On a Wild Night c-8 Page 3

  "Connor was right-hells like Mellors are no place for you, but I fancy you've realized that." His gaze roamed her face, then he reached into his pocket and drew out a silver card case. He extracted a card and offered it between two fingers. "So you know where to send for the mare. Send a message and one of my grooms will bring her around." His gaze touched her face again, then he inclined his head. "Good-bye, Miss Cynster."

  She brightly reiterated her thanks. As he turned away, she glanced at his card. "Good God!"

  The exclamation escaped her despite her years of training. Without thinking, eyes fixed on the card, she caught the sleeve of the man who had been her partner through the night. Obediently, he halted.

  She couldn't, at first, drag her eyes from the card-a simple, expensive rectangle of white with a gold crest upon it. Beneath the crest was stamped one word: Dexter. Beneath that was an address in Park Lane, one she knew had to belong to one of the huge old mansions fronting the park. But it was the name that turned her world upside down.

  Hauling her gaze from it, she looked up at him. It took a moment to get enough breath to even gasp, "You're Dexter? "

  The rakish, rumored-to-be-profligate, elusively mysterious Martin Fulbridge, fifth Earl of Dexter. She certainly knew of him, of his reputation, but tonight was the first time she'd set eyes on him. She realized she was clutching his sleeve and released him.

  That self-deprecatory amusement was back in his eyes. When, stunned, she continued to stare, he raised one brow, cynical, yes, but world-weary as well. "Who else?"

  His gaze held hers, then moved unhurriedly over her face, returned to her eyes. Then he inclined his head, and, as always unhurriedly, left her.

  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'r
e 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 th
ey 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."