On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Amelia had asked if an acknowledgment truly mattered. Reassessing all she now knew of Dexter and Martin, earl and man, Amanda thought it might. Not just for Lady Osbaldestone's stated reason, but also for that more nebulous, worrisome concern she'd detected behind her ladyship's black eyes.

That amorphous worry was the most irksome, hard-to-get-to-grips-with feeling, but she now felt it, too. Not in her head, not in her heart, but in her stomach. Her head told her that as long as the scandal was resolved, all would be well. Her heart assured her that he loved her, regardless of what he thought. Her gut told her to beware, that there was some other, deeper wound she couldn't see, something hidden that she-they-needed resolved…

"Aaarrgh!" Flinging her hands in the air, she sat up. This was getting her nowhere, other than into another headache. Tossing back the covers, she stood, then remembered. She'd told Martin she'd answer him in a day. Which meant by tonight.

She sank back on the bed. Just the thought of seeing him sent her wits into a slow spin. "I can't do it." If she saw him now, she'd only

get more confused. She might even say

"Yes," while all her instincts were urging her to say, "Not yet. Not until."

Wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, she started to pace. She had to think, get her arguments formulated and verbalized so she could hit him with them when he next narrowed his agate eyes at her and pressured her to agree. As he assuredly would. Now he had her cousins' backing-after the previous night, their true views were crystal clear-there was little doubt he would pursue that tack as far as he possibly could. They'd knowingly handed him a potent weapon none knew better than they would turn her head…

She gritted her teeth against a frustrated scream.

Thanks to their unholy alliance, London wasn't safe for her-not until she was fully armed and knew the ground firm beneath her feet. She had to get away, somewhere she could think, free of him, free of them all, preferably with someone who would shield her, help her to see her way…

She halted. "How obvious." She considered a moment more, then, jaw firming, nodded. "Perfect."

Invigorated, already feeling less weighed down-almost hopeful-she crossed to the bellpull.

Martin waited and paced and waited. At four o'clock he surrendered, quit his house and strode to Upper Brook Street. His patience was at an end. Surely she wouldn't still be gadding about, or swanning around the park, not when she'd agreed to answer him today.

All day he'd berated himself for not pressing harder last night, when she'd been swept away and vulnerable. When she'd been a soft bundle of warm, sated female in his arms, and her wits had been wandering. If he'd insisted on an answer… he hadn't, purely because a deeply ingrained sense of chivalry had intervened, dictating that an answer gained under duress wasn't binding, and that deliberately exploiting such a scenario purely to elicit a favorable response wasn't playing fair.

Fair. He suppressed a snort. The woman had pursued him for weeks; now the shoe was on the other foot, she was tying him in knots-without even knowing. When he was with her, he simply couldn't bring himself to admit to the truth-cutting off his left arm would be easier. Why it was so… he knew why, but dwelling on it solved nothing. Yet when they were apart, uttering the words seemed perfectly possible, if that's what it took to make her his. A strategic decision uncomplicated by emotion.

Emotion set in the instant he set eyes on her; the effect she had on him, the emotional turmoil she evoked, was nothing short of frightening. As for what he was doing to himself… he'd dreamed of Connor's "evil fate"; the old man's words haunted him, as he'd no doubt intended.

But he wasn't going to lose her.

Today was the day. Once he had her decision, clearly stated between them, he-they-could go on from there. After last night, she had to know that denying she loved him wasn't an option; she did-she had from the first time she'd given herself to him, and he was far too experienced not to know it. Every time she came to him, gave herself to him, she only strengthened the bond between them.

There was no further reason for her to refuse to agree. No logical reason. Her illogical reason remained, but she wasn't an unreasonable woman. She'd been weakening last night-she'd almost said yes. Today, she would.

If her father had been home, he might have asked for advice, but Arthur was not expected back for some days yet. He'd met Louise and Amanda's aunts-he knew better than to look to them for help, especially in this. They might assist if he sued for mercy, but help him avoid Amanda's demand? Not this side of hell. Which left him very much on his own as he climbed the steps of Number 12. The butler answered the door.

"Miss Amanda Cynster." He handed the man his card.

The butler glanced at it. "I'm afraid you've missed her, my lord. But she left a message."

"Missed her?"

"Indeed. She left just after luncheon, quite unexpected." The butler held open the door, Martin stepped into the hall. "Mr. Carmarthen went with her. I'm sure I saw your name on a note here…" The man hunted through a stack of invitations. "Ah, yes. I knew I wasn't mistaken, although why her ladyship left it here…"

Martin twitched the note from the butler's fingers; "Dexter" was inscribed across the front. Refusing to think, to jump to conclusions, he wrestled the neatly folded corners undone, spread out the single sheet.

His eyes scanned. His mind seized.

His blood turned to ice in his veins.

My apologies. I could not give you the answer you expect. I have taken steps to place myself beyond your reach, but I will return to town as soon as I am able, and you will have your answer then.

The missive was signed with a flourishing "A."

Martin crumpled the note in his fist. For a long moment, he stared across the hall, and saw nothing. It was as if the world had stopped, and his heart with it. Then he spoke, his voice flat. "Where did she go?"

"Why to Scotland, my lord. Didn't she say…?" His jaw set. Stuffing the note in his pocket, he turned on his heel and stalked from the house.