On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

He searched her eyes, trying to read her mind; she wished she could read his. Failing that, she gave herself up to enjoying the waltz.

A mistake-one she didn't realize until he drew her fractionally closer as they turned at the end of the room. By then, her senses had succumbed to his nearness, had come alive to the compulsive, primitive call of his too-well-remembered body so close to hers, to the effortless strength with which he steered her through the revolutions. Her nerves had tensed in expectation, in educated anticipation; as his thighs brushed hers, desire rose, achingly sweet.

She caught her breath, felt her smile fade as she fought the urge to step closer, to move into his arms, to feel his body against hers. She let her lids veil her eyes, not wanting him to see, then realized that he knew. That he felt the same.

His hand tightened about hers; the hand at the back of her waist hardened, muscles tensing, resisting the impulse to draw her to him.

She did nothing to break his concentration; the idea of either of them succumbing to such impulses in the middle of a ballroom… aside from causing a scandal, it would play directly into his hands.

Her relief when the music ended was acute; the knowledge that he almost certainly knew that, and if sufficiently provoked might be willing to risk scandal to gain what he sought, left her dizzy.

Thankfully, he seemed committed to playing the role he'd scripted for himself to the hilt; with unimpeachable correctness, he bowed, then raised her from her curtsy and escorted her back to the circle of waiting gentlemen.

The fact he'd picked her as his partner for his first waltz on returning to the ton caused other gentlemen to reconsider her attractions, a situation she could have done without. Martin remained by her side as she exercised her considerable social skills, keeping the conversation tripping along the usual tonnish paths. She got the impression he was listening, learning. Accepting that she knew more than he in this sphere, she directed the talk into as many areas of current interest as she could.

She felt she'd done her bit for his reeducation when the orchestra struck up for the second dance. Lord Ashcroft solicited the pleasure of her hand; she graciously bestowed it, but was conscious of the sudden tension that coincidentally gripped the large body still planted beside her.

However when, at the end of the cotillion, Lord Ashcroft returned her to her circle, Martin was still there, watching, waiting. The spot beside him seemed to be where she was supposed to stand. Although she accepted her fate without a flicker of consciousness, she was gripped by faint unease.

Which only grew as the evening progressed, and he didn't quit her side. The impression he projected was that he permitted her to dance with others; it was only a matt

er of time before the observation occurred to the gentlemen concerned. And all the others watching. If it hadn't already.

Seizing the moment when all others in their circle were distracted by a discussion between Lord Flint and Mr. Carr, she surreptitiously tugged Martin's sleeve, quietly hissed when he turned to her, "You should circulate."

He looked down at her. "Why?"

"Because it looks extremely particular if you single me out in this fashion."

His lips curved. "But I am extremely particular." He held her gaze. "Especially over the lady I want as my countess."

Her eyes flew wide. "Sssssshhhhhh!"

She didn't attempt to warn him off again. Instead, her smile fixed, she continued to chat and dance, ignoring the increasingly pointed stares of other young ladies, and the disapproving glares from their mamas. Not only was she, as far as they could see, monopolizing the ton's latest lion, but she was also attracting far too much notice from other eligible gentlemen.

No avenue of escape presented itself-if it had, he'd doubtless have blocked it-not until the evening drew to a close and her mother, finally quitting the conclave of matrons at the far end of the ballroom, came strolling through the crowd. Amanda nearly groaned when she saw who accompanied Louise-her aunts, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives and Lady Horatia Cynster. A curious Amelia brought up the rear, her arm in Reggie's.

"Well, my dear." Smiling, Louise joined them. "Have you enjoyed your evening?"

"Indeed." With no alternative offering, she gestured to Martin. "Allow me to present the Earl of Dexter. My mother, Lady Louise Cynster."

Martin's smile was the epitome of charming. He bowed; Louise dipped.

"And my aunts, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives and Lady Horatia Cynster."

They exchanged greetings; the Dowager made some comment about his reappearance in the ton being long overdue. Whether it was that, or the shrewd, uncannily knowing expression in her aunt's pale green eyes, Martin decided it was time to lift his paw and release her. He gracefully took his leave of them, at the last bowing over her hand.

"Until next we meet."

That could have been merely a polite farewell. The light in his eyes, the subtle undertone in his voice, said otherwise.

It was a challenge-and a warning.

The following morning, Amanda sat at the breakfast table, sipping her tea and staring at the spray of three delicate ivory orchids that had been delivered an hour before.

Louise walked in. "Well!" She came forward, her gaze on the flowers. "Dexter, I take it?"

Once again, there'd been no note. "I presume so." Cradling her cup, Amanda considered the blooms. She couldn't imagine any other gentleman sending her orchids; aside from the quite hideous expense, the flowers were so exotic. So decadently sensuous. Dexter, yes-others, no.