On a Wild Night

Chapter 11

The remainder of the ball passed in a blur; Amanda couldn't wait to get home and into bed. Blowing out the candle, she fell back on the pillows-at last she could think.

He loved her-she was almost sure of it. Surely it was love that made him treat her like a madonna, as if she held the keys to his soul. Amid all the passion, the fire and the flames, on all three occasions they'd come together, there'd been something else there-something deeper, stronger, hard to define, yet infinitely more powerful than mere lust.

She'd felt it from the first, but she'd never known love before, not this sort of love, a love so enmeshed with sexual need, so disguised by possessiveness. But it had to be love-why else would a gentleman of his ilk, with his background, be so set on a wedding?

For his honor's sake.

She grimaced. That was what he wanted her to believe. Yet if that was so, what had tonight been about? Why bother trying to bribe her with the prospect of physical pleasure? He'd offered his name-she'd rejected it. Honor had already been satisfied, hadn't it?

Muttering imprecations against men's ridiculous obsessions, she thumped the pillow, then snuggled down. Twinges flickered in her thighs, but not as badly as they had four nights before; in contrast, the warm content deep within her had grown. Closing her eyes, she sighed.

At least she knew exactly what she wanted, what she would demand before she agreed to any wedding. She wanted his heart, acknowledged and freely offered, before she agreed, body and soul, to be his.

The library fire was still burning when Martin returned from Richmond. Crossing to the sideboard, he poured brandy into a glass, then sprawled on his favorite couch. The daybed where he'd first had Amanda Cynster.

Deflowered her-that was the correct, socially acceptable term. Ergo, he should marry her. That equation seemed perfectly logical to him.

Not, apparently, to her.

Swallowing a growl with a mouthful of brandy, he turned his mind to his next attempt to change her mind. He didn't waste a second on deciding whether or not he would take another tilt at her-that point wasn't in question.

He wanted to marry her. The situation decreed he should.

Therefore he would.

As far as he was concerned, that was reason enough. Whatever she'd meant by her nonsensical question could remain veiled in obscurity-it was bound to be some peculiarly feminine, totally impractical ideal.

So what next? A summons to ride this morning?

He glanced at the clock, considered what time she'd get to her bed. Imagined her in her bed… then in his.

Shaking aside the distracting vision, he considered waiting until the next morning-thirty hours or so-to see her again. He'd gain nothing from the wait, and very likely nothing from a ride. He needed to meet her in surrounds conducive to his arguments-in other words, conducive to seduction. He was an honorable man; surely in this case honor dictated he use every possible weapon to change her mind, to bring her to accept the socially ordained outcome of their dalliance.

Whether that was rationalization, specious argument or not, he didn't care. The fact was, he'd been spoiled. Spoiled as a wild, rich, handsome and titled youth, equally spoiled as a man. He wasn't-very definitely was not-used to hearing "No" from a lady's lips.

It seemed to be Amanda's favorite word.

He drained his glass, then looked at the pile of invitations his man, Jules, invariably stacked on the mantelpiece as if in so doing he could nudge his noble employer into returning to the sphere in which Jules fondly believed said employer belonged. Jules did not have such influence. However…

Martin sighed. Setting his empty glass down on a sidetable, he rose and reached for the stack of white cards.

Not that he intended to formally appear at such functions, but the steady stream of invitations he received made it easy to identify at least one event on any given night at which his prey would be present. Easy enough to pick a house with which, courtesy of the past, he was sufficiently familiar to enter unremarked.

The following evening, he shut the garden gate of the Caldecotts' mansion and calmly strolled to the stairs leading to the ballroom terrace. A waltz was playing as he neared; a couple appeared, whispering as they descended to the gardens, passing him with no more than a glance.

The long windows of the ballroom stood open to the night; he stepped through and surveyed the room, confident that few would recognize him. The majority hadn't seen him for ten long years. Although he would recognize some from the ton's less aristocratic venues, he'd kept a low profile; the few ladies who had reason to remember him well had cause enough to keep their acquaintance secret. While braving the bright light of the chandeliers would be foolhardy, passing briefly through the fringes of social gatherings held minimal risks.

His memory had not failed him; the Caldecotts' ballroom had a gallery circling the room, reached by stairs from each corner. Tacking through the edges of the crowd, he gained the nearest stairs and went up.

