On a Wild Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

him. She realized she was clutching his sleeve and released him.
    That self-deprecatory amusement was back in his eyes. When, stunned, she continued to stare, he raised one brow, cynical, yes, but world-weary as well. “Who else?”
    His gaze held hers, then moved unhurriedly over her face, returned to her eyes. Then he inclined his head, and, as always unhurriedly, left her.

Exiting Mellors, Martin sauntered out into Duke Street. He walked along, senses honed in a more dangerous world instinctively noting that there were no miscreants lurking in the ink-black shadows.
    A projecting store front cast its own front door into stygian gloom. He stopped, cloaked in the darkness, and waited.
    Three minutes later, a footman hauled open the door of Mellors, peered out, then whistled and beckoned; a small black carriage that had been waiting down the street rumbled forward. Martin inwardly nodded in approval. Mellors appeared, escorting Amanda Cynster and Reggie Carmarthen to the carriage. They entered, the door was shut, then the driver shook his reins and the carriage lumbered off.
    A statue in the dark, Martin watched it roll past—caught a fleeting glimpse of honey gold hair, saw Carmarthen leaning forward, lecturing determinedly. Martin grinned; quitting the shadows, he continued on his way.
    The night enveloped him. He felt completely at home walking the London streets in the small hours, completely at peace. Why that should be so was a mystery, but he’d long ago learned the futility of questioning fate. Peculiar indeed that here, surrounded by the society into which he’d been born, the society he now eschewed, was one of the fewplaces on earth he felt at one with all about him, even though all those who would rush to recognize him were snoring in their beds, oblivious as he walked past their doors.
    Turning into Piccadilly, he lengthened his stride, his mind sliding back to the fascinating question of what game had been played out that night.
    His initial interpretation had been that Connor, the lecherous old toad, had set his sights on Amanda Cynster, but as the challenge had played out, he’d grown increasingly unsure. Connor’s wording of the wager had left her, win or lose, in no danger, but playing a rubber with Connor had prevented her from interacting with Mellors’ other patrons. What Connor hadn’t foreseen was that Carmarthen wouldn’t—presumably couldn’t—partner her, landing her in an invidious position that Connor hadn’t, he felt sure, intended at all.
    He’d watched her, those huge blue eyes scanning the room, looking for a savior . . .
    Inwardly he shook his head, wondering at his unexpected susceptibility. When had he become so ridiculously chivalrous, prey to a pair of admittedly fine eyes? There were many in London and far beyond who would laugh at the very idea, yet when faced with the sight of Amanda Cynster struggling to hang on to her pride, to his immense surprise he’d found himself on his feet, offering to be her champion.
    Even more surprising, he’d enjoyed it. The game had been more challenging, more riveting than any he’d enjoyed since returning to England, doubly amazing given his partner had been female. Not only had she demonstrated uncommon wit and intelligence, she’d also had the sense not to gush, not to be excessive in her thanks. He thought again of her reactions, and smiled. To some extent, she’d taken his support as her natural due, even though she hadn’t, then, known who he was. She was in some degree a princess—it was only right she have a knight as her champion.
    Connor’s contribution intrigued him. His suspicions of the other man’s benevolent intentions had been all conjecture, until that revoke. Not in a month of Sundays would he believe Connor had made the mistake. Sometime during thecourse of the game, Connor had decided that losing and leaving Amanda Cynster in debt to