On a Wild Night

Chapter 6

Two mornings later, Amanda tiptoed around her bedchamber, wriggling into her chemise and petticoats, then donning her riding habit. She performed the actions by rote, her mind engrossed with thoughts of Dexter, or more correctly, Martin Fulbridge, the man behind the wall. Their last interlude had confirmed that her instincts had been right; the man within was precisely as she'd guessed, and more. There were deeper currents there, deeper wants, deeper needs. A character more complex than she'd expected.

A conquest more challenging than any man she'd met.

Contentment warmed her. She now knew she could succeed; she'd sighted her true quarry-the elusive man. On the boat, he'd revealed himself more clearly than at any time previously. He'd dropped his guard long enough for her to recognize the difference, to feel it in his kiss, sense it in his touch.

A wish, a need, a wonderment that was only partly sensual, although his overt sensuality provided a distracting screen. She had something the elusive lion wanted, something with which she could lure him out of his lair.

That evening had confirmed that all she dreamed of could truly be.

His control, absolute and unwavering, was the next hurdle she needed to overcome; twisting up her hair, she considered how that might best be done, how she might strengthen her hold on him. Rewarding though their dual adventures had proved, she now had only one more outing to which he was committed, one more chance to work her wiles. What possibilities might a Covent Garden masquerade throw her way?

She continued to think, to plot, to plan as she slipped through the silent house and out through the side door. How far would she need to go to trap him, to snare his senses and overthrow his will? What actions on her part were most likely to evoke the desired reaction on his? Protectiveness. Pride. Ultimately, possessiveness, as Amelia had warned. Strong emotions all. Which was it safe to prod, which wiser to let be?

Which did she dare provoke? Where would she draw her line?

Ten minutes later, she rode into the park.

There was no one waiting under the oak by the gates-no roan, no large, dangerous rider.

She felt his absence like a slap. A shock. A sudden emptiness.

She didn't know what to think. After a minute of simply sitting the mare, staring at the empty space, she gathered the reins and set off down the park. Dexter's groom trailed after her.

Her heart, so light mere minutes ago, buoyed by the expectation of seeing him again, had plummeted. A constriction tightened about her chest; inside, she felt hollow. Skittering from one recollection to the next, her mind again and again returned to one question: how much had he guessed?

She reached the tan track; without thought, she sprang the mare. The groom stopped under the trees and watched.

Halfway along with the mare in full stride, the wind whipping her cheeks and tangling her curls, desolation swept her as realization struck. She did not enjoy the moment-the excitement, the thrill-half as much alone.

On the thought, she heard thunder. The thudding of heavy hooves closing rapidly. She flung a glance behind; the roan with its familiar rider was quickly making up lost ground. Facing forward, she smiled ecstatically, knowing he couldn't yet see.

Seconds later, he ranged alongside; she met his eyes, smiled in easy welcome, and prayed no hint of the triumph she felt showed in her face.

He might be here, but he was far from tame. And she wasn't fool enough to think he didn't, at least in part, have her measure.

The end of the track neared; Martin slowed, then they turned aside onto the sward. He drew rein, noting the color the wind had brought to her cheeks. They were both breathing rapidly, courtesy of the ride; he fought not to let his mind focus on the rise and fall of her breasts.

The same breasts that had filled his dreams, not just with sensual images but with sensual longings, with the simple need to experience the sensations again, to sate his tactile senses with a feast more sumptuous, more enthralling than any before.

Signalling the groom back to the gate, he gathered his reins and nodded to a path wending through the trees. "Let's return this way."

He'd meant to stay away, to cut the connection, to withdraw from her game. The fact he was here, riding beside her, didn't please him at all.

He glanced at her face, found it studiously serene, her gaze fixed on the trees. As if she thought he'd simply been a little late rolling from his bed. He wasn't fool enough to swallow it, but reluctantly acknowledged her strategy. Her subtlety. In this arena, she was a more worthy opponent than any who had gone before.

They were deep in the trees, screened from any early riders, when he again drew rein. She halted, considered him, then raised a questioning brow.

"Your wish to attend a Covent Garden masquerade-I fear I'll be unable to accommodate you."

"Oh?" Her gaze remained steady on his face. "And why is that?"

Because after their interlude on the Thames, he was too ise to give her another chance to tempt him. "Because such an outing is entirely out of bounds for a lady of your station." He returned her regard and deliberately added, "Especially with me as your escort."