The gallery was wide, built for promenading; a number of couples were doing so. With the only light coming from the ballroom's chandeliers, the areas away from the balustrade were wreathed in shadows. The perfect place from which to watch the activity on the dance floor, to track his quarry through the throng of dark coats and bright gowns.

He located Amanda easily-her curls shone like real gold and she was wearing a gown of the same cornflower blue as her eyes.

And arguing with a fair-haired gentleman.

As Martin watched, the gentleman captured Amanda's hand, tried to draw it through his arm. Martin's grip on the balustrade tightened.

Amanda jerked her hand free; furious, she heaped heated epithets on the gentleman's head, then swung on her heel and stormed off through the crowd. While one part of his mind tracked her, Martin watched the gentleman, noted his supercilious shrug, the way he resettled his sleeves, to all appearances not greatly put out by the nature of his dismissal.

Frowning, Martin turned to watch Amanda, saw her reach the foot of one of the gallery staircases.

A minute later, she stepped into the gallery; from behind a large column, he watched her scan the area, then she drifted to the alcove at the end, where wide windows overlooked the gardens. Less than six feet from her, he stood utterly still in the deep shadow of the column. She searched the lawns, then pressed close to the glass, squinting down at the terrace.

Where was he? If he didn't catch up with her here, Amanda didn't think he'd be able to gain access-not without coming through the main door-at the other ball she was to attend that night. She no longer worried that he might give up, leave her and return to his prior existence; she did, however, wonder what tack he'd take next, what argument he'd offer to convince her she should marry him-

She sensed his presence in the instant before his fingertips traced the curve of her hip. Down, around.

Her senses leapt; her lungs seized-then she drew in a quick breath. Remaining, quivering, where she was, she inclined her head. "Good evening, my lord."

The artful fingers stilled. "What-no curtsy?"

Curtsying would shift her silk-clad bottom against those bold fingers. He was standing directly behind her; anyone glancing their way now would see only her skirts, nothing that could identify her. Glancing back, she murmured, "I believe we've gone beyond such formalities." She'd softened her tone to a sultry purr; she saw his lips twitch before she faced the gardens again.

"Indeed." His fingers stroked sensuously-lightly, tantalizingly-impossible to ignore. Illicit, sexually explicit, yet difficult to take umbrage at. Streaks of sensation slithered down her spine, spread beneath her skin.

With his other hand, he brushed her curls from her nape; bending his head, he touched his lips to the sensitive spot, lingered for an instant, breathing in her perfume, then licked.

Straightening, he let his fingers firm on her bottom, then ease, deliberately shifting the silk of chemise and gown against her skin. His words caressed her ear. "Do you know what I want… what I'd like to do to you now, this very minute?"

She suspected that if she leaned back against him, he'd be rigid as a rod. "No. What?"

A rumble of laughter greeted her studiously innocent reply. "Just imagine, if you can…"

Her mind streaked in a dozen directions, then he spoke again, his voice deeper, lower, "Imagine we're here but no one else is-that the ballroom behind us is empty, silent. The chandeliers are unlit. There's no music except for the wind sighing outside. It's night-dark-just as it is now. The only light comes from the moon, shining down."

"As it is now."

"Exactly." His voice breathed past her ear, sank into her senses. The hand cupping her bottom remained where it was; his other hand lightly brushed her bare shoulder. "You wait here, for me, knowing I'll come to you. That I'll come in the dark of the night to have you."

"Will you come?"

"I'm here now."

It was impossible to draw breath. "And then?"

"And then… I'll raise your skirts, only at the back. If there's anyone watching from the garden, they'll see nothing amiss." The fingers on her bottom shifted as if inching up the silk; he didn't actually raise it, just led her senses to imagine he had. "Then I'll touch you, caress you, raise the back of your chemise to your waist." He paused, then whispered, "You don't wear pantaloons."

"Within the ton, pantaloons are still considered unquestionably fast."

"Ah." Humor warmed his voice, then he continued in the same mesmerizing tone, "So I'll then have you naked, exposed, and I'll caress you, arouse you." His hand at her back mimicked the motions; his hand at her nape closed gently, as if holding her steady. Even though her skirts still covered her completely, her body reacted to the suggestive touch. "And then…"

She wasn't sure her legs would hold her. "Then?"

