When, finally, he turned from speaking with old Lady Osbaldestone-he'd been stunned to discover the old tartar still alive, and still so determinedly terrifying-Lady Match-am threw him a considering glance. "Is there anyone-any young lady-to whom you'd like to be introduced?"

He glanced at her. "Yes." Lifting his head, he looked across the room. "There's a young lady in an apricot gown in the center of that group."

"Oh?" Lady Matcham was too short to see over the circle of male shoulders. "Whoever she is, she doesn't appear to need more dance partners."

"Quite." Martin heard the steely note in his voice. He smiled at Lady Matcham. "She's my partner for the first waltz, but I suspect she hasn't yet realized. I think we should break the news to her, don't you?"

Fascinated, Lady Matcham clearly debated an order to be told all, but recognized it would gain her nought. "Very well." Placing her hand on his sleeve, she allowed him to steer her toward the group in question. "The Season has been rather dull, thus far."

When they neared the group and the gentlemen parted, revealing the lady who was the focus of their collective interest, her ladyship's eyes widened, then she smiled. "Ah… Miss Cynster. Permit me to introduce his lordship, the Earl of Dexter."

"Miss Cynster."

Martin bowed, effortlessly elegant-as if he hadn't eschewed ballrooms for the past ten years. Amanda stared, then belatedly remembered and sank into a curtsy of the required degree.

Martin took her hand and raised her. Faintly arched a brow when she remained silent. She lifted her head. "My lord. I'm surprised to see you here-I had heard you found little to interest you in the ton's entertainments."

His lips curved; his moss-agate eyes held hers. "Times change."

Lady Matcham's gaze sharpened; she turned to the gentleman on Amanda's right. "Lord Ventris-there's a young lady I wish to present to you. You may give me your arm." Without waiting to be offered it, Lady Matcham twined her arm with his lordship's and, like a galleon, towed him away.

Leaving the way clear for Martin to fill the gap at Amanda's side, which he did with smooth grace.

"As I daresay you've heard," he murmured, his voice low yet not intimate, "I've been… shall we say, out of touch?… for some years. Tell me-does this qualify as an average event, or is it quieter than the usual?"

It had been until he'd arrived. Clinging to wits that had not yet steadied-and probably wouldn't with him so close-she managed a serene smile. "This is an average gathering-wouldn't you say so, Lord Foster?"

"Oh, ah-indeed." Lord Foster glanced around as if studying the room for the first time. "Average enough, don't you know."

An uneasy silence fell. Amanda bit her lip-there were six other gentlemen gathered about, but they'd all been struck dumb by the advent of Dexter-the ton's very own untamed lion-into their midst. They were all eyeing him as if he were some exotic beast who might bite if provoked. Inwardly sighing, she opened her lips to comment on the weather-

Lord Elmhurst turned to Martin. "I say, is it true that you acted for the Government in negotiating with the maharajahs?"

Martin hesitated, then inclined his head. "In certain matters."

"Did you travel much on the subcontinent?"

"Did you meet any Pathan warriors? Fearsome fellows, I hear."

So much for the weather. Amanda stood and listened as Martin fended question after query on his activities in India. She tried to turn her mind to the highly pertinent question of what he intended with this latest start, but found it impossible to concentrate. More gentlemen joined the circle, drawn by the male voices and the potent sense of excitement.

"My cousin works for the Company there-he writes that you were an acknowledged hero within the Company's ranks."

"I heard that you singlehandedly convinced the Maharajah of Rantipopo to allow us to trade in his emeralds."

She pricked up her ears at such details, tucked them away for later dissection, to be added to the sum of all she knew of him.

"Did you ever visit one of their harems?" The eager question from young Mr. Wentworth overrode the first notes emanating from the orchestra.

Martin smiled at Mr. Wentworth, then turned that smile, rather more intently, on her. "That's the prelude to the first waltz, I believe." With a nod, he indicated the orchids she carried in her hand.

She looked down, saw them, remembered.

Heard him softly say, "As you've done me the honor of carrying my token, I presume you'll do me the honor of granting me this dance."

