On a Wild Night (7 page)

“Ah, them!” Agnes dismissed the crowd with a wave that included Amanda. “They are as nothing compared to you,
mon cher
. But how wicked to slip in without paying your respects—I didn't even know you were here.”

Precisely
. He reached for Amanda an instant before Agnes reached for his arm. “Permit me to introduce . . . Miss Wallace.”

Agnes's black eyes flashed with the temper that was never far from her surface. She drew herself up, turned haughtily to Amanda. “Miss Wallace?”

Martin glanced at Amanda, and saw her smile. She held out her hand. “Miss Korsinsky. Your
soirée
has been quite delightful. I spent some moments talking to your brother . . .”

It took effort to smother his grin. He stood and watched Agnes get bowled over by an effortless tide of ballroom patter. She was no match for one who'd spent six years in the ton. In the end, Agnes recalled someone she had to see. With a mere nod for him, but polite words to Amanda, she left them.

Only then could he allow his lips to curve. “Thank you.” Lifting Amanda's hand to his lips, he brushed her fingertips—just as their eyes met.

He felt the shiver that raced through her to his toes. Felt arousal surge through him in response, saw her eyes widen.

She drew breath, smiled, slid her fingers from his. “Was there some reason for my change of identity?” She turned away, scanning the crowd.

His gaze locked on the golden curls before his face, he murmured, “Agnes is not one to trust. She can be . . . vindictive.”

Amanda glanced briefly his way. “Especially over things she wants but hasn't succeeded in getting?”

“Especially then.”

She started to stroll; he fell in in her wake. The crowd had grown; it was difficult to walk abreast.

Her voice drifted back to him. “Now that I've saved you
from Miss Korsinsky, perhaps I can prevail upon you to assist me.”

This was where she would ask him to drive her around Richmond at midnight. “In what matter do you require assistance?”

She glanced back, smiling easily. “In the matter of selecting which gentlemen I should ask to squire me on my quests for excitement.”

She faced forward again; again he was left staring at her golden curls. Left, once again, wondering what it was about her that evoked such a maelstrom of impulses in him—impulses stronger, wilder, infinitely more dangerous than anything she was imagining experiencing.

And she was the focus of those impulses.

Jaw locked, he prowled in her wake, grateful she couldn't see his face, his eyes. They tacked through the crowd; he kept close, unwilling to let her get more than six inches away while he wrestled his demons into some semblance of subjection. She wasn't intending to ask any other gentleman to squire her. She was baiting him, he was sure.

Amanda stopped here and there, exchanging greetings, very conscious of Dexter at her back, aware that, although he exchanged nods and names, he said nothing more. She could feel his heat, his strength like a hot storm threatening. Smiling confidently, she continued searching for the right provocation to make the storm break.

Then she spied Lord Cranbourne. His lordship was elegant of manner, assured, glibly pleasant. Perfect.

She stopped walking, steeled herself not to react when Dexter walked into her. As he stepped back, without looking at him, she put a hand on his arm. “Lord Cranbourne,” she murmured. She sensed rather than saw Dexter follow her gaze. “I should think he'd be perfect to drive me to Richmond. His conversation is superior, and his greys are magnificent.”

Plastering on her best smile, she released Dexter's arm and stepped out, her gaze fixed on Lord Cranbourne.

She'd managed all of two steps before hard fingers wrapped, manaclelike, about her wrist.

“No.”

The low growl that had preceded the word nearly made her grin. She turned back to Dexter, eyes wide. “No?”

His jaw was clenched. His eyes bored into hers, searching . . .

Then he looked up, over her head, over the crowd. His fingers shifted; he changed his hold on her hand, locking it in his. “Come with me.”

She hid her grin as he towed her to the side of the room. She expected him to stop there; instead, he pushed open a door left ajar and stepped through, drawing her into a long gallery that marched down one side of the ballroom. The gallery was narrow; the wall it shared with the ballroom was punctuated by three sets of doors. The other wall contained a succession of windows that looked out over the Consulate gardens.