His hand at her nape eased; slowly, he ran his index finger down her spine, all the way down to her bottom. "Then I'll bend you forward, have you hold onto the sill-"

He broke off. She sensed his head rise, felt the immediate change in the large body behind hers. A heartbeat later, his hands left her-and he was gone; the sudden loss of his heat at her back was startling.

Giddy, she turned, heard footsteps approaching, caught the shift in the shadows as Martin slid behind the nearby column. She completed her turn.

Edward Ashford was ambling along, looking down at the ballroom, a scowl marring his handsome face. He looked up and saw her, nodded and strolled into the alcove. "You haven't seen Luc, have you?"

"Luc?" Dragging in a breath, she grabbed hold of her wits. Tried to steady them. "No. Are you looking for him?"

Edward's expression turned sour. "Futile, of course. I'll wager he's entertaining some opera dancer. More to his liking than doing his duty by Mama and the girls."

Amanda ignored the clear invitation to join him in blackening Luc's character. She'd remembered the relationship between the Fulbridges and the Ashfords; Edward would recognize Martin. And Martin was trapped behind the column. "Why are you looking for Luc? Does Emily or Anne need him?" Linking her arm in Edward's, she turned him toward the stairs.

"Not at present, but you would think…"

Letting Edward ramble, she steered him down to the ballroom.

"You're looking a trifle peaked, Amanda."

Looking up from her plate, Amanda blinked down the breakfast table at her mother. "Ah… I didn't sleep well."

The unvarnished truth. Louise seemed to see as much; she nodded. "Very well. But all your gadding before the Season commenced has drained your reserves-you'll need to pace yourself better."

Amanda sighed and looked down at her plate. "You're right-as usual." She flashed a smile at Louise. "I'll rest this afternoon. We've the Cottlesloes' ball tonight, haven't we?"

"Yes, and dinner at the Wrexhams' before it." Laying aside her napkin, Louise rose, shrewd eyes assessing her eldest daughters. Amelia was quiet, as she often was, but a frown inhabited her eyes and her mind was clearly elsewhere as she sipped her tea. Amanda… quite aside from her tiredness, she seemed unnaturally abstracted. Rising, Louise passed them both, trailing one hand on one youthful shoulder, then the other. "Don't forget to rest."

At the scratch on her bedchamber door, Amanda turned, unsurprised to see Amelia slip in. Her twin took in her stance by the curtained window, then quietly shut the door.

"You're supposed to be resting."

"I will in a minute. I think I've finally worked out what he's up to."

"Dexter?"

"Hmm. I think he's trying to make me want. Make me physically yearn so I'll agree to marry him."

Amelia flopped on the bed. "Is he succeeding?"

Frowning, Amanda joined her. "Yes, damn him-that's why I couldn't sleep." Why she'd tossed and turned, restless and unsatisfied. "He's a fiend, but I'm not going to give in."

After a moment, Amelia asked, "How does he do it-make you yearn?"

"Don't ask. But I'm not going to marry him just because he knows how to make me feel very nice."

"So how are you going to stop him"-Amelia gestured-"working his magic and making you yearn?"

"I'm not." Amanda stared at the canopy, reliving the illicit interludes she and her nemesis had shared. "That's what I was just thinking about. This latest tack of his might well work in my favor. In fact, it might work better than anything / could instigate."

"How so?"

"Consider this: for every ounce of desire he evokes in me, then… I'm not certain of this, but from all that's passed between us it seems to be so-for every ounce of desire he makes me feel, then he feels the same, if not more."

After a moment, Amelia ventured, "Are you saying that your battle, as it were, might come down to who can resist desire best?"

Amanda nodded. "And I think he's miscalculated. He's used to ladies being"-she gestured wildly-"swept away by desire. He's used to doing the sweeping. I don't think it's occurred to him that I might hold firm."

"Hmm. But he's very experienced, I imagine."

"Very, but in this case, experience might be a disadvantage. He's accustomed to having his desires gratified, more or less instantly. He's not used to having to wait, or negotiate. He wants, he takes. But this time, he's using desire like a carrot. He wants something else first, before he agrees to satisfy my desire or his."

"So he might well end hoist with his own petard?"

"Yes. And given I'm not accustomed to desire and likewise not accustomed to having it fulfilled, then…"

"Then it's possible this tack of his might play into your hands."

