There had to be some gentleman willing to come to her aid…
Her heart plummeted. There was no lighthearted interest, none of the game-to-be-part-of-any-lark expressions she'd expected to see. Calculation, raw and undisguised, filled every man's eyes. The equation they were weighing was easy to grasp: How much would she give to be rescued from Connor?
One glance was enough. To them she was a succulent, innocent pigeon ripe for a plucking. Exhilaration deserted her; a deadening, sinking feeling dragged at her.
Given the precise words of their wager, she was confident she had Connor's measure, but if, in order to satisfy her pride, she took one of these men as her partner, where would that leave her at the end of the game?
Triumphant regardless of the outcome, but with another, possibly more dangerous debt hanging over her head.
She met eye after eye; her heart sank to her slippers. Surely there was one gentleman honorable enough to partner her purely for the hell of it?
Smiles slowly dawned; chairs scraped. A number of gentlemen stood…
It would have to be Reggie, no matter how much she had to plead.
As she turned to him, the attention of the gentlemen facing them was deflected, caught by some sight in the shadows behind them, deeper in the room.
Both she and Reggie turned.
Something large stirred in the gloom.
A dark shape rose from a chair at the end of the room-a man, broad-shouldered and tall. With a languid grace all the more compelling, given his size, he walked unhurriedly toward them.
The shadows fell from him as he neared; light reached him and illuminated details. A coat that could only have come from one of the ton's foremost tailors topped trousers that skimmed muscled thighs before sweeping down long legs; an ivory cravat intricately tied and a rich satin waistcoat completed the picture, one of expensive elegance. His carriage, effortless and aloof, exuded confidence and more-an absolute belief in his ability to succeed, regardless of the challenge.
His hair was thick, brown, falling in fashionable disarray about his head, shading his broad brow, brushing his collar. Candlelight reflected from lighter strands, turning the whole into a tawny mane.
He neared, his approach in no way threatening, yet there was a sense of force distilled and harnessed in each long, prowling stride.
At the last, the shadows gave up their hold and revealed his face.
Amanda caught her breath.
Sharp bones rode high above the austere sweep of his cheeks, lean, lightly shadowed where they met his jaw, uncompromisingly square. His nose was straight, definite, a clear indication of his antecedents; his eyes were large, heavy lidded, set beneath sweeping brows. As for his lips, the upper was straight, the lower full and frankly sensual. His was a face she recognized instantly, not in specific but in general. A face as elegantly aristocratic as his clothes, as powerful and definite as his carriage.
Eyes the color of moss agates met hers, held her gaze as he halted before her.
Not a hint of the predatory reached her; she searched but could find no trace of disguised intent in his changeable eyes. Understanding was what she saw, what she sensed-that, and self-deprecatory amusement.
"If you're in need of a partner, I would be honored to assist you."
The voice suited the body-deep, slightly gravelly-rusty, as if underused. Amanda felt his words as much as heard them, felt her senses leap. His gaze didn't shift from her face, although his eyes left hers to travel quickly over her features before returning, once more, to her eyes. Although he hadn't looked at Reggie, Amanda knew he was aware of her friend tugging at her sleeve, hissing disjointed injunctions.
"Thank you." She trusted him-trusted those moss agate eyes. Even if she was wrong, she didn't care. "Miss Amanda Cynster." She extended her hand. "And you are?"
He took her hand; his lips curved as he bowed. "Martin."
She sincerely doubted he was Mr. Martin-Lord Martin, then. She vaguely recalled hearing of a Lord Martin.
Releasing her hand, Martin turned to Connor. "I assume you have no objection?"
Following his gaze, Amanda realized that Connor did indeed have an objection. A serious one, if the scowl in his eyes spoke true. Perfect! Perhaps Connor would now draw back…
Even as the thought formed, she realized how unlikely that would be. Men and their ridiculous rules!
Sure enough, Connor brusquely nodded in assent. He would have liked to protest, but felt he couldn't.
