He'd been the target for too many ladies with matrimonial intentions not to have developed a sixth sense for being stalked. Yet with Amanda Cynster… he wasn't sure. She was different from other ladies he'd dealt with-younger, less experienced, yet not so young he could dismiss her as a girl, not so inexperienced he was daft enough to think her, or her machinations, of no account.

He hadn't amassed a huge fortune in trade by underestimating the opposition. In this case, however, he wasn't even sure the damned female had him in her sights.

Two other gentlemen approached her, bucks of the most dangerous sort on the lookout for risky titillation. Leopold sized them up in a glance; he introduced them to Amanda, but gave no indication of leaving her side, far less of relinquishing her attention. The bucks bowed and moved on.

Martin relaxed, only then realizing he'd tensed. He fixed his gaze on the cause, taking in her tumbling curls, glossy gold in the strong light, let his gaze linger on the lissome figure draped in soft silk the color of ripe peach. Wondered how succulent the flesh beneath the silk would be…

He caught himself up, wiped the developing image from his mind.

Focused on the reality, on the conundrum before him.

Thus far, every time he'd appeared, she'd clearly been pleased to see him, willing-even glad-to accept the protection he offered. However, he'd yet to see any sign that she was specifically interested in him. She was used to protective males-like her cousins; the possibility existed-lowering thought-that she would with equal ease accept the protection of some other, similar gentleman. He couldn't offhand think of any other who might appear to squire her platonically, but the prospect remained. Her transparent liking for and encouragement of his company might simply reflect a natural gravitation toward the sort of male in whose company she felt comfortable.

She wasn't stalking him-she was haunting him. An entirely different circumstance, for as of that moment, he had no idea if she intended to or not.

That, he decided, was the issue he had to deal with-the point he needed to clarify.

He pushed away from the wall. Leopold had monopolized her for long enough, and the bucks who'd approached earlier hadn't gone far.

Her attention on Leopold, she didn't see him approach. Nor did Leopold, a willing captive, his dark gaze locked on her face. Only when he loomed beside her did she break off and look up-then she smiled gloriously and held out her hand.

"My lord."

He closed his fingers about hers. She curtsied. He raised her and bowed. "Miss Cynster."

Her lips remained curved, her eyes alight with a delight that had not been there before. The frown growing in Leopold's eyes as they flicked from him to her suggested that the last was not a fabrication of his imagination.

"Dexter." Leopold's nod was curt. "You are acquainted with Miss Cynster."

Not a question-at least, not the obvious one; Martin met Leopold's gaze. "We're… friends."

Leopold's frown grew more definite; "friends" uttered in that way could mean just about anything. Leopold, however, knew Martin quite well.

If the object of their discussion had any inkling of the communication passing over her head, she gave no sign, but glanced from one to the other, the expectation of entertainment in her eyes. Her gaze came to rest on Martin.

Looking down, he smiled easily. "Would you care to stroll and see who else is present? You've been here for a while-I'm sure Leopold has other claims on his time."

He'd meant the last sentence as a warning; a sudden gleam in her eye, the deepening of her smile had him rapidly replaying his words. As she prettily took her leave of Leopold, Martin inwardly kicked himself. He'd just told her he'd been watching her-for a while.

As host, Leopold couldn't scowl, but the look he cast Martin as they parted stated he'd be back-back to pry Amanda from Martin's side. Leopold liked nothing better than to cross swords, metaphorically, with a peer.

Martin offered his arm; Amanda laid her hand on his sleeve.

"Do you know Mr. Korsinsky well?"

"Yes. I have business interests in Corsica." And Leopold's family were the biggest bandits on the island.

"Is he…"-she gestured-"trustworthy? Or should I view him in the same light as the other two he introduced?"

Martin went to answer, caught himself, then inwardly shrugged. She knew he'd been watching. "Leopold has his own brand of honor, but it isn't English. I'm not even sure it falls within the realms of 'civilized.' It would be wiser to treat him as you would the other two." He paused, then added in tones rather less drawled, "In other words, avoid them."

Her lips quirked; she glanced up. "I'm more than seven, you know."

He caught her gaze. "They, however, are more than eight."