Her cornflower blue gaze didn't waver, but he couldn't read her eyes; her expression said only that she was considering his words.

Then she nodded and picked up the mare's reins. "Very well."

With that, she set the mare ambling on. Martin stared, then urged the roan along in her wake. Very well? "So you accept that you won't be attending one of the masquerades?"

She glanced back. "Of course not." She faced forward again. "I'll just have to find another escort."

What had he expected? She was damned well turning him into another "dear Reggie."

He could call her bluff. He would, if he could be certain it was indeed a bluff.

Amanda bit her tongue, kept her expression fixed as if pondering her male acquaintances, trying to decide which to ask to escort her to a Covent Garden masquerade.

They were within sight of the gate, his groom waiting beside it, before she heard the words she'd been praying she'd hear.

"All right, all right!"

She glanced at Martin; he fixed her with a stony look. "I promised I'd take you to the blasted masquerade-so I will." Swallowing her whoop of delight was not easy, but she managed it, smiled evenly instead. "Thank you. It would make life easier." Letting her lips curve a touch further, she murmured, "Better the devil one knows, after all."

His expression grew stonier. He nodded curtly. "I'll make the arrangements."

He swung the roan's head, clearly intending to ride deeper into the park. With a graceful salute, Amanda set the mare for the gate.

She didn't look back, didn't need to look to know that after a moment of watching her, he turned away. As the mare's hooves clopped on the cobbles, all confidence faded from her eyes.

"He's going to pull back-escape! I know it!" Pacing across her bedchamber, Amanda flung the comment at Amelia, perched on the bed.

"Isn't there some way you can… well, tie him up?"

She snorted. "He's too careful-too wide awake, no matter how lazily he moves." Swinging around, she paced back. "You see, he knows we're playing some game. I've made him interested enough to indulge me by playing, but he knows-and he knows I know he knows, too. What he doesn't know is that I mean the game to end at the altar. I could simply be after a taste of excitement before succumbing to a boring marriage."

"A boring marriage? He can't believe that."

"He doesn't go about in the ton. He doesn't know the family. So he can't guess where I'm heading, which is part of the attraction, part of what makes him willing to be my guide."

"Ah." Leaning on her elbows, Amelia considered. "But what about the other part-the rest of the reason he's spending time with you?"

Amanda grimaced. "Did I tell you he's hard to read-elusive? I don't truly know what that'rest' is. In fact, I'm not sure he knows, either. But whatever it is, it's too…"-she waved her hands-"amorphous to pin down and use. Besides, I don't want him focusing on that yet. If there's anything there, it needs time to grow before he recognizes it."

Amelia nodded. "So you need another tack-another prod."

"Yes. But what?" Amanda paced on. After some minutes, her twin's voice broke through her tortured thoughts.

"You know, I think you're looking at this from the wrong angle."

Turning, she met Amelia's eyes.

"You're thinking of him specifically, and that's difficult because you simply can't know. But he's still a man-a man like our cousins. Isn't he?"

Amanda stared, then her face cleared. Smiling brilliantly, she flung herself on the bed and hugged her sister. "Melly, you're a genius."

Four mornings later, Martin sat his roan under the tree in the park, and watched Amanda Cynster ride toward him. The smile on her face was mildly sunny-not a hint of a smirk, not the faintest glimmer of triumph showed.

He stifled a disaffected grunt, but couldn't keep his gaze from drinking in the sight of her, golden curls bright against the early morning sky, figure supple and trim in her velvet habit.

The clash of his emotions left him feeling like gnashing his teeth. He hadn't felt so exercised in years. Irritation was nearest his surface, roused by the perception that fate was, once again, not treating him fairly. He was trying to do the right and honorable thing, trying to keep faith and give her the adventures they'd agreed on, then cut the connection he sensed growing between them and slide into the shadows once more, yet fate-and she-were conspiring to tease him.

After making the necessary arrangements for her evening at Covent Garden, he'd waited for her to send for the mare again. And waited. It had finally dawned on him that she was spending her mornings sleeping in.

She was either supremely sure of him, or she didn't truly care.

The rub was, he couldn't decide which.

Regardless, because of her new tack, instead of adhering to his sworn oath not to encourage her in any way, he'd had to send a note asking her to meet him. Irked was not the half of what he felt.

