On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

If the object of their discussion had any inkling of the communication passing over her head, she gave no sign, but glanced from one to the other, the expectation of entertainment in her eyes. Her gaze came to rest on Martin.

Looking down, he smiled easily. "Would you care to stroll and see who else is present? You've been here for a while-I'm sure Leopold has other claims on his time."

He'd meant the last sentence as a warning; a sudden gleam in her eye, the deepening of her smile had him rapidly replaying his words. As she prettily took her leave of Leopold, Martin inwardly kicked himself. He'd just told her he'd been watching her-for a while.

As host, Leopold couldn't scowl, but the look he cast Martin as they parted stated he'd be back-back to pry Amanda from Martin's side. Leopold liked nothing better than to cross swords, metaphorically, with a peer.

Martin offered his arm; Amanda laid her hand on his sleeve.

"Do you know Mr. Korsinsky well?"

"Yes. I have business interests in Corsica." And Leopold's family were the biggest bandits on the island.

"Is he…"-she gestured-"trustworthy? Or should I view him in the same light as the other two he introduced?"

Martin went to answer, caugh

t himself, then inwardly shrugged. She knew he'd been watching. "Leopold has his own brand of honor, but it isn't English. I'm not even sure it falls within the realms of 'civilized.' It would be wiser to treat him as you would the other two." He paused, then added in tones rather less drawled, "In other words, avoid them."

Her lips quirked; she glanced up. "I'm more than seven, you know."

He caught her gaze. "They, however, are more than eight."

"And you?"

They'd slowed. Ahead, a lady waved to attract their attention. Martin saw, but didn't respond, absorbed in studying the face turned up to his-it could be that of an angel except it held too much vitality. He drew breath, glanced up. "I, my dear, am beyond your ken."

She followed his gaze; the hiatus that had held them dissolved. Smoothly, they made the transition to social discourse, stopping to chat with a group they'd met at Lady Hennessy's.

Martin was content to stand beside Amanda and let her animation carry the day. She was assured, confident, and quick-witted, glibly turning aside an arch query as to their friendship. The ladies in the group were intrigued; the gentlemen simply enjoyed her company, watching her face, her eyes, listening to her musical laugh.

He did the same, but with a different intent, trying to see past her facade. He'd felt the tensing of her breathing, the tightening of her fingers on his sleeve during that one, taut moment. He'd tried, again, to warn her; only once he'd uttered the words, heard them, glimpsed-so fleetingly he wasn't sure he'd seen aright-a steely stubbornness behind her delicate features, had he considered that she might interpret those words differently.

Might see them as a challenge.

She was, after all, looking for excitement.

Watching the flow of expression across her features, through the blue of her eyes, he couldn't tell what her reaction was. Would be.

Worse-he was no longer sure how he wanted her to react. Whether he wanted her to run from him, or to him.

Inwardly, he frowned; the surrounding conversation slid from his mind. Logically, he knew what he wanted. She was not for him; he didn't want to become involved with her. Logically, all was clear.

Why, then, this sense of confusion?

A screech from a violin hauled him from his thoughts. Everyone turned, looked, confirmed that a waltz was about to begin. He glanced down, met Amanda's blue eyes. She arched a brow.

He gestured to the dance floor. "Shall we?"

She smiled and gave him her hand. He led her to the floor, determined to find answers to his questions.

Waltzes at the Corsican Consulate had never conformed to the style approved by the patronesses of Almack's. Martin drew Amanda into his arms, drew her closer still as couples crowded onto the floor.

They started to revolve; Amanda looked about them as she struggled to master her breathing, to give no sign of the breathlessness that had assailed her the moment Dexter's hand had come to rest on her back. It was large, strong-effortlessly he steered her through the throng. But the heat, not just from his hand, burning through silk, but the pervasive heat of his large body so close, a bare inch from hers… little wonder that ladies swooned on crowded dance floors.

Not that she'd ever been in danger of joining their ranks before, and she'd danced on crowded floors aplenty.

Out of her ken. She focused on those words, on all they promised-all she intended to have. From him. Serve him right. He was as arrogantly superior as her cousins; truth be known, she didn't mind at all. It would make his conquest all the sweeter.