Amanda glanced at Reggie. His expression was utterly defeated, utterly aghast. He opened his mouth-his gaze flicked past her, then slowly he shut his lips tight. "I hope you know what you're doing."
His mutter reached her as she turned to her new partner.
Martin was looking at Connor. "Perhaps we should get started." He waved into the shadows.
"Indeed." Turning, Connor stumped into the gloom. "The night hours are winging."
Considering the shadows, Amanda suppressed a grimace. She looked up to find Martin's gaze on her face, then he looked over her head toward the main door. "Two fresh packs, Mellors." Martin glanced down at her again. "And two lighted candelabras."
He hesitated, then offered her his arm. "Shall we?"
She smiled and placed her hand on his sleeve, instantly aware of the steely strength beneath it. He guided her toward the corner where Connor and Meredith stood waiting.
"Are you a good player, sir?"
Lips quirking, he glanced down at her. "I'm considered to play a tolerable hand."
"Good, because Connor's an expert, and I'm not. And I think he plays often with Meredith."
After an instant, Martin asked, "How well do you play?"
"Reasonably well, but I'm not in Connor's class."
"In that case, we shall do." He lowered his voice as they neared the others. "Play straight-don't try to be clever. Leave that to me."
Those were all the instructions he had time for, but they were clear enough. Amanda adhered to them as the first game got under way. They had the corner to themselves. Reggie slouched in an armchair some yards away, broodingly watching. Connor sat on her left, Meredith to her right. When Mellors arrived with the candelabras, both Connor and Meredith flinched.
Unperturbed, Martin instructed Mellors to place the candlesticks on small tables on either side of her chair. Connor shot Martin a venomous look but said nothing; Martin, it seemed, wielded the sort of authority few dared question. Bathed in golden light, she felt a great deal more comfortable; relaxing, she found it easier to concentrate.
The first game was a series of trials, Connor testing her strength and Martin's, too, while Martin assessed both Connor and Meredith, at the same time watching her play closely. As often happened, the cards fell her way, but capitalizing against an opponent of Connor's caliber was no easy task. Nevertheless, with Martin's guidance, they triumphed and took the first game.
With the rubber decided on the best of three games, Amanda was delighted. Sitting back, she stretched her arms, smiling at Mellors when he served her a glass of champagne. Glasses were dispensed all around; she took a gulp, then sipped. The men finished theirs in two mouthfuls; Mellors topped up the glasses, including hers.
Martin cut, Connor dealt and the second game began.
As hand followed hand, Martin was, for the first time in a long time, unsure whether he would win. Even more surprisingly, he cared, not for himself, but for the angel who sat across from him, candlelight laying a tracery of gold over her fair hair. It was lush, thick, lustrous. His fingers itched to touch, to stroke, and not only her hair. Her complexion was flawless, that milky perfection found only among certain English damsels. Many struggled to attain the same effect with potions and creams, but in Amanda Cynster's case, her skin was natural, unblemished alabaster.
As for her eyes, they were cornflower blue, the same shade as the most expensive sapphires. Jewels by any name, those eyes were curiously innocent, aware yet… she was not naive, but was as yet untouched by w
orldly cynicism. The dross of life had yet to tarnish her. She was a virgin, he had not a doubt.
For a connoisseur of his highly developed, distinctly exotic tastes, she was the perfect English rose.
Just waiting to be plucked.
She very likely would have been as an outcome of this night if he hadn't stepped in. What the devil she was doing here, swanning through the latest hell like a lure in a pond full of hungry trout, he couldn't conceive.
In truth, he didn't want to think too much of her, of her thoughts, her actions, her desires. His only motive in hauling her out of the hole she'd fallen into was purely altruistic. He'd seen her trying to avoid old Connor while still retaining her pride; he'd understood why she'd dug in her heels, made a stand, then flown in the face of all wisdom and accepted Connor's wager.
He knew very well what it meant to lose one's pride.
But once they won and she was safe, he'd walk away, return to the shadows where he belonged.
Regretfully, admittedly, but he'd do it nonetheless.
