Martin halted beside him; his gaze touched the orchids, then moved on to Amanda. "Don't you agree?"

The question was clearly addressed to Percival, its object equally clearly not the orchids.

Shocked, Percival relaxed his grip. Amanda twisted her wrist free.

And smiled, delightedly, at Martin. "Dexter-how fortunate. Do let me make you known to Mr. Lytton-Smythe." "Sir." Martin bowed easily.

Percival's eyes widened; after an instant's hesitation, he bowed stiffly. "My lord."

"Why fortunate?" Martin's gaze met Amanda's. "Because I was just bidding Mr. Lytton-Smythe farewell before continuing around the ballroom. Now I need not do so alone."

She offered her hand.

Percival stuck out his arm, positively huffed, "I will be more than happy to escort you, my dear."

Martin smiled. "Ah, but I'm before you, you see." One long finger pointed to the orchids. There was a fractional pause as his gaze met Percival's, then, with his usual ineffable grace, Martin offered her his arm.

Ruthlessly ignoring the undercurrents-all of them-Amanda laid her fingers on Martin's sleeve. With a regal nod to Percival, she coolly stated, "Good-bye, sir," then let Martin lead her away.

She was unsurprised when, after less than ten feet, Martin murmured, "Who, exactly, is Mr. Lytton-Smythe?" "Not who-what. He's a pest."

"Ah. In that case, we must trust he's taken the hint."

"Indeed." Which hint-Martin's or hers-she didn't bother to ask; either would do. Unfortunately… she inwardly grimaced, and wished she'd been more explicit in refusing what had all but amounted to Percival's declaration.

Martin watched the irritation, the annoyance, fade from Amanda's eyes, and needed no further assurance of what Lytton-Smythe meant to her. But a faint frown remained, clouding the cornflower blue, lightly furrowing her forehead; the sight didn't meet with his approval.

They'd been ambling around the growing crowd filing into her ladyship's rooms. An alcove containing a bust of some long dead general lay just ahead. Closing his fingers about Amanda's hand, Martin slowed.

Pausing by the alcove, he raised her hand, still holding his orchids; he examined not the flowers, but her wrist, fine-boned, veins showing blue beneath her porcelain skin. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Possessiveness rippled beneath the drawled words; he made no effort to disguise it. He met her wide eyes, held her gaze as he slid his fingers over her wrist in a featherlight caress to close, gently, over the spot where her pulse beat, then leapt beneath his fingertips.

He sensed the catch in her breathing, saw her pupils dilate, saw her make the decision to boldly continue to meet his eyes, to let desire rise briefly between them-the warm, beckoning promise of passion-before, of necessity, they let it ebb.

Only then, when they could both breathe easily again, did she incline her head and murmur, "Thank you for rescuing me."

His lips lifted briefly; eyes still on hers, he raised her hand. "The pleasure," he murmured, "was all mine." His last words brushed the sensitive skin of her wrist an instant before his lips touched, pressed.

He returned her hand to his sleeve. In perfect accord, they strolled on.

On the other side of the ballroom, Vane Cynster frowned. He watched his golden-haired cousin and her escort until the crowd blocked his view.

"There you are!" Vane's wife, Patience, swept up and linked her arm with his. "Lady Osbadlestone wishes to speak with you."

"Just as long as she keeps her cane to herself." Vane let Patience tug him into motion, then the crowd parted and he saw Amanda and her escort again. Vane stopped; of necessity, Patience stopped, too. She looked inquiringly up at him.

"Who the devil is that?" Vane nodded across the room. "The fellow with Amanda."

Patience looked, then smiled. "Dexter." She tugged Vane on. "I would have thought you'd have heard-his return to the ton has been a major topic in the drawing rooms."

"You know perfectly well that I and all the others avoid drawing rooms wherever possible." Vane studied his wife's expression, the smile that curved her lips. "What's the speculation?"

"Current speculation concerns just what has lured Dexter out of that huge house in Park Lane and back into the ton."

Vane halted-swung Patience around to face him. "Not Amanda?"

