Gathering her cloak and reticule, she opened the door and stepped down, unsurprised to find herself at the corner of North Audley and Upper Brook Streets, a few steps from home. Turning, she opened her reticule.

The jarvey coughed. "Y'r pardon, ma'am, but the g'ntleman paid h'ndsomely."

Of course he had. Amanda looked up, and smiled. Unsweetly. "In that case, I suggest you leave."

The jarvey didn't argue. She waited until the hackney rounded a corner, then hitched her cloak over her shoulders and trudged home.

"At least it shows he cares."

"It shows he's a dolt-an overbearing, conceited, arrogant ass! An entirely typical Cynsterlike male."

"So now what?"

"I start on plan B."

Her nemesis next caught up with her at Mrs. Fawcett's soiree. Mrs. Fawcett was a widow of not entirely unblemished reputation whose evening entertainments were highly considered amongst the demimonde.

"What the devil do you imagine you're doing?"

The deep-throated growl was music to Amanda's ears. Without turning from the game of silver-loo she was supposedly watching, she glanced back at Dexter, just behind her. "I'm enjoying myself."

A smile on her lips, she looked back at the play.

After a moment's brooding silence came: "If you won't think of your reputation, think of Carmarthen-you're placing him in an invidious position."

In this venue, she'd brought Reggie as escort; he was deep in discussion with another gentleman of much the same age. "I don't think he's in any danger." Cocking a brow, she looked up and back to meet Dexter's aggravated gaze. "Would you rather I came without him?"

"I'd rather you didn't come here at all. Or anywhere like it."

Looking away, she shrugged. "I can't conceive why you imagine your opinion is likely to sway me."

"You promised if I gave you the adventures you requested-all of them-you'd stay away from venues such as this for the rest of the Season."

He was speaking through clenched teeth.

She turned; they were so close, her breasts brushed his chest. Reaching up, she traced a finger down one lean cheek. And smiled, directly into his eyes. "I lied." Then she widened her eyes at him. "But why should you care?" With a mock salute, she stepped around him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there're gentlemen present I've yet to meet."

She left him, idly ambling away. But she hadn't missed the jolt of tension that had locked his large frame. Nor the gaze that burned between her shoulder blades for the rest of the night.

Martin wrapped his fingers about Amanda's wrist as she paused on the threshold of Mrs. Swayne's drawing room. He'd seen her slip away to the withdrawing room, and had lain in wait for her; that was what she'd reduced him to.

He drew her out of the flow of guests. "So tell me, just what is your plan?"

He stopped by the wall; she opened her eyes wide. "Plan?"

"Your objective in turning the better part of the ton's rakes into slavering slaves just waiting for you to take your pick."

"Ah-that plan." She looked across the sea of raffish rogues and rakes filling the small drawing room.

Martin grimly held onto his temper. He deeply regretted giving way to it at Helen's-satisfying though it had been at the time, just look where it had landed him. He'd spent the last week attending every blasted function throughout the demimonde, searching for Amanda through the salons and parties. Keeping an eye on her. People were beginning to notice. And the very last thing he wished was to focus attention on his interest in Amanda Cynster.

"There's no need to concern yourself. I fully accept that there's no understanding between us. No connection-you made that plain. I therefore fail to see why you're so intent on preserving such a dog-in-the-manger attitude toward me. You can't seriously imagine that I will accept that."

He locked his jaw, bit his tongue against the impulse to respond to the taunt in her eyes. She had him-his emotions-pegged to a tee.

When he remained silent, her brows rose, then she resurveyed the room. "If you'll excuse me, there are others I wish to speak with."

She started to move away; his hold on her wrist prevented it. She looked down at his fingers, manacling her wrist. And waited. He had to force them to open. Her smile serene, she inclined her head and stepped out.

"Where are you going?" He couldn't hold the question back, knew she'd understand what he was asking-where was she headed with this game.

She glanced at him. "To hell and back again." As she turned away, she added, "If I so choose."

She was walking a tightrope over a pit of ravening wolves; at some point, she'd put a foot wrong-nothing was more certain. The wolves were counting on it; that was why they were patiently waiting, willing to be played on a string like the puppies they most assuredly were not.

