On a Wild Night by Stephanie Laurens Page A

her in her quest for excitement, or did she only settle on him later as the best choice available? A supremely pertinent point, given the other aspect of her plan of which he remained in ignorance.
    Where was she heading? What was her ultimate goal?
    Was she simply pursuing a final fling before settling to marriage with some socially acceptable peer? Her citing of the start of the Season proper as the limit for her adventures suggested that might be the case.
    But what if it wasn’t? What if, behind her artlessness, which he accepted not at all, she was focused on achieving rather more?
    What if her goal was marriage . . . to him?
    He frowned, waited, took a long sip of brandy, savored it—and still his expected reaction didn’t show. The determination to cut her off, keep her at a distance . . . where was his instinctive, never-before-in-abeyance response?
    â€œGood God!” He took another swig of brandy. That’s what she’d done to him—tempted that part of him he’d thought buried long ago.
    He shied from thinking too far along that line, but the sensation of his mind clearing, thoughts settling, told him he was right. He waited, sipping, eyes on the nearly dead embers,until he could, with some degree of impassivity, view the question of where he—they—now were.
    They were playing some game, one of her choosing, in which, despite all, he was now a committed player. Stepping back, quitting the game, was not an option he wished to pursue. So much for that. As for where they were headed, he didn’t know, couldn’t see—he would have to follow her lead. That was part of the game. She’d managed to take the reins into her small hands, and he could see no way of getting them back just yet.
    Which meant he was being driven, managed, manipulated by a woman.
    Again he waited for his inevitable reaction; again, it didn’t materialize. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t totally averse to running in a woman’s harness. At least, for a time.
    With a self-deprecatory grimace, he drained his glass.
    Given the field on which their game was to be played, given his expertise in that sphere, ultimate control—the ability to stop, redirect the play, even rescript the rules—lay in his hands. And always would.
    He wondered if she’d realized that.
    Â 
    After strolling in Richmond Park by moonlight, Amanda found it hard to pretend to any great interest in such a mundane event as a ball.
    â€œI wish I could escape,” she whispered to Amelia as they promenaded down Lady Carmichael’s ballroom in their mother’s wake.
    Amelia shot her a worried glance. “You can’t have another headache. I only just stopped Mama from sending for Doctor Graham last time.”
    Amanda eyed the flower of the ton with a jaundiced eye. “It’ll have to be another party, then. Aren’t the Farthingales entertaining tonight?”
    â€œYes, but you’ll have to do the pretty for another hour before you can leave. And you’ll have to find Reggie.”
    â€œTrue.” Amanda scanned the crowd in earnest. “Have you seen him?”
    Amelia shook her head. Louise settled on a chaise with Lady Osbaldestone and their aunt, the Dowager Duchess of St. Ives. After curtsying and exchanging greetings, the twins strolled on through the gathering crowd.
    â€œThere’s Emily and Anne.”
    Amanda followed Amelia’s gaze to where two girls, patently nervous, stood by one wall. Emily and Anne Ashford were to make their come-outs that Season. The twins had known the Ashfords all their lives. With identical, reassuring smiles, they made their way to the younger girls’ sides.
    Emily’s and Anne’s faces lit.
    â€œThis is your first ball, isn’t it?” Amelia asked as they joined them.
    The girls nodded, brown ringlets dancing.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Amanda said. “I know it’s hard to