“And he’s handsome?”
“Dev-astatingly. He’s . . .” Amanda struggled for words, then waved. “Simply better than any other I’ve seen.”
“What else do you know of him?”
“He’s intelligent, astute—he actually thought enough to get Mellors to change my wine for water and to do it so no one knew.” Amanda flopped back on her pillows; they’d taken refuge on her bed. “In short, on a physical and intellectual level, Dexter’s perfect. Add to that he’s as rich as Croesus—far too rich, anyway, to be after my dowry—and that, if half the rumors are true, he’s led the most amazingly exciting life, far, far wilder than anything I would even think of doing, and his perfection takes on an even brighter gloss.”
“Hmm, but there is that old scandal, don’t forget.”
Amanda waved the caveat aside. “If none of the matrons nor any of the grandes dames consider it worth remembering, who am I to argue?” She frowned. “Did you ever hear what it was about?”
“Only that it involved some girl whom he supposedly seduced who then took her own life, but it was all years ago when he first came on the town. Whatever the truth, he was banished by his own father—”
“And only returned to England last year, a year after he’d succeeded to the title—that much I know.”
“How old is he?”
Amanda raised her brows. “Thirty? About that. I think he appears older than he is. He’s . . . serious.”
Amelia stared. “Serious?”
“Not that sort of serious. I mean . . . deep. Reserved—no!—controlled. That always makes men seem older.”
Amelia nodded. “Very well—I’ll allow he seems just perfect for you, but how are you going to tackle the big problem? Every hostess in the ton has been trying to lure him back into society, but he refuses every invitation.”
“Let’s be perfectly frank—he ignores every invitation.”
“Precisely. So how are you going to meet him often enough to convince him . . .” Amelia’s words trailed away. She studied her twin’s face. “You’re not going to try to draw him into our world—you’re going to go into his world instead.”
Amanda grinned. “That’s my plan, at least until he’s well enough snared so he’ll follow me anywhere.”
Amelia giggled. “You make him sound like a dog.”
“Hardly a dog—a lion, perhaps. A huge tawny beast who delights in lazing in his lair and who hunts at night.” Amanda nodded, her expression determined. “That’s exactly what I need to do—snare and tame my lion.”
She wasn’t fool enough to think it would be easy. Amanda spent the day evaluating various approaches. The horse was one, but she didn’t want to appear too eager, and besides, if she played that card too early, he might do exactly as he’d said and send a groom with the mount, preserving a cool, sensible distance.
Cool, sensible distance was not what she needed.
But she couldn’t go back to Mellors, not when he’d warned her away. Aside from being supremely foolish, that would show her hand far too clearly. And he wouldn’t approve . . .
That thought triggered another, and another in quick succession; suddenly she knew exactly how to bring her lion to heel.
“Last night, Mellors—tonight, Lady Hennessy’s. Have you taken leave of your senses?” Through the gloom in the carriage, Reggie glared at her. “If m’mother finds out I’ve accompanied you to such a place, she’ll disinherit me!”
“Don’t be silly.” Amanda patted his knee. “Both she and my mother think we’re joining the Montagues at Chelsea. Why would they imagine we’re anywhere else?”
As the years had rolled by, she and Reggie, often accompanied by Amelia, had taken to making their own selection among the ton’s proffered entertainments. As their choices did not always match those of their parents, they consequently and increasingly went their own way. Not a gossipmonger in the ton would make anything of it; it was common knowledge Reggie Carmarthen had known the Cynster twins from childhood.
The arrangement provided benefits to all concerned. The twins gained an acceptable escort who they could twist around their little fingers, Reggie gained a reprieve from the mamas who would otherwise pressure his mother to have him escort their simpering daughters, and both sets of parents rested comfortable in the knowledge their offspring were safe.
Reasonably safe.
“And you needn’t carry on as if visiting Lady Hennessy’s will ruin me.”
“You’re not married yet!” Reggie’s tone suggested that event could not occur too soon for his liking. “Every other lady there will be.”
