A log in the fireplace cracked, broke. Opening his eyes, he watched the flames leap, felt their warmth roll over him.
Considered his last remaining option.
For there was one thing more, one trump he yet held, a penultimate card that just might see him through, might let him turn the tide and seize her hand-and her-without having to risk his heart's defenses.
The question was: was he willing to play it?
Chapter 13
"These arrived for you a few minutes ago, Miss Amanda."
Reaching the front hall, Amanda looked up as Colthorpe offered a tissue-wrapped spray of flowers on his salver. "Thank you, Colthorpe."
Amelia joined her as she picked up the spray. Together with Louise, presently descending the stairs, they were about to leave for Lady Matcham's grand ball. "That ribbon's gold thread," Amelia murmured.
Amanda studied the spray. The tissue protecting the blooms was caught in the ribbon so it could easily be freed. Holding the beribboned stems, she tugged; the tissue came away, revealing three perfect white orchids.
Amelia stared; Amanda did, too.
Louise arrived beside them. "How lovely!" She picked up the spray, examined the blooms. "Incredibly exotic." She returned the spray to Amanda. "Who are they from?"
Amanda glanced at Colthorpe. "There wasn't a note."
Colthorpe shook his head. "Delivered by a groom in dark brown livery, green-and-gold piping. I didn't recognize the house."
"Well." Louise headed for the front door. "You'll just have to carry it and see who comes to claim your hand."
Amanda glanced at Amelia; Amelia stared back.
"Come along now, or we'll be late."
"Yes, Mama." Amelia linked her arm with Amanda's and urged her forward. "Come on-you'll have to go and see."
"Indeed." Amanda fell in beside her, her gaze locked on the three delicate blooms.
She would have to go and face her lion.
Martin waited until the very last minute, until the last stragglers had arrived and Lady Matcham and her spouse were about to abandon their post at the top of their ballroom stairs. When he handed the butler his card, the man nearly dropped it, but he recovered well enough, stepping forward to announce to the assembled company that the Earl of Dexter had arrived.
If he'd announced the plague, the butler couldn't have gained greater notice. Silence spread, rippling out from the foot of the stairs until it engulfed the entire ballroom. Conversation died as every head turned, necks craning to get a better look.
Martin walked forward. Taking her ladyship's instinctively extended hand, he bowed easily. "Ma'am."
For one instant, Lady Matcham simply stared, then triumph wreathed her features. "My lord. Might I say that it's a signal…"-she ran an eagle eye over him, from his elegantly cropped locks, over shoulders encased in fashionable evening black, over perfectly tied cravat and impeccable waistcoat-after all, she had been one of his mother's bosom-bows-then she nodded in approval-"pleasure to see you finally out of your lair?"
In the ballroom below, the whispers commenced-ferociously.
Martin nodded to Lord Matcham, who nodded back, clearly intrigued by Martin's unexpected attendance. Martin replied, "It was time and the arrival of your invitation seemed a stroke of fate."
"Indeed?" With a wave, Lady Matcham dismissed her spouse, took Martin's arm and turned to the stairs. "As I recall you always did have a silver tongue-be warned, you're going to need it. I intend to introduce you to every hostess you've spent the last year hiding from."
His lazy, social smile in place, Martin inclined his head. "If you think it necessary."
"Oh, I do," Lady Matcham informed him. "I most certainly do."
He escorted her down the stairs into the large ballroom. For a hostess of her ilk, tonight-his presence-would greatly augment her standing. The round of introductions would set the seal on her success; for him, it was a small price to pay.
Ultimately, being reintroduced to the senior hostess might be to his advantage; as he bowed and exchanged drawled, occasionally barbed comments with the ladies who, all pretense aside, controlled the ton, he put the final touches to his latest plan. His latest ploy to win Amanda's hand.
Most of the hostesses were simply pleased to meet him, to exchange words and extract a promise to have their next invitations given due consideration. Two-Lady Jersey, the younger, and Countess Lieven-one garrulous, the other coldly haughty, attempted in their wildly differing ways to glean the reason behind his unexpected change of heart, his reacknowledgment of the world that had for the past year been existing ignored on his doorstep; he merely smiled and left them wondering, knowing perfectly well that nothing was more certain to keep their attention fixed on him. It was obvious to them that something must have brought him here; such avid gossips as they were, they were rabid to learn what.
When, finally, he turned from speaking with old Lady Osbaldestone-he'd been stunned to discover the old tartar still alive, and still so determinedly terrifying-Lady Match-am threw him a considering glance. "Is there anyone-any young lady-to whom you'd like to be introduced?"
He glanced at her. "Yes." Lifting his head, he looked across the room. "There's a young lady in an apricot gown in the center of that group."
"Oh?" Lady Matcham was too short to see over the circle of male shoulders. "Whoever she is, she doesn't appear to need more dance partners."
"Quite." Martin heard the steely note in his voice. He smiled at Lady Matcham. "She's my partner for the first waltz, but I suspect she hasn't yet realized. I think we should break the news to her, don't you?"
Fascinated, Lady Matcham clearly debated an order to be told all, but recognized it would gain her nought. "Very well." Placing her hand on his sleeve, she allowed him to steer her toward the group in question. "The Season has been rather dull, thus far."
When they neared the group and the gentlemen parted, revealing the lady who was the focus of their collective interest, her ladyship's eyes widened, then she smiled. "Ah… Miss Cynster. Permit me to introduce his lordship, the Earl of Dexter."
"Miss Cynster."
Martin bowed, effortlessly elegant-as if he hadn't eschewed ballrooms for the past ten years. Amanda stared, then belatedly remembered and sank into a curtsy of the required degree.
Martin took her hand and raised her. Faintly arched a brow when she remained silent. She lifted her head. "My lord. I'm surprised to see you here-I had heard you found little to interest you in the ton's entertainments."
His lips curved; his moss-agate eyes held hers. "Times change."
Lady Matcham's gaze sharpened; she turned to the gentleman on Amanda's right. "Lord Ventris-there's a young lady I wish to present to you. You may give me your arm." Without waiting to be offered it, Lady Matcham twined her arm with his lordship's and, like a galleon, towed him away.
Leaving the way clear for Martin to fill the gap at Amanda's side, which he did with smooth grace.
"As I daresay you've heard," he murmured, his voice low yet not intimate, "I've been… shall we say, out of touch?… for some years. Tell me-does this qualify as an average event, or is it quieter than the usual?"
It had been until he'd arrived. Clinging to wits that had not yet steadied-and probably wouldn't with him so close-she managed a serene smile. "This is an average gathering-wouldn't you say so, Lord Foster?"
"Oh, ah-indeed." Lord Foster glanced around as if studying the room for the first time. "Average enough, don't you know."
An uneasy silence fell. Amanda bit her lip-there were six other gentlemen gathered about, but they'd all been struck dumb by the advent of Dexter-the ton's very own untamed lion-into their midst. They were all eyeing him as if he were some exotic beast who might bite if provoked. Inwardly sighing, she opened her lips to comment on the weather-