She reined to a halt; the mare pranced. Patting its glossy neck, she smiled fondly. "You were right-she does need to be ridden." Lifting her head, she regarded him evenly, then raised a brow.

He studied her blue eyes, face hardening as his mind recited her words. Tightening his reins, he jerked his head toward the track. "Let's go."

They did; despite his frequent glances, he detected not the slightest smugness. Indeed, her demeanor suggested her adventures with him were merely by-the-by, that they didn't figure highly in her life. That she wasn't, at that very moment, wondering if he'd made the arrangements she'd earlier been so keen for him to make.

Reaching the track, they turned as one, then thundered down its length. As usual, the exhilaration claimed him; he was aware it claimed her, too. For those minutes as they raced side by side, neck and neck, there was just them and the birds and the sky. No expectations. No obligations. Just simple excitement and delight.

They had that in common-an ability to give themselves up to the moment without reservation. The realization dawned as they slowed and turned onto the lawns.

His irritation had eased, leaving behind it… something he'd thought never to feel.

With a brusque nod, he directed her onto the screened path they'd taken previously. The sun was rising earlier; other gentlemen were already sleepily plodding toward the park.

"I have a box at Covent Garden for the masquerade next Tuesday."

She smiled gloriously at him. "Wonderful."

He fought against a scowl. "If the date suits, I'll wait in the carriage as before."

Her smile didn't falter. "Tuesday evening will suit admirably. There are major balls on Monday and Wednesday nights, so if I cry off on Tuesday, no one will be surprised."

He studied her face. She bore the scrutiny calmly; her expression gave nothing away. Yet she had to know that he could have sent the details in the summons he'd sent her. He hadn't; the last thing he wanted to think about was why.

Perhaps she hadn't realized-perhaps she thought horses were what he preferred to ride at this hour.

He hauled his mind off that tack, away from the ache in his loins. "Tuesday night, then." After that, he'd be free.

Still smiling, she inclined her head. Barely waiting for him to acknowledge the gesture, she flicked her reins and left him.

He watched her ride away, calmly assured, then turned and rode home, even more determined to end her game.

The pit of Covent Garden, cleared and crammed with revelers, was a scene lifted from Amanda's wildest imaginings. When Dexter escorted her into their box in the first tier, she didn't know where to look first.

Everyone wore masks, but many ladies had already dispensed with their black cloaks, revealing gowns the likes of which Amanda had never seen. Eyes round, she drank in the sights-and corrected her thoughts. Not ladies. No lady would ever wear such provocative attire. Sinking into a chair at the front of the box, she viewed this one, then that, with voyeuristic fascination; these were the demimonde in all their glory. The Cyprians, the ladybirds, the opera dancers who more frequently appeared on the stage of the huge hall, presently hosting an orchestra laboring to be heard over the din. Ribald comments, raucous laughter, rose from all quarters. Arch glances, teasing titters captured men's senses and tempted them nearer.

The gentlemen were unremarkable, the same crowd she saw every night in the ton. What enthralled her was their behavior, then" open worship of the bold and brazen who flaunted their charms directly beneath their noses.

The flagrant play-the inciting of desire and the subsequent negotiation over its satisfaction-intrigued her. Although aware of Dexter's frowning gaze, she continued to sit and stare. After a time, he sprawled in a chair beside her, large, watchful-intensely lionlike.

Once she'd drunk her fill and confirmed that, as far as she could tell, there were no familiar faces hidden among the throng, she turned and regarded him through the slits in her halfmask. "Can we go down?"

He wanted to say "No." She could see it in his eyes-he hadn't worn a mask. Little point; he was easily recognizable-there was no other with hair of his particular shade, so richly burnished. The gold overlaying the brown was doubtless one of the changes his years in India had wrought.

Indolently, he stirred; his gaze drifted to the crowd. "If you wish."

He stood; she gave him her hand and let him raise her. His gaze returned, slid down, over her, taking in her gown of apricot silk revealed as her domino parted. She'd chosen the gown carefully; its hue made her skin glow and turned her hair a deeper gold.

For one instant, he stared, then, reaching out, twitched the cloak closed. "It would be wise to remain incognito. One look at that gown and the cogniscenti will be rabid to learn who you are."

