Demon softly snorted.
Devil tapped his blotter with his pen. “So . . . there’s no reason to oppose a match, provided that old scandal is laid to rest.”
“And provided he’s thinking in such terms.” Vane pushed away from the bookshelves.
“Indeed.” Devil’s face hardened. “Regardless of our ladies’ fond imaginings, I believe I should demand some straight answers from the earl.”
“I’ll come with you,” came from five other throats.
A tap on the door had them all glancing that way. The door opened; Sligo, Devil’s majordomo, slipped in. “The Earl of Dexter has called, Your Grace. He’s asked to speak with you privately.”
Devil stared. “Dexter?”
Sligo proffered his salver on which a card lay. Devil took it, studied it, then asked, “Where is he?”
“I left him in the drawing room.”
“Where’s Her Grace?”
“Out.”
Devil’s lips curved. “Very good. Show his lordship in.”
Martin stepped into His Grace of St. Ives’ study—every self-protective instinct he possessed immediately snapped to full alert. Six pairs of eyes had locked on him; no prizes for guessing the most recent topic of conversation.
Strolling into the large room, he seized the moment to study the other occupants—far more than he’d expected, yet he wasn’t all that surprised. He’d heard they operated as a pack.
Led by the man who came slowly to his feet behind the desk and nodded. “Dexter.” He held out a hand.
Martin returned the nod. “St. Ives.” He gripped the proffered hand.
“Do you have any reservations over speaking before my cousins?”
Martin let his gaze briefly touch the stony faces. “None.”
“In that case . . .” Devil introduced them, using their nicknames, then waved to a straightbacked chair before the desk. “Sit down.”
Martin looked at the chair, then picked it up and set it down to one side of the desk, so he wouldn’t be sitting with four Cynsters at his back.
Demon scowled as he sat. Martin looked at Devil, without preamble stated, “I’ve just come from Upper Brook Street where I learned that your uncle, Lord Arthur Cynster, is presently from home and not expected to return for a week. I’d wished to apply for permission to pay my addresses to his daughter Amanda. In the circumstances, as you’re the head of the family and currently in town, I’m here to apply to you in Lord Arthur’s stead.”
Absolute silence greeted his pronouncement, confirming his supposition of what they’d been discussing before he’d walked in.
His pale green gaze steady on Martin’s face, Devil murmured, “A week isn’t a long time.”
Martin returned that unwavering regard; he was not prepared to endure another week of inaction. “Much could occur in a week, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Two of the others stirred at his deliberate words; Martin didn’t shift his gaze from Devil.
Who sat back, eyes narrowing. “Why?”
Martin didn’t bother to misunderstand. “Because it’s time.” He paused, selecting his words, then continued, “In my view, matters have progressed to a point where a wedding is in order. Hence . . . here I am.”
There wasn’t one of them who didn’t immediately comprehend what particular matters had progressed, and to where; muffled oaths and none-too-thinly veiled threats, including one to hang him by a sensitive part of his anatomy, rose around him.
Devil waved the others to silence, his gaze locked on Martin’s face. “You’ve only recently returned to the ton—stalking Amanda. I take it that was after those matters had progressed. Where did you meet her in the first place?”
Martin held Devil’s gaze. “At Mellors.”
“What?” “That den?” and various other mutterings came from the sidelines.
Martin glanced down, straightened his cuff. “She’d just accepted a wager to play whist. Against Connor. She didn’t have a partner.”
The silence that greeted that was one of abject—positively scandalized—disbelief.
“The second time I saw her was in Helen Hennessy’s salon.”
The room erupted. Various epithets were heaped on Amanda’s head. Numerous questions were flung at him; recognizing them as rhetorical, Martin kept silent. Eventually, at a sign from Devil, now seriously displeased, the others quieted.
“Very well.” Devil’s eyes were hard. “What happened then?”
“She had a list of outings she wished to experience, beyond the ton but not of themselves scandalous. A moonlight drive in Richmond Park, boating on the Thames by night, a visit to Vauxhall in non-approved company, and attending a Covent Garden masquerade.”
A wave of low growls swept the room.
“You offered to take her on these outings?”
“No.” Martin felt his expression harden. “I had little choice—it was either fall in with her plans, or watch her organize with some other who would. She had Lord Cranbourne in her sights for the drive to Richmond.”
“Cranbourne! That slug?” Demon’s scowl was black.
“There were others she’d met in Gloucester Street. She had real alternatives. I deemed it safer not to call her bluff.”
“And during these outings . . .”
“No.” Martin met Devil’s gaze. “I took her on the outings on condition she return thereafter to the ballrooms—where she belonged. However, as it transpired, the outings weren’t her true goal. Once they were over, she rescripted the rules and returned to Gloucester Street and other venues even less appropriate.” His gaze steady on Devil’s, he stated, “What happened thereafter was entirely at her behest, if not precisely as she’d planned.”
There wasn’t one of them who didn’t sympathize; he was admitting to being stalked, and caught, by their cousin. Knowing the moment was right, he pressed on, “In the circumstances, a wedding is the prescribed outcome. So . . . do I have your permission to address her?”
