Stephanie Laurens - On a Wild Night

She scanned the dancers as the sets formed. Two sets away, Luc led Emily, proud as punch and totally at ease, into formation. And in the set beyond that, Reggie was partnering a large young lady, one Muriel Brownley.

Amanda grinned. As the music commenced, she looked at Percival; his expression stated he thought she was grinning at him. Erasing all bar the most distant hauteur from her face and eyes, she gave her attention to the dance.

The instant the last chord sounded, she bobbed a quick curtsy. "I fear you must excuse me-there's someone I must catch."

She left Percival standing staring after her. If her mother had witnessed such unladylike behavior, she'd have been called to account; luckily, her mother, her aunt and Lady Osbaldestone were at the other end of the room.

She reached Reggie and his partner before they quit the floor. She exchanged the usual greetings, noting the possessive hold Miss Brownley kept on Reggie's sleeve, and the trapped-rabbit expression in his eyes.

Miss Brownley was a relative newcomer to the ton, no match for her. Amanda chatted brightly, engaging both Reggie and Miss Brownley in an animated discussion of upcoming events.

Miss Brownley didn't notice the time passing.

Not until the violins started up and she realized she couldn't dance the next dance with Reggie. Two dances in a row would cause comment. Having established herself as an old family friend, Amanda suggested Reggie partner her in the dance. Reluctantly, Miss Brownley agreed, and let him go.

"Thank heavens! Thought I was going to be stuck for the rest of the night. Latched on to me the instant I set foot in the ballroom. Mama waltzed off with her mother-and there I was. Snared!"

"Yes, well-" Her arm through Reggie's, Amanda hurried him down the line of dancers. "Let's make sure we fetch up by the door at the end." She bustled them into the position experience told her would achieve that aim.

Reggie stared at her. "Why?" The possibility he might have jumped from the frying pan into the fire was clearly rising in his mind.

"I want to visit Lady Hennessy's."

"Again?"

The dance commenced and they parted momentarily; when they came together, she hissed, "Given what I've just rescued you from, I would have thought you'd be grateful, and only too ready to play least-in-sight."

She let Reggie ponder that for two movements, then added, "She'll find you again if you don't."

Which was true. When they next met, Reggie nodded grimly. "You're right-Lady Hennessy's it is. Much safer, all things considered."

They slipped out immediately the dance ended without encountering Miss Brownley or any other likely to impede their escape. They did, however, encounter another escapee; while waiting in the hall for Amanda's cloak to be unearthed and a hackney to be summoned, they were joined by Luc

Ashford. Sauntering down the stairs, he nodded to Reggie; his gaze sharpened as he considered Amanda. "And where are you off to?"

Amanda smiled innocently, ruthlessly quashing a nearly overwhelming urge to tell him it was none of his business. This was Luc; any such response would have the worst possible effect-he'd become more intent, more determined to learn all. He was a rake with four sisters; she knew his type well. "We're off to the Farthingales'."

Reggie had, as usual, adopted his vaguest expression and left the answers to her; now he nodded. "Cavendish Square."

Luc looked at him. Just looked.

"And where are you off to?" Amanda asked. She didn't care what Luc suspected-he'd never suspect the truth-but she saw no reason to stand by and let him bolster Reggie's resistance to her schemes.

Luc didn't immediately turn her way, but when he did, his dark blue gaze was acute. "I plan to spend the rest of the evening in"-his long lashes veiled his eyes as he straightened a cuff-"rather more private surrounds."

A footman approached. "Your carriage is waiting, my lord."

"Thank you." Luc turned to the door, glancing again at Amanda. "Can I offer you two a lift?"

Amanda smiled sweetly. "I doubt Cavendish Square is on your way."

Luc held her gaze, then nodded. "As you say." With a nod to Reggie, he strolled to the door.

Leaving Reggie looking uncomfortable; Amanda looped her arm in his and chatted to distract him.

She managed well enough; by the time they were admitted to Lady Hennessy's, Reggie's usual amenable temper was restored. After greeting their hostess, Amanda pressed his arm. "I want to check who's here. Why don't you fetch some champagne?"

"Right-o."

Five minutes later, she'd verified that Dexter was not gracing any of her ladyship's rooms-at least, not the public ones. She didn't want to think that he might be gracing one of the private rooms. Determinedly, she envisioned him at Mellors, or one of the other exclusive hells.

Hiding in the shadows. Out of her reach.

Damn him-he was clearly not going to make his conquest easy.

She found Reggie loitering by a well-stocked table. Munching on a pastry, he handed her a glass of champagne. She took one sip, then set the glass aside. "There's no one here I want to meet. We may as well go home."

"Home?" Reggie stared. "But we've only just arrived."

"Without the right company, any place is boring. And I've just remembered I have an appointment tomorrow morning at six o'clock."

"Six? No one has appointments that early, not even with modistes."

"I do." She tugged at his sleeve. "Come on. I need to get home." In time to send a footman with a note to Fulbridge House.

Looking over the table, Reggie sighed. "Dashed fine salmon patties."

She let him take another, then dragged him away.

When she saw the dark figure atop the pawing roan waiting under the tree the next morning, Amanda knew a moment of abject relief. That much, at least, she could count on. Trotting up, she smiled sunnily. "Good morning."

It was damp, cold and grey, a light drizzle turning all about them fuzzy, indistinct. His expression impassive, Dexter inclined his head and turned his horse toward the distant track.

