On a Wild Night

Chapter 9

The house was silent and still; his arms full of Amanda's warmth, Martin didn't feel its chill. Reaching his room, he had to juggle her to open the door, but she didn't wake.

Entering, he leaned against the door until the latch clicked, then crossed the room, bare feet silent on silk rugs and polished boards. A fire burned low in the ornately carved fireplace, its glow lighting the scene-one of decadent luxury.

This and the adjoining dressing room and the room beyond that he'd had converted to a bathing chamber were the only rooms he used abovestairs. On the ground floor, he'd taken possession of the library and a small dining parlor; the rest of the huge mansion he'd left as, returning to England, he'd found it. Closed up. Devoid of life.

Not so this room, but then he'd always had a taste for the exotic. The wild, passionate and sensual.

Firelight caressed richly polished woods, glimmered on brass and gold fittings, cast shadows in intricate carvings. Colors took on a darker, mysterious hue, emphasizing the sumptuousness of velvets, satin brocades and silks, the subtle sheen of fine leather.

His bed, a massive four-poster intricately carved, curtained with heavy brocades, was the focal point of the room. Silk sheets and coverlets, thick feather mattress and pillows, created a couch fit for an emperor.

And his temptress.

As he laid Amanda down, pushing the warming pan aside and sliding her between his sheets, he couldn't tear his gaze, let alone his mind, from her sirenlike qualities. For him, they were manifold-he'd recognized that from the first, but had fought to keep his mind from noticing. Now, he could sate his senses to the hilt, could drink in the sight of her lustrous hair spread across his pillows, note the warm tint their love-making had left beneath her skin, the marks of possession his fingers and mouth had left on the alabaster satin. Even though she was swathed in silk shawls, they were too fine to obstruct his view. To hide her luscious body. To mute its effect on him.

He suddenly realized he was giddy, too aroused for comfort. Placing her clothes on the floor, he lifted the warming pan and carried it to the hearth.

He was returning when she stirred, stretched languidly… then relaxed once more into slumber. One shapely leg lay bent, the other extended. The shawls had pulled tight across her hips, parted slightly, teasing his senses, taunting, testing…

Jaw clenched, he reached for the coverlet. She was new to the game and presumably exhausted-then he glimpsed a scrap of niched blue silk circling her thigh. Her garters.

He debated for a full minute, then released the coverlet, gritted his teeth and tugged one of the shawls free, exposing one garter and the thigh it encircled. Easing a finger between her skin and the silk confirmed the garter was too tight to leave on.

Her skin felt like flame; he jerked back his hand.

And inwardly cursed. He should have taken her stockings off earlier, but leaving them on had been too tempting. A sensually decadent motif, to sink into a lady totally naked but for her silk stockings.

And her garters.

"Damn!" Rubbing his nape, he tried to ignore the building tension. His mind was still refusing to cooperate in any meaningful way; he couldn't see how to remove her garters without touching her again. He didn't need to think, didn't even need to glance down to know that in his present state, touching her would not be wise.

But it was dangerous to sleep with such tight constrictions around her limbs. He'd be damned if he'd allow her to be in danger in his bed.

That thought-such as it was-was enough. Steeling his senses to withstand the torture, he reached for the silk band. Holding his breath, he eased it down her leg and over the arch of her foot. Removing the loosened stocking proved more of a trial than he'd bargained for, the silk wisping against her skin, smooth, soft, warm. Impossible not to touch, to stroke, to savor.

The stocking whispered free. Dropping it, he looked at her other leg, the bent one, and mentally girded his loins even more.

He had to draw aside two shawls to expose the second garter, simultaneously exposing more of her than he needed to see. Struggling to blank his mind, he gripped the garter and eased it down; straightening her leg, he slid it free.

He'd shuffled the stocking down past her knee, just smoothed his palm through the sweet hollow behind it and on, over her calf, pushing the soft silk before it-when the ankle he was supporting lifted from his hand.

