On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Martin looked at Reggie. "Etchings?"

Disgusted, Reggie nodded. "Precisely-those sort of etchings. Only Amanda has no idea, and some of the men have realized. Any minute, she's going to accept some carefully worded challenge"-he glanced at the group anxiously-"if she hasn't already."

Martin swore and followed his gaze, relieved to see the argument still in full spate. Amanda was holding forth. "They'll let her tie herself up in her own arguments first, if they've any sense."

"Curtin is there, and McLintock, too."

Which answered that. "Damn." Martin watched the drama unfold, considered how best to intervene. He'd been toying with the notion of alerting her cousins to her extracurricular activities, but he hadn't seen even one of them while tracking Amanda through the salons; going into the ton to find them was not an option-not for him.

He looked at Reggie. "If I get her out of this, might I suggest you tip the wink to one of her cousins. Devil or Vane, or one of the others?"

Reggie stared at him as if he-Martin-had misunderstood something crucial. "I can't do that." When he frowned, Reggie offered, "I'm her friend."

Martin studied Reggie's open countenance, then grimaced and looked back at Amanda. Inwardly sighed. "It seems it's up to me, then."

Amanda had all but given up hope-completely and utterly-when Dexter suddenly loomed beside her. For the past week, she'd played an increasingly desperate hand, her smile night by night growing more brittle, her behavior more outrageous. She was now skirting the unforgivable, and part of her didn't care.

It had been frightening to discover just how little she cared for what was left on her plate if Martin Fulbridge was not to be a part of her life. Frightening to realize what her future would hold-a dull and virtuous marriage. Despite her professed interest in the excitement of the demimonde, she was already weary of their entertainments, a poor imitation of those of the ton, the company less erudite, less honestly engaging; she did not approve of the cold eyes of the gentlemen or the brassy insincerity of the women.

Tonight, she'd passed beyond desperation to a state where flirting with a potentially destructive situation seemed acceptable. In her heart, she knew it wasn't so, but her heart was too heavy to save her.

Dexter's reappearance should have sent that organ soaring, but one look at the stony cast of his features was enough to douse her reaction. "Well, my lord." She met his eyes as boldly as any woman present, and a great deal more challengingly. "Which way would you argue-yes, or no?"

He held her gaze. "Yes or no to what?"

"Why, to the thesis that the most noble specimens of the art of etching are guaranteed to inflame a lady's passions." She returned his regard evenly, hiding her contempt for the subject, as she'd done throughout. When, coming upon a conversation on the irresistible lure of a recently acquired etching, she'd given her opinion that such artworks were greatly overrated as to their effect on women, every gentleman within hearing had converged to patronizingly dismiss her view.

That had been all she'd needed, in her present mood, to make her dig in her heels and stick to her theory. The fact that every gentlemen involved assumed it was indeed a theory, and that if suitably encouraged she'd talk herself into an experiment, formed the wellspring of her contempt.

Just how naive did they think she was?

Of course she knew what sort of etchings they meant-she was twenty-three! She'd viewed a few firsthand, had heard of others, and had been exposed to the works of artists such as Fragonard from her earliest years. Her opinion was no theory but established fact-artwork, no matter the subject, had never done anything to her passions.

That was a point she'd yet to make clear; starved of entertainment, she'd perhaps unwisely fanned the argument. Her current tack was to discover how long it would take for the assembled gentlemen to realize she was not about to volunteer to test her thesis by viewing one of their collections.

That, of course, was before Dexter appeared. Now he had…

She raised a brow. "Surely you have an opinion, my lord? One would suppose you to be quite knowledgeable on the subject."

His eyes held hers, then his lips curved in a smile that sent a shiver down her spine. "I've rarely found them ineffective, although, of course, the sensitivity of the lady in question has a signal bearing on the outcome."

The drawled yet perfectly articulated words fell into a sudden hush.

Amanda stared, trapped in his eyes. She'd assumed he'd glower and try to douse the discussion, not ruthlessly throw down the very gauntlet every other gentleman had been trying to find an opportunity to toss. Behind her polite mask, she was honestly aghast.

"Quite right," Mr. Curtin purred. "That's been my experience, too."

"Indeed," Lord McLintock chimed in. "Which means, my dear, that you'll have to view a set of suitable etchings to prove your point. I'd be happy to offer my collection for your assessment."

"No, no. My collection is more extensive-"

"Ah, but I fancy mine would be preferable-"

A cacophony of offers assailed her ears. Within seconds, an altercation threatened over whose collection was most suitable to test her mettle.

Dexter's deep voice cut across the din. "As it was my observation that sensitivity is key, and as my library contains an extensive collection of such works, including rare volumes from the East, I suggest Miss Cynster should test her thesis by viewing a selection from my collection."

Amanda drew in a slow breath. Not one of the assembled rakes dared protest; they waited, ready to leap in should she refuse Dexter's offer.