She'd half-expected a grunt. Falling in beside him, she set the mare pacing alongside the roan.

How to prod him into arranging for the rest of her adventures? Into spending more time with her, alone.

She glanced at him, waited to catch his eye.

He didn't look her way. He rode straight to the start of the tan, then, with barely a glance at her, sprang the roan.

Jaw setting, she went with him. That he was determined to be difficult could not have been clearer. Through the thunder and rush of the ride, it occurred to her that he knew perfectly well what she wanted to ask.

It irked her that she felt too wary to demand openly, as she would with any other man. Dexter was hard enough, untamed enough, simply to refuse. And then where would she be? Dealing with him was like a game of snakes and ladders-one foot wrong and she'd be back at the start.

The end of the track neared; they slowed, then turned aside onto the turf. He drew rein and halted; she did the same. They were both breathing hard, the exhilaration of the ride still streaking through their veins. She lifted her head, looked into his face. Fell into his moss-agatey eyes.

Green, gold flecked, they held her gaze; in the cool of the morning, she again felt the heat, the rush of sweet warmth she'd experienced in his arms. The fire still burned, embers now, perhaps, but the heat and the promise of flame were still there.

Still exerted their tug, a powerful fascination that made her want to go to him, to plunge into the heart of the fire, bathe in the flames.

Give herself up to them and burn.

She blinked, refocused. What he had read in her face she had no idea, but he looked away over the park.

"You said you wished to attend a party at Vauxhall, one hosted by someone your parents don't know. I plan to host a private party at the Gardens two nights from now. Will you be able to attend?"

She forced herself to wait, to pretend to consider before inclining her head. "Yes." He was untamed, ruthless, difficult to manage; she was determined to snare him.

His gaze returned to her face; she met it, cool challenge in her eyes.

"Very well. My carriage will be waiting as before, at nine o'clock at the comer." He hesitated, then added, "Wear a cloak with a hood."

As before, the black carriage was waiting; as before, his hand reached for hers and he helped her in. Amanda suppressed a shiver of anticipation as the carriage rumbled off, wending south through the streets to the river and Vauxhall Gardens.

He traveled in silence; she could feel his gaze on her face, on her figure, concealed by her long velvet cloak, the hood up to cover her hair. She'd spent hours deciding what to wear beneath the cloak-whether to dazzle or entice. She'd settled on enticement; he was too experienced to dazzle.

The horses' hooves clopped hollowly as they turned onto the bridge. Ahead, the lights of the pleasure gardens bobbed through the trees, their reflections dancing on the water.

"How many others are in your party?" A question that had intrigued her ever since his invitation.

She glanced his way. Shrouded in shadows, he studied her, then said, "You'll see in a few moments."

She doubted she'd misjudged him. Nevertheless, the knowledge that she'd placed herself and her reputation in his hands set an edge to nerves already taut, further heightened senses set alive simply by his nearness.

Confirming her judgment, the carriage halted, not at the main entrance, but at an exclusive side entrance. Infinitely more discreet. Dexter descended, looked briefly around before handing her down, his gaze passing approvingly over her hood, pulled forward, shadowing her face. Thus attired, unless someone came close and peered at her face, she was unidentifiable.

An attendant greeted them, bowing low as Dexter ushered her through the gate. "Your booth is prepared, my lord."

Dexter nodded. The attendant turned and led them down a heavily shaded path.

She'd been to Vauxhall often, yet had never ventured into this part of the gardens. The rotunda, well lit, the source of plentiful music, lay some way ahead, screened by trees. The path curved under spreading branches, the thick shrubs bordering it interrupted now and then by the square shape of a booth. Each booth was well spaced from its neighbors, shuttered and private. Stopping before one such dark outline, the attendant opened a door, spilling soft candlelight onto the path; he bowed them in.

Amanda stepped over the threshold, uncertain what she would find-eager to see. The booth was smaller than those in the public part of the gardens, but was furnished in considerably better style. A rug covered the floor; the table was set with a damask cloth, sparkling glasses, white dishes and cutlery for two. Two upholstered chairs stood ready. A single candle burned in a holder at the table's center; a two-armed candelabra shed light from a sidetable set beside a comfortable chaise. By the table, an ornate stand supported an ice-bucket containing a bottle of champagne.

The answer to her question was none. Reassured, she set back her hood.

"You may bring our meal." Martin closed the door on the attendant. He hesitated, then strolled to where temptation stood. He lifted the cloak from her shoulders as she slid the strings free; she glanced back, smiled her thanks.

He used the moment taken in laying her cloak on the chaise, in adding his to it, to steel himself. Then he turned back to her.

And saw her clearly for the first time that evening, knowing she was here, alone with him in a completely private setting.

Limned by the candlelight, she was half turned his way, the fingers of one hand resting on the back of the nearer chair. The weak light deepened the gold of her hair but did nothing to conceal its luster, to hide her flawless complexion or the intensely feminine curves of breast, hip and thigh, all draped in cornflower silk the exact shade of her eyes.

The gown made the most of her charms. Severely simple, it led the eye to see, showcased the bounty it concealed.

All that, he'd foreseen. What he hadn't expected was the aura of anticipation, blatantly sensual, that filled the space between them, that invested her expression, widened her eyes, lingered in the curve of her lips.