Her slender leg raised fractionally, encouragingly, presenting itself for his attentions. He looked up-into languorous blue eyes.

Eyes hazed with desire.

His gaze dropped to her lips, then to her breasts; he noted her shallow breathing, could sense anticipation rising like perfume around them. His gaze lowered further, to the sleek, slender form tantalizingly arrayed in translucent silks. To the hips and thighs that had cradled him a short time before.

Irresistibly, his eyes were drawn to the golden triangle of curls imperfectly concealed by the silks.

She shifted; her thighs parted-

He jerked upright, unable to breathe. Dazed, mentally lost, he went to step back-

Her eyes locked on his. Held him captured, mind-blank, paralyzed, while she fluidly rolled up to her knees, up on the bed before him. Smiling into his eyes, she shuffled closer and laid her hands, palms flat, on the planes of his upper chest.

And purred, "My turn now."

Every muscle in his body locked. His mind reeled as he stared into her eyes, saw flagrant sensuality shimmering in the blue.

Then she looked at her hands. Ran them down his body. Slowly. Following every inch with her eyes.

She stopped when she reached his hips-when his mouth was dry and his heart thundering. Raising her hands, she set them to his shoulders, and fell to tracing every muscle band, each curve of shoulder and rib. Every inch of his skin.

He could only breathe enough to exist, not resist. He closed his eyes as her hands wandered, only to find sensation abruptly heightened. Small hands, delicate caresses. Her touch possessed a power that held him in thrall. He'd never been prized like this, never had a woman pander to his senses-and hers-in such a way.

He was powerless. Her captive.

Regardless of any will he might once have possessed.

Amanda knew it, and gloried. Delighted in the discovery that her lion loved to be stroked. He'd spent what had seemed like hours stroking her; she'd enjoyed his every touch, reveled in his attentions. Now it was her turn to return the pleasure, and reap the consequent reward.

Eager, she explored, searching for those areas on his large body that responded most avidly to her touch. Then she lavished attention on them, brazenly brought her mouth into play, licking, lightly sucking, boldly grazing one hard nipple with her teeth.

He shook, not with weakness but strength, with the sheer power of the reaction he held back-the reaction she evoked. The knowledge thrilled her, sent excitement and heat arcing through her.

The memory of what could be drove her on.

Drove her to close one hand about the rigid length jutting so provocatively against her stomach. Close her fingers and stroke-feel his control quake. With her other hand she drew his head down to hers and kissed him ardently. Took him into her mouth, drew him in, drove him wild with her tongue-and her touch.

A powerful combination. Within minutes, they were both aflame, both burning with the same need, the same aching yeanling. The oneness closed in-the same mutually compulsive state they'd experienced earlier; she recognized it, opened her heart and wildly embraced it.

One desire drove them. As one, they moved to assuage it.

When she urged him to join her on the bed, he took her down to the silk sheets, easing her body beneath his, one large hand cradling her bottom.

She tilted her hips, encouraging, inviting-he joined with her in one slow, gliding thrust. Arching beneath him, she marveled at the ease with which he sank in, with which she received him, even though she still felt every inch, still felt her body open and give way, then ease around him.

After that, she felt nothing but the warmth, the heat, the building urgency. The beat of their hearts rising in a crescendo, sweeping them on. Spiralling passion swirled around them, then tightened, degree by degree, notch by notch, until they were breathless and gasping.

Until she writhed beneath him, holding him to her in mindless entreaty as their bodies merged. Again and again.

Until he reared back and drove her on, over the precipice and into blind glory. And still it wasn't enough.

She clung, nails sinking into his arms, her body all his, as his was hers.

Until he was there, too, lost in the wonder of completeness-the unfathomable glory, the incredible joy of two souls touching. Merging.

Being one.

A log popping in the grate jerked Martin awake. The sensation of a warm, naked, feminine-soft body pressed to his was not immediately disturbing. He lay slumped on his stomach; she lay half beneath him, facing away, one hip pressed to his loins. Then he remembered who she was.

