On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

"You're thinking of him specifically, and that's difficult because you simply can't know. But he's still a man-a man like our cousins. Isn't he?"

Amanda stared, then her face cleared. Smiling brilliantly, she flung herself on the bed and hugged her sister. "Melly, you're a genius."

Four mornings later, Martin sat his roan under the tree in the park, and watched Amanda Cynster ride toward him. The smile on her face was mildly sunny-not a hint of a smirk, not the faintest glimmer of triumph showed.

He stifled a disaffected grunt, but couldn't keep his gaze from drinking in the sight of her, golden curls bright against the early morning sky, figure supple and trim in her velvet habit.

The clash of his emotions left him feeling like gnashing his teeth. He hadn't felt so exercised in years. Irritation was nearest his surface, roused by the perception that fate was, once again, not treating him fairly. He was trying to do the right and honorable thing, trying to keep faith and give her the adventures they'd agreed on, then cut the connection he sensed growing between them and slide into the shadows once more, yet fate-and she-were conspiring to tease him.

After making the necessary arrangements for her evening at Covent Garden, he'd waited for her to send for the mare again. And waited. It had finally dawned on him that she was spending her mornings sleeping in.

She was either supremely sure of him, or she didn't truly care.

The rub was, he couldn't decide which.

Regardless, be

cause of her new tack, instead of adhering to his sworn oath not to encourage her in any way, he'd had to send a note asking her to meet him. Irked was not the half of what he felt.

She reined to a halt; the mare pranced. Patting its glossy neck, she smiled fondly. "You were right-she does need to be ridden." Lifting her head, she regarded him evenly, then raised a brow.

He studied her blue eyes, face hardening as his mind recited her words. Tightening his reins, he jerked his head toward the track. "Let's go."

They did; despite his frequent glances, he detected not the slightest smugness. Indeed, her demeanor suggested her adventures with him were merely by-the-by, that they didn't figure highly in her life. That she wasn't, at that very moment, wondering if he'd made the arrangements she'd earlier been so keen for him to make.

Reaching the track, they turned as one, then thundered down its length. As usual, the exhilaration claimed him; he was aware it claimed her, too. For those minutes as they raced side by side, neck and neck, there was just them and the birds and the sky. No expectations. No obligations. Just simple excitement and delight.

They had that in common-an ability to give themselves up to the moment without reservation. The realization dawned as they slowed and turned onto the lawns.

His irritation had eased, leaving behind it… something he'd thought never to feel.

With a brusque nod, he directed her onto the screened path they'd taken previously. The sun was rising earlier; other gentlemen were already sleepily plodding toward the park.

"I have a box at Covent Garden for the masquerade next Tuesday."

She smiled gloriously at him. "Wonderful."

He fought against a scowl. "If the date suits, I'll wait in the carriage as before."

Her smile didn't falter. "Tuesday evening will suit admirably. There are major balls on Monday and Wednesday nights, so if I cry off on Tuesday, no one will be surprised."

He studied her face. She bore the scrutiny calmly; her expression gave nothing away. Yet she had to know that he could have sent the details in the summons he'd sent her. He hadn't; the last thing he wanted to think about was why.

Perhaps she hadn't realized-perhaps she thought horses were what he preferred to ride at this hour.

He hauled his mind off that tack, away from the ache in his loins. "Tuesday night, then." After that, he'd be free.

Still smiling, she inclined her head. Barely waiting for him to acknowledge the gesture, she flicked her reins and left him.

He watched her ride away, calmly assured, then turned and rode home, even more determined to end her game.

The pit of Covent Garden, cleared and crammed with revelers, was a scene lifted from Amanda's wildest imaginings. When Dexter escorted her into their box in the first tier, she didn't know where to look first.

Everyone wore masks, but many ladies had already dispensed with their black cloaks, revealing gowns the likes of which Amanda had never seen. Eyes round, she drank in the sights-and corrected her thoughts. Not ladies. No lady would ever wear such provocative attire. Sinking into a chair at the front of the box, she viewed this one, then that, with voyeuristic fascination; these were the demimonde in all their glory. The Cyprians, the ladybirds, the opera dancers who more frequently appeared on the stage of the huge hall, presently hosting an orchestra laboring to be heard over the din. Ribald comments, raucous laughter, rose from all quarters. Arch glances, teasing titters captured men's senses and tempted them nearer.

The gentlemen were unremarkable, the same crowd she saw every night in the ton. What enthralled her was their behavior, then" open worship of the bold and brazen who flaunted their charms directly beneath their noses.

The flagrant play-the inciting of desire and the subsequent negotiation over its satisfaction-intrigued her. Although aware of Dexter's frowning gaze, she continued to sit and stare. After a time, he sprawled in a chair beside her, large, watchful-intensely lionlike.