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If you come to the ballroom terrace now, I believe you will be intrigued with what you will discover.

The note was unsigned. And it wasn't from Martin. His scrawl was bold and lazy; this writing was cramped, each letter squeezed by a tight fist.

It was early and the ballroom was half empty, yet there were sufficient people about should she need to call for assistance. Refolding the note, she stuffed it into her reticule, excused herself to her mother and aunts and glided across the room.

The doors to the terrace were closed; she peered through, but could see no one. Opening one door, she stepped outside, clutching her shawl as the brisk breeze tugged.

She couldn't leave the door open, not with the curtains billowing. Looking around, she saw only empty flags, but the terrace was a wide one, bordered by thick bushes that cast dense shadows. Reluctantly, she pulled the door shut. Wrapping her shawl about her, she strolled along, going only as far as the ballroom windows, keeping within the light they shed.

No sound reached her ears bar the sibilant hiss of the wind.

Turning, she retraced her steps, eventually reaching the other end of the ballroom. Increasingly cold, she frowned, then, muttering a curse, swung away-

"Miss Cynster… Miss Amanda Cynster…" She halted, peered into the dense shadows of what she now saw was the entrance to a shrubbery. The disembodied voice called again.

"Come to me, my dear, and in the moonlight, we'll-"

"Show yourself!" Scowling, she tried to define just which of her acquaintances it was. She recognized the cadence, but the voice was disguised, syrupy and girlish. Yet it was definitely a man. "Who are you? Only a knave would behave in this manner."

"Which manner is that?"

Amanda whirled; relief flooded her as Martin stepped through the ballroom door, tugging it shut. Distant rustling, then retreating footsteps reached them. Martin came toward her, a frown in his eyes. He scanned the terrace; his gaze settled on her face. "Who were you talking to?"

"I don't know!" She gestured to the shrubbery. "Some fool was in there, trying to lure me to join him."

"He was?"

It was his tone that alerted her, irritated her. She jerked her head up, saw him stating menacingly at the shrubbery. Narrowed her own eyes. "Yes. He was. But he didn't succeed, and he wouldn't have, either!"

Swinging around, she headed for the ballroom. Martin was at her back in two paces. "Why did you come out here?"

"Because he-whoever he is-sent me a note."

"Let me see it."

She halted; he ran into her, steadied her. She hunted in her reticule and dragged out the crumpled note. "There! See-I'm not inventing him."

He studied the note, then, frowning, slipped it into his coat pocket.

Amanda hummed in her throat, then made for the door. She didn't care about the note or its author.

"You shouldn't have come out here alone, not in response to an anonymous note."

She halted before the door; Martin reached around her and opened it. Catching the door's edge, she whirled and, narrow-eyed, looked into his face. "It was my note, my decision, and I was perfectly safe. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go in and dance. With whomever I choose!"

She flung the door open and swept through.

She wasn't going to stand for it-allow him to act the possessive male-not unless she'd agreed to be his. And she hadn't. Yet.

The first dance was a country dance; she bullied Reggie into partnering her. Later, they joined a group of young ladies, chattering animatedly; when the introduction to a cotillion filled the room, Demon tapped her on the shoulder.

"Come and dance."

She was suspicious, but there was not the faintest hint of a scowl or any overprotective reaction in his manner. Flick was expecting their third child and wasn't dancing; sitting beside Honoria on a chaise nearby, she smiled and waved, encouraged her to dance with her handsome husband.

So she danced the cotillion with Demon, and had no reason to complain. The next dance, a country dance, followed hard on its heels, and she found Richard soliciting her hand with a smile.

"I have to dance with you once this Season, before we leave."


Tags: Stephanie Laurens Cynster Historical