The realization washed over him, through him… and left him adrift. Disconnected. His world-the frame of reference he'd established for his life-had been shaken loose from its moorings, swept away by the night's glory, leaving him without anchor or direction.

He shifted, not away but toward her, one hand rising to touch her hair, to feel the soft silk under his palm, to feel her shoulder against his chest. One point of reality-she was real, solid. Here and now.

Conscious of his satiation, of the languor that weighted his limbs, of the bone-deep satisfaction that had only grown with the hours, he lay still as understanding flooded him. This state was not attainable by mere sensual gratification; content this deep sprang from some more profound source, one he hadn't previously tapped.

A wellspring no other woman had previously reached.

He stroked her hair, felt her firm curves against him… lifting his hand, he turned onto his back.

His mind was functioning again, yet when he tried to define what had happened, what it meant-where they now were-nothing but a surge of emotions answered him. Emotions he had little experience in handling; many he didn't recognize, could put no name to.

One, however, he felt so intensely there was no disputing it.

Possessiveness. She was his.

As for the rest… he glanced at her, then turned to her once more, lifted his hand to her hair. Felt her warmth once again against his body. Tried to sort through the unfamiliar emotions.

He'd made little headway when she stirred, when she realized and turned to him, blue eyes blinking wide, swollen lips parting. Her sleep-dazed expression rapidly cleared. He could see the memories rolling across her mind-small wonder she looked shocked.

Even less wonder given his immediate reaction to that tousled, tumbled, wide-eyed look, a reaction which, with her hip pressed to him, she had to be able to feel.

Rolling onto his back, he didn't succeed in stifling his groan, one of pure torment. He literally ached. Dropping his arm over his eyes to block out the sight of her, he stated with commendable calm, "I'll have to marry you."

That much seemed blatantly obvious.

Silence greeted his pronouncement.

Then, quite definitely, she said, "No."

He replayed the word in his mind, then lifted his arm and looked at her. "No?"

Her eyes were wide; he couldn't comprehend her stunned, almost horrified expression. Then her lips thinned; her chin took on that mulish cast he'd seen all too often in recent weeks.

"No." This time her tone was firm.

"What the devil do you mean, 'No'?" He came up on his elbow. Tension of quite a different sort shot through him-it felt perilously close to panic. He pointed a finger at her nose. "No more games. This"-he indicated the pair of them, naked beneath his exceedingly jumbled sheets-"is real."

Her eyes narrowed. "Quite."

With that, she turned and slid from the bed. He dived after her, grabbing-all he ended with was a mass of silk sheets. "Amanda!"

She paid not the slightest heed. Swiping up her clothes, she tossed them on a chair, pulled her chemise free.

Full-blown panic collided with total confusion. Cursing, Martin tossed back the covers and leaped from the bed. He stalked around it, getting between her and the door. She'd shrugged into her gown, was fumbling with the laces; he halted a foot away, towering over her. He didn't offer to help. Fists on hips, he growled through clenched teeth, "Where do you think you're going?"

She flicked him a glance; if she found his naked nearness at all intimidating, she hid it well. "Home."

He bit back the information that she was home-where she belonged; that might, perhaps, sound too dictatorial. Too expressive of exactly how he felt. "Before you leave, we have a matter of considerable moment to discuss."

"What?" She reached for her cloak. "Our marriage."

Balling up her stockings and garters, she stuffed them in her cloak pocket. "We're not getting married because of last night."

He clenched his fists against the urge to shake some sense into her. "No-we're getting married because of the events that occurred during the past night." His voice had risen to just short of a roar. "You're a damned lady-you're a Cynster, for God's sake!-and you spent the entire night in my house, in various beds. I realize I've been absent from the ton for a decade, but some things never change. Of course we're getting married!"

She stepped into her slippers. "No."

"No?"

She looked up at him. Unshakeable feminine defiance blazed in her eyes. "If just one thought can penetrate that incredibly thick skull of yours, let it be this: we are not getting married because of some social stricture that decrees we should."

