Tried to understand why—why it was so different with her. Why it mattered so much more, why it meant more. Tried to understand what he felt, from where the compulsion to have her, possess her completely, sprang. Tried to identify the emotion that spread through him when he had her like this, naked in his arms, completely and utterly sated, completely and utterly his.
Whatever that last was, it scared him. To his bones.
The vise about his chest had eased; he could almost breathe normally. Looking down, he considered all he could see—the jumbled mass of her golden curls, the white orchids still in place, the alabaster satin of her shoulders and back, tinted with the flush of desire.
He hadn’t intended to have her again, yet he didn’t regret it. Couldn’t regret the joy of sinking into her sleek, sumptuous body, feeling her surrender, open to him, take him in. The interlude had only reinforced his considered direction, only etched his course even more deeply in stone.
Bending his head, he nuzzled the side of her face, pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Whispered, “Say you’ll marry me.”
“Hmm?”
“If you marry me, you’ll have all this every morning and every night.”
Amanda lifted her head, looked him in the eye—and let her incredulity show. Her temper rose; she pressed her lips tight to stop herself telling him what an idiot he was. “No!”
She scrambled off him, out of his arms, off the bench. On her feet, she grabbed up her chemise; this was becoming a habit. “I’m not going to marry you”—lost for words, she gestured—“for this!” The idea! She was going to have “all this,” but she wanted a great deal more besides, and after the last hour, she was certain there was a great deal more to be had.
He gave a disgusted snort, swung his leg over the bench to face her. “This is getting us nowhere. You’re going to marry me—I’m not going to disappear into the dark while you go swanning off with some eligible gentleman.”
She hiked up her gown and looked him in the eye. “Good!” She whirled and presented him with her back. “Now do this up.”
He actually growled. Then he stood and jerked her laces together. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were demented.” As he tied off the laces, he asked, “Just tell me—why won’t you say yes?”
Shoving her feet into her slippers, she faced him. “What is it that you’re offering me that I can’t get from any other gentleman?”
He stared down at her . . . frowned.
She jabbed a finger, hard, into his astoundingly gorgeous chest. “When you’ve figured that out, perhaps we can negotiate. Until then”—with a swish of her skirts, she turned and headed for the door—“I’ll bid you a good night.”
As she went through the door, she caught a glimpse of him standing there, the tanned expanse of his chest framed by the white sides of his shirt, his hands on his hips, a black frown on his face, his gaze locked on her.
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 I 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.”