Stephanie Laurens - On a Wild Night

Completing her survey, Amanda met Reggie's gaze. "How can you tell there's nothing here? We've barely arrived and the corners are dark."

The owners had decorated the rooms off Duke Street with dark brown flocked wallpaper, matching leather chairs and wooden tables. Lit only by well-spaced wall sconces, the result was a shadowy, distinctly masculine den. Amanda glanced around. A sense of danger swept her, a skittery sensation washing over her skin. She lifted her chin. "Let me do the rounds. If there's truly nothing of interest, then we can leave." Reggie knew what particular thing she was searching for, even if he definitely didn't approve. Linking her arm in his, she smiled. "You can't sound the retreat quite so soon."

"Meaning you won't listen even if I do."

They were conversing in muted tones in deference to the concentration of those playing. Amanda steered Reggie toward the tables, doing nothing to shatter the assumption anyone seeing them would make-that Reggie was her cavalier and she'd talked him into bringing her here for a dare. She had talked him into it, but her purpose was a great deal more scandalous than a dare.

Being new, the hell had attracted the most dangerous bucks and blades searching for the latest in dissipation. If she'd found any thing to her taste in the more established venues, she would never have considered coming here. But she'd been doing the rounds of the established hells and salons for the past fortnight; her presence here tonight, in a room where the only familiar faces besides Reggie's were ones she would prefer not to acknowledge, was a measure of her desperation.

Parading on Reggie's arm, pretending an innocent, wholly spurious interest in the games, she cast her jaded eye over the players, and rejected every one.

Where, she inwardly wailed, was the gentleman for her?

They reached the last table and paused. The room was deep, stretching double the length they'd already traversed. Unrelieved gloom enveloped the area before them, the glow cast by two wall lamps the only illumination. Large armchairs were grouped here and there, their occupants barely discernible. Small tables stood between the armchairs; Amanda saw a long-fingered white hand languidly toss a card onto one polished top. It was patently clear that this end of the room hosted the truly serious play.

The truly dangerous players.

Before she could decide whether she was game to enter what loomed as a lair, one of the groups they'd passed ended their game. Cards slapped the table, jests mingled with curses; chairs scraped.

With Reggie, Amanda turned-and found herself the object of four pairs of male eyes, all hard, overbright. All fixed, intently, on her.

The nearest of the four men rose. To his full height, a head taller than Reggie. One of his companions joined him on his feet. And smiled. Wolfishly.

The first gentleman didn't even smile. He took one insolently swaggering step forward-then his gaze went past them and he hesitated.

"Well, well-if it isn't little Miss Cynster. Come to see how the other half enjoys itself, have you?"

Amanda swiveled regally; despite the fact the speaker was taller than she, she looked down her nose at him. When she saw who it was, she lifted her chin higher. "Lord

Connor." She curtsied-he was an earl, after all-but she made the deference a triviality; her social standing was higher than his.

The earl was a reprobate cut to a pattern for which they'd thankfully lost the card. His reputation painted him as lecherous, steeped in vice, disreputable in the extreme; the liquid gleam in his pale eyes, the lid of one of which, courtesy of some ancient duel, was permanently at half-mast, suggested that in his case rumor understated the fact. Corpulent-indeed, wider than he was tall-Connor had a plodding gait, pallid skin and heavy jowls, making him appear old enough to be her father, except that his hair was a solid dark brown.

"Well? Are you here to gawk, or are you game to play?" Connor's fleshy lips curved in a taunting smile; the lines years of dissipation had etched in his face deepened. "Surely, now you've braved the doors of Mellors, you won't leave without chancing your dainty hand? Without trying your Cynster luck? I hear you've been quite successful in your forays on the town."

Reggie locked his fingers about her wrist. "Actually, we were just-"

"Looking for the right challenge? Let's see if I can accommodate you. Shall we say a rubber of whist?"

Amanda didn't look at Reggie-she knew what he was thinking, but she'd be damned if she'd turn tail and run just because a man of Connor's ilk approached her. She allowed amused haughtiness to infuse her expression. "I cannot conceive, my lord, that triumphing over a novice such as myself would afford you any great amusement."

"On the contrary"-Connor's voice hardened-"I'm expecting to be amused come what may." He smiled, an evil eel fixing on his prey. "I've heard you're a dab hand with the cards-surely you won't pass up this chance to test your skills against mine?"

"No!" Reggie hissed sotto voce.

Amanda knew she should coolly dismiss Connor and let Reggie lead her away, but she couldn't-simply could not-stomach the thought that Connor and every gentleman present would smirk knowingly at her departing back, and laugh about her once she was gone.

"Whist?" she heard herself say. Beside her, Reggie groaned.

She was well versed in the game and was indeed lucky with cards, but she wasn't fool enough to think herself in Connor's league. She pretended to consider his proposal, conscious that all eyes had turned their way, then she shook her head, a dismissive smile on her lips. "I think-"

"I've a pretty little mare, pure Arab-bought her for breeding, but she's proving deuced picky, altogether unamenable. She should suit you well." The comment was just glib enough not to rate as an insult. Connor smiled, very definitely too knowing. "Beat your cousin to her, as a matter of fact."

That last comment, thrown in no doubt to pique her interest, pricked her pride instead.

"No!" Reggie insisted, his whisper despairing.

Amanda locked gazes with Connor and raised a haughty brow; her smile had disappeared. "A mare, you say?"

Connor nodded, somewhat distracted. "Worth a small fortune." His tone suggested he was having second thoughts about the wisdom of his wager.

For one instant, Amanda teetered on the brink of accepting his challenge, then caution reared its head. If she rejected Connor, playing a rubber with some of the blades watching would be sufficient to prevent her being labeled a silly chit out of her depth, a dilettante. She couldn't afford to be contemptuously dismissed by the crowd she suspected harbored her future husband. But how to slide out of Connor's trap?

The answer was blindingly obvious. Letting her lips curve, she murmured, "How intriguing. Unfortunately, I have nothing I'd care to wager against such a valuable stake."

Turning away, she let her gaze meet those of the two blades who had started to approach. Blatantly considered them. They straightened.

Connor growled, "Not even three hours of your time?"

She swung back to face him. "Three hours?"

"Three hours, to be spent by my side"-Connor waved magnanimously-"in whatever surroundings you choose." The last phrase was delivered with an intense leer.

He was laughing at her. If she ran away, everyone would laugh at her.

She'd laugh derisively at herself.

Amanda lifted her chin. "My time is exceedingly valuable."

Connor's lip curled. "You don't say?"

"But I daresay this mare of yours is valuable, too." Her heart was thumping. She smiled condescendingly. "Well, she must be if Demon was interested." She brightened. "If I win, I'll give her to him."