On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

He caught her gaze, knew his expression was stony, could feel the hardness in his face. "Regardless of all else, I will not again be put in the stocks as a gentlemen who did not do the right thing."

Her eyes widened, then she looked away. "Ah-the old scandal. I didn't think of that."

"There are certain parallels."

"Except that you weren't, in that case, responsible at all"-her voice strengthened-"and in this case, I can assure you I have no intention of taking my life."

Amanda censored the statement that she was also not pregnant; she didn't actually know, and he would guess that was so. The last notion she wished to raise within the present discussion was the possibility she might be carrying his child-his heir. Just the thought was enough to distract her utterly-she hurriedly buried it. "Rather than waste our time in fruitless generalities, might I declare my hand?"

He nodded curtly; as the mare ambled on, she declaimed, "My position is simple: I will not marry-not you, not anyone-purely because society, if it knew all, would deem our wedding a required penance for our sins. I do not consider social obligation to be a viable foundation for marriage. Especially not my marriage." She met his eyes. "Is that clear?"

Martin searched her eyes, and wondered what she wasn't telling him. What she'd said was the truth-that he accepted-but was it all?

That she, at twenty-three, with her inherent wildness, her liking for excitement and thrills, should harbor a bone-deep antipathy to the social conventions that ruled her life… that wasn't hard to see. That she would therefore react badly to the suggestion that social obligation necessitated their marriage was, unfortunately, entirely logical.

Jaw setting, he nodded. "Perfectly."

She blinked; after a fractional pause, she asked, "So you agree we don't need to wed to appease society's sensibilities?"

He forced himself to nod again.

"Good." Her expression easing, she looked ahead.

Through narrowing eyes, he studied the back of her head, the bright curls glossy gold in the strengthening light, studied the slender lines of her figure, swaying gently. Considered his next avenue of attack.

At the end of the ride where it joined the lawns not far from the gate, he murmured, "There's a private party at Lady Chalcombe's house tonight." Amanda glanced back at him; he added, "It's in Chelsea, by the river. Perhaps we could meet there?"

Very blue, her eyes met his, then she looked away. Shook her head. "No-I'm afraid not." Her tone was regretful, but firm. "The Season proper is upon us-it's the Duchess of Richmond's ball tonight. After that, my evenings are crammed with engagements. I always knew the start of the Season would put an end to less formal entertainments."

What was she telling him? Frowning, he glanced at her profile, all he could see of her face. And saw consternation sweep her features.

"Oh, dear-there are others out already. We'd better part. Is that your groom over there?" She pointed to the figure waiting by the gate.

"Yes."

"I'll leave the mare with him." She glanced at him, smiled. "Good-bye." Flicking the reins, she trotted away.

Martin watched her go in disbelief. A smile, a cheery good-bye-and that was it?

In a pig's eye.

"Thank you, Mr. Lytton-Symthe. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must circulate."

"But my dear Miss Cynster." Despite Amanda's tugging, Percival held onto her hand. "Naturally, you must. I'll be only too delighted to squire you."

"No!" Amanda searched for some way out, then fell back on her standard ploy. "I must

visit the withdrawing room."

"Ah." Deflating, Percival released her, then he brightened and smiled superiorly. "But we can't have you wandering Her Grace's rooms on your own. I'll wait for you to return."

Amanda suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. "If you wish."

She escaped, wondering if it would occur to Percival that she must have some illness-he was such a pest she was forever leaving him for the withdrawing room. Then again, he seemed incapable of adding two and two, steadfastly impervious to all her hints that she did not subscribe to his belief that she should allow him to steer her from what he described as her path of regrettable levity onto his puritanical path of the right and proper.

"Hah!" She'd been heading toward Her Grace's front foyer; now she ducked through an arch into a smaller salon. She'd only danced with Percival from a sense of duty. She hadn't enjoyed it; he was becoming uncomfortably irritating. Not that he held her too close or, heaven forbid, let his hand wander, but while she loved to dance, Percival was definitely the wrong partner. She'd felt like pulling out of his arms the whole time.

Exchanging greetings with various guests, stopping to chat here and there, she gradually made her way to the far corner of the salon where a stand of potted palms screened the space before a pair of long windows. The windows stood open; a breeze occasionally wafted their lace curtains.