Martin gritted his teeth and watched as night followed night, as soiree followed party followed rout. In the ton, the Season proper had commenced; among the demimonde, the same frenetic burst of social activity held sway.

Every night, he located Amanda; even if she had tonnish obligations, at some point, escorted by an increasingly unhappy Carmarthen, she'd appear in his world. And every night, she seemed a touch wilder, a touch less predictable.

She laughed and charmed; it appeared almost an addiction the way she added conquests to her string. Face grim, arms folded, he would prop the wall and watch; the most dangerous had noted their earlier association, and had sufficiently well-honed self-preservatory instincts to be wary. No one could fathom what lay between them, but few were game to risk stepping on his toes. It was the only weapon he had left with which to protect her; the fact it had worked so far was his only success in their game.

Supporting the wall at Mrs. Emerson's rout party, he studied the circle of which Amanda was the focus. Some argument was brewing, yet its tone seemed intellectual rather than sexual-odd, considering the company, not so odd given Amanda was leading one side of the debate.

Then Reggie Carmarthen stepped back from the group; he scanned the crowd, the expression on his face one of incipient panic. He spotted Martin.

To Martin's surprise, Reggie made a beeline for him. Fetching up beside him, Reggie dispensed with all formality. "You've got to do something. She's"-he waved at Amanda-"about to step seriously out of her depth!"

Martin returned Reggie's earnest look impassively. "So stop her."

Reggie's expression turned impatient. "If I could stop her doing anything, she wouldn't be here in the first place! That's obvious. I've never been able to turn her a damn once she gets the bit between her teeth." He met Martin's gaze belligerently. "And she's had the bit between her teeth from the moment you offered to partner her at whist."

The accusation was clear, but Martin needed no prod in that respect. He already felt responsible-certainly morally accountable-for Amanda's increasingly brazen behavior, her restless, dissatisfied state. He doubted Reggie had any idea why and how completely the blame rested with him.

To feel so might be illogical-it was her own choice, after all-yet it was how he felt.

He stirred under Reggie's righteous gaze; straightening, he glanced at the increasingly rowdy group. "What's the subject under discussion?"

"Etchings."

Martin looked at Reggie. "Etchings?"

Disgusted, Reggie nodded. "Precisely-those sort of etchings. Only Amanda has no idea, and some of the men have realized. Any minute, she's going to accept some carefully worded challenge"-he glanced at the group anxiously-"if she hasn't already."

Martin swore and followed his gaze, relieved to see the argument still in full spate. Amanda was holding forth. "They'll let her tie herself up in her own arguments first, if they've any sense."

"Curtin is there, and McLintock, too."

Which answered that. "Damn." Martin watched the drama unfold, considered how best to intervene. He'd been toying with the notion of alerting her cousins to her extracurricular activities, but he hadn't seen even one of them while tracking Amanda through the salons; going into the ton to find them was not an option-not for him.

He looked at Reggie. "If I get her out of this, might I suggest you tip the wink to one of her cousins. Devil or Vane, or one of the others?"

Reggie stared at him as if he-Martin-had misunderstood something crucial. "I can't do that." When he frowned, Reggie offered, "I'm her friend."

Martin studied Reggie's open countenance, then grimaced and looked back at Amanda. Inwardly sighed. "It seems it's up to me, then."

Amanda had all but given up hope-completely and utterly-when Dexter suddenly loomed beside her. For the past week, she'd played an increasingly desperate hand, her smile night by night growing more brittle, her behavior more outrageous. She was now skirting the unforgivable, and part of her didn't care.

It had been frightening to discover just how little she cared for what was left on her plate if Martin Fulbridge was not to be a part of her life. Frightening to realize what her future would hold-a dull and virtuous marriage. Despite her professed interest in the excitement of the demimonde, she was already weary of their entertainments, a poor imitation of those of the ton, the company less erudite, less honestly engaging; she did not approve of the cold eyes of the gentlemen or the brassy insincerity of the women.

Tonight, she'd passed beyond desperation to a state where flirting with a potentially destructive situation seemed acceptable. In her heart, she knew it wasn't so, but her heart was too heavy to save her.