His sole purpose in rejoining the ton had been to establish the bona fides of his suit-his pursuit-of Amanda. He'd spent nearly two weeks projecting a patience he didn't possess, his well-honed instincts insisting that establishing the link between them as accepted fact in the ton's collective mind was the surest road to victory.
The Season was rushing on, building to its height, to the weeks when there would be three or more major balls to attend every night. The very thought made him weary; balls, even those spent by Amanda's side, did not offer what he needed to engage and soothe his restless senses.
Amanda by herself, alone, preferably naked, did.
Two weeks had passed since he'd seen her like that-his, all his. How much longer would he need to wait? More specifically, did he need to wait any longer?
The incident with Lytton-Smythe nagged. Not that he imagined Amanda being captivated by another and stolen away-more a case of a primitive reaction against any man casting covetous eyes at her.
While she twirled and linked hands in the dance, he scanned the company. The crowd had swelled to a certified crush; everyone was here, even her cousins. He'd glimpsed two, had heard the St. Iveses announced, but he hadn't come up with any male Cynsters in the crowd. Over the last weeks, he'd been introduced to all their wives, who'd conveyed without words just what the score was-what their familial verdict would be.
They approved of him, but…
He knew the cause of their reservation. He would deal with it once he'd secured Amanda. From her earlier "investigations" on his behalf and all she'd subsequently said, he,knew she cared not a jot, but her family would, a stance he understood.
The old scandal would need to be tackled, but… he couldn't in all conscience lift the lid on that pot, not unless he had to, not until she was willing to marry him and the scandal was the last hurdle in his path.
Countess Lieven glided past; she nodded regally. Lady Esterhazy had earlier smiled her approbation. As for Sally Jersey-every time she saw him, she looked for Amanda.
His gaze returned to Amanda, smiling at Lord Wittingham as the dance ended and she curtsied. Then she rose, looked about-for him.
Martin pushed away from the wall. Everyone was watching, waiting… the next move was his.
Amanda saw him approaching through the crowd; confident, assured, she remained where she was, waiting for him to reach her. In this arena, she had nothing to fear; he couldn't pounce in a ballroom.
The worst he could do he'd already done-convinced the entire ton, certainly all those who mattered, that a match between them was appropriate, even desirable. That whatever obstacles remained would be overcome, so fated was their union.
He'd managed that, but social opinion wasn't powerful enough to make her accept the cake he was offering without the icing. Until he offered all she wished, she was perfectly prepared to stroll the ballrooms at his side, to let propinquity abrade his senses as well as hers.
Her senses were more accustomed to frustration than his.
As he neared, she thanked Lord Wittingham and turned, her smile deepening. To do the lion justice, he'd made no attempt to use society's views to pressure her. He was too expert a player to make such a mistake.
She gave him her hand; he took it, fingers caressing hers as he settled them on his sleeve. They strolled, stopping to chat here and there. The music for the first waltz sounded; one shared look, and they headed for the floor. As they revolved, she noticed he was studying her; she raised her brows.
Releasing her hand, he caught a stray curl bobbing by her ear, set it back, lightly stroked her cheek.
She caught his gaze as he retook her hand. What? her look asked.
"You've stopped worrying that I'll bite."
She let mock haughtiness infuse her expression; the observation was accurate, but he didn't need to state it.
His moss-agatey eyes remained sober. "Why do you trust me?"
That was not a question she'd expected to be asked. She searched, but could find only one answer: "Because you're you."
His lips quirked, then he looked ahead, negotiating the turn.
Should she be more wary? The only message her senses sent her was one of unequivocal satisfaction; being in his arms felt right, totally safe. Difficult to feel nervous.
The music ended; they resumed their perambulation around the room, spending time with the many who had decided to cultivate the Earl of Dexter. If she'd thought him naive, she'd have worried, but the looks they exchanged left her in no doubt that he knew how to value such acquaintances.
However, quite aside from the shared glances, she was aware of his eyes returning again and again to her face; he was trying to read her thoughts.
Her court had dispersed-his never-failing presence at her side had made his intention clear. No other gentleman could match his attractions; the rest had given up vying for her hand. Unchallenged, he led her in to supper. Seating her at a table by the wall, he fetched two plates piled with delicacies.
They'd barely settled to their feast when another gentleman and lady approached. Amanda glanced up-and blinked.
"Mind if we join you?" Luc Ashford, as ever the epitome of a heartbreaking rake, raised a fashionably weary brow. Balancing two plates, he favored Amanda with an abbreviated bow.
Beside him, Amelia smiled her thanks as Martin rose and drew up a chair for her. "We spotted you from across the room. We've hardly had a chance to exchange two words."
Luc set down their plates, then drew up another chair,,placing it beside Amanda, diagonally opposite Martin. "I had thought the ton held no interest for you, coz."
"So had I." Martin's smile was easy, but his gaze had grown sharp. "There are some parts I could still do without, but"-he shrugged-"needs must."
Amelia laughed. "You've certainly caused a stir. Why-"
Letting her twin's light chatter flow past her, Amanda inwardly frowned. She knew Martin well, but she'd known Luc forever. If she thought of Martin as a lion, Luc had always been a black leopard, sleek and lethal.
Right now, Luc's hackles were up, but he was wary, not aggressive. Yet. Why, she couldn't fathom, but as she contributed her share to keep the conversation rolling, she grew increasingly certain the lion and the leopard were assessing each other, and communicating, too, on some male-cousin animalistic plane. Lady Osbaldestone's recollection that they knew each other well-had grown up together-was patently true. Martin showed no sign of feeling threatened, but he was watching Luc closely, trying to see past Luc's guard.
For his part, Luc was projecting… a warning. For the life of her, she couldn't understand why. Luc and she had never got on; he was one of the few males whose tongues she respected. He could use it like a saber, and frequently had-on her. While they appreciated each other's strengths, there was little love lost between them; she couldn't imagine why he would suddenly ride like a knight to her aid, against his own cousin. If that's what he was doing.
Opposite Luc, sprawled in his chair, Martin was wondering the same thing. He and Luc had been closer than brothers, once. Ten years of absolutely no contact had gouged a chasm between them, yet he could still read Luc well. Knew Luc could guess better than most what he was thinking, how he would react. They'd rubbed shoulders on only a few occasions since he'd returned to England, exchanged no more than a few stilted words. Yet…
Amelia paused to sip her champagne. Luc seized the moment; he looked at Martin. "Have you decided to open up Fulbridge House?"
Martin met Luc's dark eyes. "That depends." He let his,gaze flick to Amanda, noted the hardness that infused Luc's face, the face of a fallen angel.