She hadn't seen him, or so it appeared; he'd yet to see her gaze turn his way and she'd given no sign of recognition. She continued to engage the three others and Carmarthen, although he was looking more worried than entranced.

Martin had to admit she was a dab hand at entrancing. Her smiles, her laughter-which he couldn't hear but wished he could-the lively chatter, the gaiety dancing in her eyes, all served to project the persona of a confident young lady brimming with sparkling, bubbling charm. Indeed, she reminded him of the very best champagne, fine wine subtly effervescent, deepened by just the right touch of age to the point where it promised liquid gold on the tongue and glory to the senses.

He couldn't tell if she knew he was present. Couldn't tell if his suspicion that her current situation had been staged with him specifically in mind owed more to his arrogance than reality.

His prowl carried him beyond her line of sight. The crowd between them thinned; he could see her clearly, yet she didn't turn his way. Instead, she laughed-light, airy, a sound both joyous and earthy, it carried to him. Caressed him, enticed him, as it did the other men before her.

It didn't matter if she'd schemed to capture his attention. She had it.

Amanda felt him approach; like a storm sweeping in, his very nearness had her tensing. The sensation unnerved her; she fought not to whirl and face what her senses screamed was danger-if she did, she'd give her game away. Then he halted beside her, his towering figure excuse enough for her to break off her tale and glance his way.

She let recognition flow across her face, let pleasure light her eyes. No difficulty there-he looked even more sinfully handsome in full light, in more formal attire than he'd worn the previous night. She smiled and held out her hand. "My lord."

Brazenly, she left it at that-let him, and the others, make of it what they would. He took her hand and she curtsied. He raised her; eyes on hers, he inclined his head. "Miss Cynster."