An angel slumming in hell. Her hand anchored on his sleeve, Martin escorted her down the stairs to the vestibule. As they reached the pit and the noise engulfed them, he reminded himself it wasn't truly hell; if it had been, he'd never have brought her here.

Here, however, was a place she didn't need to be, didn't need to see-she didn't need to be exposed to this kind of company. At least in his opinion.

He knew better than to argue. Jaw set, he guided her into the throng, intent on ensuring that what she did see was, if not acceptable, then at least not shocking. He was counting on the fact he had a woman on his arm to ward off any approaches; nevertheless, numerous arch glances, come-hither pouts and knowing winks were directed his way. A fact his partner didn't miss.

She stiffened; her fingertips sank into his arm. But as they penetrated further into the crowd, her tension gradually eased.

He glanced at her face, but with her mask on and her gaze on the crowd, he couldn't see her expression, couldn't guess her thoughts.

Didn't foresee her direction.

Amanda's open-mindedness over the women parading the pit ended the instant she realized they were as aware of her escort's potential as she. Fifteen feet of slow progress, however, demonstrated that he had no interest in them-his attention remained firmly riveted precisely where she wanted it.

On her.

Which left her free to take in all she would, to catalogue the flourishes, the teasing glances, the flirting whisk of a fan, to glean all she could from experts in the field. Yet the fact he seemed immune suggested that she would need more subtle weapons.

She'd turned her mind to evaluating exactly what subtle weapons she possessed when a jocularly jostling couple bumped her, sent her careening-

Dexter hauled her to him-she fetched up against his chest, breathlessly locked against him. Protectively shielded.

She glanced up. His face was a stony warrior's mask, his gaze fixed beyond her. She could hear some gentleman gabbling his apologies. Beneath her hands, in the arms around her, she felt tension swell, muscles flex. Dragging in a breath, she fought to turn-but only succeeded in turning her head. "That's quite all right." She glanced up as Dexter looked down.

He looked ready to argue.

She smiled. Patted his chest. "No harm done."

The couple took advantage of his distraction to melt into the crowd; Martin looked up and they were gone-he felt as if he'd been deprived of his rightful prey. It took an instant more to shackle his instincts. To quell his reaction enough so he could ease his arms from…

Damn! He refused to meet her gaze as he forced his arms from her. Closing one hand about hers, he twined her arm with his and anchored her hand on his sleeve. "What now?"

The growled words were barely polite, but… she was the one who had wanted to come here.

He felt the glance she threw him, declined to meet it.

"Let's amble. I want to see all there is to be seen."

There was not a chance of him permitting that. He steered her through sections of the crowd that he'd first ascertained were safe, avoiding any group whose behavior he considered too lewd for her angelic blue eyes.

And reminded himself why he was here.

Because he'd agreed to bring her here, because he'd extraded a promise that if he did, she'd return to the ballrooms where she belonged. The years had taught him wisdom; he knew she'd keep her word. She had her own brand of honor, as did he. His demanded that once this night was over, he retire from her life. And he would. Regardless. All he had to do was survive tonight, and all would be well.

The shrill shrieks, the high-pitched gibber of excitement that always seemed to occur beyond her view, informed Amanda that she was missing a good deal of what she had ostensibly come to see.

She no longer cared. The game she and Dexter were engaged in demanded her entire attention. Tonight would be her last chance to breach his walls. While he might be a superior card player, in this particular game they were more evenly matched. All she had to do was tip the scales her way.

As the crowd grew more unruly, she considered every opportunity, ready to seize any advantage. Before the stage, they came upon an area filled with waltzing couples. Abruptly stopping, she turned. Into Dexter's arms.

"Can we dance?" Suppressing her reaction at the sudden contact, breast to chest, hip to thigh, she ignored the tension locking his frame, the possessive grip of his hand at her waist. Eyes wide, she looked up at him.

He glanced at her, then at the dancers. His jaw hardened. "If you wish."

Smiling, she lifted her hand to his shoulder. He gathered her close and steered her into the twirling couples. Here, the waltz was a different dance to that performed in the ballrooms. Slower, more intimate. Infinitely more useful.

He'd used the dance for seduction before-the moves came too easily, second nature to him. Even now, when she knew he wished it otherwise. They slowly revolved; the floor was too crowded for him to hold her at any distance. The domino he'd brought for her shifted constantly against his coat, against her silk gown, making it hard for him to hold her firmly. Then she misread his direction and was jostled again. Jaw set, he flicked the domino open and slid his hand beneath, to rest at the back of her waist, firm against her gown. He drew her to him-not close so that their bodies shifted against each other, teasing and tantalizing-but all the way, so she was locked flush against him, held, trapped. His.