She was not for him and never would be. He'd left her world long ago.
The last trick fell to Connor. Martin scanned the tally Connor was keeping on the table between them. One more hand, and unless the gods intervened, Connor and Meredith would take the current game, evening the score.
Time to change tactics.
The next hand went as he expected. Connor crowed and called for more champagne as he shuffled for the first hand of the deciding game. Noting the faint flush in his partner's fair cheeks, Martin beckoned Mellors closer as the man bent to fill his glass, and murmured his own instructions.
Mellors had a nice appreciation of who was who among his wealthier patrons; passing back by Amanda's chair, he clipped the candelabra, grabbed to steady it and instead knocked her glass-the glass he'd just filled with fine French champagne-to the floor. With copious apologies, Mellors retrieved the glass and promised to bring another.
He did, sometime later, as they were nearing the end of the first hand.
Amanda studied her cards and waited for Connor to lead. Neither she nor any of the others had yet played a false card-they'd done the best possible with the hands they'd been dealt. Luck, to date, had been the deciding factor.
Not a comforting thought. Especially as Connor had proved to be even more expert than she'd suspected. If it hadn't been for the large, reassuring figure seated opposite her, languidly tossing cards across Connor's, she'd have panicked long ago. Not that spending three hours in Connor's company was all that worrisome, but how to do so safely without her family hearing of it… that aspect had only occurred to her once they'd started the second game.
Now it exercised her greatly. Losing to Connor would not help her search for a husband at all. Damn the man. Why had he had to challenge her, especially as he had, triggering her temper and her pride?
Still, that challenge had brought Martin out of the shadows…
She concentrated on her cards, steadfastly keeping her senses from stealing across the table. That she couldn't afford, not at present; once they won, she could indulge said senses all she wished. That promise, dangling before her, kept her wits focused. The cards fell; the temperature increased. She reached for her glass, sipped.
Frowned, and sipped again. Frown easing, she gulped gratefully.
Water.
"Your play, my dear."
She smiled at Connor; setting aside her glass, she considered briefly, then trumped his ace. A smile flickered over Martin's lips; she refused to stare and carefully led another trump.
They won the hand, but the points were sparse. Connor was not inclined to grant them any favors. Hand followed hand, fought tooth and nail. Martin was playing more aggressively, but so, too, was Connor.
By the fourth hand, Martin could with absolute confidence state that the Earl of Connor was the finest player he'd ever had the pleasure of opposing. Unfortunately, that pleasure was muted by the wager hanging on the game's outcome. Both he and Connor were pressing every advantage in a duel of feints and misleads. Thus far, Amanda had adhered to his injunction; he prayed she wouldn't get distracted by his or Connor's tactics.
Time and again, she would glance at him, worrying her full lower lip between small white teeth. He'd meet her gaze, hold it… as if gaining strength from that fragile contact, she'd draw breath, then play her card-straight and true, as he'd asked. For a female, she was proving surprisingly good at holding to a difficult line. His respect for her grew as the cards continued to fall.
The candles burned down. Mellors came to replace them. All four players sat back and waited, grasping the moment to rest eyes and minds.
They'd been playing for hours.
Martin, Connor and Meredith were used to all-night games. Amanda was not. Tiredness dulled her eyes even though she fought to keep it at bay. When she stifled a yawn, Martin felt Connor glance-surprisingly-at him.
He met the old reprobate's gaze. Sharp as a lance, it rested heavily on him, as if Connor was trying to see into his soul. Martin raised his brows. Connor hesitated, then turned back to the cards. They were neck and neck, two points each, but the hands continued to turn without adding to either result, so evenly were they matched.
He dealt the next hand and they continued.
It was experience, in the end, that handed them the game. Even so, when the habitual counter in Martin's head alerted him to the revoke, he didn't immediately call it.
Why Connor would make such a mistake was difficult to see. Even had he been wilting, which he wasn't. Anyone could make a mistake, true enough-Martin was sure Connor would offer precisely those words if asked.