"And you?"

They'd slowed. Ahead, a lady waved to attract their attention. Martin saw, but didn't respond, absorbed in studying the face turned up to his-it could be that of an angel except it held too much vitality. He drew breath, glanced up. "I, my dear, am beyond your ken."

She followed his gaze; the hiatus that had held them dissolved. Smoothly, they made the transition to social discourse, stopping to chat with a group they'd met at Lady Hennessy's.

Martin was content to stand beside Amanda and let her animation carry the day. She was assured, confident, and quick-witted, glibly turning aside an arch query as to their friendship. The ladies in the group were intrigued; the gentlemen simply enjoyed her company, watching her face, her eyes, listening to her musical laugh.

He did the same, but with a different intent, trying to see past her facade. He'd felt the tensing of her breathing, the tightening of her fingers on his sleeve during that one, taut moment. He'd tried, again, to warn her; only once he'd uttered the words, heard them, glimpsed-so fleetingly he wasn't sure he'd seen aright-a steely stubbornness behind her delicate features, had he considered that she might interpret those words differently.

Might see them as a challenge.

She was, after all, looking for excitement.

Watching the flow of expression across her features, through the blue of her eyes, he couldn't tell what her reaction was. Would be.

Worse-he was no longer sure how he wanted her to react. Whether he wanted her to run from him, or to him.

Inwardly, he frowned; the surrounding conversation slid from his mind. Logically, he knew what he wanted. She was not for him; he didn't want to become involved with her. Logically, all was clear.

Why, then, this sense of confusion?

A screech from a violin hauled him from his thoughts. Everyone turned, looked, confirmed that a waltz was about to begin. He glanced down, met Amanda's blue eyes. She arched a brow.

He gestured to the dance floor. "Shall we?"

She smiled and gave him her hand. He led her to the floor, determined to find answers to his questions.

Waltzes at the Corsican Consulate had never conformed to the style approved by the patronesses of Almack's. Martin drew Amanda into his arms, drew her closer still as couples crowded onto the floor.

They started to revolve; Amanda looked about them as she struggled to master her breathing, to give no sign of the breathlessness that had assailed her the moment Dexter's hand had come to rest on her back. It was large, strong-effortlessly he steered her through the throng. But the heat, not just from his hand, burning through silk, but the pervasive heat of his large body so close, a bare inch from hers… little wonder that ladies swooned on crowded dance floors.

Not that she'd ever been in danger of joining their ranks before, and she'd danced on crowded floors aplenty.

Out of her ken. She focused on those words, on all they promised-all she intended to have. From him. Serve him right. He was as arrogantly superior as her cousins; truth be known, she didn't mind at all. It would make his conquest all the sweeter.

She glanced at his face, smiled lightly. "You waltz well, my lord."

"You're an expert, I take it."

"After six years in the ton? Indeed I am."

He hesitated; she couldn't read anything in his changeable green eyes. "You're not, however, an expert in this arena, as Connor rightly stated."

"Connor told me I was out of my depth in gaming with such as he, and in that I agree." She glanced at the dancers surrounding them. "In other respects, I see little here I would feel challenged managing."

When he said nothing, she glanced at his face. He was waiting-he trapped her gaze. "What are you after?"

You. "I told you. I want to live a little-I want to experience entertainments more exciting than can be found within the ton." She met his gaze boldly. "As you agreed, that's no crime."

"No crime, perhaps, but it's dangerous. Especially for such as you."

She glanced about. "A little danger adds spice to the excitement."

Martin couldn't believe the battery of emotions she so effortlessly evoked. "And if the danger is more than just 'a little'?"

She looked back at him; again he glimpsed steel. "If that was the case, then I wouldn't be interested. I've been out for six years-I know where the lines are drawn. I'm not interested in stepping over them."

Again she looked away.

Deliberately, he drew her closer, held her to him as they went through the turns so his thighs parted and brushed hers, so their hips met, slid apart, met again, so her gown shifted, shushing, against his coat, his thighs. He felt the hitch in her breathing, felt the tremor that raced down her spine. She glanced briefly at his face, but remained supple, gloriously light in his arms.