On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

"Is it this way, do you think?"

Martin drew his lips from hers, cursed viciously. The sound of feet on the gravel at the end of the path reached them.

Affected them both like a dash of cold water, effectively dousing their fire. Their eyes met; she let her gaze drop to his lips.

He looked at hers, drew a shuddering breath, his chest crushing her breasts, then he straightened, stepped back. Steadied her. Then reached for her bodice, deftly closing it.

"I want you." His hands dropped to his waistband, fully securing the buttons as she quickly tied her side laces. "But not like this. I want you in my house, in my bed. I want you mine."

She met his dark gaze, sensed the frustration in his words, the longing, the yearning-the need. Felt uncertainty well, undermine her resolution… then she heard Lady Osbaldestone's voice in her head. Dragging in a breath, she lifted her chin, held his gaze. "How much do you want me?"

Martin didn't answer. The group approaching along the path, searching for some pond, cut short the moment-saved him from saying something he would later regret.

Amanda's hand on his sleeve, they headed back to the house, exchanging nods with the group as they passed. He frowned; he hoped her years would preserve her from any whispers. At least they hadn't been discovered…

That would have made life even more complicated than it already was. His understanding with the Bar Cynster would stretch only so far; they fully expected him to use his polished wiles to convince her to accept his suit. They likewise expected him to avoid any scandal.

Seducing a Cynster female, persuading her to yield and accept his offer without the surrender she was determined to wring from him, under the full glare of the ton's chandeliers, all without raising the slightest ripple of scandal… it was the definition of challenge.

One part of him relished the game; another part wished it was all over and she was his, declared and accepted as, in truth, he was hers.

As they went up the terrace steps, he glanced at her face. Her chin was high, her jaw stubbornly set in an expression that had fast become familiar. Yet beneath that facade, he sensed a more fragile, wistful state. Perhaps, with just a little more persuasion…

He stopped her before the door; fingers twining with hers, he raised her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his eyes steady on hers. "It's your decision."

She held his gaze, searched his eyes, then turned and entered the ballroom.

They remained together through supper and the last waltz, then Martin very

correctly took his leave. Amanda watched him climb the ballroom stairs, watched his broad shoulders and burnished head disappear through the ballroom arch.

She wished she was leaving with him. Wished she dared.

Wished in her heart that she could simply give him what he wanted and end this emotional game. Knowing he loved her was important, yet she already knew he did. Was knowing he knew really so vital?

According to Lady Osbaldestone and all her wise mentors, with him, it was. She understood the reasons they'd advanced and accepted them, yet she was starting to suspect there might be even more to it than that. Some reason Lady Osbaldestone, old and shrewd, knew but wouldn't say. No point trying to wheedle it from her; if she hadn't said, she wouldn't, and the Coldstream Guards wouldn't shift her.

The notion that there was more idled through her mind as she waited for Louise and Amelia to make their adieus. Her absentminded gaze drifted around the room, then halted on Edward Ashford. He was waiting, rigidly correct, features pinched with supercilious disdain while his sisters exchanged directions with two other young ladies clearly up from the country.

As she approached, smiling easily, Amanda cast about for some opening gambit to swing the conversation in the direction she wished.

Edward greeted her with a curt nod and a frown. "I'm glad to have the chance to drop a warning in your ear."

"A warning?" She opened her eyes encouragingly.

"About Dexter." Facing the emptying ballroom, Edward raised his quizzing glass and affectedly peered through it. "Distasteful as it is to speak so of a connection, Dexter is a thoroughly untrustworthy individual." Lowering his glass, Edward looked her in the eye. "He killed a man, you know. Pushed him over a cliff, then beat him to death with a rock. An old fellow unable to defend himself. Dexter has a temper and his reputation's scandalous. Indeed, I'm surprised your family haven't taken steps to end his squiring of you-now the Season's at its peak and your cousins and uncles are about, no doubt they'll see and step in."

Amanda wondered what Martin had ever done to deserve such a worm as Edward for cousin. "Edward, St. Ives has given his formal permission for Martin to address me."

Edward's face blanked; the hand holding the quizzing glass fell. "Formal permission. You mean…"

Amanda smiled tightly. "I mean exactly what I said. Good evening, Edward." With a cool nod, she left him, rather proud her temper-her instinct to protect Martin-had not got the better of her.

Luc was strolling toward his sisters and Edward; doubtless, he'd quit the ball after the second dance and was only now returning. Impulse prompted her to place herself in his path. He stopped, looked down at her. Raised a weary brow.

Brazen-determined-she locked her eyes on his. "Dexter has asked for and received permission to address me."

"So I'd supposed."