Read Online On a Wild Night by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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of huge gates that guarded the drive to Fulbridge House.
He entered through the kitchens and headed into the huge house. Ignoring the furniture draped in holland covers, the many closed doors and the sense of pervasive gloom, he strode for the library.
Other than the small dining parlor, of the many rooms on the ground floor, the library was the only one he used. He flung open the door and entered, into a den of decadent luxury.
Like any library, the walls were covered with bookshelves packed with books. Here, the display, by its diversity and order, demonstrated wealth, pride and scholarship, a deep respect for accumulated wisdom. In all other respects, the library was unique.
Velvet curtains were still drawn over the long windows. Martin crossed the parquet decorated with exquisite inlays partly concealed by deep-toned rugs and flung the curtains wide. Beyond the windows lay a walled courtyard, a fountain rising from a circular pool at its center, stone walls hidden by the rampant growth of ivys and creepers.
Martin turned, his gaze skating over the satin-covered chaise and the daybed draped with brightly colored silk shawls, over the jewel-hued cushions piled here and there, over the ornately carved tables standing amidst the glory. Everywhere his eye touched, there was some delight of color and texture, some simple, sensual gratification.
It was a room that filled his senses, compensation for the bleak emptiness of his life.
His gaze came to rest on the pile of invitations stacked on the end of the marble mantelpiece. Crossing the room, he grabbed them, swiftly sorted through the pile. Selected the one he sought.
Stared at it.
Returning the others to the mantelpiece, he propped the selected card on a mahogany side table, dropped onto the daybed, propped his feet on an embossed leather ottomanâand scowled at Leopold Korsinskyâs invitation.
If the minx was setting her cap at him, she was going about it in a damned unusual way.
From a corner of the Consulate ballroom, one shoulder propped against the wall, Martin watched Amanda Cynster as she stood on the threshold, looking about. No hint of expectation colored her fair face; she projected the image of a lady calmly considering her options.
Leopold swiftly came forward. She smiled charmingly and held out her hand; Leopold grasped it eagerly, and favored her with a too-elegant, too-delighted bow.
Martinâs jaw set. Leopold talked, gestured, clearly attempting to dazzle. Martin watched, wondered . . .
Heâd 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 wasnât sure. She was different from other ladies heâd dealt withâyounger, 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 hadnât amassed a huge fortune in trade by underestimating the opposition. In this case, however, he wasnât 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. Leopoldsized 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 heâd 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 heâd appeared, sheâd clearly been pleased to see him, willingâeven gladâto accept the protection he offered. However, heâd
He entered through the kitchens and headed into the huge house. Ignoring the furniture draped in holland covers, the many closed doors and the sense of pervasive gloom, he strode for the library.
Other than the small dining parlor, of the many rooms on the ground floor, the library was the only one he used. He flung open the door and entered, into a den of decadent luxury.
Like any library, the walls were covered with bookshelves packed with books. Here, the display, by its diversity and order, demonstrated wealth, pride and scholarship, a deep respect for accumulated wisdom. In all other respects, the library was unique.
Velvet curtains were still drawn over the long windows. Martin crossed the parquet decorated with exquisite inlays partly concealed by deep-toned rugs and flung the curtains wide. Beyond the windows lay a walled courtyard, a fountain rising from a circular pool at its center, stone walls hidden by the rampant growth of ivys and creepers.
Martin turned, his gaze skating over the satin-covered chaise and the daybed draped with brightly colored silk shawls, over the jewel-hued cushions piled here and there, over the ornately carved tables standing amidst the glory. Everywhere his eye touched, there was some delight of color and texture, some simple, sensual gratification.
It was a room that filled his senses, compensation for the bleak emptiness of his life.
His gaze came to rest on the pile of invitations stacked on the end of the marble mantelpiece. Crossing the room, he grabbed them, swiftly sorted through the pile. Selected the one he sought.
Stared at it.
Returning the others to the mantelpiece, he propped the selected card on a mahogany side table, dropped onto the daybed, propped his feet on an embossed leather ottomanâand scowled at Leopold Korsinskyâs invitation.
If the minx was setting her cap at him, she was going about it in a damned unusual way.
From a corner of the Consulate ballroom, one shoulder propped against the wall, Martin watched Amanda Cynster as she stood on the threshold, looking about. No hint of expectation colored her fair face; she projected the image of a lady calmly considering her options.
Leopold swiftly came forward. She smiled charmingly and held out her hand; Leopold grasped it eagerly, and favored her with a too-elegant, too-delighted bow.
Martinâs jaw set. Leopold talked, gestured, clearly attempting to dazzle. Martin watched, wondered . . .
Heâd 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 wasnât sure. She was different from other ladies heâd dealt withâyounger, 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 hadnât amassed a huge fortune in trade by underestimating the opposition. In this case, however, he wasnât 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. Leopoldsized 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 heâd 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 heâd appeared, sheâd clearly been pleased to see him, willingâeven gladâto accept the protection he offered. However, heâd
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