"It doesn't decree we should-it decrees we must!"

"Hah!" Amanda hung on to her temper. "You won't tell anyone. I won't tell anyone. Why should the ton-or anyone else-be concerned?"

He looked magnificent in firelight. Squelching the thought, shackling her fury, using it as a shield to hide the whirlpool of her feelings, she glared at him. "Good night."

She sidestepped quickly and rushed to the door.

"Amanda!"

Did he seriously think she'd stop? Flinging the door wide, she sailed through-into stygian gloom.

She paused, and heard his footsteps following hard on her heels. Stepping out, she headed in the direction she hoped led to the front door.

"Come back here, damn it! We have to talk."

"Not on that subject." Through the gloom she spied a railing-the gallery? She picked up her pace.

"You can't get out-the front door doesn't open."

"Huh!" Did he think she'd believe that? Reaching the gallery, she was relieved to see the head of the staircase rising out of the shadows. He cursed, then she heard his footsteps retreating. Refusing to consider what that might mean, she set her jaw and headed for the stairs.

Swearing under his breath, Martin raced back to his room. God only knew what she intended, but he could follow only so far without clothes.

He ransacked his dressing room. Shrugging into a hunting jacket and trousers, he strode into the corridor and set out in her wake. He crossed the gallery and headed down the stairs; gaining the last flight, he heard her-swearing at the locks on the front door. "I told you it didn't open."

"Don't be ridiculous!" She rounded on him. "This is Park Lane, not the backstreets of Bombay! No self-respecting butler would allow a front door to rust shut."

"I don't have a butler, self-respecting or otherwise."

She stared at him. "You can't live here alone!"

"I have a man."

"Just one?"

"He's more than enough."

"Obviously not." She gestured to the door. "I've undone the lower bolts-it's just that one that's stuck." She pointed to the recalcitrant bolt, at head height, then looked at him. "Open it."

Martin exhaled through his teeth. She seemed consumed by, driven by, some brittle, frenetic fluster; he wasn't game yet to tackle her. Best first to humor her. Raising his arm, he slammed his hand to the bolt, intending to demonstrate the futility of the measure.

Instead, the bolt caught, then slid, grating, across.

He nearly overbalanced.

"There!" With a vindicated nod, Amanda grasped the knob and hauled the door wide.

He grabbed the door to slam it shut before she could escape-it caught on the old runner and jammed.

Amanda slipped out into the night.

Cursing, Martin kicked the runner flat, then hurriedly followed her, dragging the untrustworthy door shut.

He caught up with her mere feet from the street, grasped her elbow. "Amanda-"

She twisted her arm free. "Don't you dare!"

He blinked at the sheer fury in her eyes. "Dare?" He'd already…

The memories rose up, a tidal wave of feelings urging him to simply seize her and be damned. Just grab her up, toss her over his shoulder and cart her back to his bed… closing his eyes, he clenched his jaw, held back the impulse. When he opened his eyes, she was heading through the gate.

"For God's sake!" Hands on his hips, he glared after her. Why the devil was she so furious? He wanted to marry her, had stated it perfectly clearly. Eyes narrowing, he set out in pursuit.

Head down, Amanda bit her lip and walked-stalked-homeward. Tried to ignore the odd twinges, the heavy warmth that even now lay just beneath her skin. Luckily, home wasn't far-a few blocks would bring her to Upper Brook Street. She tried to focus on her goal-on her bedroom, her bed.

Not his. The dolt!

Muttering imprecations, she fed her wrath; she couldn't afford to face the rest of her emotions, not with him hard on her heels. It must be two or three o'clock; London lay sleeping, the pavements empty. She wasn't averse to Martin-Dexter-following her, but she'd be damned if she'd discuss their putative marriage further, not until she'd had time to consider, to recall all that had happened, all she'd heard, to determine what was the best way forward.