For one instant, she couldn't breathe, then she leaned closer, rested her temple against his shoulder. Lips curving, she relaxed into his tight embrace, let her body flow with the suddenly intense tide. He felt like hot rock against her; they slowly whirled, hips and thighs caressing, pressing close.

Excitement, a hot streak of sensation, raced through her, then pooled, liquid heat, deep inside. Barely able to breathe, she raised her head, looked up-fell into his mesmerizing eyes. Soft, deep green flecked with gold, they burned with the promise of limitless passion, limitless but restrained. She couldn't look away, wondered what he could read in her eyes.

That he wanted her was plain; the desire she'd sought to evoke was there, and even more potent than she'd guessed. The knowledge thrilled her-unexpectedly scared her. This was what she'd plotted to get; now she'd got it… the thought of what came next set her heart pounding.

Shifting her hand, she grazed her fingertips through his silky locks, then, wonderingly, ran the backs of her fingers along his jaw. With his habitual languor, he bent his head; her heart stood still, her lips throbbed, parted.

As he had once before, he touched his lips to the very corner of hers. "Don't worry." His voice was deep, a rumbling purr. "I won't eat you."

Damn! She rapidly reassessed, read again the tension holding him, the strength of his restraint. He was going to spare her. Noble of him, but not what she had in mind. How to explain-

"Oh! You dreadful man!"

The words and the slap that followed had them glancing to their right. Raucous laughter engulfed a group surrounding the protesting woman. She was smiling and laughing, too-she'd merely slapped a gentleman's straying hand away.

Amanda's eyes nearly started from her head. The woman's gown… the bodice was transparent. Her breasts, nipples erect, were displayed for all to see. A number of gentlemen were looking.

Her faint "Good God!" was overridden by Dexter's much more decisive "Come on."

He whisked her around; holding her close, he steered her in the opposite direction.

Scanning the crowd, Martin mentally cursed. The waltz had distracted him; he'd missed the moment he'd been watching for-the moment when, by general consensus, the tenor of the evening changed. From the licentious to the determinedly bawdy. From what he could see as he glanced about, matters would soon descend to the outright lewd.

The change had happened early tonight, as it sometimes did. Normally, he would retire to his box with whichever lady he had on his arm, there to indulge as they would in privacy; over the past year he might have eschewed the ton, but he hadn't lived the life of a monk.

Tonight, however, celibacy was definitely his fate. As he bundled Amanda up the stairs to their box, the idea of spending any length of time with her there, alone, his behavior rigidly correct when what he wanted to do-

He cut off the thought with another mental curse.

She stepped into the box. Before he could stop her, she went straight to the front and looked out. "Great heavens!" After scanning the throng, her gaze fixed on one spot. Her jaw fell. "Good Lord-look at that!"

He didn't need to; she didn't, either. Martin grasped her elbow-

A muffled shriek jerked their attention to the next box. Other sounds followed-panting, incoherent exclamations, garbled directions. Martin gave thanks that the occupants had had the foresight to draw the curtains. Tightening his grip, he drew Amanda back. "Come on-we're leaving."

"Leaving? But-"

"No."

On that uncompromising syllable, Amanda found herself drawn irresistibly to the door. One part of her wanted to dig in her heels; this was her last night with him, her last chance at him, and he was cutting it short. On the other hand, the venue had not proven as amenable as she'd hoped-not romantic, not subtly seductive-not subtle at all. Subtle was what she needed, she was sure of that.

The behavior of the revellers they passed as Dexter grimly escorted her out of the building reinforced the notion that Covent Garden was the wrong place for her purposes. Fighting her blushes, disguising her shock, was too distracting; she needed her wits about her.

She was actually relieved when Dexter handed her into his carriage, but she had no time to relax, although she pretended to do so when the door shut and he sat beside her. The carriage rocked, rolled forward. She glanced at the street and racked her brains for inspiration. She'd got him where she'd hoped to get him-burning with desire for her. But how to capitalize when he was so determined to resist? How to snatch victory from his jaws?

