On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Agnes's black eyes flashed with the temper that was never far from her surface. She drew herself up, turned haughtily to Amanda. "Miss Wallace?"

Martin glanced at Amanda, and saw her smile. She held out her hand. "Miss Korsinsky. Your soiree has been quite delightful. I spent some moments talking to your brother…"

It took effort to smother his grin. He stood and watched Agnes get bowled over by an effortless tide of ballroom patter. She was no match for one who'd spent six years in the ton. In the end, Agnes recalled someone she had to see. With a mere nod for him, but polite words to Amanda, she left them.

Only then could he allow his lips to curve. "Thank you." Lifting Amanda's hand to his lips, he brushed her fingertips-just as their eyes met.

He felt the shiver that raced through her to his toes. Felt arousal surge through him in response, saw her eyes widen.

She drew breath, smiled, slid her fingers from his. "Was there some reason for my change of identity?" She turned away, scanning the crowd.

His gaze locked on the golden curls before his face, he murmured, "Agnes is not one to trust. She can be… vindictive."

Amanda glanced briefly his way. "Especially over things she wants but hasn't succeeded in getting?"

"Especially then."

She started to stroll; he fell in in her wake. The crowd had grown; it was difficult to walk abreast.

Her voice drifted back to him. "Now that I've saved you from Miss Korsinsky, perhaps I can prevail upon you to assist me."

This was where she would ask him to drive her around Richmond at midnight. "In what matter do you require assistance?"

She glanced back, smiling easily. "In the matter of selecting which gentlemen I should ask to squire me on my quests for excitement."

She faced forward again; again he was left staring at her golden curls. Left, once again, wondering what it was about her that evoked such a maelstrom of impulses in him-impulses stronger, wilder, infinitely more dangerous than anything she was imagining experiencing.

And she was the focus of those impulses.

Jaw locked, he prowled in her wake, grateful she couldn't see his face, his eyes. They tacked through the crowd; he kept close, unwilling to let her get more than six inches away while he wrestled his demons into some semblance of subjection. She wasn't intending to ask any other gentleman to squire her. She was baiting him, he was sure.

Amanda stopped here and there, exchanging greetings, very conscious of Dexter at her back, aware that, although he exchanged nods and names, he said nothing more. She could feel his heat, his strength like a hot storm threatening. Smiling confidently, she continued searching for the right provocation to make the storm break.

Then she spied Lord Cranbourne. His lordship was elegant of manner, assured, glibly pleasant. Perfect.

She stopped walking, steeled herself not to react when Dexter walked into her. As he stepped back, without looking at him, she put a hand on his arm. "Lord Cranbourne," she murmured. She sensed rather than saw Dexter follow her gaze. "I should think he'd be perfect to drive me to Richmond. His conversation is superior, and his greys are magnificent."

Plastering on her best smile, she released Dexter's arm and stepped out, her gaze fixed on Lord Cranbourne.

She'd managed all of two steps before hard fingers wrapped, manaclelike, about her wrist.

"No."

The low growl that had preceded the word nearly made her grin. She turned back to Dexter, eyes wide. "No?"

His jaw was clenched. His eyes bored into hers, searching…

Then he looked up, over her head, over the crowd. His fingers shifted; he changed his hold on her hand, locking it in his. "Come with me."

She hid her grin as he towed her to the side of the room. She expected him to stop there; instead, he pushed open a door left ajar and stepped through, drawing her into a long gallery that marched down one side of the ballroom. The gallery was narrow; the wall it shared with the ballroom was punctuated by three sets of doors. The other wall contained a succession of windows that looked out over the Consulate gardens.

Other couples strolled in the light shed by wall sconces set between the ballroom doors. The windows were uncurtained, letting moonlight stream in, adding its silvery tint to the scene. The gallery was considerably less stuffy than the ballroom; gratefully, she drew a deep breath.

Dexter set her hand on his sleeve and covered it with his. Face grim, he steered her down the room. "This entire start of yours is madness."

She didn't deign to reply. The last window, just out from the room's corner, drew near; it looked down on a small courtyard. "How pretty."

They halted before the window; drawing her hand from beneath his hard fingers, she leaned on the windowsill and looked down.