Martin shook his head slightly. Wondered how long they could stand as they were without making the slightest sound. The faintest rustle.
Who the devil was Sally Jersey, the ton's greatest gossip, talking to? And why were they here? More important, when would they leave?
Heels tapped as Sally wandered the room; luckily, she'd headed for the fireplace.
Then a firm footstep sounded in the corridor; an instant later, someone else paused on the threshold.
"Sally? What are you doing here, all by yourself?"
Amanda stiffened. It was Devil's drawl.
"Truth to tell, St. Ives, I really don't know." They heard the crackle of paper. "I received a note asking me to come here-well, to the library. There isn't another in this house, is there?"
"Not that I know of."
"How strange."
"Are you planning to wait, or can I escort you back to the ballroom?"
"You may give me your arm-and the next dance, too, come to that."
Devil chuckled. "If you wish."
An instant later, the door closed-and they were, once more, alone.
"Great heavens!" Amanda wriggled.
Martin winced, and set her back on her feet.
"That was…" She blinked at the desk, remembered all that had happened, and what, just, had not. She blushed. "A very near-run thing."
Tight-lipped, she shook out her skirts, rearranging them, the action and her expression stating louder than words that the interlude was over.
Martin dragged in a huge breath, exhaled through his teeth.
When she threw him a suspicious glance, he offered his arm. "We'd better return to the ballroom."
"Heaven knows what would have happened if Silence hadn't walked in!" Amanda halted, frowned. "No-that's not true. I do know what would have happened, and it would have worked more to his advantage than mine."
Eschewing her pacing, she climbed onto her bed where Amelia lay listening. "Being alone with him is too dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Amelia looked concerned.
Amanda bit her lip, then went on, "I thought if we loved more, it would prove my point, because when we love, the fact he truly loves me is so patently obvious I don't see how he can continue to ignore it! But…"
She grimaced and looked down at her stomach, smoothed her gown over the curve. "If we do, I risk falling pregnant." She frowned at the slight bulge. "Who knows? I might already be carrying his child."
She heard the wistfulness in her voice, wasn't surprised when Amelia softly asked, "Don't you want to have his child?"
"Yes. More than anything." A simple truth; she dragged in a huge breath. "But I don't want him marrying me because of it, and that's how he'll make it seem!"
She thumped the bed, then fell back and stared up at the canopy.
Amelia grimaced. After a moment, she asked, "Does what'seems' truly matter when weighed against what 'is'?"
That, indeed, was the question. Amanda faced it squarely, yet couldn't formulate a clear answer. Until she did, she decided to play safe-to talk, but not to kiss. To encourage, yes, but to draw a clear line over which she would not be tempted. Again. Not until…
"Miss Cynster?"
She turned; a footman bowed and proffered a salver on which lay a note. She took it; stepping away from the chaise on which her mother and aunts sat, she unfolded the note.
If you come to the ballroom terrace now, I believe you will be intrigued with what you will discover.
The note was unsigned. And it wasn't from Martin. His scrawl was bold and lazy; this writing was cramped, each letter squeezed by a tight fist.
It was early and the ballroom was half empty, yet there were sufficient people about should she need to call for assistance. Refolding the note, she stuffed it into her reticule, excused herself to her mother and aunts and glided across the room.
The doors to the terrace were closed; she peered through, but could see no one. Opening one door, she stepped outside, clutching her shawl as the brisk breeze tugged.
She couldn't leave the door open, not with the curtains billowing. Looking around, she saw only empty flags, but the terrace was a wide one, bordered by thick bushes that cast dense shadows. Reluctantly, she pulled the door shut. Wrapping her shawl about her, she strolled along, going only as far as the ballroom windows, keeping within the light they shed.
No sound reached her ears bar the sibilant hiss of the wind.
Turning, she retraced her steps, eventually reaching the other end of the ballroom. Increasingly cold, she frowned, then, muttering a curse, swung away-
"Miss Cynster… Miss Amanda Cynster…" She halted, peered into the dense shadows of what she now saw was the entrance to a shrubbery. The disembodied voice called again.
"Come to me, my dear, and in the moonlight, we'll-"
"Show yourself!" Scowling, she tried to define just which of her acquaintances it was. She recognized the cadence, but the voice was disguised, syrupy and girlish. Yet it was definitely a man. "Who are you? Only a knave would behave in this manner."
"Which manner is that?"
Amanda whirled; relief flooded her as Martin stepped through the ballroom door, tugging it shut. Distant rustling, then retreating footsteps reached them. Martin came toward her, a frown in his eyes. He scanned the terrace; his gaze settled on her face. "Who were you talking to?"
"I don't know!" She gestured to the shrubbery. "Some fool was in there, trying to lure me to join him."
"He was?"
It was his tone that alerted her, irritated her. She jerked her head up, saw him stating menacingly at the shrubbery. Narrowed her own eyes. "Yes. He was. But he didn't succeed, and he wouldn't have, either!"
Swinging around, she headed for the ballroom. Martin was at her back in two paces. "Why did you come out here?"
"Because he-whoever he is-sent me a note."
"Let me see it."
She halted; he ran into her, steadied her. She hunted in her reticule and dragged out the crumpled note. "There! See-I'm not inventing him."
He studied the note, then, frowning, slipped it into his coat pocket.
Amanda hummed in her throat, then made for the door. She didn't care about the note or its author.
"You shouldn't have come out here alone, not in response to an anonymous note."
She halted before the door; Martin reached around her and opened it. Catching the door's edge, she whirled and, narrow-eyed, looked into his face. "It was my note, my decision, and I was perfectly safe. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go in and dance. With whomever I choose!"
She flung the door open and swept through.
She wasn't going to stand for it-allow him to act the possessive male-not unless she'd agreed to be his. And she hadn't. Yet.
The first dance was a country dance; she bullied Reggie into partnering her. Later, they joined a group of young ladies, chattering animatedly; when the introduction to a cotillion filled the room, Demon tapped her on the shoulder.
"Come and dance."
She was suspicious, but there was not the faintest hint of a scowl or any overprotective reaction in his manner. Flick was expecting their third child and wasn't dancing; sitting beside Honoria on a chaise nearby, she smiled and waved, encouraged her to dance with her handsome husband.
So she danced the cotillion with Demon, and had no reason to complain. The next dance, a country dance, followed hard on its heels, and she found Richard soliciting her hand with a smile.
"I have to dance with you once this Season, before we leave."
"You're returning to Scotland?" She let him lead her into the nearest set.
"Catriona doesn't feel comfortable leaving the Vale, and the twins, to their own devices for long."
He said it with a smile, one she returned. Of all her cousins, Richard was the most… not gentle, but understanding. And Catriona was a font of feminine wisdom; Amanda made a comment about speaking with her before they left.