The horses clopped along Pall Mall as she frantically searched for some way to prolong her time with him. Tried to think what she could do to further weaken his defenses; if he escaped her now in the mood in which he presently was, she would not, she felt sure, see him again. The carriage passed St. James; the dark shadows of Green Park lay ahead. Amanda glimpsed them, and suddenly knew what to do. A sense of calm descended; she waited until the carriage had turned into the street bordering the park before glancing at Dexter. "It's still early, the night's mild. Can we walk in Green Park for a while?"

Martin looked at the park, designed for strolling, gravel walks spread beneath tall trees. During the day, it was the preferred venue of governesses and nursemaids with young children; by night, it was deserted. It was free space, not fenced; safe enough given it was all lawns and trees, no bushes or anywhere any miscreant could hide.

"I did expect a whole evening at Covent Garden. However…" Amanda shrugged as he glanced at her. "In the circumstances, let's stroll under the trees and I'll be satisfied."

He smothered a "humph," yet it was a reasonable suggestion. That he was acutely conscious that this would otherwise be his last moments with her-that strolling in the park would put off the instant when he would bid her good-bye for the last time-he steadfastly ignored, along with the unwelcome yearning that he could instead keep her, take her to his house and shut her in his library, his to enjoy for all time.

Jaw setting, he shook aside the thought. "Very well."

At his direction, the carriage pulled up by the verge; he descended, handed Amanda down, then helped her change the domino for her velvet cloak. Knotting the ties at her throat, she left the cloak partly open, revealing the warm hue of her gown. Even more to his silent approval, she left the hood down, so her lustrous curls sheened in the weak light.

His fingers itched to touch. Instead, he reached for her hand, twined her arm with his, and they set off down the nearest path.

Amanda accepted his silence without comment; she'd realized he used the tactic to keep people at a distance, but she knew how to slip through his guard. They strolled under the trees, in and out of the shadows. She waited until they were deep within the park, out of sight of his coachman.

Then she drew her hand from his arm and stepped across him. Let him walk into her, let him catch her to him, his hands on her gown beneath her cloak. Smiling, she laid her palm to his cheek, stretched up and set her lips to his.

It wasn't a "thank you" kiss, but she hoped he might think so long enough to give her the opening she needed. Whether he was fooled or simply surprised, she gained the breach she wanted-his lips met hers easily, readily.

She seized the moment, seized control of the kiss.

He'd kissed her often enough for her to understand how to be brazen and bold. Their lips merged; her tongue sought his, found, stroked, tangled. Winding her arms about his neck, she stretched up, pressed herself to him.

His hands tightened about her waist, fingers gripping as if to put her from him. She angled her lips, pressed the kiss deeper, fanned the flames licking between them… and the moment passed. His hands eased, then, hesitantly, as if he'd lost direction, they slid over her back, his touch gentle, wondering.

The advantage was hers. She wasn't about to let it slide, not before she made it clear just where they stood, just what she was offering.

Herself.

She let the fact infuse her kiss, let that truth ring clearly as she sank against him. He didn't seize, but gathered her to him as if she were delicate porcelain, something he feared to break. She pressed closer yet, as if to prove him wrong.

Suddenly, the kiss changed.

Shifted to a plane different from any she'd previously been on, a place of whirling pleasures, a kaleidoscope of sensual delight. He drew her deeper, then returned the pleasure she'd been lavishing on him, with interest. Yet something had changed. He wanted her, but it wasn't ravenous desire that drove him. The restraint that had earlier held him back was gone, yet some barrier still stood between them-between her needs and his, barring their mutual fulfillment.

It was his needs that had changed, or rather, clarified. She could taste it in the way his lips took hers, in the languid, unhurried, wondrous depths of their kiss. In the gentle way he held her, in the subtle coaxing that had her head spinning, in the hesitant, reluctant acknowledgment of the possibility that lay between them.

Deep in the kiss, wrapped in his arms, she suddenly saw-suddenly understood. He wanted her not just sexually, but with a deeper, richer, infinitely more alluring need. No simple desire but something profound, the sleeping heart of her lion.

She saw, and wanted-reached with both hands…

Only to sense his retreat.

Gradual, as reluctant as he'd been to be lured forth in the first place, yet step by step he eased back from the kiss, backed out of the trap she'd set. The trap she'd baited with herself.

"No." Martin whispered the word as he ended the kiss. His head was spinning, his body one massive ache. An ache so profound, one that went so much deeper than muscle and bone.

