On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

He jerked upright,

tried to look down his nose at her, noticed the spray of orchids she held in her trapped hand. She tugged; Percival held on. His face a study in astonishment, he forced her hand up, examining the exotic spray.

In the tone of a schoolmaster discovering a pupil in severe transgression, he asked, "What is this?"

"Sensual beauty personified," came the deep, drawled reply.

Percival started, looked around.

Martin halted beside him; his gaze touched the orchids, then moved on to Amanda. "Don't you agree?"

The question was clearly addressed to Percival, its object equally clearly not the orchids.

Shocked, Percival relaxed his grip. Amanda twisted her wrist free.

And smiled, delightedly, at Martin. "Dexter-how fortunate. Do let me make you known to Mr. Lytton-Smythe." "Sir." Martin bowed easily.

Percival's eyes widened; after an instant's hesitation, he bowed stiffly. "My lord."

"Why fortunate?" Martin's gaze met Amanda's. "Because I was just bidding Mr. Lytton-Smythe farewell before continuing around the ballroom. Now I need not do so alone."

She offered her hand.

Percival stuck out his arm, positively huffed, "I will be more than happy to escort you, my dear."

Martin smiled. "Ah, but I'm before you, you see." One long finger pointed to the orchids. There was a fractional pause as his gaze met Percival's, then, with his usual ineffable grace, Martin offered her his arm.

Ruthlessly ignoring the undercurrents-all of them-Amanda laid her fingers on Martin's sleeve. With a regal nod to Percival, she coolly stated, "Good-bye, sir," then let Martin lead her away.

She was unsurprised when, after less than ten feet, Martin murmured, "Who, exactly, is Mr. Lytton-Smythe?" "Not who-what. He's a pest."

"Ah. In that case, we must trust he's taken the hint."

"Indeed." Which hint-Martin's or hers-she didn't bother to ask; either would do. Unfortunately… she inwardly grimaced, and wished she'd been more explicit in refusing what had all but amounted to Percival's declaration.

Martin watched the irritation, the annoyance, fade from Amanda's eyes, and needed no further assurance of what Lytton-Smythe meant to her. But a faint frown remained, clouding the cornflower blue, lightly furrowing her forehead; the sight didn't meet with his approval.

They'd been ambling around the growing crowd filing into her ladyship's rooms. An alcove containing a bust of some long dead general lay just ahead. Closing his fingers about Amanda's hand, Martin slowed.

Pausing by the alcove, he raised her hand, still holding his orchids; he examined not the flowers, but her wrist, fine-boned, veins showing blue beneath her porcelain skin. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Possessiveness rippled beneath the drawled words; he made no effort to disguise it. He met her wide eyes, held her gaze as he slid his fingers over her wrist in a featherlight caress to close, gently, over the spot where her pulse beat, then leapt beneath his fingertips.

He sensed the catch in her breathing, saw her pupils dilate, saw her make the decision to boldly continue to meet his eyes, to let desire rise briefly between them-the warm, beckoning promise of passion-before, of necessity, they let it ebb.

Only then, when they could both breathe easily again, did she incline her head and murmur, "Thank you for rescuing me."

His lips lifted briefly; eyes still on hers, he raised her hand. "The pleasure," he murmured, "was all mine." His last words brushed the sensitive skin of her wrist an instant before his lips touched, pressed.

He returned her hand to his sleeve. In perfect accord, they strolled on.

On the other side of the ballroom, Vane Cynster frowned. He watched his golden-haired cousin and her escort until the crowd blocked his view.

"There you are!" Vane's wife, Patience, swept up and linked her arm with his. "Lady Osbadlestone wishes to speak with you."

"Just as long as she keeps her cane to herself." Vane let Patience tug him into motion, then the crowd parted and he saw Amanda and her escort again. Vane stopped; of necessity, Patience stopped, too. She looked inquiringly up at him.

"Who the devil is that?" Vane nodded across the room. "The fellow with Amanda."