Other couples strolled in the light shed by wall sconces set between the ballroom doors. The windows were uncurtained, letting moonlight stream in, adding its silvery tint to the scene. The gallery was considerably less stuffy than the ballroom; gratefully, she drew a deep breath.

Dexter set her hand on his sleeve and covered it with his. Face grim, he steered her down the room. “This entire start of yours is madness.”

She didn't deign to reply. The last window, just out from the room's corner, drew near; it looked down on a small courtyard. “How pretty.”

They halted before the window; drawing her hand from beneath his hard fingers, she leaned on the windowsill and looked down.

“You're not seriously considering doing any of those things on your so-called list.”

She said nothing, merely smiled. Kept her gaze on the courtyard.

“You know very well how your cousins will react.”

“They won't know, so they won't react.”

“Your parents, then—you can't expect me to believe you can slip out night after night and they won't notice.”

“You're right. I can't manage night after night. But . . .”—she shrugged—“occasionally is not so hard. I've already spent two nights this week outside the ton. There's really no impediment to my plans.”

She wondered if the sound she heard was his teeth grinding. She glanced at him—and noticed the other couples returning to the ballroom. Music drifted out to them, muted by the doors. Dexter watched as the last stragglers departed, leaving them alone in the quiet gallery, then he looked back at her.

The silvery light threw the planes of his face into sharp relief, leaving the whole much harsher, more intimidating. He was the descendant of Norman warriors; in this light, he looked it, every angle stripped of its assumed softness, the elegance he wore like a cloak.

She lifted her chin. “I'm determined to experience at least a little excitement—I intend to ask Lord Cranbourne to squire me to Richmond on the next fine night.”

Already hard, his face turned to stone. “I can't allow that.”

Haughtily, she raised both brows. “Why?”

Not the response he'd expected; a frown gathered in his eyes. “Why?”

“Why do you imagine you have anything to say in the matter? My behavior, my actions, are no concern of yours.” She paused before adding, deliberately provocative, “Earl or not.”

She shifted to slide past him and head for the ballroom. One hard arm rose; his hand locked on the window frame, caging her. She eyed it, then returned her gaze to his face. Raised an even more haughty brow.

His eyes held hers. Then he raised his hand; fingers curved, he brushed the backs, featherlight, down her cheek.

She quelled the resulting shiver before it showed, yet knew he sensed it. His lips, long, thin, set until then in a straight line, eased. His gaze sharpened. “If you want excitement, you can find it here. There's no need to travel to Richmond.”

His voice had deepened; he seemed much closer, although he hadn't moved. His strength and heat were palpable
things, beating against her. His eyes held hers; she didn't dare look away. Barely dared to blink.

He leaned closer still, lowered his head. She lost sight of his eyes, fixed her gaze on his lips.

Behind her, she felt the side of the window frame, was grateful for its immovable support.

His head ducked and his lips brushed hers, cruised gently as if testing their resilience, then, not with a swoop but with the confidence of one sure of his welcome, he settled them over hers.

She felt that first kiss all the way to her toes. In response, sweet heat swept up from her soles to her heart. Her breathing locked. She swayed—raised a hand, locked it on the steely arm beside her.

Felt his other hand firm about her jaw, tipping her face up to his.

Alarm bells were ringing in Martin's head with the wild abandon of banshees. He blocked them out; he knew what he was doing, knew that, in this arena, he wielded absolute control. Instead of retreating, he turned his considerable talents to savoring her luscious lips, then teasing them apart.

Within seconds, he realized that although she'd been kissed, she'd never yielded her mouth to any man. He wanted it. Ruthless but still gentle, he shifted his fingers about her chin, pressed—her lips parted. He surged in—sensed her gasp, felt the sudden tensing of her spine.

Lowering his arm, he locked that hand at her waist, steadying her, fingers pressing to her spine, then soothingly shifting along the slender muscles framing it, distracting her, quieting her. Easing her into the caress.

Until she was kissing him back, luring him in, inexpertly but definitely returning each caress. Growing bolder by the minute.