He hadn't believed she could do it, or even that she would try. Her wordless plea-one he couldn't pretend he didn't comprehend-had struck straight through every barrier he'd erected over the last ten years. He'd seen the pit yawning at his feet on the first night they'd met, but he'd thought himself safe, his defenses too seasoned and sound for her to dent seriously.

Instead, she'd laid them waste, and left him feeling more exposed than he'd ever felt before. Mentally groping in the dark for some remnants of his shields behind which to hide.

He looked down at her face, into her eyes. She'd chosen her spot so they weren't in shadow; by the weak light of the stars, he could read the confusion, the disbelief, the incipient hurt he knew he had to cause.

That last moved him to state, "You are what I can never have."

He had no idea what she could read in his face; her eyes raced over his features, then returned to his eyes.

"Why?"

Not a demand, not the beginning of a tantrum, but a simple request born of a need to understand.

He'd never answered that question, not for any of the ladies with whom, over the last year, he had on occasion shared a bed. They'd had no right to know, no claim on the knowledge; they had never offered him half as much as she. Even if he hadn't taken. "I killed a man. Or so society believes."

She didn't blink, simply studied his eyes; not a single muscle in the body cradled in his arms tensed. "And did you?"

His lips twisted with the bitterness he found he couldn't hide. "No."

She considered him for a moment more, then eased back until she was standing within the circle of his arms. "Tell me."

It was his turn to consider, then he drew a deep breath. Behind her, a wrought-iron seat caught his eye. "Let's sit."

They did, she sitting forward so she could see his face as he leaned his forearms on his thighs, clasped his hands. And looked back.

When, sucked into his darkest memories, he said nothing, she prompted, "I heard you seduced some girl."

He hesitated, then said, "That's was part of the story, but equally untrue." After a moment, he continued, "There was a girl in the village near my home. We grew up together-I was an only child and saw her as a younger sister. One day, she killed herself, driven to it by her father-a righteous old sod-because she was with child. I was nineteen at the time, and spent most of my days in London. I learned of her death on a visit home. Swearing vengeance, I went in search of her father. I found him. He'd been pushed off a cliff, then his head had been bashed with a rock. I picked up the rock-I wasn't sure… that's how the villagers found me, standing there with the rock in my hand."

"They thought you'd killed him?"

"The blacksmith had seen a gentleman he took for me struggling with the old man at the top of the bluff-saw me, as he thought, pitch the old man over."

"But it wasn't you."

No question. Her hand came to rest, warm and alive, on his sleeve.

"No, and of course I denied it." He drew in a long breath. "No one believed me." That, of it all, despite all the years, still hurt unbearably. "My father"-he paused to make sure his voice remained steady-"accepted all that was said as the truth. He wanted to disown me, but because of the title and the family line, he banished me instead. As his heir, I was bundled off abroad instead of being allowed to face any investigation."

She was silent for a long time; he didn't have the strength, couldn't find the words, to end the moment and bring on the time when they would part.

"Did you never try to set the record straight?"

"My father's edict was that I should not set foot in England as long as he lived. I honored that to the letter."

"And more, so I heard."

"Ten years have elapsed since he passed judgment on me. Any chance of proving the truth died long ago." Along with any chance of him being considered an eligible parti for such as she; until now, that hadn't bothered him in the least.

The thought propelled him to his feet. He glanced down at her, held out a hand. "Come. I'll take you home."

Amanda looked up at him, considered, not him, but how best to proceed. She knew better than to brush aside his reasoning; she was too much of his world, understood too well the situation as he saw it.

She understood, too, that he saw this moment as a final parting. She didn't agree, but she couldn't argue, not until she'd marshaled more support for her cause. Placing her fingers in his, she rose; arm in arm, they strolled back along the path.

They were almost to the carriage when she halted in the shadows, waited until he stopped and faced her. One hand in his, she stepped closer, with her other hand drew his lips to hers. He was wary, but permitted it-she kissed him sweetly, lingeringly, the merest echo of what had passed between them before.

"Thank you for telling me."

She whispered the words as their lips parted, then stepped back. For a long moment, he stood looking down at her, his face and eyes too deeply shadowed for her to read. His grip on her hand tightened, then abruptly eased.

With the merest inclination of his head, he led her to the waiting carriage.