Horrified comprehension filled his eyes; Patience laughed. Twining her arm through his, she patted it reassuringly and urged him on. "Yes, Amanda, but there's no need to worry. She's managing perfectly well, and although there is that old scandal which will have to be addressed, there's no reason whatever for you or any of the others to interfere."

Vane said nothing; if she'd looked into his face, Patience would have detected a grimness in his grey eyes that boded ill for her last injunction, but distracted by the greetings of another lady, she simply towed him along. "Now come and do the pretty-and don't growl."

On the subject of Amanda, Martin's feelings were not that dissimilar from Vane's. As he now considered her indisputably his, the nights spent in the ballrooms watching over her-establishing his right to her by deed rather than decree-were the ultimate in frustration, a token bow to tonnish expectations.

His own expectations were growing more definite by the,day, increasingly more difficult to subdue. He wanted her his, recognized as his. Now. Today. Yesterday.

Watching as she danced a cotillion with Lord Wittingham, Martin ignored the irritation-the abrasion of his temper caused by seeing her in another man's arms-and turned his mind to his most urgent question: when could he end this charade?

His sole purpose in rejoining the ton had been to establish the bona fides of his suit-his pursuit-of Amanda. He'd spent nearly two weeks projecting a patience he didn't possess, his well-honed instincts insisting that establishing the link between them as accepted fact in the ton's collective mind was the surest road to victory.

The Season was rushing on, building to its height, to the weeks when there would be three or more major balls to attend every night. The very thought made him weary; balls, even those spent by Amanda's side, did not offer what he needed to engage and soothe his restless senses.

Amanda by herself, alone, preferably naked, did.

Two weeks had passed since he'd seen her like that-his, all his. How much longer would he need to wait? More specifically, did he need to wait any longer?

The incident with Lytton-Smythe nagged. Not that he imagined Amanda being captivated by another and stolen away-more a case of a primitive reaction against any man casting covetous eyes at her.

While she twirled and linked hands in the dance, he scanned the company. The crowd had swelled to a certified crush; everyone was here, even her cousins. He'd glimpsed two, had heard the St. Iveses announced, but he hadn't come up with any male Cynsters in the crowd. Over the last weeks, he'd been introduced to all their wives, who'd conveyed without words just what the score was-what their familial verdict would be.

They approved of him, but…

He knew the cause of their reservation. He would deal with it once he'd secured Amanda. From her earlier "investigations" on his behalf and all she'd subsequently said, he,knew she cared not a jot, but her family would, a stance he understood.

The old scandal would need to be tackled, but… he couldn't in all conscience lift the lid on that pot, not unless he had to, not until she was willing to marry him and the scandal was the last hurdle in his path.

Countess Lieven glided past; she nodded regally. Lady Esterhazy had earlier smiled her approbation. As for Sally Jersey-every time she saw him, she looked for Amanda.

His gaze returned to Amanda, smiling at Lord Wittingham as the dance ended and she curtsied. Then she rose, looked about-for him.

Martin pushed away from the wall. Everyone was watching, waiting… the next move was his.

Amanda saw him approaching through the crowd; confident, assured, she remained where she was, waiting for him to reach her. In this arena, she had nothing to fear; he couldn't pounce in a ballroom.

The worst he could do he'd already done-convinced the entire ton, certainly all those who mattered, that a match between them was appropriate, even desirable. That whatever obstacles remained would be overcome, so fated was their union.

He'd managed that, but social opinion wasn't powerful enough to make her accept the cake he was offering without the icing. Until he offered all she wished, she was perfectly prepared to stroll the ballrooms at his side, to let propinquity abrade his senses as well as hers.

Her senses were more accustomed to frustration than his.

As he neared, she thanked Lord Wittingham and turned, her smile deepening. To do the lion justice, he'd made no attempt to use society's views to pressure her. He was too expert a player to make such a mistake.

She gave him her hand; he took it, fingers caressing hers as he settled them on his sleeve. They strolled, stopping to chat here and there. The music for the first waltz sounded; one shared look, and they headed for the floor. As they revolved, she noticed he was studying her; she raised her brows.

Releasing her hand, he caught a stray curl bobbing by her ear, set it back, lightly stroked her cheek.

She caught his gaze as he retook her hand. What? her look asked.

"You've stopped worrying that I'll bite."