On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

With that, he followed Connor through the gloom and away.

Amanda turned to Martin and favored him with her best smile. "Thank you for your offer, my lord-I would indeed find it difficult to accommodate the mare on such short notice."

He regarded her steadily, that gentle, somewhat wistful amusement very evident, at least to her. "So I would imagine." He raised his glass to her, then drained it and set it down. He rose; she did, too.

"I must thank you, too, for your assistance throughout." She smiled again, her mind skating over his offer to partner her, his replacement of her champagne with water, his arranging for the candlelight, the many moments during the play when his steady, moss-green, gold-flecked gaze had kept her from panicking. She let the thoughts light her eyes, and held out her hand. "You were indeed my champion this night."

His lips kicked up at the ends; he took her hand, long fingers closing strongly about hers… and hesitated. Amanda looked into his eyes and realized they'd changed again, grown darker. Then he bowed and released her.

"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?"