Just the sight of her had been enough to make him forget all the rational, logical arguments for staying away from her.
"Very well." Lips compressing, he took her arm. "This way."
He steered her past the fireplace to a pair of French doors curtained with lace. Reaching between the curtains, he set one door swinging wide. Without hesitation, Amanda slipped through and out; he followed, closing the door, leaving them isolated on a narrow balcony overlooking the garden. Totally private, yet not private enough to cause a scandal.
"What did you wish to discuss?"
She glanced at him; he could almost see her girding her loins as she faced him. "You told me of your past. You made it clear it-or rather its consequences-stand between us. I've quietly investigated how people view what happened, how the ton views you now." Her eyes searched his. "There are many who do not and never have accepted your guilt as a given."
He let his brows rise fractionally; he'd never really considered what the ton at large thought. The ton had never, of itself, been important to him. "How…" How what? Heartening? Hardly that. Interesting? The last thing he wished was to encourage her. He shrugged. "It matters little."
Her head rose. "On the contrary-it matters a great deal."
Her tone, the determined light in her eyes, the defiant tilt of her chin, alerted him to her direction. If he were resurrected in the ton's eyes…
The vision she was seeing, the impossible dream she was determined to pursue, broke across his mind. Acceptance, his true position… her. All that and so much more, all he'd blocked from his mind for the past ten years-
Wrenching his mind away, cutting off the thoughts, drowning the vision, took an effort that left his gut knotted, his lungs tight. "No."
She frowned, opened her lips-
"It won't work." He had to stop her from raising the spectre, stop it from gaining further flesh. "It's not that I haven't considered clearing my name." All too frequently during the past week. "But it happened ten years ago, and even at the time there was not a whisper of proof to support my tale-no one able to bear me witness."
Her frown deepened. After a moment, she said, "You do see, don't you, what could be… all that you could have?"
He held her gaze, succinctly replied, "Yes." He saw all too well. Knew how much he longed to seize, to possess. Knew that in this case, trying and failing would be infinitely worse than not trying at all.
If he-they-attempted to clear his name and failed…
That was one scenario he didn't ever want to face. To raise the spectre of having a life he'd accepted as denied him long ago, only to see that hope dashed irretrievably. To know she would be tainted by the association; impossible for her interest to go unremarked.
And, despite all, one point had never, over all the years, escaped him-if he hadn't murdered old Buxton, who had?
Since his return to London, he'd grown even more equivocal about learning the answer to that question. Yet uncovering and publishing that answer might well be what it took to clear his name.
Dragging in a breath, he forced his gaze from her, looked out over the garden and tried to drag his senses in, tried to erect some barrier between himself and the woman he was with-usually an easy task.
He'd never managed it with her. And the balcony was so damned small. "There's no point pursuing it. There's nothing I, or even we, can do." He added, his tone harsh, "I didn't tell you the tale to gain your support-I told you so you'd understand why I have no future in the ton." He paused, then added, "The past is dead and buried."
Silence, then she spoke softly, "Buried, perhaps-but not dead."
He didn't glance her way, didn't want to see her face, her eyes.
After a moment, she went on, her tone hardening, "I find it difficult to believe that you're deliberately turning your back on your life-on what your life would be if your name was cleared."
Would be, he noted, not could; she had a single-mindedness he found disarming.
When he didn't respond, she exploded. "Why?" The word rang with frustration. "I know you well enough to know you have a reason."
He had a plethora of reasons, none of which she needed to know. He could readily imagine her opinion, her demolition of his concern for her. He forced himself to look into her brilliant eves, saw emotion glittering in the blue, and knew in that instant that he had to make her believe she'd misjudged him, that all she'd learned of him over the past weeks she'd misread.
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."