On a Wild Night Read online

  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.”

  “Fl
ick?”

  “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 soirée 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 “soirées” 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 soirée 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.

  If the min
x was setting her cap at him, she was going about it in a damned unusual way.

  From a corner of the Consulate ballroom, one shoulder propped against the wall, Martin watched Amanda Cynster as she stood on the threshold, looking about. No hint of expectation colored her fair face; she projected the image of a lady calmly considering her options.

  Leopold swiftly came forward. She smiled charmingly and held out her hand; Leopold grasped it eagerly, and favored her with a too-elegant, too-delighted bow.

  Martin’s jaw set. Leopold talked, gestured, clearly attempting to dazzle. Martin watched, wondered . . .

  He’d been the target for too many ladies with matrimonial intentions not to have developed a sixth sense for being stalked. Yet with Amanda Cynster . . . he wasn’t sure. She was different from other ladies he’d dealt with—younger, less experienced, yet not so young he could dismiss her as a girl, not so inexperienced he was daft enough to think her, or her machinations, of no account.

  He hadn’t amassed a huge fortune in trade by underestimating the opposition. In this case, however, he wasn’t even sure the damned female had him in her sights.

  Two other gentlemen approached her, bucks of the most dangerous sort on the lookout for risky titillation. Leopold sized them up in a glance; he introduced them to Amanda, but gave no indication of leaving her side, far less of relinquishing her attention. The bucks bowed and moved on.

  Martin relaxed, only then realizing he’d tensed. He fixed his gaze on the cause, taking in her tumbling curls, glossy gold in the strong light, let his gaze linger on the lissome figure draped in soft silk the color of ripe peach. Wondered how succulent the flesh beneath the silk would be . . .

  He caught himself up, wiped the developing image from his mind.

  Focused on the reality, on the conundrum before him.

  Thus far, every time he’d appeared, she’d clearly been pleased to see him, willing—even glad—to accept the protection he offered. However, he’d yet to see any sign that she was specifically interested in him. She was used to protective males—like her cousins; the possibility existed—lowering thought—that she would with equal ease accept the protection of some other, similar gentleman. He couldn’t offhand think of any other who might appear to squire her platonically, but the prospect remained. Her transparent liking for and encouragement of his company might simply reflect a natural gravitation toward the sort of male in whose company she felt comfortable.