On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

He'd never answered that question, not for any of the ladies with whom, over the last year, he had on occasion shared a bed. They'd had no right to know, no claim on the knowledge; they had never offered him half as much as she. Even if he hadn't taken. "I killed a man. Or so society believes."

She didn't blink, simply studied his eyes; not a single muscle in the body cradled in his arms tensed. "And did you?"

His lips twisted with the bitterness he found he couldn't hide. "No."

She considered him for a moment more, then eased back until she was standing within the circle of his arms. "Tell me."

It was his turn to consider, then he drew a deep breath. Behind her, a wrought-iron seat caught his eye. "Let's sit."

They did, she sitting forward so she could see his face as he leaned his forearms on his thighs, clasped his hands. And looked back.

When, sucked into his darkest memories, he said nothing, she prompted, "I heard you seduced some girl."

He hesitated, then said, "That's was part of the story, but equally untrue." After a moment, he continued, "There was a girl in the village near my home. We grew up together-I was an only child and saw her as a younger sister. One day, she killed herself, driven to it by her father-a righteous old sod-because she was with child. I was nineteen at the time, and spent most of my days in London. I learned of her death on a visit home. Swearing vengeance, I went in search of her father. I found him. He'd been pushed off a cliff, then his head had been bashed with a rock. I picked up the rock-I wasn't sure… that's how the villagers found me, standing there with the rock in my hand."

"They thought you'd killed him?"

"The blacksmith had seen a gentleman he took for me struggling with the old man at the top of the bluff-saw me, as he thought, pitch the old man over."

"But it wasn't you."

No question. Her hand came to rest, warm and alive, on his sleeve.

"No, and of course I denied it." He drew in a long breath. "No one believed me." That, of it all, despite all the years, still hurt unbearably. "My father"-he paused to make sure his voice remained steady-"accepted all that was said as the truth. He wanted to disown me, but because of the title and the family line, he banished me instead. As his heir, I was bundled off abroad instead of being allowed to face any investigation."

She was silent for a long time; he didn't have the strength, couldn't find the words, to end the moment and bring on the time when they would part.

"Did you never try to set the record straight?"

"My father's edict was that I should not set foot in England as long as he lived. I honored that to the letter."

"And more, so I heard."

"Ten years have elapsed since he passed judgment on me. Any chance of proving the truth died long ago." Along with any chance of him being considered an eligible parti for such as she; until now, that hadn't bothered him in the least.

The thought propelled him to his feet. He glanced down at her, held out a hand. "Come. I'll take you home."

Amanda looked up at him, considered, not him, but how best to proceed. She knew better than to brush aside his reasoning; she was too much of his world, understood too well the situation as he saw it.

She understood, too, that he saw this moment as a final parting. She didn't agree, but she couldn't argue, not until she'd marshaled more support for her cause. Placing her fingers in his, she rose; arm in arm, they strolled back along the path.

They were almost to the carriage when she halted in the shadows, waited until he stopped and faced her. One hand in his, she stepped closer, with her other hand drew his lips to hers. He was wary, but permitted it-she kissed him sweetly, lingeringly, the merest echo of what had passed between them before.

"Thank you for telling me."

She whispered the words as their lips parted, then stepped back. For a long moment, he stood looking down at her, his face and eyes too deeply shadowed for her to read. His grip on her hand tightened, then abruptly eased.

With the merest inclination of his head, he led her to the waiting carriage.

Chapter 7

She'd snared her lion only to find him wounded. For the moment, he could return to his lair, but she hadn't given up her dream. Indeed, after their stroll in Green Park, giving up was the furthest notion from her mind.

"I need to learn more." Standing with Amelia by the side of Lady Moffat's ballroom, Amanda scanned the crowd. "I need to know if it is as he says, and people believe he's a murderer."

Amelia slanted her a glance. "You're sure he isn't?"

"One needs only to meet him to know the idea's ludicrous, but with him refusing to allow anyone a chance to reassess, society's unlikely to change its collective mind."