Dexter's reappearance should have sent that organ soaring, but one look at the stony cast of his features was enough to douse her reaction. "Well, my lord." She met his eyes as boldly as any woman present, and a great deal more challengingly. "Which way would you argue-yes, or no?"

He held her gaze. "Yes or no to what?"

"Why, to the thesis that the most noble specimens of the art of etching are guaranteed to inflame a lady's passions." She returned his regard evenly, hiding her contempt for the subject, as she'd done throughout. When, coming upon a conversation on the irresistible lure of a recently acquired etching, she'd given her opinion that such artworks were greatly overrated as to their effect on women, every gentleman within hearing had converged to patronizingly dismiss her view.

That had been all she'd needed, in her present mood, to make her dig in her heels and stick to her theory. The fact that every gentlemen involved assumed it was indeed a theory, and that if suitably encouraged she'd talk herself into an experiment, formed the wellspring of her contempt.

Just how naive did they think she was?

Of course she knew what sort of etchings they meant-she was twenty-three! She'd viewed a few firsthand, had heard of others, and had been exposed to the works of artists such as Fragonard from her earliest years. Her opinion was no theory but established fact-artwork, no matter the subject, had never done anything to her passions.

That was a point she'd yet to make clear; starved of entertainment, she'd perhaps unwisely fanned the argument. Her current tack was to discover how long it would take for the assembled gentlemen to realize she was not about to volunteer to test her thesis by viewing one of their collections.

That, of course, was before Dexter appeared. Now he had…

She raised a brow. "Surely you have an opinion, my lord? One would suppose you to be quite knowledgeable on the subject."

His eyes held hers, then his lips curved in a smile that sent a shiver down her spine. "I've rarely found them ineffective, although, of course, the sensitivity of the lady in question has a signal bearing on the outcome."

The drawled yet perfectly articulated words fell into a sudden hush.

Amanda stared, trapped in his eyes. She'd assumed he'd glower and try to douse the discussion, not ruthlessly throw down the very gauntlet every other gentleman had been trying to find an opportunity to toss. Behind her polite mask, she was honestly aghast.

"Quite right," Mr. Curtin purred. "That's been my experience, too."

"Indeed," Lord McLintock chimed in. "Which means, my dear, that you'll have to view a set of suitable etchings to prove your point. I'd be happy to offer my collection for your assessment."

"No, no. My collection is more extensive-"

"Ah, but I fancy mine would be preferable-"

A cacophony of offers assailed her ears. Within seconds, an altercation threatened over whose collection was most suitable to test her mettle.

Dexter's deep voice cut across the din. "As it was my observation that sensitivity is key, and as my library contains an extensive collection of such works, including rare volumes from the East, I suggest Miss Cynster should test her thesis by viewing a selection from my collection."

Amanda drew in a slow breath. Not one of the assembled rakes dared protest; they waited, ready to leap in should she refuse Dexter's offer.

She looked up at him, let him alone see her narrowed eyes. He'd deliberately cut short her evening's entertainment, doubtless on the grounds it was for her own good. Well and good-he could provide compensation.

Lifting her chin, she smiled. "What a splendid idea." The wariness that flashed into his eyes was a pleasure to behold; she beamed at their audience. "I will, of course, report back to you all on my findings."

A few grumbled; others accepted the loss with good grace, doubtless anticipating she would return with a heightened appetite they could offer to slake. Amanda inwardly humphed, fully intending to curtail her forays into the demimonde. The only reason she'd ventured there in the first place was to find the man currently by her side. She gave him her hand; he tucked it in his arm. With a nod to the others, Dexter led her away. Straight for the door.

"You don't think," she murmured, "that you're going to get away without showing me a book from your collection-one of those 'rare volumes from the East'?"

He glanced down at her, his expression hard. "You don't need to look at such a book."

She opened her eyes wide, went to draw her hand from his sleeve-his fingers locked hard about hers. She looked down at her trapped hand, then lifted her gaze to his eyes. "If you deem their company too risky for me, then you must provide an alternative. You offered to show me your etchings-I accepted. They all heard you."

