On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Refusing to let himself consider the ramifications-her pain or his-he slowly and clearly stated, his gaze steady on her eyes, 'There is no compelling reason that I can see to mount such a desperate action, to rake over coals long dead. Returning to the ton, being restored to the grandes dames' good graces, is not important to me."

The emphasis he placed on those last four words was brutal; she drew back-he felt it physically, a sudden chill, a loss of warmth. Her expression turned neutral; her eyes, suddenly shuttered, searched his. Then she softly repeated, "Not important. I see."

She looked toward the long windows spilling light upon them. Then she drew in a tight breath. "My apologies. Clearly, I've mistaken your… desire to reclaim the life you were raised to live." Stiffly inclining her head, she reached for the doors. "I'll leave you to the life you prefer. Good-bye."

Not "Good night." Martin watched her open the door and step through the lace curtains; one fist clenched on the railing, he watched her, head high, walk into the room, watched the crowd swallow her. He trusted that Carmarthen would escort her home. Turning his back on the lighted room, he leaned on the railing and looked over the darkened garden, into the night his life had become.

"He said, 'No.' Refused! Absolutely." Amanda kicked her skirts and swung around. "He said it-me, us!-wasn't important!"

Amelia watched Amanda pace distractedly across her bedchamber. "Are you sure he understood all you were alluding to?"

"Oh, he understood, all right! There's nothing wrong with his understanding! But as for the rest of him!" With a muted shriek, Amanda whirled and paced on.

Perturbed, Amelia waited. Her sister had a greater flair for the histrionic than she, but in all their lives, she'd never seen

Amanda more sincerely overset. Overset, however, was unlikely to help her twin's cause.

After a time, she ventured, "So-are you giving up?"

"Giving up?" Amanda halted and stared at her. "Of course not."

Amelia relaxed on the bed. "What are you going to do?" Amanda met her gaze, then came and flopped on the bed alongside her. She stared up at the canopy. Her chin was set, her expression mulish. "I don't know." An instant later she added, "But I'll think of something."

Three nights later, Martin returned to Gloucester Street, summoned by Helen Hennessy. He'd had no intention of attending, but Helen's note had been succinct and to the point-she wanted him there. They were friends enough that, given he had nothing better to do, he'd felt obliged to humor her.

She greeted him warmly, as always smoothly sophisticated.

"Cut line," he informed her. "I'm here-why?" She raised both brows at him. "Your manners are deteriorating-always a telling sign."

He frowned. Before he could ask what his deterioration signified, Helen waved to a corner of the room. "But as to why you're here, I suspect you need to be aware of your lady friend's activities."

Martin met her gaze. "Which lady friend?"

"Miss Cynster, of course. And pray don't waste your breath telling me she's not your friend." Helen prodded his arm. "Carmarthen didn't accompany her tonight-she came alone. And rather than glower at me, I suggest such expressions might better serve us all over there." Her nod indicated the corner; her mask fell and she was serious. "Truly, I think you'd better take a look. Whatever you do after that is entirely up to you."

Martin held her gaze, then nodded. "I'll look." Helen's brows rose; he ignored the sign and turned to the comer she'd indicated. If she thought he'd thank her for summoning him to Amanda Cynster's aid, she would need to think again.

It didn't occur to him to leave without seeing whatever Helen had wanted him to see, not until, skirting the walls, he caught sight of the group in the corner. Then he swore under his breath, and wished he'd left. But it was too late then.

He wasn't fool enough to charge in without assessing the situation. He could see why Helen was concerned; the group before him was without precedent, a volatile and likely explosive mix.

Amanda had assembled an extra

ordinary number of the most eligible but lecherous rakes in town, thus attracting the attention of the well-bred madams who cruised Helen's rooms. Few could hold a candle to Amanda-they would have seen her as an upstart competitor. Should have seen her as such, but something had got twisted. And Martin knew who'd done the twisting.

Instead of hissing and showing their claws, the other, more mature ladies and Miss Cynster had come to some mutual understanding. Martin could guess what such an understanding might entail, but from the enthralled looks on the gentlemen's faces, the fact that Amanda herself was not about to play their game tonight had not yet sunk in.

Then again…

He watched her flirt with an elegant roue, and wondered whether he should be so cocksure. She was a prize at any price but in this arena, she promised an experience well beyond the norm. She was not only beautiful, sensually attractive, untarnished and intelligent, she was also quick-witted, independent-defiantly feminine. There were connoisseurs enough in the circle around her who would appreciate that.

Not, however, tonight. Regardless of her plans.

After a narrow-eyed assessment, he rejected a frontal assault. Turning away, he beckoned a footman.

Laughing up at Lord Rawley, Amanda lifted the note from the salver, flicked it open-and nearly dropped it. She hadn't known Dexter was present; she'd been so intent, so on edge, she hadn't felt his gaze… hadn't seen him.

"I say-what is it? Bad news?"