“That’s by the by. I’m twenty-three. I’ve been out for six years. No one could imagine I’m an innocent miss.”
Reggie uttered a strangled sound, slammed his arms across his chest and slumped back against the seat. He said nothing more as the carriage joined the line leading to the discreetly lit door of Number 19, Gloucester Street.
The carriage stopped; tight-lipped, Reggie descended and helped her down. Amanda shook out her skirts and looked up at the door. A liveried footman stood beside it. Reggie gave her his arm. “Say the word and we’ll leave.”
“Onward, Horatio!”
Reggie grumbled but complied, leading her up the steps. He gave the footman their names; instantly, the door swung open and the footman bowed them through. In the marble-floored hall, Reggie looked about as Amanda surrendered her cloak to a very correct-looking butler.
“Always wanted to know what this place looked like inside,” Reggie confided as Amanda rejoined him.
“See.” Taking his arm, she turned him toward the drawing room. “You were just waiting for me to give you a valid excuse to come.”
“Humph!”
They entered the drawing room, stopped and looked about.
Lady Hennessy’s was a world apart from Mellors—here a lady’s touch reigned supreme. The walls were hung with cream silk bearing a delicately worked turquoise pattern. The cream, gold and turquoise theme was reflected in the satin-striped upholstery of chaises and chairs, in the heavy curtains screening long windows. Expensive Chinese rugs covered the floor, muting the click of fashionable heels.
The wealthy relict of a Scottish peer, Lady Hennessy had decided to enliven her life and that of a good portion of the ton by creating a salon in the tradition of the previous century. Her rooms were furnished with an eye to luxurious comfort and fashionable elegance; her ladyship’s refreshments were always of the best. As for the play, on the few nights on which gaming was permitted, the wagers were rumored to be astronomical.
For the most part, however, Lady Hennessy concentrated on providing entertainment guaranteed to attract the most blue-blooded rakes in town. This in turn ensured the attendance of the cream of the married ladies looking for distraction, which in turn guaranteed that every rake worthy of the name invariably returned to Gloucester Street. Her ladyship’s genius lay in perceiving the connection between her two principal groups of guests, and promoting it; there was an excellent string quartet playing softly in one corner, and the lighting, provided by lamps large and small, wall sconces and candelabra, created patches of soft light and shadow more conducive to the discreet pursuit of passion than the harsh light of a chandelier.
There were whispers of other rooms which were occasionally given over to private parties. Although curious, Amanda was certain she wouldn’t need to experience such functions. Lady Hennessy’s public rooms should be more than sufficient for her purpose.
Reggie frowned. “Rather quiet, ain’t it? Not what I expected at all.”
Amanda hid a smile; Reggie had expected a cross between a bordello and a public house. Yet while the elegant crowd conversed in quiet, well-modulated tones, while the murmurs, chuckles and laughter were distinctly well bred, the tenor of the comments, the tension that passed between couples in close converse was anything but mild. As for the glances exchanged, some could have set flame to coal.
Almack’s was the ton’s ma
rriage mart; Lady Hennessy’s was a market of a different stamp, frequented by the same class of both sellers and buyers. It was said that on any given evening during the Season, more aristocratic male blood was to be discovered in Gloucester Street than at any other venue in the capital.
Completing an exhaustive survey, Amanda was relieved to see no one she would rather not—like one of her father’s cronies. Or one of her mother’s circle. Or any of her cousins’ friends. That had been her only fear in embarking on this strategy. Reassured, she relaxed, and gave her mind to her immediate next step.
“I’m parched. Do you think you could get me a glass of champagne?”
“Right-o. I think the refreshments are laid out in there.” Reggie nodded to the connecting salon, and headed in that direction.
Amanda waited until he was out of sight, screened by shoulders and broad backs. Then she stepped into the crowd, and let her eye roam.
It took her five minutes to gather three admirers of precisely the right stamp. Gentlemen well favored, attractive, elegantly turned out, who were witty, charming in a bantering way, and who were all extremely interested in discovering the reason for her appearance in Lady Hennessy’s salon.