To determine what tack she'd need to take to uncomplicate the matter he'd just done an excellent job of complicating.

He drew alongside her; she felt him glance at her face, felt the hardness in his gaze.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly." His tone suggested great restraint. "You've had me in your sights from the first night we met. You've had one goal from the outset-to find your way to my bed. Now you've succeeded-and what? You're running home in a panic?"

They'd reached the corner of Upper Brook Street. She stopped, faced him, met his eyes with a belligerence as great as his. "I never intended to trap you into marriage."

She didn't see him move, wasn't conscious of retreating, but she was suddenly backed against the corner house wall, caged.

A street flare lit his harsh features as he looked down at her.

"If not marriage, what, then?" His gaze raked her face. "What do you want of me?"

Heart thudding, she met his gaze fearlessly. "When I succeed in getting it, I promise you you'll know."

She ducked under his arm, whisked around the corner and stalked to her home.

"I can't believe you've finally…" Perched on the end of Amanda's bed, Amelia gestured, round-eyed. "Was it truly a magnificent moment?"

"Yes." Amanda swung on her heel and continued pacing. "At least, / thought so. Who knows what he thought. Or if he thought at all."

Amelia frowned. "I thought you were sure he'd felt the same way."

"I was sure." At the time. Now, she wasn't so certain. Now, she couldn't recall why, sunk in his silken bed, awash on a sea of intense feelings, she'd felt so convinced she'd succeeded in trapping her lion in precisely the way she'd wished-not with any social constraints, but with the many-splendored ties of a true emotion.

She humphed. "Whatever the case, one way or another, he's not going to escape. We've played out the first hand, but we haven't reached the end of the game."

The note wasn't unexpected. When she descended for dinner, their butler, Colthorpe, cleared his throat and discreetly offered his salver on which a folded square of parchment lay. She accepted it with a nod, tucked it into her reticule, then proceeded into the drawing room, into the throes of a family dinner, the prelude to two balls and a rout.

Exercising her willpower to the utmost, she didn't fish out the note until she returned to her bedchamber in the small hours of the morning.

After changing into her nightgown and brushing out her hair, she dismissed her maid, then, retrieving the note, she curled up in the chair by the fire and opened it.

As she'd anticipated, it was a summons to ride that morning. She studied the bold, brash strokes, the sparse words that constituted nothing more than an outright order. She refolded the note. After a moment of staring into space, she glanced at the fire. One flick sent the note spinning into it.

She watched the flames rise and turn his summons to ash, then rose and went to her bed.

When the City's clocks struck five, he was waiting at the corner, no groom in sight. He sat his roan, the horse impatiently shifting, the mare saddled and held alongside.

Amanda watched him from the deserted nursery. The morning was grey, cool; the sun had yet to rise. She watched him wait as the shadows shortened, lightened, saw him turn aside as the sun topped the roofs.

She watched him wheel the horses and ride away.

Then she slipped downstairs to her bed.

She was going to have to be ruthless. She couldn't weaken and give in-couldn't meet with him again in the shadows. Couldn't return to his lair, nor yet to the underworld where he prowled.

If he truly wanted her…

If he did, if he felt for her half of what she felt for him, confused and peculiarly emotional though she was on that point, then he would follow her. Into her world, the world he'd turned his back on.

If he did…

"Are you ready?"

Pinning on a bright smile, Amanda swivelled on the dressing stool; Amelia stood by the door. "Yes." Laying aside the brush she'd held for countless minutes past, she picked up her parasol. "Is Reggie here yet?"

"He's just arrived."

Martin pulled his front door shut. Pausing on the porch, he looked across to the park. Carriages crowded the Avenue; the ton paraded on the lawns, the ladies' gowns a bouquet of colors shifting across the green, the gentlemen in their more sober attire providing contrast.

To promenade in the park of an afternoon was clearly still obligatory for members of the haut ton. The female members, at least.

It was a female member he wanted to see.

