On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

She glanced up to find Lord Rawley and all the other gentlemen looking seriously concerned. "Ah… no." The instant brightening of their expressions told her why they'd been concerned. "That is…" She crumpled the note, suppressed an urge to rub her forehead. "I'm not sure."

This was what she'd wanted, schemed to get. But why was he waiting in the front hall?

She smiled at her admirers. "There's a messenger in the hall I must speak with. If you'll excuse me for a moment?"

Lady Elrood led the chorus. "Of course, my dear."

Amanda slipped away before any gentleman could offer to accompany her.

Stepping from the crowded drawing room into the front hall, she looked toward the front door, and saw no one bar two footmen. Before she could turn and look toward the stairs, her cloak fell over her shoulders.

Before she could react, the hood was yanked down over her face. Arms like steel wrapped about her and lifted her from the floor.

"The door, you dolts-open it!"

Any doubt she might have harbored over the identity of her attacker fled. She wriggled, tried to kick-all to no avail. By the time she thought of screaming, Dexter had carried her over the threshold and started down the steps. She quieted, waiting to be put down.

He reached the pavement, took two strides, hefted her-and tossed her unceremoniously onto a carriage seat.

Fury erupting, she fought to free herself from the folds of her cloak.

The carriage door slammed; she heard a shout. The carriage shot forward as if fleeing from the devil himself. She struggled free of the cloak-and saw the facades along Bel-grave Road flashing past. Absolutely stunned, she slumped back against the seat.

How dared he?

She was so shocked, then so incensed, she couldn't form a coherent thought. The carriage rocketed along, barely slowing to take corners; she had to hang onto the strap to keep upright. Not until the carriage slowed, then rocked to a stop, could she collect her scattered wits.

Gathering her cloak and reticule, she opened the door and stepped down, unsurprised to find herself at the corner of North Audley and Upper Brook Streets, a few steps from home. Turning, she opened her reticule.

The jarvey coughed. "Y'r pardon, ma'am, but the g'ntleman paid h'ndsomely."

Of course he had. Amanda looked up, and smiled. Unsweetly. "In that case, I suggest you leave."

The jarvey didn't argue. She waited until the hackney rounded a corner, then hitched her cloak over her shoulders and trudged home.

"At least it shows he cares."

"It shows he's a dolt-an overbearing, conceited, arrogant ass! An entirely typical Cynsterlike male."

"So now what?"

"I start on plan B."

Her nemesis next caught up with her at Mrs. Fawcett's soiree. Mrs. Fawcett was a widow of not entirely unblemished reputation whose evening entertainments were highly considered amongst the demimonde.

"What the devil do you imagine you're doing?"

The deep-throated growl was music to Amanda's ears. Without turning from the game of silver-loo she was supposedly watching, she glanced back at Dexter, just behind her. "I'm enjoying myself."

A smile on her lips, she looked back at the play.

After a moment's brooding silence came: "If you won't think of your reputation, think of Carmarthen-you're placing him in an invidious position."

In this venue, she'd brought Reggie as escort; he was deep in discussion with another gentleman of much the same age. "I don't think he's in any danger." Cocking a brow, she looked up and back to meet Dexter's aggravated gaze. "Would you rather I came without him?"

"I'd rather you didn't come here at all. Or anywhere like it."

Looking away, she shrugged. "I can't conceive why you imagine your opinion is likely to sway me."