"Are you seriously holding me to that?" His tone suggested she was daft.

She held his agatey gaze. "Yes."

Martin swore beneath his breath. He looked away, over the sea of heads, then released her hand and reached into his coat pocket. Drawing out a tablet, he scribbled a note to Reggie Carmarthen, merely stating that in rescuing his friend, he'd had to take her home. The brusque tone of the missive would be entirely comprehensible to Reggie. After dispatching a footman with the folded note, he reclaimed Amanda's hand.

"Come on."

Chapter 8

"I don't suppose," Martin inquired acerbically, as his carriage turned into Park Lane, "that you'll let me set you down by your parents' house and call this evening ended?"

Amanda glanced at him through the shadows. "No."

So much for that. He'd had no choice, yet he'd regretted hijacking her evening from the moment of quitting Mrs. Emerson's door. Why he was so jumpy, he didn't know-he'd take her to his library, show her one of the damned books, then bundle her back out and take her home. And that would be that. For tonight.

The carriage turned into his drive; as per his customary orders, it headed around to the rear yard. Martin inwardly swore, then remembered the front door hadn't been opened for years. The carriage halted. He descended and handed Amanda down, telling himself his nerves were twitchy simply because she was the first member of his ex-circle he'd allowed into this house since it had become his. Yet as he escorted her in via the dark kitchen and on through the dim corridors, his nerves tightened further.

Amanda was glad of the lack of light; other than a candle Dexter had picked up from the kitchen table, the house was in darkness. Not, however, pitch dark-she could see furniture swathed in holland covers, sense the brooding atmosphere of an empty house. The wavering light of the candle didn't reach her face, so she could gawk as much as she liked.

This was his lair.

A shiver snaked down her spine. It was horridly cold, just one notch from chilled, and she suspected that one notch was due to the kitchen hearth. But he couldn't possibly spend his days there. The immense staircase that rose on their right as they entered the mausoleumlike hall was of classical design, its steps leading up to a gallery shrouded in impenetrable shadows. Glancing around, she suppressed another shiver; most doors stood open-not one room showed any evidence of being used.

This was no home. He might be unmarried and live alone, yet this house had had all life sucked out of it. There was nothing left, no human warmth or gentleness, no comfort for a restless spirit.

Without pause, Dexter led her down a second corridor, wider than the first, but equally neglected.

Bleak. The word echoed in Amanda's mind. How could he live here?

Then he opened a door. Light spilled out, a startlingly welcome sight. He waved her in; she stepped forward-and stopped on the threshold.

This was where he lived.

She looked this way, then that, eyes darting, trying to take it all in at a glance-impossible. Trying to reconcile this wonder with the desolate emptiness she'd traversed in the last minutes. Mesmerized, she walked in, only to stop again, unabashedly swivelling to stare about her.

The huge room-massive in proportion, possibly an early ballroom, for the house was old-was now a library. The term didn't do it justice. Yes, every wall was covered with bookshelves, wood glowing all the way to the ceiling; yes, the shelves were packed with tome upon leatherbound tome, many spines heavy with gold or silver. There was a hearth big enough to roast the proverbial ox in the middle of the long inner wall. The opposite wall hosted a regimented row of long windows giving onto a courtyard in which moonlight played on lush greenery surrounding a square lawn and a fountain. The courtyard's high stone walls were covered in vines.

Her gaze drifted to the ceiling; she sucked in a reverent breath and stared. It was a work of art, each segment of the dome depicting a constellation with various deities, animals, fish and fowl. One could stare, spellbound, for hours; she dragged her gaze away, noting the row of crystal chandeliers, all presently unlit.

Glancing around, she felt like she was drowning in sumptuous splendor. Everywhere she looked, there was some object or item, some unexpected sight to engage the senses. His years in the Orient were evident in the delicate ivory ornaments, in the jade figurines that stood on wooden pedestals, the silk runners that covered the tops of heavily carved sideboards. Across the polished floor, bright carpets stretched, sheening in the candlelight, their jewel hues vibrant even in the relative gloom.