"There's no need to concern yourself. I fully accept that there's no understanding between us. No connection-you made that plain. I therefore fail to see why you're so intent on preserving such a dog-in-the-manger attitude toward me. You can't seriously imagine that I will accept that."
He locked his jaw, bit his tongue against the impulse to respond to the taunt in her eyes. She had him-his emotions-pegged to a tee.
When he remained silent, her brows rose, then she resurveyed the room. "If you'll excuse me, there are others I wish to speak with."
She started to move away; his hold on her wrist prevented it. She looked down at his fingers, manacling her wrist. And waited. He had to force them to open. Her smile serene, she inclined her head and stepped out.
"Where are you going?" He couldn't hold the question back, knew she'd understand what he was asking-where was she headed with this game.
She glanced at him. "To hell and back again." As she turned away, she added, "If I so choose."
She was walking a tightrope over a pit of ravening wolves; at some point, she'd put a foot wrong-nothing was more certain. The wolves were counting on it; that was why they were patiently waiting, willing to be played on a string like the puppies they most assuredly were not.
Martin gritted his teeth and watched as night followed night, as soiree followed party followed rout. In the ton, the Season proper had commenced; among the demimonde, the same frenetic burst of social activity held sway.
Every night, he located Amanda; even if she had tonnish obligations, at some point, escorted by an increasingly unhappy Carmarthen, she'd appear in his world. And every night, she seemed a touch wilder, a touch less predictable.
She laughed and charmed; it appeared almost an addiction the way she added conquests to her string. Face grim, arms folded, he would prop the wall and watch; the most dangerous had noted their earlier association, and had sufficiently well-honed self-preservatory instincts to be wary. No one could fathom what lay between them, but few were game to risk stepping on his toes. It was the only weapon he had left with which to protect her; the fact it had worked so far was his only success in their game.
Supporting the wall at Mrs. Emerson's rout party, he studied the circle of which Amanda was the focus. Some argument was brewing, yet its tone seemed intellectual rather than sexual-odd, considering the company, not so odd given Amanda was leading one side of the debate.
Then Reggie Carmarthen stepped back from the group; he scanned the crowd, the expression on his face one of incipient panic. He spotted Martin.
To Martin's surprise, Reggie made a beeline for him. Fetching up beside him, Reggie dispensed with all formality. "You've got to do something. She's"-he waved at Amanda-"about to step seriously out of her depth!"
Martin returned Reggie's earnest look impassively. "So stop her."
Reggie's expression turned impatient. "If I could stop her doing anything, she wouldn't be here in the first place! That's obvious. I've never been able to turn her a damn once she gets the bit between her teeth." He met Martin's gaze belligerently. "And she's had the bit between her teeth from the moment you offered to partner her at whist."
The accusation was clear, but Martin needed no prod in that respect. He already felt responsible-certainly morally accountable-for Amanda's increasingly brazen behavior, her restless, dissatisfied state. He doubted Reggie had any idea why and how completely the blame rested with him.
To feel so might be illogical-it was her own choice, after all-yet it was how he felt.
He stirred under Reggie's righteous gaze; straightening, he glanced at the increasingly rowdy group. "What's the subject under discussion?"
"Etchings."
Martin looked at Reggie. "Etchings?"
Disgusted, Reggie nodded. "Precisely-those sort of etchings. Only Amanda has no idea, and some of the men have realized. Any minute, she's going to accept some carefully worded challenge"-he glanced at the group anxiously-"if she hasn't already."
Martin swore and followed his gaze, relieved to see the argument still in full spate. Amanda was holding forth. "They'll let her tie herself up in her own arguments first, if they've any sense."
"Curtin is there, and McLintock, too."
Which answered that. "Damn." Martin watched the drama unfold, considered how best to intervene. He'd been toying with the notion of alerting her cousins to her extracurricular activities, but he hadn't seen even one of them while tracking Amanda through the salons; going into the ton to find them was not an option-not for him.
He looked at Reggie. "If I get her out of this, might I suggest you tip the wink to one of her cousins. Devil or Vane, or one of the others?"
Reggie stared at him as if he-Martin-had misunderstood something crucial. "I can't do that." When he frowned, Reggie offered, "I'm her friend."
Martin studied Reggie's open countenance, then grimaced and looked back at Amanda. Inwardly sighed. "It seems it's up to me, then."
Amanda had all but given up hope-completely and utterly-when Dexter suddenly loomed beside her. For the past week, she'd played an increasingly desperate hand, her smile night by night growing more brittle, her behavior more outrageous. She was now skirting the unforgivable, and part of her didn't care.
It had been frightening to discover just how little she cared for what was left on her plate if Martin Fulbridge was not to be a part of her life. Frightening to realize what her future would hold-a dull and virtuous marriage. Despite her professed interest in the excitement of the demimonde, she was already weary of their entertainments, a poor imitation of those of the ton, the company less erudite, less honestly engaging; she did not approve of the cold eyes of the gentlemen or the brassy insincerity of the women.
Tonight, she'd passed beyond desperation to a state where flirting with a potentially destructive situation seemed acceptable. In her heart, she knew it wasn't so, but her heart was too heavy to save her.
Dexter's reappearance should have sent that organ soaring, but one look at the stony cast of his features was enough to douse her reaction. "Well, my lord." She met his eyes as boldly as any woman present, and a great deal more challengingly. "Which way would you argue-yes, or no?"
He held her gaze. "Yes or no to what?"
"Why, to the thesis that the most noble specimens of the art of etching are guaranteed to inflame a lady's passions." She returned his regard evenly, hiding her contempt for the subject, as she'd done throughout. When, coming upon a conversation on the irresistible lure of a recently acquired etching, she'd given her opinion that such artworks were greatly overrated as to their effect on women, every gentleman within hearing had converged to patronizingly dismiss her view.
That had been all she'd needed, in her present mood, to make her dig in her heels and stick to her theory. The fact that every gentlemen involved assumed it was indeed a theory, and that if suitably encouraged she'd talk herself into an experiment, formed the wellspring of her contempt.
Just how naive did they think she was?
Of course she knew what sort of etchings they meant-she was twenty-three! She'd viewed a few firsthand, had heard of others, and had been exposed to the works of artists such as Fragonard from her earliest years. Her opinion was no theory but established fact-artwork, no matter the subject, had never done anything to her passions.
That was a point she'd yet to make clear; starved of entertainment, she'd perhaps unwisely fanned the argument. Her current tack was to discover how long it would take for the assembled gentlemen to realize she was not about to volunteer to test her thesis by viewing one of their collections.