He angled his head and deepened the kiss.

She tasted sweet. Delicate. Vulnerable.

He wanted more—couldn't get enough to appease his sudden need.

Every muscle strained to draw her to him, against him. He resisted, reminding himself just what he was doing—demonstrating to her the dangers in her plan to seek excitement. Drawing her to him would be tempting fate.

No matter how desirable that fate might be.

He took her mouth again, glorying in the softness, the subtle beckoning that, innocent though she was, seemed to have come to her instinctively. He let them both sink into the kiss, let the pleasure seep to their bones.

Kept his hand locked at her waist, refused to let it shift up, or down.

Ending the kiss, lifting his head, letting his hand fall from her face, took more effort than he'd expected. It left him slightly dizzy, blinking down into her wide eyes.

“Excitement enough?” He heard the gravelly tone in his voice and wondered to whom the question was addressed.

She blinked dazedly, then awareness flowed into her eyes.

Amanda dropped her gaze to his lips, felt her own tingle. Still felt the thrill of the invasion of his tongue, and all the sensations that had followed. Felt, recognized, her hunger for more. Knew she couldn't have it—yet.

“For the moment.” She wondered at her tone—a beguiling, still confident purr she couldn't have bettered if she'd tried.

She glanced up, met his gaze. Saw a frown in the darkened green. Looking away to hide her satisfaction, she slid her hand down his arm to the hand at her waist, eased it away.

He straightened as she stepped out of his shadow. The waltz in the ballroom had just ended; no one else had yet joined them in the gallery.

She started toward the doors. “Incidentally, you were wrong.”

“About what?”

She slowed, glanced back; he'd swung to watch her but hadn't moved from the window. “I do need to travel to Richmond.” She held his gaze for a moment, then turned and continued to the nearest doors.

“Amanda.”

She halted, then faced him. Across the room, she met his gaze.

Silence stretched.

“When?”

She considered his tone—flat, unforgiving. “We can discuss when tomorrow morning. In the park.”

Turning, she opened the door, then looked back. “Will you send your groom as before?”

He watched her. When her nerves had stretched taut, he nodded. “As before.”

With a graceful nod, she escaped into the ballroom. Within a minute, she felt his gaze on her back. Moving too determinedly for any to waylay her, she left the ballroom, made her way to the stairs and descended without a backward glance. A footman hurried to get her cloak, another rushed to summon a hackney. All the while, she knew Dexter watched her.

Not until the hackney turned into Upper Brook Street did she relax enough to gloat.

 

In the pre-dawn chill, Martin sat his roan under the tree in the park and watched her ride toward him. The great houses of Mayfair formed a backdrop, emphasizing the fact she was leaving their regimented world for the less structured, more dangerous and exciting world waiting for her beneath the trees.

He watched as she clattered across Park Lane. Felt a familiar quickening in his veins. The roan shifted; he tightened the reins, settled the huge beast.

She'd won their last round comprehensively. He was trapped, yet he doubted she knew it, let alone understood why. He wasn't sure
he
understood, not completely. He definitely didn't understand how he'd come to this pass.

Advised of her purpose, it was impossible to let her swan off and seek excitement with other men, knowing as he did that following such a path would likely lead to her ruin. Impossible because of the type of man he was, because of the absolute, ingrained conviction that, given he had the power to protect her and keep her safe, it was his duty to do so.

All that was clear enough. He'd long been aware of his
protective streak and accepted it, accepted himself, as he was. What he didn't understand was how she had come to invoke his protectiveness, to hold him hostage courtesy of his own convictions, without, apparently, trying.

He scanned her features as she neared, saw nothing beyond cheery good humor and her customary delight on meeting him. She didn't appear to be considering demanding anything more from him, didn't appear calculating in any way. She seemed to be revelling in the prospect of their ride.

Bringing the mare alongside, she tilted her head, blue eyes searching his face. Her smile was lightly teasing. “Are you always this grim in the morning, or is there something other than our ride on your mind?”