Devil blinked, frowned. “Wealth, birth, station, estate—all those are in order. But what of the past?”
He inclined his head. “The past will be dealt with.”
“Did you do it?”
“No.” After a moment he added, “But the inescapable fact is, someone did.”
Devil’s uncannily penetrating gaze searched his eyes; Martin endured the scrutiny without shifting. Devil nodded. “Very well—I agree. Provided the old scandal is resolved in your favor, a marriage between you and Amanda is clearly appropriate. You have my permission to address her. I’ll speak with my uncle on his return.”
“Good. And you’ll make the family’s stance clear?”
Devil shrugged. “To the ton? Of course.”
“I meant to Amanda.”
That last was met with silence, a different, slightly uneasy one. Devil broke it. “Why?”
“Because, while she’s ‘agreed’ in a manner we’d all accept, on several occasions, she’s yet to manage the word ‘yes’ in the appropriate context.”
“Ah.” Devil’s eyes widened. “You’ve asked her.”
Martin frowned. “Of course. Immediately and several times thereafter. Why else do you imagine I’ve been chasing her through the ton, not an arena I particularly relish, if not to tighten the noose a few notches before I ask her again?”
“Has she said why she won’t agree?” It was Richard who put the question.
Martin hesitated, then replied, his tone hard, “She wants ‘something more,’ by which I take it she means something that would not feature in any marriage contract.”
The look on their faces told him they knew exactly what he meant.
Devil’s grimace was heartfelt. “Commiserations.” After a moment, he asked, “I take it you’re not of a mind simply to give it to her?”
“No.” Martin considered, then added, “Not if there’s any other way.”
“And if I was to tell you there probably won’t be any other way?”
Martin met Devil’s green gaze. “I won’t know until we get to that point.”
Devil sighed. Nodded. “I’ll do what I can, but, conversely, there’s little I can do.”
“You could speak with her.”
“I could, but all that will yield will be a glare, a pert recommendation to mind my own business and a guaranteed wall of feminine disapprobation mobilized to ensure we can do no more to assist your suit.”
Vane nodded. “And within the ton, they rule.”
“There’s a better way.” Perched on the arm of the chaise, Demon looked at Martin. “You tell her Devil’s given your suit the nod. She’ll expect us to hound her. We won’t. She’ll credit us with better sense than she’d expected, and very likely not mention the matter to our mothers or wives.” Demon grinned. “Then we can help you.”
Martin considered the committed glint in Demon’s eyes, the sense of fellow-feeling now pervading the room. He nodded. “How?”
He told her that evening, on the Fortescues’ terrace.
“Devil?”
“He is the head of your house.”
Amanda humphed. Resettling her shawl about her elbows, she continued to stroll at his side. “What he or any of them think is beside the point. I have to agree—and I haven’t.”
“I know.” His hard tone had her glancing up; he caught her gaze. “What will convince you to say yes?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I told you before—you need to discover that on your own.”
He glanced ahead. Although a dozen other couples were strolling the wide terrace, none had ventured in this direction, to where the terrace was overhung by thickly leaved branches creating a grotto of shadows. “In that case, I assume you’re not averse to allowing me to . . . explore.”
She glanced at him. Other sounds reached them; they both turned. Everyone else was returning to the ballroom, drawn by the strains of a waltz.
Martin smiled. “My dance, I believe.”
He reached for her, drew her into his arms; she came, but warily. His smile deepened; he began to revolve in the area lit by the wall flares, until she relaxed, until she let the moment and the music sweep her away, and she followed his steps without thought.
Amanda wasn’t surprised when he whirled her into the shadows, wasn’t surprised when his steps slowed and he drew her closer still.
His words ruffled the curls about her ear. “I’ve waltzed with you often, so presumably what you want will not be found in the dance.” His lips touched her ear, traced the outer curve, then slid into the sensitive hollow behind. “I wonder . . .”
The hand at her back held her hard against him; his lips caressed so lightly she shuddered. As if that were a signal, he shifted his attentions to her lips, and she suddenly found herself drowning in an inexpressibly sweet kiss.
Not a kiss of claiming, but a kiss that lured, that tempted with promises not just of glory, but . . . her head spun as she tried to adjust to the sudden shift in his attack. Their steps slowed, halted, as their senses sank deeper and deeper into the enthralling exchange.
His hand didn’t leave her back, the hollow just beneath her waist where it habitually rode; his other hand curled about her wrist, lightly stroking.
She was trapped, but not physically. The sensual web he wove was insubstantial yet unbreakable—because she couldn’t bring herself to break it, to pull away from the landscape that with his tongue, his lips, his mouth, his breath, he created. It was a landscape where she ruled, and he served. Where, empresslike, she could command, demand, then lie back and have her every desire lavished upon her.
She tried to slip her hand free and reach for him, touch his cheek, but his fingers firmed; he held her hand, drew her closer yet so that the heat and hardness of his body wrapped about her. Shielding her from all else but the communion of their mouths, the drugging promise of the kiss.
“You’ll feel much more the thing once you’ve had a breath of air.”