"Precisely." Amanda considered the prospect, viewed it from every angle she could conjure. "It's definitely a way forward, and as he thinks it's his plan, he's less likely to be defensive." She glanced at Amelia, aware her twin's thoughts had wandered. "How's your plan going?"

Amelia met her eyes, then grimaced. "I've a remarkably long list of possibilities which, every day and every night, I'm steadily reducing." Settling her head on the pillow, she closed her eyes. "It is, however, going to be a slow business." Amanda held back the urge to suggest a shortcut-a flurry of crossing off that would leave only one name. Although it wasn't her way, she understood Amelia's need to be certain in her own mind before she committed herself to pursuing that one name. Snaring that particular gentleman was going to be a Herculean task.

The thought brought her mind back to her own task, her own gentleman. Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift to the delightful prospect of having her lion trapped securely in his coils.

She felt sure he'd appear at the Cottesloes' ball. Their ballroom was on the ground floor; the windows at one end opened onto a terrace giving access to a parterre, which happened to abut a formal shrubbery. The evening was mild, perfect for strolling in the moonlight.

The dinner at the Wrexhams dragged on, but once they reached the ball, her greatest obstacle in meeting with Martin proved to be her increasingly attentive would-be suitors. Now that the Season was in full swing, they'd materialized in hordes.

"Like locusts," she muttered, dodging through the crowd. Having to glance every way at once was distracting. Keeping her social smile firmly in place, she doggedly progressed toward the most shadowy corner of the room.

"At last!" Slipping past the last guests, she was disappointed to find no large and handsome male waiting. Beyond the windows lay the terrace; the doors giving onto it lay to her right.

Frowning, wondering if she'd misjudged, either him or his intentions, she turned and rescanned the room, wondering if she'd overlooked some other useful place where he might be lying in wait for her-

Long, cool fingers slid around her wrist, closed over her leaping pulse. She glanced around, wide-eyed, and met his mossy green eyes.

"Where…?" She looked beyond him, but there was no door or even window he might have come through. He stood half behind her; she could feel the heat of his body down her back, where it hadn't been an instant before. She lifted her gaze to his face. "You move so silently."

He raised her hand, kissed her fingers, then turned her wrist and pressed his lips to where her pulse beat wildly. Lowering her hand, he turned his head so his whisper fluttered the curls by her ear. "I'm a predator-you know that."

She did. Luckily, he expected no answer. Setting her hand on his sleeve, he waved to the terrace door. "Shall we adjourn to quieter surrounds?"

A smile curving her lips, she inclined her head. "If you wish."

They passed through the fringes of the crowd; no one recognized him-none paid them any heed. Stepping onto the terrace, Martin scanned the parterre. Noted six other couples already availing themselves of the amenity. He inwardly smiled and gestured to the steps. "Shall we go down?"

She acquiesced with a confidence he found disarming; the aura of a lady in charge hung about her. Doubtless an intrinsic, inherited quality; the fact that it was he on whose arm she was leaning made him smile.

Seeing it, she raised her brows. He shook his head. "Come-let's stroll."

They did, but not innocently. By unspoken agreement, they walked close, his thigh brushing her hip, his arm again and again brushing the side of her breast. He only had to glance at her face, lit by the moonlight, to know she was neither oblivious nor reluctant. She was enjoying the subtle contact as much as he.

"Enjoying," however, was not the right word.

They reached a spot where a mulberry tree spread its branches over the parterre; he drew her into their shade. Slid one finger beneath her chin, tipped up her face and set his lips to hers.

He kept the kiss light-teasing, tantalizing. Tempting. Lifting his head, he watched her face as he slowly trailed his finger down her throat, barely touching as he traced over the ivory expanse exposed by her neckline. Looking down, he watched as he slid that questing fingertip over her silk bodice to briefly circle a nipple already pebble-tight.

She dragged in a shaky breath as his hand fell, but smiled serenely and turned when he urged her on, out of the shadows. They continued their stroll. As they rounded the far corner of the parterre, he murmured, "I want you."

She threw him a glance, one too shadowed for him to read. Her lips curved as she looked away. "I know."

Not a quiver shook her, yet he knew she was as aware of him as he was of her. A feminine challenge, one he was perfectly ready to answer.