He waited until the last trick was played. He and Amanda had gained one point on the hand. Before Connor could sweep up the cards, Martin murmured, "If you'll turn up the last four tricks…?"
Connor glanced at him, then did. The revoke was instantly apparent. Connor stared at the cards, then blew out a breath. "Damn! My apologies."
Amanda blinked at the cards, then raised her eyes to Martin's face, a question in the blue.
He felt his lips curve. "We've won."
Her lips formed an O. She looked down at the cards with greater interest. With increasing delight.
The crowd watching from afar had dwindled, but all present now woke up, leaving the tables to learn of the outcome. Within minutes, an excited hum of conversation and exclamation lapped around them.
Against it, Connor, in quite gentlemanly vein, considering the circumstances, explained his fault to Amanda, and how the penalty had handed them the game and thus the rubber. Then, with an almost comical switch in his tone, he pushed back his chair and stood. "Well! That's that, then!"
He scowled down at Amanda.
Amanda blinked, wary of the mischievous, malicious light that gleamed in Connor's eyes.
"I'll send the mare around first thing tomorrow morning-Upper Brook Street, ain't it? Enjoy her in good health."
That last was said with unholy glee. Reality crashed down on her. "No! Wait-" Where the devil was she to stable this horse? How could she explain how she'd come by such an animal? And it was odds on that Demon, currently in town, would drop by the instant he heard, recognize the beast, know to whom it had belonged-and start asking all manner of awkward questions.
"Let me think…" She glanced at Reggie, blinking owlishly, half asleep. No help there; Reggie resided with his parents and his mother was her mother's bosom-bow. "Perhaps…" She glanced at Connor, still standing over her. Could she refuse the horse? Or, given the incomprehensible slew of rules surrounding male wagers, was even suggesting such a thing a base insult?
"I daresay-" Martin's deep voice, cool and calm, cut across her whirling thoughts.
She and Connor turned to him, a conquering hero elegantly at ease in the large chair, a glass of champagne in one long-fingered hand.
"-that Miss Cynster might not have room in her stables at present for the mare." His changeable green gaze fixed on her face. "My s
tables are large and only half full. If you wish, Connor can send the mare to my establishment and you may send word whenever you wish to ride her, or to move her, once you've had time to make the necessary arrangements."
Relief swept her. The man was a godsend in more ways than one. She beamed. "Thank you. That would suit admirably." She glanced up at Connor. "If you would be so good, my lord, as to deliver the mare to Lord Martin's house?"
Connor stared down at her, his expression inscrutable. "Lord Martin's house, heh?" Then he nodded. "Very well. Consider it done." He hesitated, then reached down, took her hand and bowed. "You play remarkably well for a female, my dear, but you're not in my class-or his." With his head he indicated Martin. "In your future forays into the hells, you'd be wise to remember that."
Amanda smiled sweetly. Thanks to Connor's wager, the need for further forays into the hells had evaporated, and she had no intention of forgetting Martin.
Releasing her hand, Connor stumped off. Meredith, who had said not a word throughout, rose stiffly, bowed, and murmured, "It was a pleasure, Miss Cynster."
With that, he followed Connor through the gloom and away.
Amanda turned to Martin and favored him with her best smile. "Thank you for your offer, my lord-I would indeed find it difficult to accommodate the mare on such short notice."
He regarded her steadily, that gentle, somewhat wistful amusement very evident, at least to her. "So I would imagine." He raised his glass to her, then drained it and set it down. He rose; she did, too.
"I must thank you, too, for your assistance throughout." She smiled again, her mind skating over his offer to partner her, his replacement of her champagne with water, his arranging for the candlelight, the many moments during the play when his steady, moss-green, gold-flecked gaze had kept her from panicking. She let the thoughts light her eyes, and held out her hand. "You were indeed my champion this night."
His lips kicked up at the ends; he took her hand, long fingers closing strongly about hers… and hesitated. Amanda looked into his eyes and realized they'd changed again, grown darker. Then he bowed and released her.
On a Wild Night c-8 Page 2