The words, uttered in a voice she recognized, broke their kiss, shattered the magic. Blinking, peering back along the terrace, Amanda saw Edward Ashford escorting Emily, Anne and their friend Miss Ffolliot out from the ballroom from which music still wafted.
Martin swore softly; she felt the same. He set her back on her feet; the loss of his heat only added to her irritation. They were in the shadows, as yet unseen, but they weren’t sufficiently screened to ignore the interruption. Setting her hand on his sleeve, Martin turned her; as if they’d been doing nothing else, they strolled out from the branches’ shadow.
Having led the way from the ballroom, Edward was standing waiting for the girls to join him. He saw them first; he stiffened, then adopted an even more supercilious expression than usual.
The girls, juggling shawls and reticules, saw them, smiled and came bustling forward. Edward hesitated, then fell in on their heels.
“Hello! It’s quite mild out here, isn’t it?”
“Edward thought I looked peaked, so he brought us out here.”
“Good evening, my lord.”
All three girls had met Martin previously; all were in awe of him, but Amanda’s presence gave them courage.
After greeting the girls, Amanda looked at Edward. He was observing Martin narrowly, then he noticed her and inclined his head. Somewhat more stiffly, he nodded to Martin. “Dexter.”
Martin nodded back.
Amanda felt like throwing her hands in the air. They were first cousins, for heaven’s sake! At least Luc had conversed reasonably. Edward’s stiffness, his uneasiness, projected the clear impression he’d be happier gathering the girls and her, too, and retreating from Martin’s contaminating presence.
Martin’s eyes had narrowed; Amanda gave him credit for not reacting further to Edward’s irritating attitude.
Taking Martin’s arm again, she smiled at the girls. “We’ll leave you to your perambulation. But don’t remain out too long—people do notice.”
* * *
“I can’t believe it—they haven’t lectured, they haven’t growled. Demon even smiled at me!” Amanda stared narrow-eyed at her cousins, currently standing with their wives on the other side of Lady Hamilton’s ballroom.
Beside her, Amelia stared, too. “And Devil’s given his permission . . . but surely they’ve guessed? Perhaps the others haven’t heard?”
“According to Patience, they were all there when Martin spoke with Devil.”
“Well, then, they’ve all met him, which means you’re right—it’s not believable. I’m surprised he’s unmarked. They must be up to something.”
“Maybe . . .” Amanda’s gaze grew distant. “Yes, that has to be it. Martin must have convinced them that, as what’s done is done and he does wish to marry me, to let him manage me—my resistance—on his own.” She refocused on her cousins. “He knows how I feel about them and their interference.”
“Maybe they’ve realized that our lives are none of their business.”
Amanda glanced at Amelia; Amelia met her gaze.
Amanda shook her head. Stared again at her cousins. “They’re up to something. But what?”
Whatever their plan was, it didn’t include discouraging Martin’s suit. Giving permission was one thing; in the circumstances, it might have proved difficult not to grant. But actually approving . . .
As she whirled through the first waltz in Martin’s arms, Amanda saw both Vane, and then Gabriel, notice them, then turn away, apparently unperturbed. She refocused on Martin’s face. “When you spoke with Devil, did you or he touch on the . . . degree of our relationship?”
Martin met her gaze. “If you mean did we discuss the fact of our intimacy, no. However, my interpretation of the discussion was that that aspect was understood.”
She stared at him. “Taken for granted?”
“Let’s say ‘assumed.’ “
“Humph!” She wasn’t sure how to react—relieved her cousins had apparently accepted her right to manage her own life, or wildly suspicious, certain they never wo
uld. She settled for being watchful, wary. Looking before she leapt.
“This is bedlam,” Martin muttered as the music ended and they halted. “Let’s stroll in the foyer. At least we should be able to breathe out there.”
She was willing enough; Lady Hamilton had invited more than double the number of people her rooms could actually hold. Unfortunately, her ladyship’s guests were still arriving; the foyer, although less packed, was still crowded.
They wended their way through the guests, then Martin twined his fingers with hers and drew her into the mouth of a corridor. “Let’s leave this madness. The library’s this way—there won’t be anyone there yet.”
Feeling a touch giddy, she acquiesced. He led her down the dimly lit corridor, then opened a door, looked in, then waved her in.
The library was a medium-sized room, comfortably furnished with chaises before the fire and a handsome desk at the other end. A lighted candelabra stood on a table between the chaises, its glow illuminating a silver tray set with decanters and glasses waiting for the older gentlemen who would gravitate here as the evening wore on.
At present, however, the library was blissfully empty.
Amanda breathed in, then exhaled on a sigh. She felt Martin’s gaze on her, felt her nerves prickle, then tense. Eschewing the chaises as potentially dangerous, she strolled to the desk. She halted before it, her gaze drawn to the bookshelves behind it. “This library is nothing like yours.”
“No?” Humor echoed in his voice as he prowled in her wake. “How so?”
“It lacks color.” She turned, and found him all but breast to chest with her, a familiar sensual glint in his moss-green eyes, a taunting tilt to his lips.
“Just the color?” he murmured.
She felt all three words. Reaching up, she twined her arms about his neck. “That, and a few other amenities.”