Amanda had attended too many balls and parties, too many houseparties, to feel challanged by the task of crossing verbal swords with the three—Mr. Fitzgibbon, Lord Walter and Lord Cranbourne—while concealing her intentions. Indeed, the very fact she was so glib in shielding her purpose only fired the gentlemen’s imaginations and anchored them within her circle.
By the time Reggie found her, she was creditably beseiged.
Greeting him with a smile, she accepted the glass he’d brought for her and made him known to her three admirers. His expression bland, Reggie acknowledged the introductions. Ignoring his severe look when he turned back to her, she smiled at Mr. Fitzgibbon. “You were describing boating on the Thames by night, sir. Is the experience truly worth the inconvenience?”
Mr. Fitzgibbon was quick to assure her it was. She took mental notes as he waxed lyrical on the sight of the stars reflected in the black waters. She had no idea how many nights she would have to spend here, keeping her trap baited with men like Fitzgibbon, Walter and Cranbourne—men only too ready to help her take her first steps into the less virtuous world they inhabited.
She had no intention of accepting their aid, but she hid that well. Logic suggested that Dexter would visit Lady Hennessy’s salons; she was betting she had his real measure.
If he didn’t appear, she would waste a few nights, a drop in the ocean of time she’d already spent searching for a husband. If he appeared but failed to react as predicted, she would gain an immensely valuable insight, enough to conclude that despite all she believed, Dexter was not in fact for her.
But if all went as planned . . . she stood to win all she desired.
She thought her plan quite splendid. With a glorious smile, shamelessly deploying her eyes and her charms, she threw herself into its execution.
Martin saw Amanda the instant he entered Helen Hennessy’s drawing room. She was standing to one side of the hearth; the light from a candelabra on the mantelpiece fell full on her, bathing her in golden light.
The effect of seeing her surprised him—the sudden clench of possessiveness, the unexpected visceral tug. He shook the sensations aside; his cynically amused mask in place, he strolled forward to greet his hostess.
Helen was delighted to see him. She chatted, drawing his attention to three separate experienced ladies who were attending that night. “They’d each and every one be delighted to make your acquaintance.”
She glanced at him, one brow raised. Martin barely glanced at the ladies in question. “Not tonight.”
Helen sighed. “I don’t know whether to applaud or pout—your reticence only heightens their interest, as you well know, but continued refusals to engage . . . well, it does call into question my ability to deliver.”
“You always deliver in the end, my dear, as I’m quite sure your ladies know. But tonight they’ll have to make do with someone else’s talents. I . . .”—Martin considered Amanda, a golden angel dispensing smiles and laughter upon her captives—“have other fish to fry.”
He looked at Helen before, intrigued, she could follow his gaze. “And no, you needn’t wonder. I suspect the role I’m scripted to play is that of knight-protector, not demon lover.”
“How fascinating.” Helen opened her eyes wide, then smiled. “Very well. You have my permission to dispense your favors as you wish—not that you’d listen to any edicts otherwise. But beware!” She slanted him an arch glance as she turned to greet another guest. “You know what they say of rakehells visited by a sudden urge to reform.”
He didn’t know and didn’t need to. The warning faded from his mind as he ambled through the crowd, ostensibly looking the ladies over, in truth watching just one.
She hadn’t seen him, or so it appeared; he’d yet to see her gaze turn his way and she’d given no sign of recognition. She continued to engage the three others and Carmarthen, although he was looking more worried than entranced.
Martin had to admit she was a dab hand at entrancing. Her smiles, her laughter—which he couldn’t hear but wished he could—the lively chatter, the gaiety dancing in her eyes, all served to project the persona of a confident young lady brimming with sparkling, bubbling charm. Indeed, she reminded him of the very best champagne, fine wine subtly effervescent, deepened by just the right touch of age to the point where it promised liquid gold on the tongue and glory to the senses.
He couldn’t tell if she knew he was present. Couldn’t tell if his suspicion that her current situation had been staged with him specifically in mind owed more to his arrogance than reality.
