"You promised if I gave you the adventures you requested-all of them-you'd stay away from venues such as this for the rest of the Season."
He was speaking through clenched teeth.
She turned; they were so close, her breasts brushed his chest. Reaching up, she traced a finger down one lean cheek. And smiled, directly into his eyes. "I lied." Then she widened her eyes at him. "But why should you care?" With a mock salute, she stepped around him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there're gentlemen present I've yet to meet."
She left him, idly ambling away. But she hadn't missed the jolt of tension that had locked his large frame. Nor the gaze that burned between her shoulder blades for the rest of the night.
Martin wrapped his fingers about Amanda's wrist as she paused on the threshold of Mrs. Swayne's drawing room. He'd seen her slip away to the withdrawing room, and had lain in wait for her; that was what she'd reduced him to.
He drew her out of the flow of guests. "So tell me, just what is your plan?"
He stopped by the wall; she opened her eyes wide. "Plan?"
"Your objective in turning the better part of the ton's rakes into slavering slaves just waiting for you to take your pick."
"Ah-that plan." She looked across the sea of raffish rogues and rakes filling the small drawing room.
Martin grimly held onto his temper. He deeply regretted giving way to it at Helen's-satisfying though it had been at the time, just look where it had landed him. He'd spent the last week attending every blasted function throughout the demimonde, searching for Amanda through the salons and parties. Keeping an eye on her. People were beginning to notice. And the very last thing he wished was to focus attention on his interest in Amanda Cynster.
"There's no need to concern yourself. I fully accept that there's no understanding between us. No connection-you made that plain. I therefore fail to see why you're so intent on preserving such a dog-in-the-manger attitude toward me. You can't seriously imagine that I will accept that."
He locked his jaw, bit his tongue against the impulse to respond to the taunt in her eyes. She had him-his emotions-pegged to a tee.
When he remained silent, her brows rose, then she resurveyed the room. "If you'll excuse me, there are others I wish to speak with."
She started to move away; his hold on her wrist prevented it. She looked down at his fingers, manacling her wrist. And waited. He had to force them to open. Her smile serene, she inclined her head and stepped out.
"Where are you going?" He couldn't hold the question back, knew she'd understand what he was asking-where was she headed with this game.
She glanced at him. "To hell and back again." As she turned away, she added, "If I so choose."
She was walking a tightrope over a pit of ravening wolves; at some point, she'd put a foot wrong-nothing was more certain. The wolves were counting on it; that was why they were patiently waiting, willing to be played on a string like the puppies they most assuredly were not.
Martin gritted his teeth and watched as night followed night, as soiree followed party followed rout. In the ton, the Season proper had commenced; among the demimonde, the same frenetic burst of social activity held sway.
Every night, he located Amanda; even if she had tonnish obligations, at some point, escorted by an increasingly unhappy Carmarthen, she'd appear in his world. And every night, she seemed a touch wilder, a touch less predictable.
She laughed and charmed; it appeared almost an addiction the way she added conquests to her string. Face grim, arms folded, he would prop the wall and watch; the most dangerous had noted their earlier association, and had sufficiently well-honed self-preservatory instincts to be wary. No one could fathom what lay between them, but few were game to risk stepping on his toes. It was the only weapon he had left with which to protect her; the fact it had worked so far was his only success in their game.
Supporting the wall at Mrs. Emerson's rout party, he studied the circle of which Amanda was the focus. Some argument was brewing, yet its tone seemed intellectual rather than sexual-odd, considering the company, not so odd given Amanda was leading one side of the debate.
Then Reggie Carmarthen stepped back from the group; he scanned the crowd, the expression on his face one of incipient panic. He spotted Martin.
To Martin's surprise, Reggie made a beeline for him. Fetching up beside him, Reggie dispensed with all formality. "You've got to do something. She's"-he waved at Amanda-"about to step seriously out of her depth!"
Martin returned Reggie's earnest look impassively. "So stop her."
Reggie's expression turned impatient. "If I could stop her doing anything, she wouldn't be here in the first place! That's obvious. I've never been able to turn her a damn once she gets the bit between her teeth." He met Martin's gaze belligerently. "And she's had the bit between her teeth from the moment you offered to partner her at whist."
The accusation was clear, but Martin needed no prod in that respect. He already felt responsible-certainly morally accountable-for Amanda's i
ncreasingly brazen behavior, her restless, dissatisfied state. He doubted Reggie had any idea why and how completely the blame rested with him.
To feel so might be illogical-it was her own choice, after all-yet it was how he felt.
He stirred under Reggie's righteous gaze; straightening, he glanced at the increasingly rowdy group. "What's the subject under discussion?"
"Etchings."