The entrance to the shrubbery, an archway cut through a hedge, lay to their right. Amanda was not surprised when Martin whisked her through into the dark avenue beyond. They continued to stroll, slowing as the tall hedges, black in the night, closed around them.

She was even less surprised when he halted, and drew her into his arms. When his head lowered and he set his lips to hers-kissed her commandingly, letting her feel his desire. She now knew him well enough to know he kept it leashed, that the fire he let her sense remained firmly under his control. But his was a game at which two could play.

Stretching up, she wound her arms about his neck and kissed him back with flagrant abandon. While his control held, she could do as she pleased in perfect safety. Could tease and taunt and drive him… just this side of wild.

Her response derailed his attention; for one long minute, he simply savored her, plundered, tasted. Then he took charge again, wrested all control from her-ripped her wits away, set them tumbling as he backed her against the hedge.

His hands rose to close about her breasts, possessive, too knowing, too experienced. She arched against him, sought to appease the ache his touch evoked, then she realized, recalled, that that was precisely what he wanted.

It was an effort, but she managed, even while returning every kiss avidly, to ease back mentally, to pull her mind free of the drugging urgency. And discovered she could enjoy and savor and incite without getting caught, without drowning in desire. As long as he remained mentally aloof, she could, too. If he dropped his guard, desire-his combined with hers, rising in response-would sweep them both away. As it had before.

But he couldn't overwhelm her, not completely, not anymore, not without letting down his own defenses.

And he wasn't about to do that.

Very wisely, as it transpired. They were engrossed, enthralled, absorbed in the challenge of their exchange, when voices reached them, increasing in volume until they penetrated the fog shielding their senses.

They both broke from the kiss, stared through the semi-darkness. Amanda's senses reported that she was stretched against him, her arms about his neck, her breasts crushed to his chest. His arms were wrapped about her, his hands pressed to her hips, molding her to him. The magnitude of his desire, still leashed, still severely controlled, was nevertheless very evident.

Someone was approaching. With a sigh, she drew away, artfully used the movement to slide one silk-clad hip sensuously against that part of his anatomy most susceptible to suggestion.

He caught his breath, looked sharply at her, but his attention was diverted by the figures-two male, two female-approaching along the walk.

"We'd better return to the ballroom." She looked into his eyes. "I've been gone for quite a while."

A moment passed, then he inclined his head. He gave her his arm; she took it. With no further detours, he escorted her back into the ballroom, then very correctly took his leave.

The next evening, they met at Lady Hepplewhite's drum. The Hepplewhites' mansion was a rambling old place affording numerous possibilities for clandestine meetings. Amanda literally ran into Martin in one of the minor salons. She was fleeing from Percival Lytton-Smythe.

"Good!" Linking her arm with Martin's, she tugged him about. "If we stand still, we're going to be talked at." She glanced up and arched a brow. "Might I suggest we repair to the conservatory?"

Martin studied her eyes, her eager, open expression. Briefly wondered… "I have a better idea."

The garden hall: narrow, deserted, it gave onto a small courtyard beyond which the wider gardens lay. It was reached via a series of interconnecting corridors, but the hall ran alongside one of the major salons.

"I've never been in here before." Amanda looked about as she entered.

Martin closed the door, watched as she turned and looked back at him. The room was dim, yet he still saw the unabashed anticipation in her face as she held out her hands to him.

"Come-dance. We can hear the music, even here."

He went to her. Through the thick walls, the muted strains of an air wafted, created by the orchestra in the main salon. Gathering her into his arms, he slowly revolved.

The beat was undemanding, leaving their senses free to roam. To search, to dwell. His dwelled on the enticing feminine curves filling his arms, on the supple sway of her spine under his hand, on the seductive shift of her silk-clad hips against his thighs. Bending his head, he murmured, "There's another dance I'd like to engage in with you."

"Hmm." Amanda smiled, then freed her arms and draped them about his neck. "Unfortunately"-she deliberately pressed closer and felt his arms tighten in response-"it seems we'll have to make do with the waltz."

A calculated challenge. She lifted her face, offered her lips; he took them without hesitation. Yet restraint was still there, even though he teased her lips apart, surged in, took her mouth, tried to steal her wits away.

More or less succeeded.