His prowl carried him beyond her line of sight. The crowd between them thinned; he could see her clearly, yet she didn’t turn his way. Instead, she laughed—light, airy, a sound both joyous and earthy, it carried to him. Caressed him, enticed him, as it did the other men before her.
It didn’t matter if she’d schemed to capture his attention. She had it.
Amanda felt him approach; like a storm sweeping in, his very nearness had her tensing. The sensation unnerved her; she fought not to whirl and face what her senses screamed was danger—if she did, she’d give her game away. Then he halted beside her, his towering figure excuse enough for her to break off her tale and glance his way.
She let recognition flow across her face, let pleasure light her eyes. No difficulty there—he looked even more sinfully handsome in full light, in more formal attire than he’d worn the previous night. She smiled and held out her hand. “My lord.”
Brazenly, she left it at that—let him, and the others, make of it what they would. He took her hand and she curtsied. He raised her; eyes on hers, he inclined his head. “Miss Cynster.”
Her smile ingenuous, she struggled to keep her fingers from fluttering in his, too wise to attempt to retrieve her hand until he deigned to let her go.
He released her; she drew in a quick breath and launched into the introductions. “And I believe you’ll remember Mr. Carmarthen.”
“Indeed.”
Reggie favored him with a wary look and a polite nod. Dexter’s gaze lingered on Reggie’s face, then he turned it, smoothly, on her. “I admit to surprise at encountering you here. I thought, after your most recent foray into such realms, caution would . . . how does that saying go? . . . overcome valor?”
He’s here! He’s here! And he took the bait! Her eyes locked on his, Amanda ruthlessly cut off the delirious litany; he might be here, but he wasn’t yet snared. And if she wasn’t careful, she might be the one in a coil.
As if pleased he’d remembered their last meeting, she smiled. “I did toy with the notion of attending Lady Sutcliffe’s ball, yet”—she swept her smile over her three now earnest would-be cavaliers—“formal engagements do pall when one has spent so many years in the ballrooms.” She glanced again at Dexter. “It seems a waste
not to avail oneself of the more varied divertissements offered by such as her ladyship. So much more entertaining. I daresay you find it so yourself?”
Martin held her gaze and debated whether to call her bluff. “My tastes, admittedly, lie somewhat beyond the diversions provided by the ton’s hostesses. However, I wouldn’t have imagined such esoteric distractions would hold much allure for a young lady such as you.”
Her chin lifted, her eyes sparkled, with challenge, with humor. “On the contrary, my lord. I’ve a definite taste for wilder pastimes.” Her smile confiding, she briefly touched his sleeve. “I daresay you haven’t heard, living retired as you do.”
“Wilder pastimes, heh?” Cranbourne grabbed the opening. “Heard a tale of wild doings at Mrs. Croxton’s last night.”
“Indeed?” Amanda turned to Cranbourne.
Martin watched as she encouraged all three gentlemen to dazzle her with their wildest suggestions. He might live “retired” but he knew what he was seeing. Carmarthen was growing increasingly nervous. Yet if he, Dexter, bowed and walked away, would she continue on this path? If he declined to be her protector, would she go on without one? What sort of net was she weaving—how much was true, how much for his confusion?
Not that it mattered; he was more than capable of dealing with her whatever tack she took. And she clearly needed someone to watch over her, someone with more muscle than dear Reggie.
Cranbourne, Fitzgibbon and Walter were intent; given how long she’d spent allowing them to entertain her, they’d expect her shortly to choose from among them. And contrary to what she was expecting, accustomed as she was to the rules pertaining in ballroom and drawing room, a charming dismissal would not be well received.
Reaching out, he took her hand; surprised, she glanced his way, throwing Walter, concluding some tale, off his stride. “My dear, I promised Helen—Lady Hennessey—that, given this is your first visit, I would make sure you became acquainted with all she has to offer.” He looked into Amanda’s blue eyes as he placed her hand on his sleeve. “It’s time we strolled on, or you’ll never see all before dawn.” He glanced at Walter, Cranbourne and Fitzgibbon. “I’m sure these gentlemen will excuse you.”