It wasn't any kind of question; she was carrying the orchids, and he'd just claimed them. Plastering a smile on her lips, she looked up, offered her free hand. "The honor is mine, my lord." Then she opened her eyes wide. "You do waltz, don't you?"

His smile was feral as his fingers closed about hers. "You may judge for yourself."

She knew he waltzed like a god, but she wanted everyone else to think they'd never met before. She had to let him lead her to the floor, let him take her in his arms, in front of the entire ton. In front of a host of extremely interested eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Despite having to speak through her smile, she imbued the words with an angry hiss.

He met her gaze as they started to revolve. His lips kicked up at the ends. "Changing the rules."

"What rules?"

"The rules of our game."

That did not sound promising, not from where she stood, within the circle of his arms in the middle of a tonnish ballroom.

She'd expected him to appear tonight-the orchids had been a clear warning. But she'd assumed he'd materialize as before, on the outskirts of the crowd, and whisk her away to some private place where they could continue their "discussion" of marriage.

Not that she would again allow him to practice any sexual arguments. After he'd let slip his views on paternity, she wasn't about to take further risks on that front. But she'd hoped to dangle the carrot of further intimate moments as an inducement for him to think more deeply about what he felt for her.

The very last thing she'd imagined he'd do was to walk into the light and come straight for her.

Consequently, on gaining the ballroom, she'd drifted away from her mother, Amelia and Reggie, drifted toward the other end of the room, dodging those intent on paying court to her. Then she'd heard him announced, looked up, seen him stroll in. She hadn't known how to react. In a flurry, she'd gathered gentlemen willy-nilly to protect her; the instant she'd heard the name "Dexter" intoned, she'd known she'd need protection.

Some protection. And once those tidbits of information he'd let fall did the rounds of the clubs, the lion would be lionized and she'd have no chance of securing better-indeed, any-effective protection next time.

There would be a next time-she had little doubt of that.

As to his purpose, however…

Refocusing on his agatey eyes, she smiled serenely. She, after all, was much more at home in this arena than he.

He searched her eyes, trying to read her mind; she wished she could read his. Failing that, she gave herself up to enjoying the waltz.

A mistake-one she didn't realize until he drew her fractionally closer as they turned at the end of the room. By then, her senses had succumbed to his nearness, had come alive to the compulsive, primitive call of his too-well-remembered body so close to hers, to the effortless strength with which he steered her through the revolutions. Her nerves had tensed in expectation, in educated anticipation; as his thighs brushed hers, desire rose, achingly sweet.

She caught her breath, felt her smile fade as she fought the urge to step closer, to move into his arms, to feel his body against hers. She let her lids veil her eyes, not wanting him to see, then realized that he knew. That he felt the same.

His hand tightened about hers; the hand at the back of her waist hardened, muscles tensing, resisting the impulse to draw her to him.

She did nothing to break his concentration; the idea of either of them succumbing to such impulses in the middle of a ballroom… aside from causing a scandal, it would play directly into his hands.

Her relief when the music ended was acute; the knowledge that he almost certainly knew that, and if sufficiently provoked might be willing to risk scandal to gain what he sought, left her dizzy.

Thankfully, he seemed committed to playing the role he'd scripted for himself to the hilt; with unimpeachable correctness, he bowed, then raised her from her curtsy and escorted her back to the circle of waiting gentlemen.

The fact he'd picked her as his partner for his first waltz on returning to the ton caused other gentlemen to reconsider her attractions, a situation she could have done without. Martin remained by her side as she exercised her considerable social skills, keeping the conversation tripping along the usual tonnish paths. She got the impression he was listening, learning. Accepting that she knew more than he in this sphere, she directed the talk into as many areas of current interest as she could.

She felt she'd done her bit for his reeducation when the orchestra struck up for the second dance. Lord Ashcroft solicited the pleasure of her hand; she graciously bestowed it, but was conscious of the sudden tension that coincidentally gripped the large body still planted beside her.

However when, at the end of the cotillion, Lord Ashcroft returned her to her circle, Martin was still there, watching, waiting. The spot beside him seemed to be where she was supposed to stand. Although she accepted her fate without a flicker of consciousness, she was gripped by faint unease.