She stepped into her slippers. "No."
"No?"
She looked up at him. Unshakeable feminine defiance blazed in her eyes. "If just one thought can penetrate that incredibly thick skull of yours, let it be this: we are not getting married because of some social stricture that decrees we should."
"It doesn't decree we should-it decrees we must!"
"Hah!" Amanda hung on to her temper. "You won't tell anyone. I won't tell anyone. Why should the ton-or anyone else-be concerned?"
He looked magnificent in firelight. Squelching the thought, shackling her fury, using it as a shield to hide the whirlpool of her feelings, she glared at him. "Good night."
She sidestepped quickly and rushed to the door.
"Amanda!"
Did he seriously think she'd stop? Flinging the door wide, she sailed through-into stygian gloom.
She paused, and heard his footsteps following hard on her heels. Stepping out, she headed in the direction she hoped led to the front door.
"Come back here, damn it! We have to talk."
"Not on that subject." Through the gloom she spied a railing-the gallery? She picked up her pace.
"You can't get out-the front door doesn't open."
"Huh!" Did he think she'd believe that? Reaching the gallery, she was relieved to see the head of the staircase rising out of the shadows. He cursed, then she heard his footsteps retreating. Refusing to consider what that might mean, she set her jaw and headed for the stairs.
Swearing under his breath, Martin raced back to his room. God only knew what she intended, but he could follow only so far without clothes.
He ransacked his dressing room. Shrugging into a hunting jacket and trousers, he strode into the corridor and set out in her wake. He crossed the gallery and headed down the stairs; gaining the last flight, he heard her-swearing at the locks on the front door. "I told you it didn't open."
"Don't be ridiculous!" She rounded on him. "This is Park Lane, not the backstreets of Bombay! No self-respecting butler would allow a front door to rust shut."
"I don't have a butler, self-respecting or otherwise."
She stared at him. "You can't live here alone!"
"I have a man."
"Just one?"
"He's more than enough."
"Obviously not." She gestured to the door. "I've undone the lower bolts-it's just that one that's stuck." She pointed to the recalcitrant bolt, at head height, then looked at him. "Open it."
Martin exhaled through his teeth. She seemed consumed by, driven by, some brittle, frenetic fluster; he wasn't game yet to tackle her. Best first to humor her. Raising his arm, he slammed his hand to the bolt, intending to demonstrate the futility of the measure.
Instead, the bolt caught, then slid, grating, across.
He nearly overbalanced.
"There!" With a vindicated nod, Amanda grasped the knob and hauled the door wide.
He grabbed the door to slam it shut before she could escape-it caught on the old runner and jammed.
Amanda slipped out into the night.
Cursing, Martin kicked the runner flat, then hurriedly followed her, dragging the untrustworthy door shut.