She felt her need swell, felt his heighten in response, in reaction as her nails scored his nape, as she shifted provocatively against him. The ache within, raised and left unfulfilled for the past two nights, sprang to life at a touch, at the first caress of his thumb across her breast. More intense, more demanding; she longed for his surrender, longed to tender hers.

Yet his had to come first.

She clung to her wits, let him tempt her, ply her with wordless promises of glory. Focused her talents on returning the invitation. On heightening his desire, on feeding the compulsive need she sensed behind his experienced mask.

Trailing her fingertips down his lean cheek, she let her hand fall to his shoulder, then his chest. Continued to stroke downward, trailing to his hip-

He caught her hand, twined his fingers with hers, closed his fist. Held tight.

She shifted under his kiss, drew away, murmured, "Let me touch you." Kissed him again, long, lingeringly.

"No." He drew back, then reconsidered. "Many me and you can touch whenever you like."

She laughed, seductive, sultry, supremely conscious as she spread her other hand over his chest how very tense he was. Felt emboldened enough to state, "You won't win me like this."

"Regardless, I won't lose." He caught her other hand, raised both to his shoulders. Released them, reached for her, drew her hard, flush against him, crushing her breasts to his chest, blatantly molding her hips so her soft stomach cradled his rigid erection.

Her eyes on his, she tightened her hold about his neck, drew him to her. Let her gaze fall to his lips. Let her lids drift closed.

His lips touched one corner of hers, then the tip of his tongue lingeringly traced the full curve of her lower lip.

"No other man will ever lay hands on your skin, will ever caress your naked breasts." His breath washed over her sensitized lips. "No other man will ever come between your thighs, will ever bury himself in you. Only me."

The last words were harsh; angling his head, he took her lips, took her mouth. And she gloried in the sudden wash of heat, the unmistakable rush of desire. She stretched higher, met him boldly, urged him on. Caught her breath in anticipation when he backed her into the counter that ran along one wall.

The hand splayed about her hips slid lower, cradling her bottom, holding her as he rocked evocatively against her.

Desire swept her-she wanted to climb up, wrap her legs about his waist, impale herself on him. Knew she could. If he would.

He seemed to have the same idea. His hand firmed on her bottom, kneading briefly, then he gripped her waist-

"Tee-hee! No-don't! Oh, you naughty man!"

They broke their kiss; both looked sideways through the glass doors into the courtyard. A giggling young lady was wrestling with an amorous gentleman. The pair sank onto the bench facing the doors; the young lady shrieked as the man fondled her breast.

Amanda gaped. "That's Miss Ellis! She's only just out!"

Martin swore, straightened. Put Amanda from him, held her until she was steady. "Come on." Taking her hand, allowing his disgruntled disgust to show, he headed for the door. "Before they see us."

Too risky to do otherwise. He escorted an equally disenchanted Amanda back to a minor salon.

"I'll leave you here." He caught her gaze, noted the remnants of desire clouding the blue. Raising her hand, he pressed his lips to her fingertips. "Until next time."

Her eyes widened as she took in his meaning. He released her hand; her fingers clutched his. "Tomorrow afternoon. There's a picnic at Osterley. The others will go to the bluebell wood. Do you remember the dell at the end of the lake?"

He thought back. Nodded. "Tomorrow afternoon." He bowed and stepped back into the shadows.

Reluctantly left her to return to her bright world.

If he didn't have her soon, didn't very shortly convince her to be his, he was going to… do something rash. What, he wasn't sure.

In the dell at the end of the Osterley House lake, Martin sat on a large log and waited for relief. Reaching the dell undetected had been easy; the woods stretched unbroken from the lake to the road half a mile away. The favored picnic spot lay on the lawns beyond the other end of the lake, close by the walks that led through the bluebell wood. To join him, Amanda would have to walk around the lake. He doubted any other young lady would be so energetically inclined, which should leave them safe from interruptions.

So he fervently hoped.

Weaving a web of desire tight enough to bind Amanda to him was proving unexpectedly demanding. Admittedly, it wasn't an undertaking he'd embarked on before-he'd never previously wanted to tie any woman to him. However, given how attached women-ladies especially-tended to become even when he wasn't trying… surely, if he tried, he could tie her up tight.

So she wouldn't even think of saying "No" again, no matter what he suggested.

He heard footsteps, then saw her. She walked into the dell, smiled when she saw him, walked to the log and stopped beside him. She looked across the lake, scanned the nearby banks.