Descending the steps, he strode to his gates, then across Park Lane. Entering through a minor gate, he passed into the park, into the shadows thrown by the trees. Amanda, he felt sure, would be somewhere among the crowd, laughing, talking, smiling.

He wanted to see her-that was all. He didn't want to examine the reasons why. Absurd, that a man of his experience couldn't accept her desertion, couldn't chalk up the episode with mild regret, shrug and move on. Couldn't, despite her steadfast "No," wash his hands of her and forget her.

It was precisely because he couldn't forget that he was here. He couldn't forget the sense of completion they'd shared, couldn't erase the sensual memory even though his factual memory was hazy over the entire interlude. He couldn't understand how it had happened, how the moment had slid so far out of his control. He didn't understand precisely what had happened, and he certainly didn't understand why it had ended so abruptly.

Why she'd run.

But she had; her subsequent actions had underscored her decision. She wanted no more of him.

Well and good. Jaw setting, he strode the lawns, circling the fashionable throng. His words echoed in his mind-mockingly. He thrust them aside.

It wasn't good, none of it. He'd felt like he'd found something inestimably precious-that he'd just discovered such a thing could exist-and she'd taken it, all chance of it, and herself, away.

Gritting his teeth, he halted under a tree, waited for his reaction to subside, at least enough to continue. His plan was simple. If he could see her, watch her long enough to convince himself she was happy and content, relieved to have done with him, then he'd accept his conge.

There would be no alternative. If he'd been wrong in his assessment of her-if he could convince himself she'd just been intent on a dangerous liaison purely for the hell of it-then acceptance would come much more easily.

Stepping out, he continued his search. The Season proper was about to begin; the crowd was substantial enough to provide camouflage, yet not so dense he wouldn't be able to spot Amanda. The day was fine; a light breeze flirted with ribbons and curls.

Then he saw her.

She was walking with another girl who had to be her twin. Seen together, they were too much alike for it to be otherwise, yet they were not identical. Reggie Carmarthen was with them; her parasol up, shading her face, Amanda walked in the middle of the trio.

Sliding into the shadows of a nearby tree, Martin watched. The sister and Carmarthen were conversing freely, smiling and gesticulating. Whenever they turned to Amanda, she beamed, nodded, effervescently charming, even more so than her sister. She would throw in a word or two, then pause. As the other two took up the conversational reins, she'd look down.

The effervescent brightness would drain away; her expression haunted, reserved, she would walk quietly along until appealed to again.

Martin watched the transformation three times, then Amanda's sister, clearly aware, linked her arm in Amanda's. The golden heads dipped close; Reggie was nodding, his attention focused on Amanda.

They were trying to cheer her up.

Then Reggie pointed to a group ahead of them. Amanda looked, and shook her head. A discussion took place, then Amanda pointed to an empty bench set under a tree. The others argued, but she was adamant; waving them on to join the group they'd spotted, she retired to the bench and sat.

Amanda deployed her parasol to screen herself, not from the sun but from idle glances. She'd seized the chance for a moment of peace; the last thing she wanted was to be approached by anyone, especially not Percival Lytton-Smythe, who she'd glimpsed earlier.

She needed peace to think; the Season afforded her precious little of that commodity. With the evening round of balls increasing, she had less and less time to herself, too little time to tend her increasingly tortured thoughts.

What if she'd been wrong? What if he wasn't sufficiently interested to pursue her? What if he hadn't felt the moment as she had, hadn't seen it for what it was? What if…? What if…?

Such questions seemed innumerable and equally unanswerable; determinedly, she focused on what she felt she did know. On what her senses and her instincts insisted was true.

He was the right man for her. After all her years of searching, she was absolutely sure; she knew it in her heart, in her soul. And she was the right woman for him. The thought of some less confident lady dealing with him seemed absurd; he'd rule her like the tyrant he was. Yet…

She flatly refused to accept a proposal based on social strictures. When he'd stated he'd have to marry her, she'd been aghast. She hadn't wanted to believe her ears. Then she had. Yet she didn't know-couldn't tell-whether in fact he felt more for her, but as she could imagine her cousins doing, had used society's rules to conceal his true motive. Or had the fact he felt more for her not yet occurred to him? Who knew what went on in male brains?

