On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

"What's your opinion of his suit?"

Luc considered her for so long she started to suspect he might be drunk, then he raised both brows. "My opinion, for what it's worth, is that he's insane. I've told him as much."

"Insane?" Amanda stared. "Why?"

Again Luc considered, his dark blue gaze unnervingly steady, then he lowered his voice. "I know about Mellors and Helen Hennessy's. I know Martin hauled you out of danger not once but on numerous occasions. He's come into the ton, an arena he doesn't like, has no reason to like-indeed, has reasons to avoid-all in pursuit of you. He's openly courted you, kept his temper on a leash and done the pretty, all as society dictates, a capitulation that must have cost him dearly. He's called on your cousin and made God knows what arrangements-all to be allowed to aspire to your dainty hand."

Luc paused, his gaze ruthlessly direct. "Tell me, what is it that makes you deserving of all that? What makes you worthy of the sacrifice? Even more to the point, what gives you the right to keep him dangling, like some minor fish you can't bring yourself to cut free?"

She refused to look away, refused to lower her eyes. "That," she quietly stated, "is between him and me."

Luc inclined his head and stepped around her. "Just as long as you know the answer."

Someone was stalking Amanda, someone other than him. Watching her, watching them. Who? And why?

Over breakfast the next morning, Martin examined those questions from every possible angle, the one topic that could distract him from the frustration simmering just beneath his skin.

While motive was unclear, the evidence was too compelling to ignore. That note that had summoned Amanda to a deserted terrace had been the start. He couldn't remember any earlier suspicious incident, but later had come the unexpected arrival of Edward and company on the Fortescues' terrace at a potentially revealing moment, then the mysterious note that had sent Sally Jersey to the Hamiltons' library, and last night, the arrival of a bevy of young ladies intent on exploring the summerhouse at precisely the worst moment.

The young ladies had been sent by "that gentleman"-Martin remembered the comment.

Some gentleman was trying to bring Amanda undone.

A good scandal would do it, or so someone not in the know would reason. Those of their circle, aware of the caliber of those involved, aware that he'd formally sought permission to address her, would know better; in reality, a scandal involving her and him, while irritating everyone, would only see them married that much sooner.

Indeed, a potential scandal that did not become public-such as her falling pregnant-was still a wild card he might yet be dealt.

So… whoever the gentleman was, he had reason to wish Amanda ill, and wasn't well connected with their circle.

The earl of Connor was the only name he had on his list.

An afternoon call on the earl reduced his list to zero. Connor was genuinely gratified to be suspected, but his explanation of his earlier, benignly avuncular interest in Amanda's welfare rang too true to be doubted. He gave his word he harbored no ill-will toward her, and then seized the opportunity to lecture Martin against the evil fate of waiting too long to take a wife and raise a family, of becoming an old man with no real reason for existence.

Connor's parting shot of "Don't risk it" rang in Martin's ears as he returned to his house, his library, to once more ponder what exactly was going on. And who was behind it.

"If not Connor, then who?" Amanda glanced back as Martin followed her into her Aunt Horatia's conservatory. He shut the door, long fingers snibbing the lock apparently absent-mindedly; the sounds of the major ball in progress beyond the doors subsided.

A long-forgotten memory flashed across Amanda's mind-of the time she'd dragged Vane in here to ask him about some gentleman's suggestion. When they'd emerged, they'd surprised Patience at the door; from her expression, she'd been about to fling it open and storm in. Vane had smiled-untrustworthily-and invited Patience inside to admire his mother's palm-filled oasis. As she'd walked off, she remembered hearing the door lock snib.

She could still recall the dreamy expression on Patience's face when she and Vane had emerged, considerably later.

Shaking aside the memory, she refocused on the discussion in progress. "There's no one else who I've crossed."

"Before you appeared at Mellors, or even later, you didn't encourage any gentleman?"

"I never encouraged, not in the way you mean." She glanced up as he took her hand. "That wasn't my aim."

He raised his brows. Met her gaze.

The conservatory was illuminated only by weak moonlight drifting past the fronds of various exotic palms; he couldn't see her blush. "I can't think of any gentleman who would wish me ill, certainly not to the point of…"

When she said nothing more, Martin prompted, "Who?"

His tone left her no option but to admit, "Luc." She met Martin's gaze. "He doesn't approve of me, let alone, as he put it, me leaving you dangling."

"He spoke for me?"

"Most effectively." Amanda wiggled her shoulders. "He's always had a nasty tongue."