He rose. It was that or suffer worse torments; just the sight of her, let alone that confident smile, had aroused him to a painful degree.

She looked into his eyes. They were almost breast to chest as he looked down at her face. He reached for her, setting his arms loosely about her, fought the urge to seize.

"Marry me."

She held his gaze. "Why?"

Why? "Because I want you." The words were out before he'd thought, then he did, but saw no reason to take them back. Or even disguise their meaning. Instead, he drew her closer, so she could feel precisely what he meant.

Her lids lowered, shielding her eyes; a subtle smile flirted at the corner of her lips. "I accept that you desire me." Her body eased in his arms as she sank, a promise of heaven, against him. "But if desire is the only reason you 'want' me, that's insufficient reason for me to become your countess."

She was talking in riddles. Again…

A sudden suspicion bloomed in his mind. She peeked up at him through her lashes; he caught her gaze, ruthlessly held it. Considered a possibility that until then he hadn't considered possible at all.

He felt his face harden. "You are playing a very dangerous game."

Her lids rose; she met his gaze without guile, without the slightest trepidation. "I know." Reaching up, she trailed a fingertip down his check, then met his eyes again. "But I'm serious, and quite willing to call your bet."

The emotion that roared through him, that filled his ears and overwhelmed his mind-if he'd been able to shut his eyes, able to clench his fists, been standing alone in an empty room, he might have been able to let it well and fade without acting. Without reacting.

Instead, his arms tightened, crushing her to him; he bent his head, took her mouth, took her lips. A prelude to taking her. No quarter.

Amanda asked for none. Clenching her fingers in his hair, she drank in the passion he poured into her, then turned it back on him. Sensed the clash, not of their wills, but of their stubborn hearts. She'd taken her stand, knew the ground beneath her feet was rock solid; he'd made his position clear, and would not be easily driven from it. Would not readily accept the necessity of changing his mind.

She was prepared to wait him out. Prepared to wage their war until she won, then he would win, too. Despite his present stance, despite the implacable resistance that met her now, the wall of male dominance that refused to budge.

If he was a rock, she was the tide that was going to wear him down.

If he was a lion, she was the one fate had sent to tame him.

She yielded her mouth gladly, let him take her breath, give it back. Clung as he ravaged her senses, then gathered herself and pressed her own demands. Drove him on.

His hands had fallen to her bottom, closing, kneading, holding her hips hard against him so the rampant ridge of his erection rode against her stomach. His tongue was deep in her mouth, ravishing, probing, hot and insistent, when the first sound reached her ears.

He slowed the tenor of their kiss; she could sense the harsh saw of his breathing, could feel his chest rise and fall against her aching breasts, could sense the thunder of his heart, and her own, as he listened.

Nothing more reached them; he angled his head and dragged her once more into the whirlpool of their kiss. Into the path of onrushing desire.

"Which way is it? Over there?"

The high-pitched girlish voice pierced their absorption-hauled them to earth with a gut-wrenching jolt.

"What…?" Amanda looked over her shoulder.

Martin looked, too, and cursed.

"I don't believe it!" Amanda hissed. "It's Miss Ellis again! With a different man!"

Hand in hand, the pair were heading for the dell, crashing along by the lake. They hadn't yet seen the present occupants.

Martin cursed again. "I'll have to go."

Amanda looked back at him, swallowed her "No!" Muttered a curse of her own as his hands slid from her.

His gaze flicked between her and the approaching couple as he backed toward the trees. "Where will you be tonight?"

She put a hand to her whirling head. "The Kendricks'. Damn! It's not possible. There's no terrace or gardens, just one big ballroom. They're friends of the family-I can't not be there."

He paused in the shadows of the circling trees. "The house in Albemarle Street?"

She nodded.

"There's a balcony that overhangs the side garden."

"It's on the first floor."

"Be on it at twelve."

She blinked, then nodded. "I'll be there."

His gaze said she'd better be, then he stepped back; before her eyes, he melted into the shadows, fading away.

Totally disgruntled, her senses in disarray, her nerves tight, tense and flickering, and certain to remain so for hours, she turned to greet the reason. Plastering a smile on her lips, she went to meet Miss Ellis and her cavalier.

If her expectations of the afternoon were to remain unfulfilled, she'd be damned if she allowed Miss Ellis to fare better.