressions told her why they'd been concerned. "That is…" She crumpled the note, suppressed an urge to rub her forehead. "I'm not sure."

This was what she'd wanted, schemed to get. But why was he waiting in the front hall?

She smiled at her admirers. "There's a messenger in the hall I must speak with. If you'll excuse me for a moment?"

Lady Elrood led the chorus. "Of course, my dear."

Amanda slipped away before any gentleman could offer to accompany her.

Stepping from the crowded drawing room into the front hall, she looked toward the front door, and saw no one bar two footmen. Before she could turn and look toward the stairs, her cloak fell over her shoulders.

Before she could react, the hood was yanked down over her face. Arms like steel wrapped about her and lifted her from the floor.

"The door, you dolts-open it!"

Any doubt she might have harbored over the identity of her attacker fled. She wriggled, tried to kick-all to no avail. By the time she thought of screaming, Dexter had carried her over the threshold and started down the steps. She quieted, waiting to be put down.

He reached the pavement, took two strides, hefted her-and tossed her unceremoniously onto a carriage seat.

Fury erupting, she fought to free herself from the folds of her cloak.

The carriage door slammed; she heard a shout. The carriage shot forward as if fleeing from the devil himself. She struggled free of the cloak-and saw the facades along Bel-grave Road flashing past. Absolutely stunned, she slumped back against the seat.

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 soiree. 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 soiree 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 carefully 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."