A mystery, but in this case, one she couldn't live without unravelling. She had to learn what he truly felt.

So what should her next move in the game be? Presuming they were still playing and he hadn't simply shrugged and already forgotten her.

The thought dragged at her spirits, then she thrust it aside. Reminded herself that lions did not behave like that. They were possessive, and usually quite obsessive about it.

That being so, she couldn't risk returning to his world. If she did, she'd be at his mercy, with him dictating the rules of their game. Handing him such an advantage was out of the question-who knew what he would do with it? Her imagination supplied a number of possibilities, all of which would result in them marrying under the guise of social necessity. No.

Their game would have to proceed as she'd thought-here, in the ton. The problem was, how to lure him from his lair.

Four days had passed since she'd stalked from his house; after that first note, she'd heard no more. After learning his story, hearing it from his lips, she understood that his antipathy to the ton might run deep, accepted that he would not readily step beyond the walls he himself had constructed.

But if she didn't go to him, he would have to come to her. Was there anything she could do to urge him on?

She formulated wild schemes and rejected them. Tried to ignore her incipient dejection; waiting with nothing but hope to warm her was simply not her style.

Long, cool fingers slid around her throat, curving about the sensitive spot where throat and shoulder met.

Reaction streaked through her; her parasol jerked.

"No. Stay where you are."

His voice drifted down to her; his fingers pressed warningly, then eased, drifted across her skin, slid away. Keeping the parasol steady, realizing it largely hid them both, she turned her head and looked up. Met his eyes.

His expression-politely impassive-said nothing; his moss-agate eyes were much more eloquent.

Where have you been? Why are you avoiding me?

She could see those questions, and others, too, crowding his mind, but he asked none of them, and she made no move to answer.

Instead, they simply looked, watched, gauged… wanted.

When he slowly bent to her, she didn't think of moving away-couldn't have done so. Her gaze fell to his lips, then her eyes closed.

The kiss started gently, but then his lips firmed; the caress became more definite, more a statement of intent. Her lips parted and he stole her breath, took it and more from her.

When he lifted his head, she was dizzy and dazed. Then she blinked, focused-hissed, "You can't kiss me in the park!"

"I just did." Rather than straighten, he hunkered down. "No one saw."

She glanced around, confirmed she'd kept the parasol in place; her sudden panic subsided.

"Why aren't you chatting with your sister and Carmarthen?"

The inquiry had her turning to face him; his tone was even, but she could no longer read his eyes.

She waved and looked away. "I'm feeling a touch under the weather."

Silence met the comment; she glanced back, met his eyes-knew precisely what he was thinking. She blushed fierily. "Not that. I'm not… indisposed." She looked away, lifted her chin. "Just a trifle jaded."

He'd thought she'd meant she was unwell, as ladies frequently were once a month. But she wasn't. Which meant there was a possibility… a possibility that hadn't occurred to her before, one that had her eyes widening, her wits whirling, her emotions seesawing.

"We have to talk." His murmur was definite. "But not now, not here."

"Definitely not here, not now." She fought an urge to fan herself. Drawing breath, she faced him.

He was watching her closely; he studied her face, then said, "Meet me tomorrow morning at five o'clock at the end of your street, as before." He hesitated, then smoothly rose.

She looked up at him. "And if I don't?"

He looked down at her. "If you don't, I'll come knocking at your father's door."

Voices reached them. He looked up; Amanda swivelled, peeked around her parasol. Reggie and Amelia were approaching, arguing. She looked back.

Dexter-Martin-had disappeared. Pushing away from the seat, she stood, searching the surrounding lawns, but he'd vanished.

Amelia and Reggie drew near; she turned to greet them.

And wondered if the victory had been Dexter's, or hers.